AN: Here it is – a one-shot based on a throw-away line in Gauntlet. I know, I did alcohol before, but certain readers insisted on this story. You know who you are.

Set in the middle of season one just because.

Janice beta'd because she's awesome like that. And the additions and tweaks she made made it eminently more readable. That isn't hyperbole, either.

* * *

The hunt was starting to feel like a game of fortunately, unfortunately.

Fortunately, they'd saved the entire family of campers that had been on the letiche's menu. Unfortunately, the couple and their twin seven-year-old daughters had seen the entire fight. Fortunately, Dean and the civilians hadn't gotten a scratch. Unfortunately, Sam had gotten clawed across his lower back. Fortunately, the extremely grateful (though freaked out) dad was an E.R. doctor who offered to stitch Sam up. Insisted, even, once he learned that otherwise Sam would wrap it and hike out of there, then Dean would take care of the wound in their motel room.

Dean actually agreed, seeing that the guy had a lot of professional-looking supplies in his duffel that he apparently never went anywhere without and knowing otherwise, it would be a good hour until they got back to their own supplies. Naturally, he proceeded to hover while the nice doctor worked. Sam couldn't find it in himself to care much. It was too nice to be numbed up before getting stitched up for once. He was quite comfortable, actually, stretched out on his stomach on a sleeping bag and not feeling anything more than a bit of tugging on his back. Whatever was in that local anesthetic worked wonders. They should probably find out what it was and think about stealing some the next time the opportunity arose in some small clinic or understaffed E.R.

Sam smiled at one of the little girls who was watching him from her mother's lap. Maybe they'd end this hunt on a fortunately. Then the hands working on him paused and he heard Dean and the doc both take an indrawn breath. Figured.

"What is it?" he asked wearily.

"There's a claw in there," Dean told him, never one to sugar-coat things.

"We should stabilize him and get him to a hospital where they can put him under and do this right," the doc (Ira, Sam thought) said reluctantly, as if already knowing their answer.

"Not unless you swear I'm going to bleed out. Otherwise, we're not going to a hospital," Sam said firmly lest Dean waver. He wished he could see the men's faces. But as visible as some of their hunts had been lately, a hospital was a terrible idea. Not to mention there is no good way to explain the very sharp, serrated letiche claw that certainly did not look like anything your typical bear or wolf would be sporting.

"I'll do it," Ira said even more reluctantly than before. It was hard to refuse someone who'd gotten hurt carrying your children out of harm's way. "But I won't go any deeper without another shot of the local, and that means that you can't take any regular painkillers for twenty-four hours. You're going to be really hurting in six or eight hours, and unless you get some IV pain meds at a hospital, all you can do is ice it or get drunk."

"That's fine," Sam said quickly. "I'll be fine." He just hoped that this was the last unfortunately of the hunt.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Seven hours later

"Let's just buy some booze and I'll drink it in the room," Sam pleaded, not for the first time. Ira hadn't been kidding about the pain, and Dean had taken his words about no traditional painkillers to heart. The last thing Sam wanted was to go to a bar.

"The atmosphere will do you good," Dean argued, also not for the first time. He had a meeting with another Hunter set up and was reluctant to try to reschedule, as this Adler was 'as hard to pin down as a greased demon' in Bobby's words. But he was also completely unwilling to leave Sam alone and in pain, especially when his plan was to get shit-faced.

Sam climbed out of the car without another word. He knew that Dean would take him back to the motel room if he really fought for it, but he also knew that Adler was a trusted source and the best lead they'd had on Dad in quite a while.

"Atta boy," Dean grinned, though Sam didn't miss how closely he watched how Sam walked. He trailed Sam into the chosen establishment and stayed right on his six, making sure nobody bumped Sam, as Sam navigated his way up to the bar itself. A backless stool was definitely Sam's best option, though given his sour mood, he should probably sit in some dark corner, if there were any in such a small bar. Not that there were many people there, anyway.

Sam glanced around as he sat, working hard to keep the pain just the simple movement caused him off his face. It was a homey kind of place, almost everything made of wood, from the scarred floor to the long bar, and lots of photographs on the walls. Dean sat next to Sam and tapped the bar, smiling at the bartender. She was cute, with a pixie-like face, highlighted by her short, spiky hairstyle. She appraised them, but not long enough to make it weird. "What can I get you guys?" she asked.

"Hmmm." Dean contemplated the bottles lined up on the wall behind the girl. "Something good. My brother here was recently in a car accident, so we need something to dull a little pain."

"Tequila," she said promptly, pulling out two glasses and a yellow bottle.

"I actually don't like tequila," Sam admitted.

"Nobody does," the bartender confided, pouring anyway. "But it's what you want. Bad romance, you need rum. Wanna forget something, whiskey's your best bet. Need courage, gin all the way. And for physical pain, I prescribe tequila, the cheaper, the better. And if you can't trust your bartender, who can you trust?"

Sam smiled and tossed back his drink in answer. It was every bit as terrible as he'd feared.

Naturally, that was when Adler and a bearded, burly Hunter Sam vaguely recognized as another guy Dad had worked with in the past walked in. The former caught Dean's eye, tilted his head toward the back of the bar, and exited that same direction. The latter took a seat at a booth.

Dean frowned a little. Adler was famously insular and paranoid, but Sam could feel his brother's reluctance to leave Sam behind. "Sammy…"

"It's fine, Dean," he reassured him. "Go to your meeting. I'll be right here."

"I'll keep an eye on him," the bartender promised with a smile.

"Go, before he gets squirrelly and leaves," Sam ordered.

Dean looked uncertain for one more minute, then stood, clapping Sam on the shoulder more gently than he normally would have. "You know how he is, but I'll be as fast as I can." Sam rolled his eyes and drank Dean's shot for good measure. He didn't miss the fact that Dean stopped to say a few words to the second Hunter on his way out, getting a nod out of the man. Great. Sam had two baby-sitters now. Well, that meant there was nothing keeping him from taking his "prescription."

"Another, please," he ordered.

"I knew you'd see it my way, Samm--"

"Just Sam," Sam said quickly.

"I get it. My name is Crystal and my brother calls me Crissy." She shuddered theatrically.

"Well, I'll call you Crystal if you call me Sam," he offered, realizing too late that it sounded very much like something Dean would say.

Crystal kept pouring drinks and still Dean didn't come back. Then Crystal's shift ended and she joined him for drinks. She told him she was a grad student (and was beyond impressed when he knew what phycology was) working as a bartender to pay the bills. "I'm so busy the only pet I dared get is a bearded dragon, because he only eats every other day," she admitted. "I'm really burning the candle at both ends."

"I'm sorry," Sam said sincerely. He knew what it felt like to be on constant overload. "I hope your schooling ends with a nice, cushy job that makes comfortable money and gives you lots of time off, too."

Crystal smiled wistfully. "That sounds nice. I never have any time or money, but tonight I have enough of both to tie one on for the first time in forever. Since you seem like you're looking for the same thing, why don't we drink together?"

They did. It wasn't long until Sam was feeling no pain whatsoever and Crystal was right there with him. "Y'know," he said. "'M not good at this." He waved one hand vaguely.

"At what? Drinking? Seems like you're doing juuuuust fine," Crystal reassured him.

"No. Talking to be-yoo-tiful women, I mean. Flirting even. Drunking helps, though."

"'Drunking' helps a lot of things," Crystal agreed. "And it sure doesn't hurt that you're so cute, either. And I thought you were cute even when I was cold-stone sober."

"I knew you were beautiful then, too." Sam nodded and smiled. Crystal was the nicest person he'd met in a long time. She really understood him. Or at least, the booze thought so.

"Aw thanks, Sammmmmm," Crystal sighed sweetly. "So, yeah, when you're drunk is a great time to do stuff you suck at cuz you don't care then. You're smart and cute and good at drinking. What are you bad at?"

Sam seriously considered saying he was a bad kisser just so she'd test him on it, but he didn't want to lie to someone who was so nice. "Lotsa stuff. Um. Hunting."

Crystal made a dismissive huffing noise. "Can't practice that when you're drunk, dork. You'd shoot your foot off." She leaned forward like she was imparting a big secret. "I am so bad at singing that my fifth grade choir teacher told me to just lip sync! And my old room-m-m-mate asked me to stop singing in the shower because it scared her cat."

Sam burst out laughing. It took him a little while to collect himself. "I'm terrible too," he confided. "I sounded like a ch-chipmunk until I was a junior in high school, then suddenly I grew, like a foot, and bam sounded like this. My singing didn't get any better, though."

"Let's ask Rick to fire up the kara-- uh, singing machine. We can be terrible together while we don't care!" Crystal chirped. She was so excited that Sam couldn't refuse. Rick, who was working the bar now, got the karaoke set up and running, but left the microphones turned off, saying he'd heard Crystal sing before.

Sam and Crystal didn't care. Hooked on a Feeling was first in the queue, and they started right in on the "ooga-chaka's" with great enthusiasm. Fortunately, this was turning out to be a great night.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Unfortunately, Dean was having a terrible night. Adler was as twitchy as usual, and he smelled like a dizzying combination of patchouli, unfiltered cigarettes, and paranoia. He was more than willing to share everything he knew about where Dad might be and what he might be hunting, but in exchange, he wanted Dean to look at some artifacts he'd found and help him figure out what they could be. It was the kind of question he'd usually ask Dad to weigh in on. Dean knew better than to suggest he talk to someone like Bobby. Adler was scared of Bobby ever since Rumsfeld had bitten his skinny ass.

Normally, Dean would have brought Sam in on it, because the kid had a memory like an elephant even though he hadn't been back in the game long, but right now, all he wanted Sam to do was hold down his bar stool and smile at the pretty bartender.

It took freaking forever, until Dean was fidgeting as much as Adler was. He knew that Buck, the Hunter who'd come in the bar with Adler, was a good guy, but this was Sam. The thought of Sam being drunk and vulnerable without Dean there to watch his back made his teeth itch.

It was literally hours before they finally headed back to the bar, but at least Adler had given him some solid intel. As soon as he pulled the door open, Dean flinched back at the terrible noise coming from inside. At least it didn't sound like a bar fight, so that was something.

He steeled himself and went in to discover that the sound was Sam and his bartender friend drunkenly wailing away to I'm too Sexy. Now, Sam could pretty much carry a tune, at least when he was sober, but the girl was so bad that she made him sound like Freddie Mercury. She sounded like an alley cat whose tail had gotten stepped on. Luckily, the few patrons inside seemed amused rather than annoyed at the din.

"Holy crap, that's awful," Dean breathed. He turned to Buck, who was watching the pair with thinly-veiled amusement. "You were supposed to keep an eye on Sam!"

"And there he is, safe and sound, and looking like he's having fun," Buck said laconically. "Best entertainment I've had in weeks." He stood and started toward the door, where Adler was waiting impatiently. "See ya."

Grumbling under his breath even though he'd literally told Sam to get his drink on, Dean walked over to the dueters and switched off the karaoke machine. "Okay, Bon Jovi, time to get going," he said to Sam, who grinned at him like he'd given him a wonderful surprise. He pulled on Sam's arm to encourage him to stand up off the stool where he was perched rather precariously. "Uh, can I call you a cab?" Dean asked the girl, not quite comfortable leaving her there alone and so impaired.

"I'll call her roommate to pick her up," the new bartender reported, already flipping his phone open. "She's expecting the call and they only live like five minutes away."

"Thanks, Rick," the girl sighed, putting her head down on the table that the equipment sat on. "That is so nice of you. You are the nicesest boss I've ever had." Her familiarity with the man made Dean feel better.

"Up, Sasquatch," he told Sam, who wasn't reacting to the tugging at all.

"But I really wanna see Crystal's bearded dragon."

"I bet you do," Dean muttered. "And you wanna show her your python, right?"

Sam blinked at him confusedly, then turned back to Crystal. "Know what else I'm bad at?" he asked her. "Lishening to my brother."

"Me too!" Her head popped up and she wobbled briefly. "Bye, Ssssammy."

Sam finally stood, not much steadier than his friend. "Bye, Crissy." For some reason, they both thought that was hilarious. Sam was still laughing when Dean got him to the car. A small sedan pulled up next to them and a girl in her twenties hopped out.

"You here for, uh, Crissy?" Dean asked her as he wrestled Sam into the passenger seat trying to be careful of his back, which Sam was not making easy.

"Yeah, actually," she said, taking the last of Dean's worry away.

"Good. She and my brother here had a little too much fun."

The girl wrinkled her nose, but she was smiling. "She needed it. She didn't sing, did she?"

In response, Sam started mangling Bad Medicine. "Uh, if you can call it that," Dean answered, the corners of his mouth twitching. He was getting years worth of blackmail material.

"I should have brought my ear plugs." She grinned as Sam really got going on 'oh, oh, oh, shake it up!' "Good luck."

"You too."

Dean got in the car and tossed a full water bottle onto Sam's lap. "Drink up before you pass out on me," he ordered, more amused than he'd admit at Sam's inebriated antics as the kid used the bottle as a microphone. "You're lucky I'm such good big brother."

"You – you're lucky I'm such a little good brother," Sam retorted, but he drank his water after a brief struggle with the top. Which Dean had already loosened.

Dean smirked, and it turned into something fond as Sam forgot the words of his song and trailed into la-la-las. He'd done the same thing as a kid when he didn't know a song.

It might be a challenge to get him into the room and into bed and Sam would probably have a pretty good hangover in the morning, but at least he wasn't in pain any longer.

Fortunately.

* * *

AN: I am no medical expert, however I did have an outpatient surgery once that ended up being more extensive than they'd planned. My doc literally told me no OTC pain meds for 24 hours, but to go ahead and drink alcohol. Coincidentally, that was the night I discovered that I love White Russians.

Phycology is the study of algae. My college roommate is a genetic microbiologists, and phycology is one of the fields she considered as an undergrad.

I have been informed that bartender Crystal is wrong and some tequila is actually very good. I cannot personally confirm. The few times I tried tequila, I hated it.