Okay, I'm officially messing with the timeline now.

Ish.

Not enough to make it AU though. Just shuffling a few things on the calendar to accommodate the time spans of the shows and add some humor and drama to the whole shebang. :D

So, Bugs took place at the Spring Equinox according to what the boys discuss in the show. Buuuuuuuut I need it to be in the fall along with Home and Asylum so that Shawn is still in Thailand when that all goes down. So we're going to pretend it was the Fall Equinox since the whole 'sun and the moon share the day equally' thing is still true. For the purposes of weather, we're pretending that it's one hell of an Indian Summer. :D

(Besides, I'm not sure I buy weather that nice in Oklahoma in March anyway. ;D)

So where do we stand episode wise?

TIMELINE MARKER:

Psych: Thailand on Shawn's resume. Still a few months out from the Pilot. But we're getting closer! :D

SPN: We jumped ahead again. If this was poorly-written slash or the Babysitter's Club they might be calling each other every day by now. Since it's neither, they're still working up to a more regular communications routine. :D So we're at Asylum. Because Sam hasn't had a chance to get drunk yet and if this won't do it, nothing will. :D

(THIS IS THE LAST DRUNK!FIC FOR A WHILE. I SWEAR. -_-;)

PATTAYA, THAILAND

Shawn couldn't have possibly heard his phone ring. He barely felt it vibrate with the way the bass beat was thrumming through his bones. But he plugged an ear and gamely tried to hear his caller.

"Yello."

He could almost hear the voice on the other end and moved away from the speakers and into a sort of hallway leading into the back area of the bar to improve his chances, ignoring the other patrons and employees there.

"Hello?" he tried again.

"Wake me up . . . when September ends . . ."

The softly singing voice wasn't making any sense.

And who was calling to serenade him anyway? Certainly not Gus. And most everyone he knew here in Thailand was in the bar, drinking and dancing and otherwise partying.

"Hello?"

Sounds of fumbling followed, then, "Shhhawn?"

It took Shawn a moment to recognize the voice, an impressive feat actually since he'd only met the owner of it once before and it had been quite sober last time.

"Sam?"

"Heeey, Shawn. What're you doing in my phone?"

"Sam, buddy, are you drunk, dude?"

A giggled snort came over the line. "I think so. Shhhthbphhh. Don't tell, Dean, 'kay?"

"Are you okay?"

A sad sigh. "No. This month sucked." He snorted. "It sucked balls." He giggled again.

Shawn's eyebrows rose and he nodded. "Okay. Can you give me a second, Sam?"

"Sure." And then Sam started counting. "One Hippopoppotus. One Hippomopapus. Hippa . . . Hippopoma . . . One thingy. Two thingy. Three thingy."

Shawn was torn between laughing and rolling his eyes, but he just covered his phone mic and headed back to his group. Letting his companions know he was heading outside for a moment, he dove into the crowd, tacking against the current for the exit.

Finally he made it, the cool night air refreshing as he stepped away from the bass beat pounding out through the doors.

"Sam?" he said, bringing the phone back to his ear. "You still there?"

"Nine thingy. Ten thingy." There was a pause. "What comes after ten thingy?"

"Eleven thingy," Shawn said. "But you can stop counting now. Dude, what's going on? Are you and Dean okay?"

"No. Dean's 'sleep. Gave him the good drugs 'cause it hurts. Salt hurts, Shawn. D'you know that? Won't kill ya. But it hurts like a bitch."

Aaaaaaand Shawn was officially totally lost.

"Sam, where are you?"

"Indiana."

"Still?" Shawn asked. He'd last seen the Winchester brothers in the capital of the Hoosier state, but that had been almost two months ago. And they had been headed out of town at the time. "Wait, weren't you headed for Ohio?"

"Yup. Ohio. Bloody Mary." Another snort. "Psycho bitch. Tried to blow my eyeballs up."

"Uh huh," Shawn said, frowning.

"And then we went after the Hook Man. Like in the stories? And we melted him. No! Wait . . . There'as something in between . . ."

"And now you're back in Indiana?

"SAINT LOUIS. AND BUGS. But not in Saint Louis. Saint Louis was icky. But not bug icky. Slimy icky. No, wait, bugs came after . . ."

"You're in Saint Louis?"

"No. Becky was though. And Zack. They're nice. Not killers. Not like us."

A faint sloshing sound and then a clack that was probably Sam topping off the alcohol in his system.

"We're Winchesters. Like the rifle. An' like the rifle we kill." Confusion drifted into the tones. "But we don' use rifles. Shawn, why don' we use rifles?"

"Uhhhhh," Shawn said, so completely lost he was having trouble figuring out what the question even was.

Sam didn't seem that concerned though, because he moved on without an answer.

"When I shot him, I used a shotgun. And a handgun. But no rifleguns. Why isn't it called a riflegun?"

Shawn finally caught what seemed to be a salient point—one that had him a little worried to be honest.

"Who did you shoot, Sam?"

The answer was so soft that Shawn barely heard it. But he did and it had him dropping to sit down on the curb.

"Dean."

A single word, laced with so much guilt and regret it was almost dripping out of Shawn's phone.

"You shot Dean? Is he okay, Sam?"

There was a long pause and Shawn felt his pulse speeding up as he shot to his feet again, pacing a few steps back and forth, hand running nervously through his hair.

"Sam! Is Dean okay?"

How fast could he get a flight out of here? And would Sam stay put that long?

"He's fine. Told ya. Salt won't kill ya, it just hurts like a bitch."

Shawn paused. "You shot him with salt?"

"Yup. Shotgun full of salt. Ruined his shirt. And used up all the gauze in the first aid kit. But the handgun was empty so . . . that's okay. I mean, it's not okay, but it's okay."

Shawn stood in the cool night and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.

Granted he hadn't spent that much time with the Winchesters. And he had picked up on some unresolved issues between the brothers. But he hadn't thought it bad enough for them to be shooting each other. Even if it wasn't fatally so.

"Sam, why did you shoot Dean?"

There wasn't an immediate answer, but Shawn waited.

When Sam finally spoke in a whisper it was, again, guilt ridden and full of remorse. "Because I was so angry. He said it wasn't my fault, that it was Ellicott, but it was my fault, Shawn. Ellicott . . . he didn't make me mad. He just mad my mad bigger. Stronger. But it was already there. 'S my fault."

Oh holy hell.

Was Sam crying?

Shit. Where was Dean? Shawn really thought this was something Dean should be handling, being the big brother and all.

Shawn was an only child, but he'd seen plenty of siblings in his lifetime. He even had memories of a few times when Gus' older brother had not been a jerk and actually acted like the big brothers you heard about in stories and saw in movies. The protector and defender of his younger siblings.

Whatever issues they had going—and what siblings didn't have issues?—Shawn had sensed very clearly that Dean was the epitome of a big brother protector and defender to Sam.

So why the hell was Shawn being asked to play this role tonight?

Then again, shooting someone probably didn't encourage them to act with sibling care and concern.

With a sigh Shawn rubbed a hand over his face.

"Okay," he said, sitting down on the curb again. "Who is Ellicott?"

The curb outside of a bar along Walking Street in Pattaya, Thailand, wasn't the most comfortable place for a story, but Shawn knew better than to go wandering around by himself when he was distracted by a phone call. The locals were generally very friendly toward Americans, but there were always those in a club district who would rather make a fast buck and leave an unconscious—or dead—body behind, no matter what city in the world it was.

So he settled himself in and listened to a tale that belonged around a campfire.

He still didn't believe in ghosts, but after his first encounter with Dean and a real life werewolf in Iowa, he was a little more open to the possibility that the two of them had been fighting something in the abandoned Roosevelt Asylum.

Something that had tried very hard to use the younger Winchester to kill the older.

Those kind of sibling squabbles usually ended up in therapy or on Jerry Springer. Shawn briefly pondered which would be more likely for the two brothers and which would be more healthy. He decided both should probably be avoided.

Sam wound his story down, insisting he didn't hate his brother but he was sure his brother hated him.

"I don' blame him, either," Sam said. "I mean . . . How could I shoot him? He's . . . He'd do anything for me. How-"

The background noises that had been there but hard to distinguish were now very audible in the silence. It was no surprise, though that Sam was in a bar if he was drunk. Although . . . Shawn checked his watch. It was a little early in the day for drinking in Indiana.

Only increasingly rapid and labored breaths came from Sam.

Shawn wondered if he was going to puke or start sobbing.

Until the faint, "Sammy?"

Ooooh. Neither. Looks like Dean wasn't sleeping as soundly as Sam imagined.

"I have to g-"

"Who're you talking to?"

"No one!" Sam protested and tried to hang up, but his obviously uncoordinated fingers only mashed the number keys filling Shawn's ear with a chorus of tonal squawks until the scuffling sounds ended and the noises stopped.

"Sam?"

"Hello?" Dean's voice came through, loud and clear.

"Dean."

"Shawn?"

"Hey. How . . . uh . . . how are you doing?" Shawn asked, then immediately winced. Dumb question, Spencer, he thought. The man was shot with rock salt pellets at point blank range in the chest. How the hell would you be? "I mean," he tried to correct, but Dean cut him off.

"Sorry to bother you, Shawn. Sammy's had a little too much to drink. Time to head back to the hotel and fish out some handcuffs, I think."

Shawn couldn't help the laugh, "Dude, I don't want to hear about-"

"Shaddup," Dean said, but it was without any real heat. "Not like that, you perv. Damn. And Sammy says my mind is stuck in the gutter."

"That's because it is."

"Yeah, well, a man has to have a hobby."

Shawn chuckled. "So you guys are okay? Sam said you've had a rough month or two."

Dean blew out a breath. "We're Winchesters. We've been having a rough decade or two. But yeah, we're okay."

"Yeah." Shawn hesitated, then decided to just say it because . . . he didn't really know why. "Anything you want to, uh, talk about?"

There was a pause.

"Dude, is Sam rubbing off on you?"

"What? Why?"

"Man, chick flick moments are so not cool. I expected you to understand that. Samantha here doesn't, but he's always been a big girl. Then again, you did keep starting them in Iowa . . ."

Shawn chuckled. "Dude, that was you who kept starting them. Anyway, I just . . . you know . . . my mom's a psychologist. It sort of . . ." He shrugged, knowing perfectly well it was unseen. "Anyway, I was going to call you when Sam finally passed out to let you know where he was, but I guess you found him so-"

"Shawn?" The quiet word cut into the developing babble.

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Thanks, man. For letting him talk your ear off and, uh, you know, stuff."

Shawn smiled. "No problem, dude," he said, hearing the real message loud and clear from Big Brother. Thanks for watching out for him until I found him again.

"Hey, where are you right now?"

"Thailand," Shawn said, leaning back a little and smiling at some girls walking past. They broke into giggles and smiled back, but kept walking.

"Thailand? Seriously? How the hell did you end up there?"

Shawn shrugged. "It was this thing teaching English and there was this girl and it sounded like fun and I thought, why not? Never been to another country except for Mexico and some of the Caribbean Islands. And Brazil. Great parties there, by the way."

"Wow."

"Yeah. But it's ending here soon and I'll probably head back to California. I miss El Pollo Loco," he said with just the right touch of wistfulness to spark a burst of laughter from Dean.

Mission accomplished. He smiled.

"I'll let you get back to tending to Sam. His huge ass can't be easy to haul back to a motel when it's not soaked in whiskey."

"Sam's more of a bourbon kinda guy. Or tequila. But only when he's already got a bit of bourbon in him. Anyway, our door is only fifty feet from the bar so it's not so bad. But yeah, it ain't gonna be fun."

"Well good luck. And maybe I'll see you on the road again soon."

"Maybe. Later, dude. I got a Sasquatch to wrangle."

"Later, Dean."

He ended the call and tucked his phone back in his pocket, then stood.

The teaching thing was actually through the end of the year, but he was feeling the urge to move on and he hadn't been entirely kidding about missing El Pollo Loco. The food here was awesome but you just couldn't get a decent Pollo Asado. Not to mention anything resembling a churro.

Plus, he missed his bike. Everyone had one here—well, a moped, not a full fledged motorcycle, but it was close enough to be making him homesick.

But that was for tomorrow, he thought as he went back inside and located his friends, accepting a drink.

Tossing the shot back and joining in the triumphant cheer, he set his mind back into party mode, filing the Winchester brothers away for later contemplation.

Tonight was his last night in Thailand and he intended to have some fun.

Review, please and thanks!