"Wait, you gotta grab the thingy."
Sam stops, stumbling against Garth's already overtaxed hold. Those Winchesters were big, okay? Not that he blames him for that, but still. He's glad that he's not the drunk one here.
"What thing?"
Garth asks, trying to wrangle Dean towards the door. Sam turns to him seriously.
"There was a boxks- bo- box with writing. It's important."
Sam tells him, and Dean nods in agreement, his head wobbling as he does so.
Garth sighs, then smiles at the two of them. There's no use in making them feel bad, after all. He pats Sam's hair.
"Wait here. I'll go get it."
The hunter runs to grab the first suspicious-ish looking box he finds in the office, sparing a moment to make sure the guy he had tazed was, indeed, still tazed and waiting for Garth to come back and shove him in the trunk.
The Winchesters are sitting on the steps of the brewery, stoutly pretending that they are not drunk and do not need Garth's help to get back to the car. Garth tucks the box under one arm and grabs a Winchester in each hand, which is much harder than it sounds.
Garth looks at his handiwork. Well, it's good enough for government work, anyway, even if he hadn't meant to end up with both Sam and Dean in the backseat (shooting for one in the passenger seat and one in the back hadn't panned out), and a possibly cursed box laying under a pile of food wrappers. Oh, well.
"The girl had like, a dress thingy on."
Sam informs Garth, trying to sit up and flopping back down, apparently perplexed with his lack of ability to speak coherently.
"Like the girl in the thingy thing."
Dean snorts, apparently somehow still able to understand his brother's speech.
"Ya gotthat right."
He slurs, making grabby hands for the flask that Garth had confiscated almost first thing.
"Okay."
Garth tells them, turning the exit that leads to their motel, watching worriedly in the mirror.
"We gotta stay low key for a while, else we'll end up in jail,"
Garth looks at Sam boop Dean's nose for the third time in a row.
"Or the nuthouse."
He finishes.
Dean pushes his brother away from his nose halfheartedly.
"We know someone in the nuthouse. Electroshock, you know how it is."
He tells the younger hunter, deadpan, and nods as if that's the last word and answers all questions in the universe.
Garth nods wordlessly.
He throws the EMF meter on the seat next to him, just in case, and watches his two passengers wind around each other in sleep, the alcohol finally wearing off.
Sam mutters something in his sleep about a demon goat, and Dean rubs his face into his brother's shoulder.
Garth slowly, slowly, slides Mr. Fizzles out of his pocket and allows himself one single fistbump.