June 11th, 2008

Wasted doesn't even begin to describe Bobby's condition. Drinking for days straight now, he's the definition of misery. He's been to the liquor store a few more times since the first bourbon stock up and this last time Dennis looked at him with such pity it made Bobby want to run and hide. Might be time to start looking for a new store for his fix.

Sitting in his study on the cot underneath the window, he looks around the room at the scattered pages and books littering the floor and desk. Once it was all over, once he had to drag Dean's completely shredded body out of that suburban home, he had no desire to do anything but drink. It made life easier, dulling the loss to a semi-manageable place. And if he was drinking, he wasn't going to be coherent enough use that revolver in his desk drawer… at least not in the way he wants to while sober. All the research he'd done to save Dean's ass now lays strewn about, collecting dust as it silently taunts Bobby with its uselessness.

Those kids of his, it hurts to think of them now. One going through something his own nightmares couldn't even begin to imagine and the other… well, the other he isn't too sure about. Sam's been quiet and lonesome, preferring to keep to himself when he should be relying on the people that loved him. Lizzy called to let him know Sam had left her place. That was over two weeks ago now and since then the boy stopped answering his phone. Bobby knows he's alive; Sam would never get himself killed, not now. He had his brother in hell that needed saving to motivate him and he'd never let Dean down. It's the only thing barely holding Bobby together right now, the thought that Sam is at least alive out there.

All the times he's spent with those boys, especially when they were younger, keep coming to mind as he sits alone in his quiet house. The one that pushes its way through the most is the first weekend they were dumped on him. John had a lead on Yellow Eyes that he needed to check out and couldn't bring his two kids with him. At the time, Dean was six years old, Sam just barely three, and Bobby had only spent a collective hour or two with them before then. They showed up on his doorstep midday and his world absolutely changed. John hustled off, telling Dean to look after Sammy as usual, and as usual Dean responded with a resounding 'yes sir'. Then poof, John was gone and he was left with the two wide-eyed kids he knew not much about.

For the first hour the two young boys sat quietly in his living room, Sam clutching to one of his little green army men, fiddling with it absentmindedly while engrossed in the cartoon Dean had chosen for him and Dean was continually moving his focus around the room; first he'd check his brother, then he'd leer questioningly at Bobby, and finally he'd look at the TV screen briefly before repeating. Bobby had never seen such a skittish, careful thing at such an early age.

"You boys hungry?" Bobby finally asked, trying to break the ice and hopefully get Dean to ease up, though honestly he was just as nervous as the kid was. He'd never been around children before then. He didn't know how to talk to them, what to do with them. The whole situation was highly awkward.

Sam stayed quiet, knitting his brow together and looking over at Dean to answer for them both.

"Are you?" Dean asked Sam, getting the shy boy to nod his head to indicate that he was. Dean turned his head to Bobby, floppy blonde hair that was screaming for a haircut moving into his eyes as he did. "We could eat," he replies with a shrug. A simple statement really, but it was said in such a way that if Bobby hadn't been looking right at the child, he would have thought it was a much older person saying it.

"How you feel 'bout macaroni and cheese?" Bobby asked them, remembering he had a blue box of the stuff in the way back of one of his cupboards for the days when he didn't feel much like cooking. Seemed like a good try. Kids loved that crap, right? As confirmation, he watches as their eyes light up with the suggestion.

"Yeah!" Sam said with pure glee, the first time he'd used his voice since arriving.

"Well alright," Bobby said with a laugh while getting up. "You two sit tight and I'll get cookin'."

The boys ate in silence once their meal was ready. By the way Dean shoveled the pasta into his mouth, Bobby thinks they probably skipped breakfast that morning.

"Slow down, Dean. I don't feel much like doin' the Heimlich maneuver today," Bobby remembers asking of him, surprising himself with his unexpected authoritative tone, and he received an annoyed look in return. It was then that Sam let out a big yawn, mouth full of chewed macaroni on full display.

"Lookin' tired there, kiddo," Bobby mentioned.

"He usually takes a nap by now," Dean informed Bobby without looking up. He was too busy concentrating on scooping the last heaping spoonful of macaroni into his mouth without dropping a single noodle.

"Well, he still can," Bobby said. "Got a room upstairs with a nice comfy bed."

Dean thought for a second, glanced once at Bobby and then back at his tired little brother. "Ok," Dean agreed, jumping down from the kitchen chair and helping Sam off of his. "Let's go, dude."

Bobby led the way, the two kids following hand-in-hand, showing them the upstairs floor. He points out where the bathroom was and the room they'd be sharing. Dean helped Sam up onto the bed that was too high for him to climb onto by himself. Sam got under the covers and stopped to place his little army man on the nightstand, positioning him so that his gun was aimed at the door, before Dean tucked him in.

"Want me to stick around, Sammy?" he asked and Sam nodded his head yes. Dean jumped up onto the bed. He sat propped up with his back to the headboard and hands lounging behind his head. Briefly he looked over to Bobby who was leaning against the doorframe observing. He smiled with tight lips at the older man as he sat quietly, waiting for Sam to be sufficiently asleep. It was interesting to say the least to watch these two little guys, their personalities so clearly coming through already and their relationship with each other so very apparent. Sam, the wide-eyed, quiet, very observant, and quite shy little brother and Dean, the wise beyond his years, to the point, and seriously protective older brother.

After a few minutes, it looked to Bobby like Sam was soundly sleeping.

"Hey, Dean," Bobby whispered. "Let's let him sleep." He nodded his head out the doorway to indicate that they should leave. Dean looked back one more time to Sam, barely visible under the thick comforter and long wavy hair, before he got up and followed Bobby out.

"So," Bobby began once they got back downstairs. He nudged his head to a seat at the kitchen table, which Dean climbed up onto. "What kinda things you inta' at the age of seven?" Bobby put two chocolate chip cookies on a napkin and placed them in front of the child at the table. Dean's little green eyes sparkled brightly at the sight of the sweets.

"Seven and a half," Dean corrected earnestly as he took a huge bite of a cookie.

"My mistake," Bobby apologized, placing the glass of milk he poured on the table.

Dean waved his hand through the air for Bobby to forget about the mistake and smiled as he ate, enjoying the treat that he never normally had. He hums quietly and contently while swinging his legs underneath his seat. Bobby suddenly got the sense that he was on the right track with this kid. The key to him was his stomach.

"What you hummin' over there?"

"Metallica," he stated so simply, as if every kid knew the band enough to hum it. He took a big gulp of milk and wiped the mustache off with his plaid flannel sleeve.

"Big fan of theirs?"

"Dude! They rule!" Dean grinned while he picked up the second cookie and Bobby let out a laugh.

"So besides rock out ta' Metallica, what do seven and a half year olds like ta' do these days?"

"I don't know," Dean answered while shrugging his shoulders.

"You don't know what ya' like to do?" Bobby questioned.

"Nope," the child answered back, chocolate smudges on his cheeks.

"How 'bout baseball?" Bobby tried. "You ever throw a ball around?"

"Nope," Dean repeated, crumb coated grin in place as he finished the last bite. Damn, that kid could eat.

"Well today is yer lucky day kiddo," Bobby explained while walking to the study and pulling out a couple old, well-worn leather gloves and a dirt streaked baseball from a drawer.

They spent an hour outside together, just the two of them, playing catch. Bobby listened as the small child told him about the few things he'd already seen in his short life. It was disturbing, but Dean talked about it like it was the most normal thing in the world. He also listened as he spoke about Sammy, clearly his best friend in the world and only ally in his broken and unusual life, and John, his hero, who he looked up to with fierce love and complete veneration.

Through it all, this kid was something else. He was funny and outgoing already, a regular kid who had his heart in the right place. Bobby fell in love with him that very day and anytime John needed a babysitter, Bobby was happy to agree. He never in a million years assumed he'd find himself wanting to look after a couple of snot nosed kids, but life is funny that way.

Bobby closes his eyes, the drunken sleepiness taking over as he remembers his adopted son with pure adoration. Thank God. Liquor is the only thing that can get him to sleep anymore.

Wasted doesn't even begin to describe Sam's condition. Drinking for days straight now, he's the definition of misery. Dean's absence is never felt more than when Sam's had a few too many. Usually by this level of shitfaced, his older brother is lovingly securing an arm around his sloppy frame and leading him to either a bathroom to puke or a place to lay down and sleep it off. It may have been rare that Sam drank this much, but when he did, Dean always knew how to handle him perfectly.

Lying atop the dingy motel comforter and watching the falling rain out the large picture window, he recalls the first time he got really, really drunk in high school. His Dad had been gone for days on a hunt and for once, Sam had been at a school long enough to actually make some friends. Dean, being happy his brother had people to hang around beside him for once, told Sam to go have fun that Friday night, don't worry about curfew. And did he ever. It was the night he officially discovered that tequila is by no means his buddy.

It was late, really late. He remembers Dean saying it was around two-thirty in the morning when Sam decided to call for a ride back from the house party. Ready for the barrage of questions and insulting jabs over how bombed he'd gotten, the Impala came to a stop in front of him and he rolled his eyes. Sam tried to stand up from the curb outside his friend's house but when he did, his balance wavered and he leaned heavily to the right, stumbling a few steps before regaining his senses.

"Whoa, Sammy!" Dean called out while getting out of the car and rushing around to him. "Easy, man." Dean dropped an arm around his brother's shoulders, Sam being the much shorter of the two at the time, and pulled him in to steady his equilibrium.

"Got drrunk," Sam remembers slurring out.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean responded to the obvious. "Come on, get in. Lay down in the back seat."

Dean helped him into the car, Sam plopping his body down across the very familiar leather seat, lying on his back facing the roof. Once the car set in motion, a wave a panic consumed him. He groaned with the sickness growing in his stomach over the movement of the car and draped his arm over his eyes.

"You gonna puke!" Dean yelled back to him with alarm, hearing his miserable sounds. "Dad just gave me this car, Sammy. If you need to toss your cookies, you let me know. I'll pull over, no problem."

"How much furrther?"

"Two minutes."

"ll' make it."

"Fucking better, dude," Dean laughed.

After the longest two minutes of his life, the Impala's engine cut out and Sam reached quickly for the door handle. He pushed it open just in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the pavement of the motel parking lot. Gross, tequila was officially marked as gross in his book.

"Sswear I'm never… drrinking tequila again… everrr!" he declared in between heaves.

"Sure you're not," Dean responded with obvious disbelief. He rubbed the inexperienced drinker's back as the sickness slowly subsided for just a moment. Once he was done, Sam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and sighed.

"Better?" Dean questioned.

"Not enough," Sam responded, prying himself out of the back seat. Once again, Dean tucked him under his arm, just to make sure he didn't fall over on the short walk inside. He unlocked the door and Sam practically launched himself forward and onto the nearest bed.

"Uh-uh, Sammy," Dean warned. "That's my bed. You know it."

"Mmy bed," is all Sam slurred out while closing his eyes.

"Fine," Dean sighed while giving in. He disappeared into the bathroom for a few moments.

"Room… spinning… yuck," Sam managed out as the room begun to turn around him, making him ill all over again.

"That's what booze does, alchy," Dean said as he reemerged from the bathroom. "Makes everything a damn carnival ride if you're not careful. Sit up." Sam simply moaned his desire to not move. "Come on. Get up. Just for a minute then you can go back to being Sleeping Beauty."

Sam reluctantly followed orders. He sat up and took the large glass of water and Advil Dean offered and downed them quickly. He chugged the entire glass and fell back onto the pillows. It didn't take long before sleep began to take hold, but he clearly remembered feeling his boots being pried off his feet and a blanket being dropped over him. And he swore he heard Dean mutter, "Good for you, Sammy."

Dean never took advantage and made fun when he was wide open for insult and ribbing. Instead he took care of his dumb kid brother who was out being a dumb kid, a normal kid. That was the thing about Dean that Sam had always admired and looked up to the most. Not the harden exterior and not the strength and ability he had before Sam was big enough to match him. It was his love of his family, the unflinchingly protective nature he had for as long as Sam could remember. His brother did everything for him, from making sure his homework was done to trading his soul to save him. Dean devoted his life to raising Sam right and keeping him alive and as happy as he could be in their fucked up situation. Sure, Sam acted like he hated it, and many times he did, but now he just misses it. Dean could easily have decided he wanted to live his life and not worry so damn much about Sam, but that was never even a viable option in Dean's eyes. He was clearly a better man than most, better than Sam.

Sam closes his eyes, the drunken sleepiness taking over as he remembers his brother with absolute respect and love. Thank God. Liquor is the only thing that can get him to sleep anymore.

Wasted doesn't even begin to describe Lizzy's condition. Drinking for days straight now, she's the definition of misery. She hasn't left her grandmother's… no, her house in days. She's just been wandering around the large home, moving from room to room with a bottle in her hand at all times and her IPod blasting classic rock, usually Dean's favorites. Her poison of choice today was Lou's 'main man'. Jim, Jose, Johnny… none of those men were ever good enough for her. Even after being turned, she still had a thing for good old Jack Daniels. It's a shame that both Lou and Dean were bolder whiskey drinkers, though. She personally doesn't find bourbon or sour mash too appealing. Anything Irish is more her speed.

God damn, how has it only been twenty days? It feels like so much longer. Who ever said that time heals all wounds has never been proverbially stabbed in the heart quite as hard as she has. If anything, it's only gotten more difficult to manage. Just the idea of getting out of bed makes her want to kill herself, make it all stop. Dean always told her she was strong, strong enough to handle everything and anything that comes her way. His theory is really being put to the test right now and the only reason she's still breathing is because he asked her to.

So far today Lizzy has downed a quarter of a bottle of whiskey and it's only two in the afternoon. She knows she has to stop this, end this ridiculous cycle of strictly drinking and sleeping only when she could manage. She's lost weight in the last two weeks or so as she just isn't hungry anymore. If her brain would stop assaulting her by recalling her better times so damn much, maybe she could keep something down.

Each day has been a different barrage of memories. One day it's all the silly conversations she and Dean had, like the time they quoted their favorite one -liners from comedies for hours on end while driving in his Impala or when they had a lengthy debate over whether Van Halen was the best hairband ever or not (which they totally are). The next day it was Lou's turn. She recalled the time in high school that they got caught throwing a party while their parents went skiing together for the weekend. The two teenage girls decided to throw a killer kegger at Lizzy's. The only thing that gave them up when the weekend was over was the beer can ring on Lizzy's mother's nice coffee table they forgot to wipe clean. Her mother was always a stickler for details and spotted the flaw with ease. Their punishment was that they couldn't hang out together for a month. Worst damn month of her life… until now that is.

Today, however, was a Dean day. He was the first thing on her mind when she woke up and it was all her dreaming brain's fault. In the beautiful illusion she was lying in bed on her side facing him. Neither spoke or moved, just rested their heads comfortably on their pillows and looked at each other with smiles planted on their faces, so happy to be exactly where they were. It was calm and blissful, the best she's felt in forever. Then she blinked, closing her eyes and quickly reopening them, and reality set in. She awoke to an empty bed save for herself and immediately broke down in sobs as the awful loneliness consumed her all over again.

Her mind was ruthless today, evil like it hadn't ever been before. It kept bringing up their more intimate moments together, the ones no one could truly understand beside them, the ones in which they were totally open and vulnerable to the other. She could visualize the way Dean's eyes grew dark when lust took over and he knew exactly what he wanted from her, the way he licked his beautiful lips while watching her do any and everything to please him, and the way he intently watched her reactions with sheer wonder and satisfaction when he did the most delicious things to her. The scenes flash into her mind and ridicule her relentlessly.

Several more gulps of the strong tasting liquor and she settles into one corner of the living room couch, pulling her legs into her chest and resting her forehead on her knees. There was something about him from the second they met. Sure, just like every other chick that's ever had the good fortune of laying eyes on Dean Winchester, she wanted to straddle that gorgeous face the minute they'd met. But their connection went beyond just physical looks and she had the better fortune in that she got to have more than one night with him. She learned him, got to know what it was that made him buzz with utter enjoyment, what made him crazy with impatience, and what put him right over the edge. It's a shame she never got the chance to discover it all. They never had the time.

If heaven exists, which she's pretty sure it does now that she knows for a fact that hell's real, it would probably look a lot like the day she and Dean spent together holed up in a bedroom at Bobby's house. It was the most exciting, liberating, and pleasing day of her entire life. She wishes she could freeze time and replay that whole experience over and over again. The Led Zeppelin playing in the background as he took away the pain of the very recent hunt gone nearly wrong was such a wonderful moment. She'd almost died right in front of him, and at Sam's hand none-the-less, twenty-four hours earlier. It was awful. That next day Dean did all he could to show her he needed her, to take away the pain and replace it with pleasure, and fill her world with cherished devotion instead of nightmarish terror. And it worked beautifully.

She stirred for the first time that morning when she felt his fingers brush lightly against her neck, pushing aside her long hair to make way for his lips. He kissed her skin lightly and paused. She knew he was waiting to see if she's awake yet, so she opened her lids and smiled while turning over to face him.

"Good morning," Dean said to her brightly while looking her over, no doubt checking her injuries she received from her battle with the three Nixie the day before. As he studies her she in turn studies him. The sunlight coming in through the window illuminated his green iris in a way that melted her heart and got her emotions rolling.

"Hiya," she said back, smile slowly creeping across her face as he ran the pads of his fingers as lightly as possible over the dark bruising across her jaw. He picked up her right hand, still taped together for stabilization after breaking it, and turned it to inspect.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked while bringing her palm up to his mouth and adoringly kissing it before letting her have it back. Before she could answer his question, he kisses her lips. It was sweet and honest and perfect, no ulterior motivations meant.

"Feeling good enough," she responded once Dean ended the kiss for her to speak.

"Good enough for what?" Dean slyly asked her, that mischievous glint in his eye as he did. He looked both boyish and absolutely delicious at the same time. Hell of a combination.

"For you to get over there and put on some Zeppelin," she smiled out, nudging her head toward the bureau.

"That I can do," he responded while getting out of the nice warm bed and walking over to the IPod dock atop the old furniture. She watched him move, letting her eyes enjoy the view. God damn he made a pair of boxer briefs look absolutely amazing. Screw those Calvin Cline models; they had nothing on her guy. "You got anything in particular you want?"

"Why don't you start at the beginning," she suggested, lingering on the curve of his perfectly sculpted ass. "We'll see how far we get."

"I dig your style," Dean grinned while selecting Led Zeppelin's self-titled album, their earliest.

"Think we'll make it through to Coda?" Lizzy questioned while hearing 'Good Times Bad Times' start playing. "I think we can make it through to Coda."

"God, let's hope so," Dean said while moving in her direction to dive back into the bed.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Lizzy held up her hand, stopping him from joining her just yet.

"What?" Dean questioned with impatience.

"This is a no pants party," she informed him, pulling her tank over her head and tossing it on the ground once she's topless.

"Good thing I'm not wearing any pants," Dean smirked as he was just wearing underwear, even though he clearly knew what she was asking for.

"Ok then, smart ass," Lizzy responded while working under the covers, "Consider it a slumber party for nudists then." She brings her arms above the blankets and slingshots her panties in his direction, hitting him square in the chest. She giggled hardily while her underwear dropped to the floor at his feet and Dean's wide smile grew even wider.

"You," he started while hooking his thumbs onto his waistband, "are awesome."

He quickly lost the only item of clothing he had left and happily got right back into bed with her, starting the marathon of a lifetime. It was playful at times, tender at others, and even a little wild here and there too. The day kept switching moods yet they were always on the same page throughout. She knew that experience had changed her. He was it for her; everything she'd always wanted but never knew she wanted before that moment.

She came out of that room hours later a new woman, still in one piece and head-over-heels in love.

Lizzy closes her eyes, the drunken sleepiness taking over as she remembers the love of her life with sheer, never-ending affection and devotion. Thank God. Liquor is the only thing that can get her to sleep anymore.

Pissed off doesn't begin to describe Dean's condition. Tortured for years straight now, he's the definition of misery. He isn't totally gripped with fear now after so much time in hell as now he knows what to expect. They start the day with Alistair's horrendous offer, then moves on to the carving when he refuses. It's been the same exhausting thing every God-forsaken day. Now, with the constant and mind-numbing repetition, he's grown absolutely infuriated.

"Here we are again, huh Dean?" Alistair asks, appearing by his side suddenly with his face just inches from Dean's. "Seems like it was just yesterday we talked like this. Oh that's right, it was." His lips curl with glee.

Today Dean decides he's going to keep quiet and not give the demon exactly what he wants; a reaction. His smart mouth already earned enough consequences to learn a little. He shakes with anger as he holds back his words and displays the most self-control he's ever been able to muster in his life.

"Playing the strong silent type today I see," Alistair comments calmly while bringing the point of his favorite knife just millimeters from one of Dean's eyes. He doesn't blink nor look away. He stands his ground, what little he has, and stares right back into the blackened eyes of his tormentor.

"Oh, a challenge. Mm, fun. I almost like it," Alistair growls while backing away. "I decided to up the ante today, my dearest Dean. I've taken a shining to you, you know."

Dean once again stays silent but his heart beats faster as Alistair talks. Why would he take an interest in him? What makes him so fucking different than the millions of other souls committed to damnation?

"Is today the day to get down from there? Stretch your legs, strut around a bit?"

"No," Dean answers quickly, not even letting the thought have a chance to run through his consciousness. It'd be dangerous to allow that.

"That's a shame, Dean. I could really use you."

"No!" Dean bellows even louder.

"Fine, party pooper," Alistair gives in. "Then instead, I want to introduce you to my friend, though I think you might have met before."

Dean watches as the guest of honor walks up to him, smile wide and eyes black as night. She doesn't look familiar to him but her confident stance makes him nervous.

"Hello, Dean," the female voice cheerfully greets. He'd know that inflection and tone anywhere.

"Meg," Dean nearly chokes out at his recognition.

"Oh, did I forget to mention," Alistair interrupts the reunion. "This is my favorite student. She's a near master of her craft, this one."

"Aw, Ali. You're making a girl blush," Meg smiles before turning back to Dean, evil excitement in her dark eyes. "Oh, this is just too good. Dean fucking Winchester, in hell and at the mercy of those he's wronged… twice!"

Dean says nothing, once again pretending to be stoic and tough while actually being nearly paralyzed by fright.

"I just wish little ol' Sammy was here to see this." She raises her knife and grins while the hellfire flickers across the reflective metal. "Oh, the fun we're gonna have!"

Dean closes his eyes, the blinding pain immediately taking over as he tries to remember why he made this deal in the first place. Sam. Thank God, he thinks. The thought of his few loved ones are the only thing that can keep him going anymore.