Disclaimer: Refer to Chapter One.

A/N: I've never really been involved in other fandoms except for SUPERNATURAL. What I really love about this is that the fans are cool and smart and we all come from different places with different stories. I dig that about all of you.

So, I have to say that I do speak a little Spanish, however, it is really medically driven. I am a nurse and I just fill in the blanks with English when I am talking to someone who speaks Spanish and a little bit of English. We always seem to make it work. It was pointed out to me that I am in error – "the little one" would actually be "el pequeño". I apologize for those that noticed I got it wrong and I want to thank Vicky for pointing it out to me. Those are important things to know. There isn't a whole lot of Spanish left in the story, but I do bring up "the little one" again. Sorry if I irritated anyone!

Beta: Anyone ever read 'Without a Trace' fandom? If so, you can check out my wonderful beta's first story ever! It's been very exciting! (remove the spaces)

http: // www. fanfiction. net / u/ 1174438/

Chapter Three: One Bourbon. One Scotch. One Beer

March, 2009

He kicked off his boots and wiggled his toes, releasing with it a much needed sigh of relief. It felt so good to do something so mundanely human. He often wondered if there was a doctor who specialized in his kind of ailment. Maybe some kind of witch doctor or wizard or maybe just a regular M.D. with a white coat and an expensive pen. If one existed, Sam guessed this would be just the kind of medicine the doctor would order.

Stick to things that everyone else does. Brush your teeth. Go to work. Raise a family. Eat. Sleep. Be normal. Because being normal will be the road that leads to all the happiness in the world.

Don't smoke. Don't do drugs. Don't exorcise demons with your mind. Try crossword puzzles instead.

Sam glanced up as his brother pushed into the small room, carrying his clothes duffel and the weapons sack. He didn't say anything, just found a spot in the corner and turned around. He reached into his front pocket and removed his silver flask, twisting the top off.

One. Two. Three quick swigs.

"Salt and burn in the morning," Dean breathed as he capped his flask and shoved it back into his pocket.

Sam nodded. He stood up and pulled his jeans off, keeping his shirt on and climbed back into the bed, pulling the covers up to his neck.

Big Ben had brought in extra blankets and pillows for the lucky man taking the floor and Dean was already clumsily putting on his sleep pants for the night.

Sam didn't even have to argue. Dean had relinquished the old, crappy bed with a wave of his hand. He claimed the floor would be more comfortable anyway and who knew what was living in that mattress.

Sam had flashed him something that resembled a smile, but he really was grateful. The past week he'd spent his nights folded like a pretzel in either bench of the Impala. It was going to feel good to stretch out.

Normal.

"This place still give you the creeps?" Dean asked, unfolding the thick blanket.

Sam rolled to his back and bent his right arm behind his head. The soft glow from above seemed to stutter but Dean didn't notice. Sam wondered what else Dean wasn't noticing.

"No."

Dean's mouth tightened, but Sam refused to look over, he just stared blankly at the damned light above them. He knew his voice had come across as taut and reserved. He just hoped it sounded tired and not like he was lying.

The older hunter crawled down to his makeshift bed, yanking the pillow with him, rolling to his right, away from the bed. Away from Sam. He mumbled under his breath something about beds that are made and how everyone has to lie in them, but Sam pretended he didn't hear him.

Even if it was obvious he had.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "You think it's Val? Think she's haunting the place?"

Sam shrugged, although he knew Dean couldn't see it. "Maybe." He listened as his brother tossed and turned on the floor, punching his pillow. Sam's head rolled to the right. "Sometimes there are people who are just born to haunt a place."

Dean huffed his response as his body stilled. He was as relaxed as he was going to get. "Shut off the light," he muttered and Sam scooted up and reached for the light switch on the wall, causing the small bed to creak and crank.

The room grew darker than all the nights Sam had witnessed from inside the Impala. It was hard to focus, hard to decipher what was what and where things were. He heard his brother let out a heavy breath and then made a gagging sound followed by a loud belch. All the beers Dean had put away with the Timmons' brothers were finally catching up with him.

"Hey, Dean?"

There was a few seconds of silence as Sam waited for Dean to buzz through the haze of almost-sleep. He turned his head to his side and listened as Dean came back into the reality of the dark room.

"What?" Dean's voice was sluggish, slurred with nearby hopes of sleep.

"You haven't heard from… up above or anything?" Sam always had a love/hate relationship with the dark. He loved that he could hide in it and he hated what he became.

Dean took another deep breath, this one more annoyed than anything and let it out. Sam hoped he'd answer. He knew Dean was getting tired of him asking about his extra-curricular friends. About what Cas had told Dean. That he was the one who had to stop it because he was the one who had started it. He certainly hadn't mentioned Sam and how he played into the whole picture.

For that reason alone, Sam would ask about what new information Dean had heard. Dean wasn't keeping secrets, he was being as open and honest with Sam as he possibly could. Of course, when it came to Sam and the games he was playing and who he was playing with…

Dean cleared his throat. "No. Why?"

There was a pause that lasted longer than needed and Dean was starting to submit to sleep again.

"No reason." Sam spoke softly. He felt the air shift and without seeing, he knew Dean's eyes were closing. His brother's body calmed in the dark. He heard his inhales deepen, his exhales lengthen and he mumbled as sleep came to claim him.

Soon Sam found that his own dreams were flooding his subconscious, meshing and tangling with hurtful words and secrets unspoken. Visions of a ball rolling, someone catching it, lips on his forehead, his Dad smiling. Then there were demons reaching over his head, grabbing invisible people. Some with red eyes. Some with yellow. And his Dad wasn't smiling anymore. He was… angry, yelling, and Sam was stumbling forward and falling backwards with his chest ripped apart and his heart pumping in his own pale hands. He heard a name spoken in his ear, thick and accented, "Conchita" and Sam looked over to his left. Someone was looking back at him. He tried to move, tried to walk over to see who it was but his feet wouldn't budge. Then he felt his hand fall over the very real broken down mattress, back in the dark room, hitting his brother's shoulder.

Dean woke frantically with a strangled gasp caught in his throat.

-0-

August, 1990

There were things they would never know about their father. The simple reasoning being that John Winchester had wanted it that way. He was not a sharing man. He was not an emotional man. He was structured and he was disciplined. He was a father. A protector. And gave out much needed information on a much need to know basis. There were always questions without reasons and sometimes one of the boys would ask but mostly they wouldn't. John just wasn't the answering kind of guy.

Dean never knew when John had figured it out about Sam. From the day he had bent down and whispered "Don't be scared" into his son's ear and then followed up with the words that changed Dean's life, he had wondered when John had known. How long.? Was it all at once or did he piece it together? How long did he keep that secret? The one that ended in a really important need to know right-the-fuck-now answer.

Since that time, Dean had spent quiet hours in the Impala racking his brain, combing through his memory. Using time in motel rooms while the TV flashed useless reruns to remember times he'd rather forgotten. He tried to conjure up the ghosts in his mind to put the timetable together and there were things he remembered. Things that at the time, he didn't understand but now… well, John Winchester always had a reason for being someplace. They never spent a night in a town without there being a reason why they were there.

"It smells funny in here," Dean had commented as John led him to the backroom of the bar. He nodded to the twin bed, telling him he'd have to bunk with Sam. John would take the floor.

Dean had sighed. He'd complained the entire ride through the heat of Ohio in August. He'd only wanted to stop to pee, not spend a couple of days. John, however, had a different take on the situation.

"Why're we here?" Dean asked.

"No reason," John answered, without meeting his older son's eyes.

They had just came off a hunt involving a demon possessing a young girl. One of John's first encounters he had ever had with one. When he realized what it was, what the threat was, he had sent Dean out the back of the building to watch Sam. Dean had done as he was told, kept Sam safe, stayed outside.

And watched his father deal with the demon through dirty windows.

The girl was about sixteen and she had a mouth on her that made Dean's ears hot. John ejected the Latin from his lips as fast as he could while the young body writhed on the floor. He could hear her scream and beg and John ignored her, the words running together faster and louder.

Until Dean remembered her saying Sam's name and John's tongue tied for a second. Dean watched in horror as his father crouched down closer to the demon, their voices dropping low. He couldn't hear from outside the broken building, but the demon's eyes fixed on his father's and he could see her lips mouth Sam's name more than once, her face breaking into a wicked smile and then John standing back up, shouting the Latin again until her body emptied of the black smoke and the girl was left gasping for her life on the cold floor.

After a stop to the hospital, John headed his small family to Ohio. He claimed to not know where they were headed next, just kept driving. He barely wanted to stop for dinner. He just wanted the run, run, run of the Impala and the satisfaction of crossing state lines until he pulled up into the muddy parking lot and walked back into the old bar.

Dean remembered the staccato rhythm playing out of the jukebox. He remembered the smile on Ben's much thinner face, true and genuine. "Now there's a son of a bitch I'd knew I'd see again," he was saying to the hunter, barely pausing over the boys with his eyes. He'd called to his brother and Jeff had quickly come over.

They all shook hands and Ben had asked what'd be. John had simply replied, "A bed."

The barkeep nodded and then John added, "Oh, and," a crooked grin answered the next question, "one bourbon. One scotch. One beer." Which made both brothers chuckle and raise their eyebrows, but it was a request they were more than able to fill.

www

It had taken until night for John to relax into his surroundings. He had made sure the boys were fed, made sure their bed was warm with sleeping bodies before he had made his move. The bar life was filtering back out the door. Fast women and faster men were snatching up their prey for the night – and the morning – and things were quieting down. A lone wolf sat at the far end of the counter, eyes stuck on his beer, no skag on his arm. But save his company, the bar was empty.

John smiled. The Grateful Dead was playing low on the jukebox and a small boy no one detected wandered out of his bed a half hour before, opening the door to his room just a crack to watch as the life exited the bar.

"How's business?" John started. He had felt a balance shift since his arrival. The brothers had always run the bar like it was more than just their business, like it was home. But it didn't feel as cozy as it had the last time he was here. The boys seemed off. They were a footstep behind one another. John caught the looks, the biting of the lips, the snide remarks to each other and the eyes swishing away.

Something had happened since his last visit.

Business had been good, Ben was saying. Mostly locals from the town, from the surrounding areas, a few travelers, but the money was decent and times were profitable. The bar was standing and the beer was flowing as fast as the cash from friendly fists.

"How're the kids?" John asked, a twinkle in his eye as he thumbed the sweat rolling down his beer. He stole a look at the brothers and felt a nervous heat light his face.

"Ramona's doin' pretty good. Pretty good," Ben's eyes fell to the countertop.

Jeff poured a shot of whiskey and slid the glass to his brother.

John waited silently. Ramona wasn't exactly the child he was curious about. He took a swig of his beer and watched as Ben tossed the whiskey to the back of his throat. He licked his lips and pushed the shot glass back to Jeff, tapping it once.

Jeff obliged and hit him again.

The whiskey was thrown back a second time and John's eyes shifted to his bottle. The music cut in through the conversation like it was a third party asking to dance. The hunter tried to ignore the request, but his throat started rolling up and down in a soft hum.

Ran into the devil, babe, he loaned me twenty bills/I spent the night in Utah in a cave up in the hills

There were no more ladies dancing in men's laps, trading sloppy kisses back and forth by the time Dean had wandered down the hallway. He crouched down low to listen as he heard his father's voice in the open bar. He was sitting with the two brothers, talking and laughing, but mostly watching and listening. Dean didn't miss that one.

The flick of the lighter got both their attentions and Dean slid down the wall, out of sight, eyeing his father's face. It took him a couple of drags and then Ben was geared up and ready to talk.

"We've hit a rough patch," he stated, not looking at anyone or anything in particular.

John waited.

"Rough patch is puttin' it lightly," Jeff muttered and Ben shot over a look that silenced him.

"You know Valentina… she hasn't been right for a while now."

John nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"And it's gotten really bad... been really bad for almost a year now." He smoked on, the clock behind them ticking the seconds away. The man seemed to get lost in a crossroads of words and he couldn't decide which road would be the easiest to stay on as his throat caught on his emotions.

"How bad is bad?" John offered.

"I'm, uh, kicking Val out." Ben paused, eyes landing on him. "Probably… maybe… Yeah."

Jeff's neck stiffened. "What?" His eyes tennis-balled from John to his brother. "You didn't tell me this." Then, from the gut, demanding to know, he asked, "Why?"

Ben tilted his chin to the right. "Why the hell do you think?"

The younger brother leaned across the bar and shook his head. His breath sped up and John noticed his hand splayed across his chest, like it had just tightened. "No, man, you can't. Not after everything. You can't fucking ditch her now." He lifted blue eyes to him and tried to plead with the man.

Ben didn't meet his eyes, though. He just kept staring across the counter at the hunter staring back. "Have to." He stamped the used smoke on a full ashtray and shoved it away, silent curses blowing out of his mouth along with the smoke. "You've seen her. She's not right. She's… she's seeing things and talking crazy. She can't even be a good mother to Ramona anymore."

John stayed silent, but his eyes narrowed back to Ben. Ramona? Just Ramona? Not to Angel? He wanted to ask, but Jeff was driving the conversation and John was just hanging out in the backseat at the moment.

A new pack of cigarettes was being untwined and Jeff's head was shaking back and forth.

"You know," Jeff started soft, an understanding tone, "I know it's been hard on both of you."

Ben looked over and stared hard at him. There was the flick of the Bic and he lit up again.

Jeff shuttered in a breath. John knew from the stricken look that the younger man had seen the look before in the older brother. He wanted to warn him not to keep going, but this wasn't his family. This wasn't his place. "But you can't just push her away. She needs help."

Wrong words. Ben was glaring now, his eyes throwing punches that his hands didn't dare do. "You of all people know what I've done for her. I've gotten her help. We've seen every psychiatrist, every counselor, ever preacher in the tri-state area. She's been to the hospital – how many times now?"

Jeff looked away. "Three."

"Three." Ben held up his center fingers incase Jeff had suddenly become deaf. "Three times. We try one med, than another. She's taking eight pills, Jeff. Eight." He thumped the side of his skull. "All for her head. And nothing. Nothing has worked."

He took a quick hit off his Camel and watched his younger brother. Had been doing it for thirty years now. Fifteen of those without parental supervision.

Jeff kept his eyes low to the ground. John could see that the man wanted to say something, but his words were dust particles now, stuck on the wood floor below, waiting to get swept away or tramped on by big feet. Either way, it didn't really matter what Jeff said.

"She wasn't the only one who lost that night. I lost him, too." Ben shook his head. "We all lost him."

The words were faint and full of pain. It was the sound John recognized as grief. He could see from Jeff's eyes that he didn't fully understand. Not yet. There was a singe of fresh pain behind his eyes. Jeff blinked hard, ignoring the sting. He was trying not to cry in front of his brother. John could see it was important to him not to break down about this. Never about this. This was one area where the younger man had to keep it together.

Just in case the older would let himself break.

"Ben…"

"Lost who?" John's voice slammed between the conversation, unable to stay quiet any longer. "What the hell happened?"

Ben looked over, taking the few years of being a father with him and with a tremble of his chin, he said, "Angel. We lost him almost a year ago."

John felt the heat return to his cheeks again and wasn't sure if it was shock or sympathy or disappointment. Probably a bit of all three. "He… died?" the hunter went on, making sure he was following correctly.

The cigarette paper was burning down to the end and stamped out in a smoky mix of disheartened and confused emotions. Ben took a few breaths without the aide of the tobacco and tried to keep his eyes low, his tears at bay.

John waited cautiously, not sure if he should be asking anything more. He remembered after Mary had passed on, the gloomy faces that would greet him, the smiles that would disappear. He remembered walking into rooms and hearing his friends laughter change to somber moods. He remembered the questions and the stares of disbelief when he tried to explain what had happened to his wife, how she died. He remembered the whispers and the concern. He'd never forget all the fucking concern.

"Angel drowned," Jeff finally spoke up for his brother, the younger man inching towards the older. "Valentina was giving the kids a bath and she left to help Ramona with her PJ's and… they thought he probably fell somehow. Got caught up in the shower curtain." Jeff stilled next to Ben, his forearm leaned across the countertop, grazing against his brother's.

"Is that what Val said happened?" John ventured, treading lightly.

Jeff let out a long sigh and tilted his head. "Val just, she just hasn't been right for a long time, you know? She thought there was something after him."

"After… your family?"

"No," Ben joined in again, "just Angel."

"Sounds like murder."

Three heads turned towards the end of the bar where the last customer still remained. He stood up from his bar stool and threw a twenty next to his empty glass.

"Get goin', Murphy," Jeff called over to him. "You know the story just as good as anyone around here and everyone checked out clean."

The old man walked around the bar and leaned into the trio. "I had three boys myself," he lifted wiry, gray eyebrows up high onto his forehead, "and all of 'em could take a bath by themselves by the time they was six."

Ben smashed a large, heated fist on the edge of the bar. His words tumbled out against clenched teeth, "Get goin' or I swear to God I'll throw you out myself."

The old man backed up and tipped his head in acknowledgement and respect. "I'm not sayin' Val had anything to do with it. I'm just sayin' maybe somethin' else was in that tub with your boy."

John squinted at the old man. Murphy swayed to the left and then the right, his words slurred and he pointed his finger off center at the men. Clear signs he'd had one too many to drink, but he oddly made sense to the third wheel at the bar.

"And," Murphy turned from the men and started towards the door, "you got young ears listenin' in to your words so be careful whatcha say."

John's head whipped around and he caught the tail end of Dean's little body scrambling off the floor and down the hallway with John on his heels behind him.

-0-

March 2009

Alastair was there. He was always there. Had been there for years now. Dean's body couldn't take it. The pure emotion he felt when he was in the demon's presence was unearthly. There were no words.

So he was always there when Dean closed his eyes, giving his body a much-needed break. His mind wandered through the fire, the cobwebs, the darkness, the screams until he was face to face with his mentor. And it sickened him.

Heaven. I'm in Heaven.

It was in his dreams where he fought the things he could never escape.

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.

Dean's heart was thumping against his ribcage, smacking his lungs, threatening to explode.

And I seem to find the happiness I seek.

It was part of the big fucking problem. Where Dean's happiness lay now. He couldn't save the world because he was failing himself. He was failing his father. He was allowing Sam to become…

When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.

The faucet was dripping.

Dean blinked. No, it wasn't the faucet. It was the gutters from outside. He blinked a few more times realizing where he was and pushed himself up on wobbly arms. He looked around to the right and the left, trying to clear his head of the sloshing that was still present.

He looked towards the tiny window in the back of the room and could see through the barely opened blinds that there was moisture running down the glass. He shoved himself up onto his palms and sat with his back against the small bed.

"Hey, Sam," he ground out and quickly cleared his throat, "get up. We gotta start digging." In the mud and the rain. Dean's hand flew over his shoulder and hit an empty bed. His head spun around, followed by the rest of his body. "Shit," Dean grumbled as he untangled himself from the measly blankets on the floor and found himself half stumbling, half racing down the hallway into the bar.

"There's Sleeping Beauty." Jeff's crisp voice hit Dean's ears like a blow from a sharp edge that made him wince in pain.

"Sam?" Dean shouted out, a little too loud, a little too anxious. His eyes adjusted to the changing light and sparkles of white shimmered in his vision for a few seconds.

"I was just about ready to wake your ass up."

Dean turned to the right and saw his brother's too big form tucked away in the corner, hidden from the vast-emptiness of the joint.

Dean hobbled over and slid in the vacant booth. He opened his hands, palms up in question and glowered across the table. "What the fuck? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Sam sipped on a hot cup of black coffee. His eyes seemed dark as they peered over the steam and he calmly placed the porcelain back down. Regardless of his demure manner, Dean's first thought was that Sam sure looked like shit.

"I tried." Even Sam's voice sounded uneasy. "You told me to get lost."

The clock to Dean's right blinked 1:37 pm and he looked quickly back at Sam. "I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"You tried to wake me up?"

"Twice. I was just about ready to go back in and try again."

"Yeah?" He waited, watched as Sam nodded and picked the coffee cup back up. "And… you didn't go and try to do the job? Alone?"

Sam lifted an arm, as if bringing Dean back into reality. "Dude, it's raining outside."

"Yeah?"

"Two man job in the rain."

Which wasn't exactly true. But having a pair of extra hands did make it easier. And if that was the reason why his brother had stayed and waited for Dean, well, he would take it. In all honesty, Dean had given up trying to read his brother's next move a couple of months ago. He didn't know what Sam's plans were – secret or otherwise – or when they included Dean and when they didn't. There was a time when he could just look into his brother's eyes and read him. There was a time when he could close his own and feel him.

Now everything in Sam's world was thrown up in the air. And Dean was up there with all the garbage and baggage, trying to grab on to whatever Sam would allow.

"You just gonna sit there and stare at me or do you want to catch a shower first?"

Dean blinked. It was raining and a shower wouldn't do him any good. "I'll just… let me clean up a little and change my clothes."

"Okay."

"I'll be right back." He started to rise and pointed a finger at Sam. "You stay here."

"Okay."

"And every salt and burn is a two man job."

Sam's mouth ticked up. "Okay."

Dean headed down the hallway back to the small bedroom. But not before stealing a glimpse over his shoulder. Sam had his body pulled inwards again. He held everything close to his vest nowadays. His face was scrunched into some kind of questioning frown. A mask. A weak disguise to keep everyone out. When Dean had never before been so desperate to get in.

He felt guilty turning around and walking away. He had spent his whole life pushing Sam to the side when the going got tough. When emotions got high and Dean's feelings were at stake. Sam always tried to get him to open up. To tell him what he needed. That's when Dean pushed and shoved. When Dad died. When Sam died. When Dean sealed a deal. When Dean died. When he was resurrected.

But he always came around. And Sam was there. They got their groove back for a while. Got to be brothers again. They could count on each other. Hell, each other was all they had. For so long.

Then Hell happened. Time stretched and Dean lost.

The righteous man…

Dean closed his eyes as he turned the knob to the bedroom door. It was hard to hold on down there. It was hard to get off the rack. It was hard to say no and harder to say yes. It was hard to remember why. Sometimes he thought he forgot certain things. Like how to be a man.

It wasn't your fault. You should forgive yourself.

And how to love.

You have people that want to help. You're not alone.

And Sam.

-TBC-

Playlist: Friend of the Devil performed by the Grateful Dead

Cheek to Cheek performed by Frank Sinatra, but sang by Alastair

One Bourbon. One Scotch. One Beer performed by George Thorogood

A/N: Thanks again. Hope you are still enjoying! Off to see if a salt and burn will do the trick!