Sixteen bottles of beer on the wall
Summary: Companion piece to "It's My Party." Dean's POV.
The Party-Crasher
Dean watches his younger (and much taller—so not fair) brother from his seat in the dark corner.
Twenty-one.
Baby Sammy, his little snot-nosed kid brother, is legal now.
Twenty-one.
The six-month-old baby he'd carried out of their burning house the night their mother died, the baby whose first word was heard only by big brother, the toddler who'd followed him around all the time, the one for whom Dean had beat up more bullies than he had fingers (and toes), the annoying, stubborn jackass of a brother who'd picked fights with Dad, and who'd left three years ago for college.
That Sammy.
"It's Sam," he hears in his head. "Not Sammy." Dean can practically see the eye-roll. Nah, little brother will always be "Sammy" to him, even when they're old geezers with walking sticks and wheelchairs. Well, if Dean even lives that long.
Sam will, though. Sammy's gonna be a lawyer, imagine that. With a family business like this, a lawyer in the family might come in handy. If the rest of said family could get along, that is.
Dean sighs and takes another swig from his bottle.
Across the room, the stereotype of a rich frat kid plunks a shot glass full of a clear white liquid down in front of Sam. Sam's face turns solemn, as if he's contemplating the momentousness of this event. Heck, knowing him, he probably is.
It's not Sam's first drink. No one knows that better than Dean. Now Sam's first drink…oh man. He chortles at the memory.
Sam's sixteenth, Dean let Sam drive the Impala, snuck the kid into a bar after dinner and movies, and got him shit-faced. Totally, utterly, completely shitfaced. It's not his fault birthday boy was a lightweight. Two beers. Two. Good thing Dad wasn't around, else the next morning, Sam might have begged him to kill him and end his misery, instead of just Dean, and Dad really might have.
Hangovers. Dean chuckles again. Greasy cheeseburger served up on a dirty ashtray. Now that was fun.
Sam's face darkens, the change only perceptible to a close observer (like Dean), and he quickly tosses the alcohol back like a pro.
Damn, Sammy, says Dean to himself, thinking of Dad, are we? Now why the hell are you thinking about Dad, of all people? Oh yeah, normal stuff, right? Kid's always had issues about "normal."
Like how normal kids don't have weapons training and hunting practice (speaking of which, Dean's been tailing Sam for over an hour, and he hasn't even turned around once—getting rusty there, kiddo) on top of homework. They don't move every three weeks. They don't get hurt, and nearly killed, on hunts. They go to college, they have homes, they don't eat exclusively at diners. Normal, normal, normal. Everything Dean and Dad couldn't give him.
Well, he's got it now, Dean thinks. Doesn't need big brother anymore. Or so he thinks, anyway.
Want proof? See that? Sam just took his phone out of his pocket. He's not gonna call though. He's thinking too much about it. Just watch. Dean knows his brother too well.
Dean's hand hovers over the phone sitting on the table next to his own drink anyway.
Sam flips the cell open. Huh, maybe this year will be the—nope. The plastic clicks shut.
See? He was right. He's always right.
Dean sighs and stands, pauses for a moment, then picks his bottle back up, and raises it in a toast to the group of college kids sitting in the bright light, his brother's shaggy head sticking out like a giant in a room full of midgets.
"Happy birthday, Sammy."
He finishes the beer, drops some bills on the table, and casts another look back at his brother, who's got his arm draped protectively around the pretty blonde he's been dating for six months. Blondie (Jessica Lee Moore, aged 20, psychology major) snuggles up to him. Attaboy.
Now Frat Boy's wheedling Sammy into playing pool with him.
Dean chuckles to himself. Sammy-boy's gonna clean him out. Unless he's feeling stubborn, in which case he'll try pathetically hard to lose every game. Oh, Sammy.
He leaves the bar with a small smile, feeling better than he had when he'd walked in; he's seen his brother, seen how grown up he's gotten (grown up and up, the stork-legged little bitch), seen him with that normal life he's always wanted.
And Dean didn't talk to him, didn't even approach him. Best birthday present he could have given, he rationalizes. Not being there and messing things up when Sam doesn't want him invading his life.
Except he was. He's always been there for Sam's first everything (well, except for his first, ya know, lay, but he sure heard about it right after), so there's no reason why Dean should miss Sammy's first legal drink.
That's the sort of thing normal brothers would be around for, right?
He guns his engine and roars out of the bar's parking lot, wondering if Sam had in fact noticed him, and was only pretending not to see him…Nah, Dean's a sneakier bastard than even Sam can detect.
Because he's just that good.