But in Your Dreams (Whatever They Be)
Five times people passed out on Dean, and one time he returned the favor.
2.
"So then I sez to her," Bobby says, swaying forward into Dean's space. "I sez, lady, even if your pants were holy ground and we were surrounded by vampires, I wouldn't be tryin' to get in 'em."
"Bobby Singer," John says very seriously, pointing an accusing finger at him, "you are drunk."
Rufus laughs like that's the funniest thing said by anyone, ever, and Jesus Christ but these old farts can't hold their liquor. Twelve-year-old Sam after his first tequila shot was fucking Rico Suavé compared to their dad and his friends after a six pack.
Fourteen-year-old Sam is sulking around upstairs, banished there following some argument Dean only caught the tail end of. That's fine and dandy, let the kid sulk, but now Dean's the only one picking up empties and unloading shotguns (just in case the Three Drunketeers get it in their heads to go shoot something when they're three sheets to the wind, again, Jesus Christ), and he could really use someone to exchange exasperated eyerolls with. He's just saying.
There's a game on, college football or pre-season matches or something. Bobby is a diehard Cornhuskers fan and the contrast of the fifty-year-old television and brand spanking new satellite dish never fails to amuse Dean.
"—slaps me! Can you believe it?" Bobby is saying. Yes, Dean believes it.
"Naw, really?" Rufus asks, and Dean rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.
John and Rufus pass out where they are, John slumped over the kitchen table, Rufus sprawled facedown on the horsehair loveseat with the cabbage roses on it, drooling into the fabric. It leaves Dean and Bobby sitting on the pullout sofa; Dean really, truly does not want to share a narrow four-poster with sulky-Sam, so when Bobby starts teetering in place he gets a shoulder under the man's arm and half-leads, half-carries him up the stairs to his own unmade and musty-smelling bed.
While Dean is trying to pry off Bobby's shoes, the man mumbles, "Thankye. Yer a good son," and pats Dean clumsily on the head.
Then, slowly, even majestically, he topples straight backwards like a felled redwood and lands with a bounce. Before Dean can say anything, the old hunter starts snoring, mouth open and loud enough to wake the dead.
"… thanks, Bobby," Dean says quietly, and tiptoes out.