Title: The Darker Side of Heaven
Chapter 2: The Sharpest Lives

Well it rains when it pours when your out on your own. If I crash on the couch can I sleep in my clothes? 'Cause I spent the night dancing, I'm drunk I suppose. If it looks like I'm laughing I'm really just asking to leave.- The Sharpest Lives by My Chemical Romance

It had been two weeks since Jessica's funeral and Sam was a miserable wreck. Dean tried to keep his spirits up but Sam found himself faking his smiles in hopes that Dean would leave him alone. He knew that his brother didn't really believe him but he stopped asking him if he was alright every time he looked at him. That had to be something.

Sam sat at the kitchen table, a coffee cup between his hands. He hadn't actually drank any of the coffee but he took comfort in it's warmth. It wasn't a real feeling but it was the closest thing he had felt to an honest to God feeling ever since Jessica's funeral. He had felt numb and he could not tell if it was a bad thing or not. From where he was sitting, being numb was better than pain or depression. This way he felt nothing and he preferred it that way.

"Good morning." Dean said through a yawn as he stumbled his way into the kitchen, stretching his arms above his head.

Sam did not reply but looked down at his mug as if the answers to the universe were hidden in the contents of his coffee. Maybe they were.

"What are you going to do today?" Dean asked, ignoring the fact that Sam had not answered him.

Sam still said nothing, shrugging his shoulder as if his brother would be able to see it through the back of his head as he poured his own cup of coffee.

Looking over his shoulder at his brother, Dean let out a sigh and put down the coffee pot. "We need to talk about this, Sammy."

Sam still said nothing. He had nothing to say to anybody.

"You need to get out of the house. I understand that you needed time, I really do, but you need to get out of the house. Go somewhere, anywhere. I don't care. You just need to get out of the house." Dean said. It was careful, as if he did not want to seem like he was attacking him in any way. Sam did not care either way. Dean could have screamed it at him and he doubted it would have made a difference.

"And where should I go?" Sam asked, his voice soft as he continued to look into the depths of his mug. "School? The library?"

Dean sat at the table across from his brother, coffee mug in hand. "Why don't you go on a walk today? No destination, just get out and walk. Maybe the fresh air will do you some good."

Sam nodded in agreement. He couldn't see how it would hurt anything. He couldn't see how it would help anything but he couldn't see how it would hurt. He took a sip of his coffee, not really tasting it but it seemed to satisfy Dean.

...

Sam got dressed, not paying attention to what he was wearing and his movements more automatic than anything else but he was dressed. One thing accomplished.

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, typing away at the lab top when Sam came downstairs.

"Bye, Dean." Sam called.

"Be good, Sammy." Dean called after him.

'Yeah,' Sam thought, pulling on his coat. 'Be good.'

The sky was turning gray and Sam could feel the oncoming rain in the air. Maybe he should have turned around and went back inside with the excuse that it was going to rain and that he couldn't get out.

He thought about it for a long moment, staring up at the sky before deciding against it. If he went back inside for any reason outside of bodily harm Dean would hold it over his head. He wouldn't have to say anything and Sam would know that his brother was judging him. He couldn't blame him, he would probably do the same thing to him if the situations were reversed.

Not allowing himself to think about where he should go, he began walking in a general direction, hands shoved in his pockets.

After about ten minutes it began to rain, heavy drops falling from the sky. It was the kind of weather that should have happened at the funeral. Looking up at the sky as he walked, Sam wondered how long he would have to walk before it was safe to go back home and the comfort of his bed and the bottle of Jack he had hidden in his bedside table.

Sam continued to walk until the rain began to pour. It was the kind of storm people hated to drive in, were the visibility was low, the sound of water trying to drown out the sound of everything else. Looking around he tried to find somewhere to wait out the storm.

Fate was a bitch.

He was standing outside of a bar. He did not know which one it was but judging by the neon Coors sign in the window there was no doubt where he was. If he had to wait out the storm there were worse places he could do it. Not giving it much thought, Sam walked through the door.

It was pretty much like every other bar he had ever been to. It was a little dark, several pool tables, small tables scattered throughout the room. Nothing about the room he was in suggested he was in the wrong place as he peeled off his wet coat inside the door before making his way to the bar.

"What can I do you for?" Asked the bartender. Sam looked up at him, for some reason or another forgetting that at least the bartender would talk to him, if for nothing else than to ask what he wanted to drink, and felt his jaw fall open.

It was Nick. Nick from Jessica's funeral. The guy who had sneaking into his thoughts for the past two weeks at inopportune moments. The man who made him feel guilty for thinking about someone else when he was supposed to be grieving the loss of his girlfriend.

"Uh," Sam felt himself blush, something he knew should not happen around somebody who probably did not remember him. "Bourbon?"

Nick nodded and poured Sam a generous amount. Maybe he did remember him after all. Looking at the glass sitting in front of him, he shrugged before downing it and signaling for another. If he was going down the rabbit hole there was no point in being sober for it.

...

Time always passed weirdly when Sam had been drinking. He tried to think about how long he had been sitting there, ordering drinks for no other reason than to talk to Nick. He knew he should have stopped a long time ago and made his way back home but couldn't make himself do it. He just wanted to sit there, drinking liquid courage, until he had the guts to actually talk to Nick.

Sam giggled, burying his face in his arm.

"Are you alright?" Nick asked, leaning against the bar, eying him in a way that Sam couldn't explain.

"I know you." Sam slurred, not lifting his head. "Your Nick."

"And your drunk." Came the reply which made Sam giggle again,

"You were at Jess' funeral." It came out kind of sing-song which made him laugh outright.

"Yes I was. We were good friends a long time ago." Nick said and that made Sam pick his head up to really look at him. Short blond hair, square face, blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through him... he got kind of lost after that.

"You're eyes are really pretty." Sam told him, leaning across the bar to get a closer look. "They remind me of ice. In a good way." At least that's what he hoped he said. Things were starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges.

"Thank you, I think." Nick was looking at him in a way that Sam did not understand. It was part amusement, part pity, and something else that he could not put his finger on.

"Yep, pretty." And that's all that Sam remembered. He must have passed out.

...

Sam remembered waking up several times to a man staring at him. Those blue eyes piercing through him. Those beautiful blue eyes.

"Don le' me." Sam managed to slur but the man must have understood him because each time he would smile and reassure him that he was not going anywhere. That he would be right there when he woke up. And then Sam was asleep again.

...

Sam woke up to a blinding pain that seemed to radiate throughout his entire head, making his stomach churn. He felt terrible and it did not help that he did not remember how he got home. The last thing he remembered was drinking but that did not mean much. Dean was the king of getting blackout drunk, but he always managed to make his way home somehow.

"Dean," Sam croaked, his mouth dry and his voice uncooperative.

"Sorry, just Nick." Came a voice from behind him.

Nick? Nick. The guy from the funeral. The bartender. Ugh, how much had he had to drink? Obviously too much. Rolling over, his head and stomach making it abundantly clear that it had been a bad idea he found himself looking at Nick. He was sitting on what appeared to be a chair from a kitchen table, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.

"How long have I been out?" Sam croaked, burying his face into the pillows.

Pillows? He was in a bed. And Nick was watching him. What the hell was going on? And why was he not as weirded out about all of this as he should have been? There was a voice in his head screaming about being in a strangers bed while said stranger sat at the bedside staring at him. Stranger danger and all that.

"About six hours." Nick said, still staring at him in that way that made him feel as if he was trying to look through him instead of just at him.
Carefully, Sam moved until he was sitting on his knees. It made his stomach threaten to empty it's contents all over Nick's bed.

"I'm sorry." Sam looked down at his knees, unable to look at Nick. Shame engulfing him. He had made a complete ass of himself in front of the person he couldn't help but think about for the past two weeks. He was not going to be able to ever look him in the eye again.

"Everything is fine. I'm just glad that you are alright." Sam could see that he had moved to sit back in the chair. "You kept asking me to stay with you and the few times I was in the other room you would yell for me until I came back. You would smile and ask me not to leave you again. I had to bring a chair in."

Sam felt his face burn with embarrassment. He didn't really remember much of the night before. He remembered drinking and he remembered waking up several times but other than that he was at a loss.

"Oh, now that you are awake, I should probably tell you that someone named Dean has been blowing up your phone." Nick said, holding the device out to him, a strange look on his face that Sam did not know how to classify. Taking it, he checked what qualified as 'blowing up'.

Fifteen missed calls and twelve texts. Looking through them he found several 'where are you's, 'why are you not answereing's, 'are you alright's and a few threats. Groaning, he put the phone down, not bothering to listen to the voice mails.

"Who's Dean?" Nick asked, still staring at Sam in that strange way.

"He's my big brother. He's a little over protective." Sam answered, rubbing at his eyes, noticing for the first time how stiff his muscles were.

"Well," Nick stood up, stretching himself, "I don't know about you but I could defiantly go for some coffee. If that is something you are interested in I'll be in the kitchen."

"One question." Sam yawned.

"Just one?" The other man offered the first smile Sam had seen from him.

"For now. I can't promise there wont be more over coffee."

"Fair enough."

"Where's the bathroom?" And for some unknown reason, Nick laughed.