A Hangover of the Century
Dean's Perspective
The rain beat down relentlessly on the roof of the old motel, a steady rhythm that echoed the somber atmosphere inside. Dean Winchester shoved the door open and stepped into the dim, musty room, already sensing something was off. The flickering light bulb overhead did little to illuminate the chaos that greeted him. Empty beer bottles littered the floor, their contents spilled haphazardly, a mix of youthful rebellion and bad decisions.
"Sam?" Dean called out, his voice laced with concern. He knew his younger brother too well. Sam was like an anchor—steady and reliable—unless something had tipped him off course. The low sound of retching from the bathroom confirmed his fears.
"Yeah," Sam croaked, a shaky response that foreshadowed a tumultuous morning.
Dean rushed to the bathroom door, pushing it open to reveal Sam hunched over the toilet, his long hair falling over his face like a curtain. He looked pale, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, and the stark reality of his state hit Dean hard. "Damn it, Sammy…"
"Go away, Dean," Sam mumbled, but Dean didn't budge. Instead, he lowered himself to the cool, hard tile floor, sitting beside his brother. To an outsider, the scene could have been mistaken for a disturbing display, but to Dean, it was just another day in his chaotic life as Sam's older brother.
Sam's Perspective
The world around Sam was spinning. Each wave of nausea felt like a broadsword cutting through whatever fragile calm remained. He leaned over the toilet, retching violently, the contents of his stomach managing to escape him with alarming ferocity. Every heave was a reminder of the night before—his brother, the dull hum of despair and laughter, the clinking of glasses, and an insatiable thirst for numbing the unbearable weight of their lives.
It had been just supposed to be a couple of beers after the hunt, a way to relax. But he remembered little as the night progressed. Faces blurred, the laughter of strangers melded with his brother's reassuring voice, and before he knew it, Sam was drowning in an ocean of alcohol—so lost he could no longer hear the calling of reality.
"Why did you get so drunk, Sam?" Dean's voice cut through the room, laced with a blend of worry and annoyance. Sam grimaced, the question swirling around in his foggy brain. Did he really want to answer?
"I… I don't know," he managed between bouts, his voice shaky. "Just wanted to forget for a night."
And there it was, the truth he had buried under layers of denial. Forgetting came easy when he drank. Memories of their father's death, the insatiable hunt for their mother's killer, and the endless cycle of supernatural battles were all washed away, even if only temporarily.
Dean's Perspective
"Forget?" Dean echoed incredulously, feeling the sting of Sam's words. "You think getting wasted is going to help? You think running away from it will make any of it go away?"
He watched Sam's profile as his brother's face twisted in muted pain. The understanding flooded back. Dean had seen Sam like this before—lost, vulnerable, and retreating into himself after feeling the weight of their lives pressing down. The last hunt had been brutal, smiles from locals had masked bleeding hearts, and maybe it was all too much for Sam to bear alone.
"I just wanted…" Sam's voice was broken, the regret evident even through his substances-induced haze. "I wanted to feel normal for once...maybe escape the nightmare, Dean. I didn't mean to go overboard."
"Normal? Dude, we're hunters. Normal went out the window the day we picked up our dad's old shotgun," Dean replied, a hint of frustration mingling with concern in his tone. But he knew where Sam was coming from, and that understanding softened his words. "You can't drown it away. It will come back up, Sammy. It always does."
Sam's Perspective
The retching subsided, and the bathroom was filled with an oppressive silence, save for the dripping of the faucet in the corner. Sam took deep breaths, each inhale feeling sharp against his throat. He leaned back against the cool porcelain of the toilet and closed his eyes; he could barely register Dean by his side, but his presence was a comfort.
"This isn't some way to live, you know," Dean continued gently, his voice now softer, filled with brotherly concern. "You're running away from everything, and it's okay to feel it. I'm here for you, man. You don't have to do this alone."
"What are you saying?" Sam breathed out, exasperated. "That this is just a phase? That I'll wake up and it'll all be fine?"
"No, Sam. I'm not saying that," Dean's voice took on a direct tone, full of urgency. "But I'm saying we can face it together. That's what brothers do… we fight. And hell, we even cry if we have to."
The honesty in Dean's words began to pierce through the fog. Those barbed arrows of emotion threatened to settle into his heart, making it impossible to ignore his brother's statement. It was true; they had been through hell together, several times over, but Sam had never felt more alone than in moments like this. Striding that thin line between wanting to overcome their past and feeling crushed by it, his heart ached.
"I don't want to feel it anymore," Sam whispered, tears pooling in his eyes. "I don't want to be this way, Dean."
Dean sighed, the weight of Sam's confession hanging heavy between them. "Then don't. Just be honest with me, man. Talk it out more. We can't run away from everything. Drinking yourself into oblivion won't keep the nightmares at bay; it will only make them come back harder."
Sam swallowed thickly, dropping his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom floor. It felt so good to be reminded that he didn't have to hide from his brother. "Okay, I'll try."
Dean's Perspective
Dean rubbed Sam's back gently, feeling the tension begin to ease slightly. They might not have answers, and today's hangover of the century may have cost them dearly, but he knew they'd rise, just like they always did.
"Let's just take it one day at a time," Dean said, a half-smile breaking through the worry etched in his brows. "And next time, no more beer for you. Only water… and maybe some bacon."
"Bacon sounds good," Sam murmured, barely able to lift his head from the floor, but that simple thought pushed him back towards the shore after nearly drowning in the depths of regret.
As they sat on the bathroom floor, the rain continued to patter softly on the window. It reminded them both, in that moment, that while storms may rage outside, together they could weather any storm, inside or out. And as morning light began to peek through the clouds, so too did hope.