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Sam gets sloppy first, obviously. Dude’s a lightweight. No, that’s underselling it: he’s like a freshman sorority girl at her first kegger. It’s hard to believe they’re even related sometimes.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam says urgently, tugging at his sleeve like he’s nine again. Dean’s drink sloshes precariously in his glass. “Dean!”
“What?” Dean complains, steadying his glass. “Come on, what, what is it?” He manages to sound genuinely annoyed even though he’s not. How could he be? Two weeks of eight hours of sleep, two weeks of only seeing what’s there, two weeks of Sam being Sam again; and now, the rare blessing of a silly, sloshed Sam who’s soft around the edges and gooey on the inside. His Sammy.
Dean frowns. Unlike what Sam suggested, he can, in fact, still get drunk, but this stuff is hitting way too quickly for his tastes. Or maybe he’s just happy. Those kinds of thoughts come much more frequently when he’s not completely miserable. Luckily, he’s miserable more often than he’s not.
Sam raises his whisky high. “Spirits to catch a spirit,” he says solemnly but only manages to hold his serious look for a moment before he grins at the pun. The smile looks damn good on his face.
“It’s not a spirit,” Dean points out bemusedly as Sam downs another shot. God, the way he scrunches his face at the taste. How can a grown man look like that? Friggin’ adorable. “No EMF, remember?”
Sam’s expression crumbles. “Oh yeah.” He kicks the underside of the desk, probably harder than he meant to—the whole thing rattles. “Ruined my joke.”
“Poor baby.”
“Shaddup. Top me up.”
Dean tops him up. It’s his job, after all. Best case ever. Too bad nobody’s been attacked at a strip club. That would be the icing on the cake.
Of course, this is good too. Sam seems to have forgotten their purpose here despite the security footage sitting paused on the computer right in front of his face. Instead of doing anything useful, he idly swivels in the office chair while humming nonsense songs to himself (well, Dean assumes they’re nonsense; his brother seriously has no musical taste), occasionally looking up at Dean with goofy glee.
“Stay on task, cowboy,” Dean warns as Sam’s elbow knocks the mouse askew.
Sam waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know why we’re here,” he insists although he sounds far from convincing to Dean’s ear. “You drunk yet?”
“On my way,” Dean confirms. Of course, it’s not like they both need to be drunk for this. Actually, it probably would have been better if one of them stayed sober. Damn, how are they going to get back to the motel? He didn’t think this through. What on Earth was he...
Sam downs his whiskey, nose wiggling. Adorable.
Oh, yeah. That’s what he was thinking.
“You drink like a child,” Dean mocks as his heart thuds loudly.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you drink like a... uh...”
“Need a minute there, genius?”
“Like a person who drinks a lot!”
“Brilliant.”
“Least my liver works,” Sam pouts. “Yours is probably all shriveled and brown. And gross.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “You got me. Congrats, you and your nice, healthy liver will outlive me, doing whatever livers do.”
“It’s important,” Sam insists but fails to elaborate. He goes quiet for a moment, staring hard at his empty glass. “You should drink less.”
Snorting, Dean pours out more Sliv... Sli... He squints at the label. Sljivovica. He can’t even begin to pronounce that. Luckily, all he has to do is drink it. It’s nice. Kinda fruity. “Kinda the opposite of what we’re trying to do here.”
“Not now now,” Sam replies with an exasperated air. “Later. You should drink less later.”
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean agrees patiently.
But Sam shakes his head stubbornly. “I don’t want my liver to outlive your liver!”
Dean would laugh, except the fondness welling up within him steals the air from his lungs. Sam’s eyes are big and earnest, cheeks flush from drink, and his mouth—
Okay, he’s officially drunk. Dean drops into the empty chair beside Sam’s. “Alright, party time. Rewind and go,” he instructs, gesturing at the computer. As Sam sees to the security video, Dean grimaces and drinks his unpronounceable whatever. He’s gotta pull it together. Now-ish would be good.
Sam gawks at the video. Everything’s sort of blurry at the moment, so Dean leans in for a closer look (getting a whiff of Sam; is that his aftershave?). On the screen in the previously empty spot next to thief-employee Trevor is... the chick from The Ring? That makes sense, somehow.
“So, he-he let that thing out of the box, and it must have just followed him to the place with all the thingies,” Sam says with the sageness of a toddler.
Similarly fuzzy-brained, Dean is genuinely impressed. “Yes,” he agrees. Forget cursed video tapes—cursed boxes of saki are a way scarier trap for the modern age. It would get him, at least.
Then, Sam has the audacity to look at him. Right at him, straight into his eyes or whatever. What a dick. “Yes. That’s smart.”
Dean leans back, inspecting his glass so he doesn’t have to look at stupid smart Sam, and exhales. “I’m actually kind of drunk,” he admits. “What is this? Me likey.” He’s in too deep now. The only choice left is to go all in. He pours more clear liquid yum. “I miss these talks.”
“Lemme see,” Sam demands, reaching for the decanter. Dean holds it above his head as if he’s still taller than his little brother like he should be. “Come on!”
“Nuh-uh,” Dean says as Sam sprawls across the chairs, nearly in his lap, making grabby hands. Satisfaction warms his chest as Sam tries, and fails to snatch his prize. “S’not like you know what it is either. Besides, the label’s in like Russian or Czech or something.”
“No, I saw, it had American letters!” Sam counters. Dean nearly explodes from the giggle he’s holding in. It takes a long moment for Sam to realize his mistake. A very long moment. “Shut up.”
“Never,” Dean guffaws.
Sam does eventually settle down, though how he can comfortably stretch across two office chairs is beyond Dean. It’s like how, uh... what are they called, not-dogs, will just sleep on piles of stuff like it’s nothing. He’s seen the internet videos.
“Do you really miss these talks?” Sam asks as Dean sets the decanter down on the desk, propping his head up on his chin, elbow perched awkwardly on the thin arm of the chair.
“Uh,” Dean replies cleverly. He’s not even sure what he meant when he said that. “Sure.”
“I miss them,” Sam announces. “We don’t talk. You spend all your time worrying about me. Making... faces.”
What faces Sam is talking about is a mystery, but Dean nods. He does spend most of his time worried about Sam. “Yeah.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry anymore,” Sam says, shooting up abruptly. The top of his head nearly collides with Dean’s chin and he jerks back fast enough to make himself dizzy; Sam looks equally disoriented, but then he shakes his head, brows furrowing as he zeroes in on Dean. Their faces are very close together. “Cuz I’m better now.”
“Yeah,” Dean repeats numbly. He jumps as Sam edges closer. “That’s true. That’s good.”
Sam smiles. “Yeah. So why are you still making faces?”
“Faces? I’m not making faces. This is just my face. What face?” Dean babbles. Crap. He’s losing it. He’s totally losing it.
Sam drags his index finger down the bridge of Dean’s nose. Dean prays he’s not sweating. “That face. Your worried face.”
“No,” Dean says, which is less of a denial and more of a firm statement of fact: Just no.
Teasing, Sam flicks the tip of his nose. “Looks worried to me,” he taunts.
“You’re seeing pink elephants right now, what do you know?” Dean complains. His brother chuckles and leans in closer. God, Sam reeks like a brewery. He does too, probably. They are, after all, in a brewery. Luckily, he kinda likes that smell. Or unluckily. He’s not sure anymore.
“Lighten up,” Sam murmurs. “We solved the mystery.”
“We’ve solved half a mystery,” Dean points out and Sam nods, hair brushing distractingly over Dean’s face. “S-so we should really be working on the other... half.”
“Half of what?”
Dean’s forgotten already. It’s hard to think when Sam’s busy... nuzzling him? Or something. Bumping their foreheads together rubbing his cheek against Dean’s head like... like a cat. Cat! That’s the word. Like a cat. Fuck, his brain is broken.
“Sam—”
“Hmm?”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Nothin’,” Sam replies coyly. “What are you doing?”
“You are going to hate yourself so much tomorrow morning,” Dean breathes.
“Nah,” Sam counters. “No, I won’t.”
“You sure?”
Shit, he didn’t mean to say that. At least, not like that, all pathetic and desperate. But how is he supposed to be able to stay in control when his blood alcohol level would shame Otis Campbell and his brother’s practically in his lap? Making stupid faces? Stupid cute faces.
He doesn’t stand a chance is what he’s saying. He takes another drink.
“Yeah,” Sam confirms softly. “I’m sure.” Then, he lifts his chin and proclaims, “I’m going to try some of your stuff.” Before Dean can puzzle out what “stuff” is supposed to mean, Sam’s already moving in. Closer. Closer.
Touchdown.
Sticking his tongue in Dean’s mouth is probably not the best way to try somebody else’s drink, Dean thinks as he opens his mouth and lets Sam dive in. Sam’s whiskey is pretty good, though. Not as good as the mystery bottle stuff. But he better make sure. Just in case.
“What the hell?”
Sam throws himself back in his chair as Dean spits what remains of his drink back into his glass. Randy Baxter ogles at them from the doorway of the office. Dean struggles to remember how they introduced themselves. Agents, right? Had to be agents. Brothers making out would just be weird. Kissing agents is much better.
Okay, maybe not that much better.
“Oh, man,” Dean groans.
“Uh...” Sam adds helpfully.
“Turn it off. Turn it off,” Dean mutters urgently. Turn off the pulled-up security footage or Sam’s ridiculously dopey expression he can’t say.
Baxter takes out his cell. “FBI, huh?” he snaps, (yes, Dean was totally right!). “You know what? You can save it for the cops.”
That statement is less celebration-worthy. Before Sam can fumble his way through what would probably be the worst version of a “the truth is out there” speech, Baxter hits the floor—saved by the bell thanks to Garth of all people. With a Taser of all things.
They exchange looks. Garth doesn’t turn the Taser on them, so Dean supposes they’re in the clear, though Sam looks one good scare away from a heart attack. Dean can relate. His spirit is on the verge of leaving his body. Maybe permanently this time.
Dean sneaks another drink on their way out. If it hasn’t killed him by now it’s not going to. And maybe he wants to keep the alcohol fresh in his mind... and his mouth. Just in case Sam wants another taste.