Chapter Text
If it was possible for someone to be so incredibly unprepared and clueless in the face of life itself, Dean thought himself a prime example. Yet, having been so helpless for each curve, bend and dip thrown at him for the last three decades, he had become shockingly adept at faking it. In fact, that had manage to fool people this long was no short miracle. Hell, some days he even fooled himself. He kept waiting for someone to call him on it. To meet his eyes, see his stone like face and just break down into laughter. To call his bluff, and beat down his poker face. But for whatever reason no one ever did.
Dad could tell. At least he had always thought so. And there were times when he swore Sam could as well. See the massive cracks in his mask. But if he did, he never said anything. So Dean just kept on wearing it, cracked as it was. He stayed pretending, if nothing else, for those around him.
At least, until he just couldn't anymore.
Things fell apart, as they always seemed to. In a dingy bar.
What started as a possible lead on a case they were working, some ghost, demon, killer lawnmower thing, had proven less then helpful. So, Dean, had turned his attention to knocking back several drinks, and hustling some pool to top up their eternally empty wallets in the lull of leads. And, ignoring the flirtatious advances of the ridiculously cute waitress who kept giving him fawn eyes across the room.
Any other time, Dean would be on that. But now, after everything. Well, he knew following her out back, chatting her up, exchanging soft muffled words amongst some spit and lip action, would just leave him feeling more hollow. Because he knew she wasn't the one he wanted. So, no cute waitress right now, or possibly ever again if things continued on like this. Pool, more drinks, and then hopefully by that time he would be far gone enough to get a couple of hours of uninterrupted gilt free sleep before the next emergency.
Sam, in an unusual role reversal, was besides him, playing along with Deans latest pool hustling scheme with zero complaint. Even more surprisingly, it had been his idea. Backing up Dean's beginners luck lie like it had been his idea.
Sam had been- a little bit weird lately. Not like soulless, or possessed weird, just weird weird. No, this was one hundred percent his usual puppy dog eyed little -overgrown- brother. Just, slightly more fragile perhaps.
Not that it didn't make sense with everything he had gone through lately. With the last few years, and hell, and the freaking apocalypse, and their friends dying, and himself dying, and losing his soul, and getting betrayed- Dean could go on and on.
But, Sam was always going through a lot. Too much. And his knee jerk reaction was usually to seethe, or wallow, or self reflect, or try and draw Dean into an unwanted hallmark moment.
There was none of that this time. Just Sam… or perhaps diet light Sam. Which meant Dean should probably leave it alone. Let him work it out himself. He knew Dean was there if he needed him, with some smart-ass comment or pop culture reference that would both exasperate Sam and make him smirk even if he didn't feel like it.
So, they played pool, and then another round, and then another. Winning a cool three hundred by the end of the night. At which, the waitress finally gave up, and turned her attention elsewhere. All in all, pretty uneventful.
At least until it wasn't.
Towards midnight, Dean started to feel tired. Really, he should make a point to try and get a bit more sleep.
He was chatting with the bartender, who had seen the pool matches, and recognized an entertaining game when he saw one, had flagged Dean over for a drink, to regale him with some of the wilder stories people had tried to pull at that particular pool table. Mostly unsuccessfully. The best being when a sixty-year-old trucker with a beer gut, tried to convince the girl who won the last fifty out of his wallet, that his great grandmother had willed him the bill on her deathbed. To guilt her out of taking her earnings. All this to say, it had been a pretty pathetic attempt.
Right around then, Dean realized how unbelievably tired he truly was. Which meant that it was probably time to call it. But, the spot was kind of comfortable, and getting up felt like a chore so Dean would give it a few more minutes to work up to it. He leaned back in his seat, his fingers tracing the smooth glass of his drink.
"You been playing long?"
Dean shrugged at the man's question. "Since I was a kid," he said, the truth slipping out before he could remember to filter it.
The man laughed good naturedly. "Hot Wheels too dull for you?"
No, Dean loved his Hot Wheels. Still did actually. But they didn't pay the bills, nor entertain John Winchesters attention. He leaned back in his seat, feeling another wave of tiredness wash over him. Was he actually drunk? Like drunk drunk? Off four beers? Sure, he wasn't post-hell levels of tolerance, he had let his usual blood alcohol levels fall back to what some would consider normal. But even so, he could usually hold his liquor better.
Whatever the reason, it was probably time to call it a night. He moved to stand, leveraging the bar to push himself to his feet, tipping his head at the man.
"You work your way back here, drinks on me," the man said, and Dean nodded, appreciating the offer. Turns out, chatting up the dudes at the bars, while not as passionate as entertaining the ladies, was still pretty fun.
He found Sam, sitting in a booth, flipping through their notes on the case once more. Sometimes Dean swore they weren't related. No way his own flesh and blood could be that responsible and studious. Honestly, he was both proud and sickened.
Sam looked up as Dean fell into the seat across from him.
"Ready to call it Scully? There are no more aliens to catch today."
Usually that would have Sam rolling his eyes. But he only smiled, glancing up at Dean.
"The truth is out there, Dean." Another thing, since when did Sam play along?
"The only thing out of this world about this place is how freaking sticky these tables are."
Diet-light-Sam was still smiling, as if he was actually enjoying the quip. Not exasperated. Which honestly was half the reason Dean bothered was to get a rise out of his little brother.
"Sat in another suspicious puddle, did you?"
That was an unfortunate start to the night. "Yeah, whatever, you ready Dana?"
"Ready, Fox."
Come to think of it, when was the last time Sam was actually properly annoyed with him. Dean had it on good authority he could be fairly annoying, especially when he wanted to, which was a solid percentage of the time when he was bored.
Dean moved to stand, but his legs were weightless beneath him. It felt like his head was too heavy and he sunk back down. Sam, oblivious to the shift in the earth's gravity was watching amused.
"Oh my god, how much did you have?"
"Oh, shut it," Dean said attempting to rise again, pushing his hands against the table to keep himself up, hesitating there.
"Damn dude," Sam said. "You know this is a case right, not spring break. Here, give me the keys."
"I'm fine," Dean said proving his point spectacularly by letting go of the table and brushing past Sam. Giving up the keys probably wasn't the worst idea. But he wasn't going to admit that right now. He still had a couple of steps to figure out a better excuse. Except he only made it two before Dean realized he was in fact, quite drunk, like way to drunk. He would have gone down, if he hadn't reached out, his hand finding Sam's arm, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Sam's sleeve, using him like the tall freaking pillar he was to fight the inviting pull of the ground.
"Dean?"
Dean let a beat pass, fighting the wave of vertigo before he answered.
"Am I seriously going to have to drag you out of here. You're not a collage frat boy, you know that right?"
"Haha," Dean said, straightening, as he let go of Sam at last, focusing on staying up right. His legs actually trembled beneath him. No way, no way he was going to let four beers knock him on his ass. He was Dean freaking Winchester. The one thing he did better than anyone was holding his liquor.
He felt Sam move, his hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Dude, you okay?"
Maybe not actually…. Dean's fingers tangled once more into Sams overshirt, pulling it down rather than going back down himself as the universe seemed to want.
"Dean?" worry was creeping into Sam's voice as he seemed to realize something was actually wrong.
"Hey, is he okay?" a new voice asked, the bartender coming over to check on them.
Sam glanced over at him, and Dean could see him fighting to keep the worry off his face, opting and failing for an unbothered expression. "He's fine," he tried to dismiss the man. "Just too much to drink."
"He was fine a few minutes ago," the bartending was saying.
"Guy probably can't hold his drinks," Sam said. "I'm sure it's nothing."
It was unfortunately something as Dean's now fragile legs buckled under the obnoxiously heaviness of his head and he slid right down, his hand still on Sam's shirt. His whole-body weight now yanking it. And for a second he had an image of him pulling Sam down on top of him, and his gigantic little brother toppling down onto him like a felled tree, crushing Dean beneath him.
Of course, it took more than someone pulling his shirt to topple Sam. And most people didn't just timber down like dead trees.
Sam, who had been partially supporting him to begin with, moved quickly. He tightened his grip on Deans shoulder, his other hand going to his waist stopping him before his knees hit the ground, pulling him back up.
What started out as a pretty okay night, the first in a while, was quickly becoming one of the more embarrassing moments in Deans recent memory. He let go of Sam then, committing to taking a swan dive over an entire bar watching whatever the hell this was. Worries of why he was fawning and swaying all over the place like a terminally anxious possum was quickly fading in favor of social embarrassment. Weird how that can sort out your priorities.
But Sam, did not seem to be quite on the same page of letting Dean face plant for the sake of his self-image, and pulled him back up a second time.
"Oh, Hell," the bartender cussed. "Should someone look at him."
"No," Sam said, "he's fine. He just needs to sleep it off."
"You sleep it off," Dean muttered, feeling his face burn. Acutely aware of the eyes on him. Yeah… this was embarrassing.
"Dean?" Sam said.
"Sleep off what? Four beers? Between you, me, and my cheapskate boss, pretty watered-down beers."
"Yeah," Sam said, "you know, people with different tolerances and what not," he moved towards the door, trying to drag Dean with him but Dean's legs had other plans as they once again failed, and he slipped through Sams grip, caught halfway to the floor by his brother's hand.
Yeah, Dean thought, face still burning, this may as well happen. Better he didn't remember this.
"DEAN!" Sam said, seemingly worried about an entirely different matter. Sam pulled Deans arm around his shoulder. His other hand snaked around his waist and, in what had to be Terminator levels of strength, he hoisted them both back onto their feet, away from the sweet release of the floor.
"That's it," the barkeep said, "I'm calling an ambulance."
"No," Sam said. "Thanks, but I got him."
Yeah, Dean wanted to add, let Sam do it, so they could be on their way and Dean could get on with the passing out as soon as possible. But he felt another set of hands grab at his shoulder.
"Not so fast friend, if you're trying to do the good Samaritan thing, thanks, but he needs to be looked at."
"No!" Anger crept into Sams tone now, which no doubt masked the worry as he pulled Dean away. "He's fine! I got him."
"Yeah, Pal, I don't think so," the friendly façade fell away. "I was chatting with the guy for an hour, he was totally fine, and then he heads over to you for five minutes and he's falling all over the place, and you're dragging his ass out the door at lightspeeds. So, just put him down real easy. We'll make sure we get him sorted out enough, so he leaves here on his own two feet. You think I've been a bartender this long and don't know how to spot someone whose been slipped something?"
Oh, good god. Dean didn't know what was worse, the fact that two dudes were fighting over his swooning corpse, or the implication that his little brother was hauling him off for some weird Silence of the Lambs sex thing.
He should probably be trying to help Sam, but when he tried to say as much all he could force out was, "S'fine- Sam's tall…"
Nobody listened to him.
Dean felt Sams hands tighten on him, almost as if daring the man to try. Dean half expected Sam to turn on his usual puppy dog 'I'm incredibly innocent' look he liked to use. But instead, he just seemed pissed. Which was usually Dean's go to, not his.
"Look dude," Sam said, irritation seeping into his tone. "I get your trying to do the right thing. But he's my brother, and I can handle it. So, thanks, but get out of the way."
"Your brother," the man parroted, looking between the two of them. No doubt noticing that they didn't look very much alike. Maybe if Dean's eyes had been open more, he would have seen the resemblance, small as it was. But as it was, the man just scoffed. "Your 'brother' hustled you out of a hundred bucks at pool? Because from where I was sitting, you two ain't look that chummy."
Crap, their pool play had come back to bite them after all. Yeah, Dean had stiffed a hundred from Sam for the initial set up, which he would have to give back… if Sam remembered to ask for it… which he would because he remembered everything in that freakish brain of his. Apparently chatting up the male barkeep was a bad idea after all. Dean really should stick to his lane.
That's when things got pretty blurry.
He was pretty sure Sam dropped him, because the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground cheek pressed against the cool cement. Which was even sticker then the rest of the place. Awesome. He heard a scuffle, when he blinked he saw the flurry of feet around him. Felt hands on him, under his arms, on his leg, half carrying him away, half dragging.
Even though the memories of hell were fading ever so slightly the longer he spent grounded to the real world. Dean still preferred to keep his personal space personal. The overcrowding was making his breath hitch and his heart speed up. Which may also be a side effect of having supernatural creatures try to kill him on a daily basis.
This night just kept getting better and better, why oh why could he not have just walked out of here. Who messed up taking ten steps into the parking lot this bad?
Somewhere in all that chaos he heard screams, and the fighting noises stopped. Uh-oh.
In a rustle of fabric Sam was back, he could tell by the blurry mop of shaggy brown hair flip flopping here and there. God, just a pair of scissors and like ten minutes, Dean could fix that for him. Make him look less like the long lost brady bunch brother. Or alternatively give him a bowl cut, and make him look absolutely insane. If only.
He felt Sam shove him onto his back in one jerky movement. Damn, he must be really pissed. And the next moment Dean felt hands under his arms, yanking him to his feet with bruising force. Which, was perfect because on his feet was exactly where Dean was trying to get too. And sure, it didn't work out the first time. But he got it this time and nope- he didn't got it. His stupid knees were like useless jellybeans, looked fine but folded under pressure.
The ground was there for him, as always. It had his back, or his front. God, was the floor his best friend? Hm, no that used to be Cas. But it was certainly high up the list. Holy shit, Dean needed more friends. Wait, he had never really had any aside from the occasional passing hunter. Nevermind, floor it was.
Except Sam was between the two of them, digging his shoulder into Deans stomach in a way that really freaking hurt. In one move Sam slung Dean over his back, one hand latching onto Dean's beltloops, the other snaking around the back of his thigh to hold him there. Then Sam was straightening, bringing them both up to skyscraper heights and Deans feet left the floor all together as the world tilted sharply.
Holy shit! Little bro was strong. Like damn. Since when could Sam carry him. Like really carry him. This whole time? Actually, Dean had no idea. They didn't exactly make a habit of testing it out. Sam could haul ass, with Dean's arm thrown around his shoulder that was for sure. But right now, Sam was fully supporting both their weights. Dean doubted he could carry Sam anymore. He hadn't tried since Sam hit ninth grade and had the mother of all growth spurts.
While impressive, this was uncomfortable, although he felt weightless, and that was something that didn't happen often. The crushing pressure resting on his shoulders had finally lifted.
In mediocre awareness, he felt Sam haul his sorry ass across the parking lot. Catching the glint of something silver as Sam tucked it into his waistband. God Damm! Had Sam, as in Sammy Winchester, really gone all Texas Hold'Em on a bar full of people.
Sirens from somewhere in the distance told Dean that he had. Okay, well, that had probably looked really cool. Something was officially wrong with Sam. This was not Diet-Dew-Sam, this was like Extra-Strength-Real Sugar-Coca-Cola Sam. Name brand top shelf stuff only.
He felt Sam grab the keys from him, knowing exactly what pocket they would be in, before his brother practically threw him into the backseat of Baby.
"Dean!" Sams voice, having lost all the amusement of earlier, was laced with worry and frustration. "Talk to me."
Knee's = jellybeans, floor = good, Little brother = weirdly strong = some type of soda can on recall = something might be wrong with Dean = also Sam while he was talking stock= don't chat with male bartenders = that guy might need a raise.
Dean tried to convey all of this, but the only thing that came out was, "jellybeans."
"DEAN!"
Which was an interesting response to this inciteful conversation. One that would have to be explored further as Dean fully passed out in the back of Baby, feeling her purr beneath him as her tires screeched against the open road. Somewhere in the distance the sound of the sirens grew.
…
Dean had a weird dream. Sam was there, as per usual. The two of them were kids again, and John was… nowhere in sight. Also as usual. Sam was having one of his episodes, waterworks, tears, sharp words, the usual when he began to meltdown.
Dean didn't remember where or why his dad was, and right now it didn't seem to matter. He tried to calm Sam down, but his little brother- no more than twelve wouldn't hear it, getting angrier the more he tried.
"You promised!"
"Promised what?"
"Dad told you, he told you, so you have to stay."
"I am!" Dean snapped back. He was right here.
"You always do what he says… always. So why this time."
"I am staying!"
"For now."
"I'm always right here dude." Whatever Sam was mad at, usually John, he was directing at Dean.
"I thought… I thought you were the one person who couldn't leave."
"I'm right here, Sammy!" Where he had been Sam's whole life. "You were the one that left, not me."
Sam shook his head, angry tears shinning in his eyes. "No!" He spat out. "I thought so. But how much more?"
"What?"
"How much more can you handle before you…"
"Before I what?"
"Before you stop this, stop being crazy and realize…"
"Realize what?"why