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Sam squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand, peering at the creature in confusion. He wasn’t sure if it was really a jackalope or just weird looking rabbit. He’d always been taught that jackalopes were myths, like Sasquatch, but you never knew. He took a third look--the creature was getting blurrier. He probably shouldn’t have had the last tequila shot. Or the second-to-last. Or the third—you get the idea. He was drunk. Pissed. Hammered. Which meant his judgment was impaired, which meant this was probably just a rabbit. Not a jackalope. Bummer.
Of course, he didn’t need to be drunk to have his judgment impaired. How else do you explain why he kissed his own brother? Which is what he did about four hours ago, after he’d burned the bones of a cowboy who’d died in an old west gunfight—right after the spirit had thrown Dean into a brick wall. Sam had been so relieved Dean wasn’t dead he’d planted one on him—oops. And then he’d booked it to the nearest bar and downed tequila like it would erase every bad decision he’d ever made.
When the bartender stopped serving him he’d gone for a walk and spotted this rabbit-jackalope thingy. Dean would know if it was real or not. But Dean would never talk to him again. Sam sat in the dirt, stomach heaving, head spinning, figuring maybe he’d just stay here on this dusty side road forever.
“Sammy! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Dean?”
His brother jogged up and Sam yelled, “Shhhh—you’ll scare it away.”
Dean dropped down to his knees next to Sam. “Scare what away?”
“The jackalope,” Sam whispered.
“What?”
“There.” Sam pointed.
“Are you drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Sam, we need to talk—”
“No—jackalope.”
“That’s not a jackalope.”
“Rabbit?”
“That’s not even a rabbit. It’s a rock.”
“It is?” Sam squinted again. The creature hadn’t moved since he first spotted it. It being a rock explained a lot.
“And it’s about as hard as your head. What were you thinking, running away after you—you—”
“Messed everything up,” Sam said sadly.
“Why’d you do it?” Dean asked softly.
“Wanted to,” Sam mumbled. “Sorry.”
Dean sighed and Sam finally looked at him, just in case it was the last time he’d be allowed to. He looked handsome as ever, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Would you want to do it again?” Dean said, staring at the jackalope-rock instead of Sam.
He couldn’t have heard right. “Huh?”
Dean looked at him, offered a faint smile. “When you’re sober, I mean.”
If this was a trick, Sam was too drunk to figure it out. “Yes. Wanna kiss you all the time.”
Dean made a sound Sam had never heard him make before. Kind of like a laugh-sob.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“Take me home and sober me up?”
“Yeah, I can do that, little brother.”
“Can we bring the jackalope?”
“I’m not carrying a rock all the way back to the car.”
“Please?” Sam said, blinking his eyes a couple of times.
And that’s how Sam and Dean got the doorstop for their bedroom.