Bobby remembers the first time Sam Winchester got drunk. Not all memories can be happy ones.
Just a little something which spilled out of my head onto the page so please excuse any glaring grammatical errors, usual disclaimers apply.
A Taste of Whisky
Sam Winchester had his very first taste of whisky right here in this kitchen. The Winchesters had been crashing at my place for over a week, only seemed fair, they were hunting a case I had put them on.
Werewolf, nasty son of a bitch, I'd have handled it myself only I'm not the hunter I used to be, even back then. It was young Dean who made the killing shot. Silver bullet right to the heart. His first werewolf kill and John was so proud he had me open the bottle of Jim Beam I'd been saving since Christmas. I never did need an excuse when it came to tasting the good stuff and it was as good a time as any so I went ahead and opened it alright. He poured Dean a small glass and ruffled his hair, closest I'd ever seen John get to affection, not that I'm doubting he loved his kids. He loved them something fierce. Anyways, Sam shuffled into the room, 12 years old and growing lankier by the second. He was just on the right side of awkward, though he was teetering some. Shy boy, a quiet type but when you gave him some attention he'd give you a look which could defrost the iciest of hearts, worked wonders on an old hard heart like mine. That was all the boy needed, a little attention thrown in his direction every now and again. A simple word of praise and he'd bloom for weeks.
Sam had been on the hunt too but his mind had been elsewhere, some English paper due as part of a big assignment. I'd heard John yelling at him about it, how lives were more important than grades. I knew Sam well enough to know that he'd agree with John there but Sam always craved something more than just the hunt. He'd held his ground against John but had ended up going on the hunt just the same.
John didn't pour Sam any whisky, though I couldn't see what harm a small drop would have done. It would have been more about making the boy feel included, valued, rather than the fact it was strong alcohol but John didn't think that way and I kept my lips closed. It wasn't my place to butt in other people's business, after all I valued my privacy so respected theirs. Still, how John deemed Sam old enough to risk his life on a hunt but not old enough for a drop of whisky, I couldn't see the logic in it. As I said though, not my place to say anything.
In the earlier hours of the next morning, I was stalking the house, didn't sleep well, never have. I'd been about to head back up the stairs when I saw Sam, out of bed and passing through the kitchen. He had a glass of water in one hand and one of my old books in the other. Always seemed to have a book on him somewhere, I knew he was going to grow up book-smart. As he walked by the kitchen table I saw him hesitate. I pressed myself into the shadows in the hallway and watched as he picked up the glass Dean's whisky had been in. Sam sniffed at it, and then quick as a flash he let his tongue snake to the bottom, lapping up the few droplets that remained. His face sure was a picture, pure disgust and I remember thinking to myself that experience would be enough to make sure he never touched a drop of whisky again. I was wrong.
Two weeks later, the Winchesters had long gone when there was banging at my door. I opened it hesitantly, shotgun in my hand seeing as I never did get many unexpected visitors, only the wrong kind. John and Dean were stood on my porch both looked frightened to hell as they stood there holding up an extremely drunk Sam between them. At first I was too stunned to make sense of what was going on, but then I saw the deep slashes across Sam's chest and it hit home hard why Sam was drunk.
They couldn't take him to a hospital, injuries like that couldn't be explained. The slashes were badly infected; the wendigo's claws had pushed the fabric of Sam's shirt into the open wounds. Miles from anywhere, John had surrendered to his youngest son's cries of pain and opened his hip flask. Whisky, some down Sam's throat and some poured on his wounds. Cheap whisky, not the good stuff but powerful strong all the same. Then they'd struggled to the Impala and hightailed it to my place. Guess you could call me the forth emergency service.
I let the kid take my bed, softest one in the house and I'd excuse him for bleeding all over my sheets. He was almost delirious, the pain and booze proving a wicked combination especially for one so young. Dean, stationed by Sam's bedside, had rested a hand on his little brother's forehead and when Sam whispered "I love you mom" I saw John's head snap up so fast it was a wonder he didn't break it. John left the house and didn't come back for over an hour. Could never bear seeing his kids in pain but that didn't mean he shouldn't have been there. Sure Sam had Dean but Dean was still a kid himself and next morning Dean looked too old for his 16 years, more world weary than I've just about ever seen him.
Sam pulled through of course, though it had been a pretty close call and they were gone a couple of days later. I threw my bottle of Jim Beam in the bin after that, guess I always did prefer gin.