Ninety-Nine Bottles

By: Karen B.


Summary: Short snip. Tag 5-11. Dean helps Sam burry all the crap. Dean pov.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Angst -- don't step in the pile of dorky humor.

Thank you so much for taking a peek!



I revved the engine and tore off down the road.

My thoughts spinning -- Sam's Fruit Of The Looms riding up into no man's land.

Were we crazy in the head? Sure.

Angry all the time? Hell, yes.


Take your pick.

Daddy issues.

Mommy issues.

Demons -- definitely.

Angels -- most, certainly.

Separation anxiety -- well, maybe.

Ruby and her red demon-blooded lipstick -- beyond doubt.

A rugged leather jacket -- son wearing his father for years -- unquestionably scary.

All the above, and below -- absolutely.

Didn't matter, anyway -- none of it.

The key word here was we!

Sam forgot that word -- we.

We, lost a mother.

We, lost a father.

We, got screwed by heaven and hell.

We, were the bumbling duo who destroyed the world.

I missed the last issue of psychobabble, but I knew no nut-house shrink was going to understand us, die for us, fix any of this crap. We had to.

Just what exactly did Sam think he was going to do about all that anger, anyway? Runaway? Runaway to where? Jupiter? Pluto? Nowhere either of us could go fast enough, long enough, or far enough to escape.

Next to me, Sam breathed low and uneven. Without even looking, I could feel his tension radiating off him like a heat wave. He was totally exhausted. We both were. Again, with the we. Sam wasn't getting that word, not yet. He wasn't hearing.

I kept side glancing over. Sam knew it, too, but said nothing -- squirming under my scrutiny.

"You okay?" I finally asked on my fifth glance.

He didn't answer, just nodded a small yes.

"Right," I sighed, and flicked the radio on -- happy music.

Sam didn't even flinch when I cranked the volume up all the way.

My sage advice to him --

'Burry it'

'All the crap!'

That's what I told myself whenever I wanted to throw a pity party, wallow in whiny-chick-flick-land. Was either that or buy stock in a Kleenex company. Wall Street -- not my gig.

Bury it. It's what I'd always done. I'd dug holes all over this country. Burying the hurt. Burying the guilt. Burying reality. Burying the dead. I was running out of places, and creative ways to bury things.

Where could we burry the crap this time? Sam had a shit load -- we both did. This case slammed us up against a wall, and our breath whooshed from our lungs. A bad sort of whoosh. The kind of whoosh that not only needs to be buried -- but burned -- ashes locked down.

I had a brand new credit card I'd been dying to use. I could rent us a room. Something really cool. The Hilton, maybe. We'd be treated like kings. Giant beds. Giant colored TV. Room service. We could order everything off the menu. Stay up past bedtime. Play pranks on the concierge, like that Kevin McCallister kid did in Home Alone two.

Nah -- not the Winchester style. We're not Silver and gold -- champagne and chandlers. We're dirt and rocks -- whiskey and neon signs. And we -- liked it that way.


I glanced over at Sam. Even though I had the volume cranked full blast, his eyes were closed. His long legs sprawled in a tangle, head leaning against the glass. He was out. Kid had been taking some hard hits. Our lives were a compulsive horror flick -- playing over and over.

Lakes of blood.


Loved ones pinned to ceilings -- set on fire.

This job, this life, made you sick. Made you tired. Played target practice with your heart. I thought about the day mom -- won't say the word -- it's the day the rain started. The day pitch-black clouds rolled in, so damn close I thought I could reach up and snatch one down. I remembered wanting to hide in one of those clouds. To become invisible, and disappear. I was only four. I didn't know how to bury things, yet. All I knew how to do was cry. And I cried until something inside me broke. All I could do that day was watch -- frozen, unable to look away, like my eyes were propped open by toothpicks. Was something I would never -- I could never -- we could never forget.

Sam was too young to remember mom, but he remembered Jess. And he gets that same look. A look I know all too well. The look that tells me he's thinking about her death. That day playing for him the same way it plays for me. In fast motion, slow motion, forwards, backwards, sideways -- always. In vivid colors. Never blurring. Every detail welded into our brains.

Losing people you loved, like that, was like taking a bad punch to the gut. Like the day we lost dad. Sam didn't know after we'd burried...burned him, that I'd taken a walk ended up throwing up all over myself.

And the breaking still hasn't stopped. Only good thing is, after awhile you harden yourself, let the punches become meaningless. Because you bury the crap -- any fucking way you can -- and you don't dig the crap back up. Not ever. Not for anyone.

Sam needed to understand ... learn.

I needed to choke the bad memories away -- for both of us.

Only one sure-fire way I knew of to do that -- ninety- nine bottles.

I pulled into an all night convenient mart.

We sat together on baby's trunk, feet propped up on the back bumper. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, sucking down beer after beer.

I looked out over the canyon. There was nothing to see -- it was night. Russet rock turned black -- boring.

"What if we became classic hunters?" Sam asked chugging down more beer.


"Hunt rabbit, deer, buffalo," he snorted.

"What a twill…I mean thrill." I glanced over at Sam, he seemed more relaxed, shapeless almost. "You drunk enough, yet?" I asked.

"Maybe," Sam slurred.

I raised my beer. "This is bottle number…number…" I swiveled so I could see Sam's face better. "What number are we on?"

Sam looked at me through narrow, bloodshot eyes. "Sixteen, I think."

"Only, only…eighty-two left to go," I mumbled.

"Eighty-three." Sam corrected.

Damn kid and his can-do attitude, even when intoxicated.

"College jerk...I mean bitch."

"Whatever, slouch potato… I mean couch potato...I mean, jerk," Sam grumbled.

"Eighty-three? Really?" I knocked back another swig of Bud, the brew shooting down the wrong pipe. "Son…of…" I choked.

"You okay?"

"Hard to say," I sputtered.

I was already shit-faced, how was I going to drink half of eighty-three more beers? I slid off the trunk. Thought I landed on my feet -- felt like I landed at the bottom of a bottle -- luckily landing on my ass broke my fall. I scooted back against the front right tire -- or was that the front left tire?

"You want to get up?" Sam laughed, blinking down at me.

"Why?" I looked over my shoulder at him. "Nice down here."

"Think we drank too much." Sam chucked his empty beer bottle out over the canyon.

"Maybe," I agreed, forgetting what we were drinking about in the first damn place.

Sam slid off the trunk and slumped down next to me. "That mean... you finished,,, laying all your crap to rest?"

"Yahtzee." My heart raced, head pounded, but yeah, most my crap was buried. "You?" I asked.

"Dean." Sam bit his lower lip. "There's a lot of things..." He glanced away.

He didn't say anymore, just sat there -- still as death

"Dude! Get more beer!" I ordered.

"Dude! Okay." Sam wobbled to his feet, and I watched him make his way to the cooler.

"Don't get lost," I snickered, going back to staring out over the canyon, the action making my head feel like it might pop off.

An hour later -- maybe more…

"I swear to drunk…I am not God." I slipped sideways, finding myself lying limply in Sam's lap and staring up into his big, blurry sasquatch of a face. "Haven't I seen you someplace before?" I winked.

"Yes, and 'em never go…going there again," Sam laughed out loud.

Kid was drunk.

"Me either," I laughed. "Uhhh, my head." Guess I was drunk, too. "Damn." I squeezed my eyes shut. The wind swept over my face, dragging with it small particles of road grit that stuck to my lashes. "Wha' number?" I whispered.


"Only seventy …" I paused to do the math.

"...Seven to go." Sam did the math for me.

"That a boy!" I stated proudly, eyes still closed and feeling dizzy.


"Mmm?" I risked a one-eyed peek.

"Know what?"


"You're like a brother to me, man," Sam giggled.



"Boop!" I tweeked his nose, laughing -- Sam laughed, too.

"So, we done flushing it?" Sam asked "'Cause if I drink one more beer…I'm going to puke."

I half-sat up, still in his lap, downing the last of bottle number...bottle number...bottle number...Oh hell, I swallowed, but my mouth was dry, like someone had force-fed me a handful of dirt.

"Uh-huh," I breathed in agreement. "Done flushing it."


I mumbled something ... not sure of what.

"I love you, man!" Sam's glassy eyes blinked rapidly.

"Me, too!" I blinked pathetically back.

"You love, you, too?" Sam stared at me -- we were not so hammered that we wouldn't remember those words, or know their meaning, tomorrow.

"Enough with the trick questions." I rolled the rest of the way off Sam's lap, and got awkwardly to my feet.

"Come on, pal." I bent down, took Sam by the hand and pulled him up to uncoordinated feet. "Let's sleep it off, you can have the backseat." We staggered and danced our way over to the Impala. Opening the back passenger door, I gently pushed Sam inside. He flopped down and curled up into a ball. "Comfortable?" I leaned inside searching.


"Need anything?" I nabbed a blanket off the floorboard and arranged the cover over him.

No answer - kid was crashed.

I eased back out, one hand on the door keeping myself standing. I struggled to hold back my tears. Not the sappy tears of sorrow and anger, but the tears for the one thing in my life I would never flush…never bury -- hiden away. The love of this man -- this man that I called brother.

"Night, Sammy." I quietly shut the door.

The end.