Well… nothing much to say about this one, right? Except that I own nothing and I'm sorry for all the mistakes.
These days... alcohol is the only thing keeping him alive. He's tired, so tired; his brain is sizzling with all the things that are all kinda wrong in his life, all the things that want to make him stop, make him wanna lay down and die.
These days… alcohol is what makes him breathe. Walk around, drive around, talk.
It keeps him steady on his feet, even if alcohol should have the opposite effect, but screw that, because... what in his life is the way that it should be? What? Nothing, that's what.
It keeps his aim true; it keeps his hands ready to fight. It makes him drop monsters and ghosts and all that's crawling in the dark like he's snapping a twig. Easy. Steady. Doing his job.
It keeps him focused and it keeps him awake for hours and hours and hours.
Hours of driving, hours of researching and hours of worrying about his little brother. Hours of worry. Hours and hours that stretch into days and weeks and months… never ending. Ever.
Hours, until that one beer too many, one glass too many, one sip too many that pushes him over the edge ... from pleasantly, awesomely buzzed to awesomely, blessedly passed out.
He doesn't know who worries about his little brother then.
It keeps him on his toes. Keeps him grounded.
Keeps him warm when the winter nights stretch into infinity with the 'my brother's going insane' hanging over his head.
And most importantly it keeps his own memories of Hell away; away from his dreams, away from the inside of his eyes, away from his screwed up brain, away, away, away. Because he has to keep it away.
He has to.
It's not Sam's presence anymore that is an anchor in short days and long nights... it's not, not right now, probably never even was.
But a whole new, freshly from the store, completely full bottle of Whiskey is. Or two bottles, or three. Or a few six-packs of beer. Just enough, that he can feel his feet touching ground and not floating somewhere. Just enough.
Hunter's helper, 's what they call it. And it's true, couldn't be truer.
And now... he understands his Dad. Understands why his Dad's breath was sometimes funny smelling, why his Dad's eyes were sometimes a bit clouded, why his grip was sometimes too tight, why his Dad sometimes didn't wake up when he was being shaken. He understands. And he thinks Sam understands now too.
He wishes he could tell his old man that… that he gets it now. That Sam gets it now too.
In the long hours when darkness is the queen of everything, alcohol is what makes his heart beat faster. Makes him aware of everything around him.
"Uh, 'm going to the store. You hungry?"
"Bring back some helper, 'kay? We're all out."
He doesn't ask for food much, Sam'll get that anyways, but he does ask for that one little thing that will keep him warm under the scratchy motel blanket during this winter's night. That one thing that will make the buzzing sound stop.
"Got two bottles."
Sam settles on his own bed, sighs and drinks down the booze like it was water.
His little brother breathing, skin glistering with sweat, hair in his eyes, lips pulled into a tight smile, alive and… alive. Here. Not crazy, yet. Not crazy at all, if he'll have any say in it.
His little brother squinting his eyes saying; you wanna tell me somethin'?
"Nothin'," he shakes his head and takes a small sip, "'s nothing, turn on the TV, find us a movie."
He was wrong. Sam's all he's got, alcohol is just something that makes him think it's not.
He puts down his still full glass. His hands don't shake one little bit. He's steady. Sure.
"Did I get the wrong brand?"
"Naw, I'll drink it later. Gotta get some air in it, ya know? Let it breathe a bit."
"Oh, uh, okay."