Okay, so I was having a lot of angsty feelings today resulting from a combination of rainy day and a pestery muse standing over me all day exuding angst and whisky fumes and deep painful pools of pain and angst and drunk Sammy-ness…. So uh, here. Sam's angsty today. Enjoy. This is kinda AU, set during the first episode of season 4, when Dean comes back from hell and finds Sam.

There is a depression the likes of which he has never felt before as he crosses the state line of Indiana… or was it Alabama? Either way, he didn't give two fucks anymore what the hell happened. Reaching over, he took another deep drag of the amber liquid, relishing the unfeeling burn as it makes its way down his throat and into his stomach, burning away the memories. The depression is deep, and soul crushing, hunching his shoulders as he swerves over the double yellow. He curses and slops a bit of the liquid down his shirt as he jerks the wheels back into his own lane, giving the pissed off semi driver the finger. He shivers violently, and realizes he hasn't had the presence of mind to turn on the heater yet. Reaching for the heater, his finger slips, hitting the radio instead. He gives a yelp like he's been shot, clumsy fingers hitting at all the buttons on the console as they lyrics to Zeppelin's Kashmir scream through the closed space, battering against his eardrums. But it's not so much the physical pain. He does not cry out for the pain against his ears, he's used to that, has been for a while now. He is wounded. There is a part of him, deep inside, that will never be the same. He jams his palm against the tape deck, effectively silencing the familiar noise. Anger rises within him, and he rolls down his window, not caring about the rain (since when has it been raining?) and sucks down the remainder of the whiskey as he jams his foot down on the accelerator, engine purring away. He slams the bottle against the pavement, not bothering to crank the window back up as he squeals around the bend in the road, white knuckling the steering wheel. And suddenly the grief seems to much to bear. His fingers are reaching on auto pilot for another of the constantly supplied bottles of whiskey under the driver seat, suppressing a howl as he uncorks it with his teeth, freezing droplets of rain pelting his face, his side, pooling beneath his leg on the leather. He drinks greedily, and it is not until he realizes that his vision has gone blurry ( whether with drink or unshed tears he does not know) that he decides to pull off the road. Bumping to a stop, he grits his teeth, frantic breaths hissing through them, squeezing the bottle tightly as the engine idles. He shoves a hand through his unkempt and greasy hair, trying to hold onto his tenuous calm. He does not dare to shut his eyes, even for a moment, because he cannot stand to see it replayed again. He has not slept in days, gaunt and pale form pushed to the limit with hunt after hunt. And then there's the drink. He drinks to forget. To sleep. It's simple: work yourself into the ground until you're collapsing from exhaustion, drink into a stupor until you fall asleep, have no dreams. Don't watch your brother ripped apart again and again as your body tries to get the desperately needed rest. He huffs out a breath, chest heaving as he blinks rapidly. Because although he is in unutterable pain, he cannot express it. Because if when he does, he will not stop. He can't allow himself to, because he won't be able to go on. It was a tried and true tactic among Winchester men: shove your crap down, drink just enough to get through the day without actually being technically drunk, and move on. No matter how bad it was or how hard it got, you soldiered on. Because how else would the fucking idiots save themselves from supernatural doom if you didn't? He fists a hand, mercilessly pummeling the steering wheel until his hand is numb, biting his lip so hard he draws blood. Dumbly, he realizes the window has been open the entire time, pelting him with freezing rainwater and no doubt causing some kind of damage to the well cared for leather of the classic seats. He has a moment of panic that he has ruined the car, frantically cranking up the window and swiping at the leather with his already wet sleeve. Cursing, he peals back onto the road, stopping at the first motel he comes to. The clerk does not question him as he stumbles in, glaring, and slaps a wad of cash down onto the table, nor does he (wisely) ask what he's doing roaring drunk with half of his body sopping wet. He simply hands over the key, shaking his head slightly. Fumbling fingers struggle to insert the key into the lock, not bothering to lock it behind him as he stumbles inside, dropping his bag and kicking the door shut behind him. Several more hours saw him slumped, dry now, against the headboard of the far bed, staring down the neck of a nearly empty whiskey bottle, knife held contemplatively in his opposite hand. It's been happening a lot more lately, since he's been left to fend for himself… to find out just how much of a team he and Dean used to be. It seems that he can be just as good alone as they were as a team, but only if he stretches himself to the limit. He hasn't eaten all day, hasn't shaved in God knows when, and honestly can't remember the last time he took a shower. But he gets the job done. He goes where he's sent, kills what needs killing, and gets out. He drifts. He glances from the knife to the far bed. There, back. There, back again, thumb stroking the blade lovingly. He gasps as his thumb beads with blood: after all, it's a perfectly honed killing machine, and he's drunk as hell. Were he in a clearer state of mind, he'd have refrained from such actions, but what does he care anymore? "Fuck!" he growls, draining the bottle and tossing it aside. But the pain… the pain the knife has caused is almost sweet in comparison to the pain he's feeling inside, and he yanks off his over shirt, tossing it aside in his haste. Because now all he can think of is the relief that lies just a few seconds away…

Dean has been walking for days. He's checked every damned motel between that godforsaken hellhole he woke up in, and this town somewhere in Alabama. After spending a day at Bobby's place (going through the necessary measures to prove he was human, of friggin' course), he'd set out to find his brother. Bobby'd given him a string of previous locations, ending about a month ago. He'd been just about to go after him himself when Dean'd practically beaten down his door. Seemed his little brother wasn't answering Bobby's calls, hadn't been for a while… Bobby was worried, said the kid'd sounded… off in his last few calls. Knowing Sam, he was probably holed up in some shit motel, sucking down whiskey and crying. He shakes his head, swiping his hand across his forehead, gratefully sighing as the lights of some small town come into view. Nevertheless, as he approaches the gaudily themed motel, its brightly colored neon promising air conditioning and free wifi, he can't shake the feeling that all is not well with his brother. The clerk gives him a welcoming smile, grateful this one is only sweaty and not drunk out of his head (and possibly insane). They make polite small talk as Dean reserves a room, not intending to use it, and when he has paid, and a little moppet of a blond haired waif comes toddling inside and holds the clerk's attention with her affections, Dean quickly pockets the spare key for the room registered to "Bates". He nods a thank you to the distracted man, hefting his bag across his broad shoulders and making his way outside. Once outside, he practically sprints to Sam's room. But, he hesitates. What exactly had Bobby meant by 'off'? Was there something more than just a bit of melancholy haunting his little brother?

Sam takes a deep breath, screws his eyes shut… and makes three horizontal cuts across his wrist. The pain does not register right away, adrenaline chasing it out of his system, and he stares, oddly fascinated at the sight of his own blood welling crimson and viscous from his skin. The pain starts to register a moment later, and he hisses in a breath, eyes watering at the stinging pain emanating from his bloodied wrist.

When Dean finally plucks up the courage to go inside, he is both pissed and a little bit frightened that his brother has forgotten to lock the door. He pushes open the creaky door, and is immediately greeted by the sight of his baby brother kneeling on the bed, bloody knife in one hand, blood pumping from his wrist, gushing down his forearm towards his elbow. But that is not what scares him the most. What scares him the most is the almost serene smile his brother is showing to nobody in particular… it almost looks as if he's welcoming the pain.

His brothers name rips from his throat, and he is on top of him in moments, ripping the sheet from the bed and wrapping it tightly around the injured limb, squeezing hard with both hands to stem the flow. Sam is shaking now, not sure if he's finally gone insane, or if what's happening is real.

He stares blankly at his brother's livid face, recoiling at the pressure to his wounded limb, noises of protest making their way from his mouth. Dean gazes, horrified, at the sheet as it becomes warm and violently red, Sam's blood soaking it, his noises of hurt grating at Dean's heart as he squeezes harder, sighing in relief as it finally begins to slow after several minutes. Sam tries to pull away again, but Dean's hands clench tighter around his wrist, and he feels a fear overtake him that he hasn't felt since he was five, and he accidentally spilled grape juice on Dean's favorite shirt. He shakily reaches out, fisting his good hand into Dean's shirt, eyes wide and pleading. Dean shakes his head, lips pressed into a hard line. "Sammy…" he mutters sadly, gently lifting a corner of the sheet and checking on the cuts. "c'mon." he gestures towards the bathroom, and Sam follows him numbly, Dean's hand still firmly pressuring the wound as he leads him to the tub, pushing him down onto the edge and reaching for the medical kit he knows Sam has stashed beneath the tiny sink.

Sam stares balefully at him, hissing as the bandages are pulled away. Dean's mouth presses into a sympathetic line as he holds Sam's arm over the tub, dousing his wounds in whiskey. Sam groans, recoiling, Dean's grip never loosening as he pats the arm dry and begins wrapping it in clean gauze, taping it into place gently. Sam's eyes trace the movements, guilt and fear overwhelming him as Dean tugs at his good arm. And when he stares up at him confusedly Dean sighs and throws his arm over his shoulders, hauling him to his feet and helping him shuffle into the bedroom. Dean deposits his brother on the far bed, throwing the bloody sheet from Sam's bed into the trash can, taking a blanket from the closet and throwing it over the bed, tugging the comforter over it. He bends and begins tugging articles of clothing from Sam's duffel, pressing the wad of clothes to his hideously drunken brother's chest. "C'mon Sasquatch, get changed." He gestures to the bathroom, and Sam nods absently, standing and stumbling inside.

Fumbling to shut the door, he strips down immediately, noticing that Dean has picked out his softest t-shirt and sweatpants. He puts on the clean clothes, wadding up the dirty shirt and jeans and tossing them into the corner of the room. The bandage sticks out starkly against his tanned skin, even more prominent now that he's in short sleeves. He has the presence of mind to stick his head under the sink and give his hair a quick scrub while he's in there, knowing, even drunk as he is at the moment, he can't shower with the bandages on his arm.

Dean stares, dumbfounded, at the closed door, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Sammy… why'd ya do it man? I mean, sure he'd missed the kid. Hell, Sam was what kept him from giving in, from going completely batshit insane downstairs. He shakes his head. He perches on the bed, forearms resting against his knees, hands dangling between them. Sam shuffles out a few moments later, mop of hair sopping wet, shaking his head as wet bangs drip into his eyes. He stands in front of Dean, head hung low, bare toes tapping against the carpet, almost as if he is afraid of being chastised. Dean hums low in his throat, noting the tight set to Sam's jaw. "Sammy…"

And that does it. Sam hugs him hard, letting out a slight sob as he feels Dean hug him back. He is real, alive and breathing, and here. "S—Sam… Sammy…" Dean tries, but fuck he's missed the kid so damned much… so he allows it, for a moment. One hand comes up to card through Sam's wet hair, jaw clenching. He pulls back, Sammy staring at him with dewy eyes, and pulls down the blankets, guiding his little brother beneath them, pulling the covers over him. And there it is again. That look. The one that says all that Sam hasn't. And Dean stares back, pushing down the part of him that is bitching about how much of a girl he's being, and walks around the bed, sitting down beside his brother, legs stretched out alongside Sam's as he turns on the TV at a low volume. Because dammit, he needed to make sure his kid brother was alright.

"S gonna be alright, Sammy." He presses his forearm to Sam's shoulder as Sam gives a sigh, flopping over onto his stomach, turning his head towards Dean as his eyes fluttered, drink bringing him ever closer to the edge of sleep. "I'm here now, 'an everythin's gonna be fine." Sam hums in agreement, soft snores emanating from his mouth as he drops off. Because even though the majority of him scoffed at Dean's big brotherly assurances, he still believed them. Because he was still the little brother, no matter what happened. And he needed his big brother.