Title: A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

Author: JALover7

Rating: R for language and (non-sexual) child abuse

Genre: AU, angst

Disclaimer: I do not own Sam, Dean, John, the Impala, or anything related to Supernatural (if I did, I'd have them locked up in my closet, or in Dean's case, my bedroom). Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke, The CW, etc. I'm merely borrowing the characters for my own fan fictional devices.

Spoilers: AU, so no.

Summary: What if Sam and Dean had had Max's childhood? Inspired by what would have happened if John had taken the "little more tequila, little less demon hunting" route. Title borrowed from Sam's line in "Nightmare." AU except for obvious necessary details pulled from the first scene of the pilot. Lots of mini Sam and Dean in the form of flashbacks. Multiple chapter, work in progress.

AN: The title and the idea for the story are taken from the following conversation between Sam and Dean in "Nightmare":

Sam: Well I'll tell you one thing, we're lucky we had Dad.

Dean: I never thought I'd hear you say that.

Sam: Well, it could have gone a whole 'nother way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less…demon hunting…and we would've had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay. Thanks to him.

Dean: All things considered.

I loved the line, and I was intrigued to try and discover how things would have turned out for the Winchester brothers if their Dad had turned to alcohol instead of revenge in order to cope with Mary's death. Would they know about the existence of the supernatural? Would Sam's powers still develop? Would they grow up into different people?

Would they end up like Max?

Read on to find out…

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A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

– – Prologue – –

A Need to Know

Dean Winchester sighed as he opened the door to the small two-bedroom apartment he shared with his younger brother Sam. Home sweet home, he thought to himself as he stepped inside, closing the door tightly behind him. Exhausted from a hard day of working at the garage, and covered in a thin layer of sweat, dirt, and grease, he was ready to hop in the shower, plop down in front of the TV, and nurse an ice cold soda. As he dropped his keys down on the kitchen counter and headed toward the bathroom, he ruminated on how many guys his age (27 long years old) would probably settle down with a beer rather than a soda.

The thing was, Dean wasn't "many guys." Dean had never had a taste for alcohol. He had tried it only once, back when he was 21 and Sammy was 16…

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Dean had had a bad day at work. He had never touched alcohol, had never wanted to, and all he'd wanted to do that night was find a woman willing to have sex with a guy who didn't drink. They were never hard to find.

But that night, he'd found something else first: a curiosity. A need to know. A question without an answer.

And then he'd found the bottom of a beer.

Two beers.

Countless shots of every hard liquor he could think to order.

He had gotten horribly drunk.

He'd been kicked out of the bar after getting in a fight with a man over something he couldn't remember. He'd stumbled home, passing out on the kitchen at four in the morning after tripping over his feet and crashing into a chair.

He had woken up a few hours later to find himself lying in bed, staring into the worried eyes of his brother. Sam's eyes had filled with tears when he had come around enough to groan at the massive headache he had. Then suddenly, Sam had leapt out of his chair and exploded.

Sam had already out grown his brother, and he was a terrifying sight as he stood over Dean and screamed and yelled at him about how worried he had been when Dean hadn't called by the customary time of midnight to tell him he would be spending the night elsewhere. How he had stayed up all night waiting and calling him. How terrified he had been when he'd heard the crash from the kitchen and found him unconscious on the floor in a tangle of limbs and chair legs. How he had stayed up all morning sitting beside him, waiting for him to come to so he could yell at him. And as Sam had stood there, voice growing hoarse and finally cracking as a few tears fell, Dean had felt more horrible than he'd ever felt in his life. As he leaned over the bed and vomited into the trash can that he knew Sam had put there, he had been certain his vomiting was caused only in part by the alcohol.

As Dean vomited what felt like the entire contents of his stomach into the can, he had prayed that he would never have to look at Sam again. Never have to see that worried look in his eyes; never have to hear that fear in his brother's voice…never have to see his brother cry. But more than that, Dean prayed that he would never be the cause of any of that ever again.

When he had finished, Sam had wordlessly helped him out of bed, hands on his shoulders, steadying him, as he slowly led him to the bathroom and left him alone to pee. When Dean had finished, he had turned the sink on to wash the taste of vomit and stale beer out of his mouth. When he had looked in the mirror, he had been shocked by what he saw. Messy hair, pale skin, bloodshot eyes.

But what had surprised him most was the small purplish bruise that was forming under his right eye. In that instant, his mind had flashed back to dozens of faces like this. Dozens of incidents, dozens of fights…dozens of bruises…bruises on his face, his arms, his chest…bruises on Sam.

And in that instant, he had become terrified…more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He'd let out an agonized cry, tears forming in his eyes, realizing how close he had come to truly fucking things up. And as he lunged for the toilet and vomited once more, his fear had seeped away, only to be replaced by anger. Hatred. In that moment, he had hated himself. More than he had ever hated anyone or anything in his life. He loathed what he had done, what he could have done. Loathed that for the first time in his life, he had been stupid enough to become the one thing he had always told himself he would never become.

His father.

And when Dean had woken up hours later, pulled from the worst nightmare he had ever had (blood everywhere…broken bones…horrible dark bruises…Sammy crying in pain…) by Sam's gentle shaking of his shoulders, Dean had hugged his brother to him fiercely and cried for the first time in a very long time. As Sam had held on tightly to him, almost as though he was afraid that he would disappear if he didn't, Dean had begged for Sam's forgiveness. And when the tears of guilt and pain had faded to tears of anger and hate, he had sworn to his little brother that he would never do anything to hurt him…that he would never let him be afraid…that he would never, ever, become their father. Sam hadn't said a word as Dean made that promise over and over again to him and to himself.

Neither of them ever mentioned what had happened that day or the promise Dean had made. But it still remained there between the two of them, unspoken, because they both knew that Dean would keep it.

And he had.

He had never broken his promise to Sam. And he had never touched alcohol again. To this day, he still wasn't entirely sure what had caused him to touch it in the first place. He had never had any desire to drink. He loathed alcohol. He hated what it did…

He was afraid of it.

And yet, part of him had wanted to know something: why did people drink it? Why did people turn to it when their lives fell apart? Why did people continue to drink it when all it seemed to cause was pain? When it led to rape, suicide, murder…and child abuse?

What could have turned John Winchester toward alcohol and away from his sons when his wife had died?

He had not gotten an answer that night, and he figured he never would.

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Dean pulled himself out of his thoughts, back into the present, and sighed. It had been a long day. He didn't want to think about his father now. He hadn't seen his father in nearly ten years, not since the night he had pulled Sam out of their house (not our home) and never looked back. Unfortunately, despite the passage of time, the distance, and the home he and Sam had finally been able to create, Dean found that he still thought about their father more than he cared to. For all he knew, his father could be long dead, lost in an abandoned alleyway, beaten to death and dumped after a drunken brawl, his liver eaten away by years of poisoning himself with booze and rage.

Part of him, the part that hated what his father had done to him and his brother, relished the idea. But another part of him, a part he had never let his father touch, a part of him that Sammy had helped to keep alive, couldn't hate his father. He wasn't sure he could ever love him, but he could also never hate him.

He couldn't remember his father ever saying a single kind word to him. But having Sammy around had kept Dean sane. It had given him a purpose in life – someone to protect, someone to live for…someone to love…and someone to love him back. Dean loved his brother more than he loved anything or anyone, and as much as Dean had taken care of his brother during those years, Sam had taken care of him in more ways than he could ever know. Sam had kept love alive in his brother, and it was this love that allowed Dean to realize that he did not hate his father; he hated what he had done to their life, what he had done to Sam and to himself. And the part of him that did not hate his father hoped that he would be able to turn his life around.

John had already lost his children, but Dean hoped that he would not lose his life as well.

Dean sighed again as he climbed into the shower, and when the first jet of hot water hit him in the chest, erasing some of the sweat and grime but none of the emotional pain and exhaustion he felt, he resigned himself to one of those long days where thoughts of his father would plague his mind until Sam came home and Dean mustered up the reason to put on his "happy and ready to face the world" mask.

As Dean showered, washing away the physical pain his day had wrought, he fell into thoughts of his father and the thirteen long years he had spent with him, raising and protecting his little brother…

TBC…