Vile

He distorts the world through the heavy bottom of his glass; swirling around the last brown drop of whiskey before pressing his lips to the edge and sucking it in. Dean slams the empty tumbler hard on the wood of the bar, letting the bartender know that he was dry. The tired man down the way gives a knowing nod in Dean's direction before returning to wiping off the counter.

"Yeah, take your time, dickweed."

Dean lifts the glass again and inspects it thoroughly; either to make sure it's really empty or to look extra eager for the man who holds the liquor—he isn't really sure which. Not that it matters. Nothing matters. Not anymore.

"Dean! Why the hell are you here again, man?"

Dean doesn't even flinch at the sound of his brother's voice, booming behind him.

"Seriously dude, this is getting ridiculous. You need to come back to the real world now."

Dean peeks over his shoulder and watches as his brother leans in close, trying to read him. Sam's shape waves in and out of focus. Even the slight tilt of Dean's head sends the world spinning. The older brother begins to lean towards Sam, closer and closer until he feels the brutal push of gravity shoving him towards the floor. Sam reaches out and grabs his arm, steadying him just before Dean drops.

"Jesus man, seriously?" Sam says, eyes rolling and exhaustion in his voice.

"I'm fine damnit!" Dean barks while pulling from his brother's grip.

"Fine?" Sam snaps back with a sarcastic laugh. "I don't know man. . . Fine would be you answering my twenty calls! Fine would be you, being at home, in bed at ten p.m. instead of in a dank bar with these friendless-weirdos." Sam flings his arm out, gesturing towards the rest of the room. "Fine, Dean, would be the you I used to know three months ago. The you that always brought me back from the brink. I don't mind helping you for a change, Dean but you have to be willing to acknowledge me to do so!"

Dean listens and sways back and forth, barely hearing anything but the familiar tone of Sam's lecture. He has heard these many times in his life, and excessively so in the last few months. He let his voicemail fill to the brim with them, and never bothered erasing any so new ones could take their place. He didn't care what Sam said, Sam couldn't fix anything.

"Dude, can you even hear me?" Sam waves his hand in front of Dean's vacant eyes. "Hello? You that far gone?"

Sam's hand is quickly swatted away, before the waving can make Dean vomit. He plops back against the cracking vinyl of the barstool and stretches out his cramping legs.

"Leave me alone Sam." Dean grumbles, turning back to flag down the bartender.

"No!" Sam whips him around by the shoulder, making Dean fall back, hard against the edge of bar. His elbows now baring all his weight and slipping along the wet rings he left on the wood.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean spits, struggling to get himself upright again.

"What the hell is with you Dean? I know things suck right now man, I get it. I really do, but to do this," Sam gestures again towards the rest of the bar and then to Dean, tracing the air up and down the length of Dean's torso, "this is just stupid!"

"What the hell do you know?" Dean replies, quieter than he anticipates but still just as fierce.

"I know you're hurting Dean." Sam sits down on the stool next to his brother, making himself eye level. He softens his face, making the older brother flashback to their childhood- little chubby hands, wrapping around his middle to trap him in a hug. Big, brown eyes, letting him know it would all be okay. That was a long time ago.

"I know that losing Lisa, losing Ben—them dying the way they did, that is messed up and it would wreck anybody; but you're not just anybody Dean. You're my brother."

Dean focuses at the sound of Lisa's name and looks at Sam at the sound of Ben's.

"Don't fucking talk about them!" Dean growls, his voice cracking slightly as whiskey threatens to return up his throat. "Don't you ever fucking talk about them!"

Sam rises to his feet again, quickly taking a step back at the sound of his brother's voice.

"I'm not talking about them man, I am just saying . . ."

"Shut the fuck up! Don't talk about them!"

Dean sees red. He watches the fire and flecks of red paint burning up and flitting through the air. The walls blackening in the kitchen—the dining room, Lisa's favorite places. The glass melting and shattering in the crimson fury that Dean knew he started. He sees the look on Lisa's face when he said he would help her with the light fixtures; the light fixtures that she has hated ever since she moved in. He thinks about how happy she was once they were gone. He thinks about her voice when she called to say the new ones stopped working. He thinks of how she must have flinched when the switches started sparking. He thinks about how she must have screamed as she ran down the hall, yelling for Ben. He sees the licks and whips of red that tasted the air as he pulled up along the curb. He thinks about the impossible silence as he ran towards the front door. He hears his own voice die amongst the flames and the cracking of the house. Then he hears nothing

"Dean, please, just listen!"

Dean flings his clenched fist wildly at Sam's head, trying to stop the memories that seem to be flowing straight from his brother's mouth. Sam is quicker than him,swiftly dodging out of the way and grabbing his shoulders on the follow through, pushing Dean into the sticky floor of the bar.

"Get off me you fucking moose!"

"Not until you calm down, Dean!"

"Get off! Get the fuck off! Fuck!"

Dean bucks and writhes against the impossible weight of his brother's knee bearing down on his spine. It hurts but Dean welcomes the crack and burn of the pain. He finally stops when the motion brings all one hundred and twenty dollars of hard liquor back up his throat. Sam falls back as Dean mimics every horror film they had ever seen as kids. Vomit spews and slides, sending the gathered crowd that was surrounding the fighting brothers, back nearly a yard.

Sam sighs a heavy breath.

"Dean, you need to go home now." Sam says after a moment, pulling his still-heaving brother up from the floor.

"Who the hell is going to clean this up?" the bartender yells, now directly across from Dean's empty stool.

"I'm sure my brother's hefty tip will more than pay for your trouble." Sam snaps bitchily before fishing Dean's wallet out of his brother's back pocket.

Dean's stomach begins to calm slightly. He catches his breath enough to drag himself out of Sam's clenched fingers.

"Let go of me!' Dean swells, throat bursting a new kind of vile as he watches Sam empty his bill fold and hand the contents to the eager bartender.

"Let go . . . let go of everything Sam! I am not your fucking project!" Dean's own intensity doubles him over, making him have to rest his palms on his knees just to stay upright. "You can take your brotherly shit somewhere else. I don't want to hear it! I don't want to hear anything you got to say, got it?" Dean looks up at Sam, noticing the hurt that's crawling across his brother's face—the liquor residue left in his stomach, warms greedily at the sight. "You can fuck off and don't bother calling me anymore! I don't need to worry about how I am making poor little Sammy feel, okay? Fucking get a life and get the hell outta mine!"

Dean erects himself again, trying to match his brother's height the best he can—puffing out his chest, asserting whatever dominance he can muster in his vomit soaked state.

Sam stares at Dean, eyes sagging as all of his brother's words sink in. Then, with a blink, his face contorts, ears pulling back, making his forehead tighten into a hard wall. The over sized younger brother purses his lips, taking n a gallon of air through his nose, making his chest double the width of Dean's.

"You know what, fine! If that's how you want it Dean, I am done!" Sam's hands fly up into the air with a burst before free-falling back to his sides. "I am done coming to these hell holes and dragging you out. I am done cleaning you up and reassuring you that everything will be okay, when you obviously don't even want it to be!" Sam takes a step towards his brother, looking down on him in every way. His brown eyes, shooting fury into Dean's. "If you want to kill yourself over this, then do it. I love you man but I can't take this anymore. You're on your own. I'm done!"

Sam pushes by Dean, bouncing him off his shoulder, sending him falling into his own mess of bile and half-digested bar nuts.

"I never fucking asked you to start, Sam!"

Sam doesn't respond as he pushes through the crowd and bursts out the door.

"I never fucking asked you." Dean grunts to himself, world spinning-ears splitting to the erupting crowd, commenting on everything that just occurred. Dean looks around to see the bartender coming towards him, mop and towel in hand. The dingy hair of the mop flails angrily with the air of the room. The motion sends Dean reeling. He turns his head and lets out another spurt of acid and mush just before falling to the floor. Finally relaxing after the last heave, letting the world goes black around him.