Author Notes: This is dedicated to my newfound friends, who know who they are and have, in a very short amount of time, already helped me to reconnect with the silliness and spontaneity I've been trying to rediscover for the past several years. There is nothing to be gained from reading this story, save for a few laughs.

Dizzy

He didn't mean to get drunk but he did. In hindsight, he supposes he wasn't ever going to learn to pace himself from watching his father.

There's no quiet way to dispose of the bottles, not when he's already moved past double-vision into seeing an entire goddamn line of Rockettes at every turn, and glass clicks and clacks loudly, bottles kissing each other as he dumps them into the can outside. A grouchy old calico with a bejeweled collar and a bell like a fuckin' GONG hisses at him from the curb and he hisses back, can't believe he's just now realizing how HILARIOUS he is and he drops the aluminum lid to the cracked asphalt with a clang in a fit of laughter.

It's the neighbor lady that catches him – sweet old Mrs. McCray, with the holey sweaters and the frizzy hair – but that doesn't soften the blow when his father finds out.

Metaphrical blow.

That's not right.

Metapher –

Meta –

He giggles, slumps against the screened door and interrupts his father while he's apologizing to Mrs. McCray for Dean antagonizing her cat. John grumbles on and on and ON and the entire time she's holding the damn thing like a traumatized infant, stroking and cooing and glaring at Dean.

Pussycat. Fussy, fuzzy little puss –

And he's full-on cackling now, throwing off his center of gravity and he starts to overbalance. Dad kicks the screened door out of the way to catch him but Dean's not a fucking BABY. He tries to compensate for the tip, hurtles himself forward just in time to catch the swing of the thin door right in the face.

That'll wake you up. With both hands covering his nose there's no balance to be found, and Dean soundlessly tips ass over tea kettle into the bushes beside the porch, and he figures it's as good a place as any to sleep.

He wakes up to the sun. A star. A goddamn CONSTELLATION. And a sweaty little hand that smells like Cheetos thumbing up his eyelid.

He's young but he's got reflexes, son, and his arm comes up from his chest in a wide, sloppy arc in which he misses the target completely, is rewarded for his efforts by a high-pitched cackle, a squeal that can only mean he's been put under Sammy's care.

He swings again, connects this time and knocks the twerp's skinny arm out of the way, sends the flashlight out of his fingers and clear into the other room.

And then, OW, because what the fuck is wrong with his face?

His fingers are slow in responding but they sluggishly complete the journey, run a cautious examination and feel out a slick split running across the bridge of his nose.

Sam's squealing again, rocking back and forth on the couch next to him and making Dean feel seasick.

"Whuusofunny?"

"You put a dent in the door. With your FACE. Dad is maaaaaaaad. He said it's gonna come out of the security deposit."

Sammy doesn't know what a security deposit is, just knows Dean's in trouble. His head pounds mercilessly. "Ugggh."

"Oh, man, you're in trouble."

Trouble is a threat, and trouble means Dad is pissed, and – Oh goddammit Dad is PIIIIIISSSSED.

He comes up from the couch like a bucket of ice water's been dumped over him, realizes immediately that was a baaaaaaaaaad idea. Strobe lights are going off and there's a subwoofer somewhere behind him.

"Are you gonna barf?"

Probably. Definitely. "Nerp."

"That's not even a word!"

Swallow, swallow, swallow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. M'kay, we're all good here. Turns to Sammy and squints, tries to decide which of these three Sammys is THE Sammy. Picks one and knows he's wrong because now the Sammys are all grinning like that time Dean brought home straight F's and a special letter from the principal. Which, he thinks, was maybe only last week. Pace yourself, dumbass. "Wherrsda?"

"Huh?"

"Wherrsdad?"

"Are you speaking English?"

Quit yer fucking around, Sammy. "WHERE'S DAD?" The effort almost has him falling to his hands and knees on the carpet.

"Going through your stuff."

Whatsthatnow? He shoves off of the couch and all of the walls switch places with each other. He blinks heavily and gravity claims his clumsy, wooden limbs almost immediately, rolling him to the left and bouncing him off of the coffee table. Sammy scoots out of the way as he returns without grace to the cushions.

Dean lays there, folded in half with a shrieking elf bouncing around him like he's four instead of nearly eleven. His hands come up to cradle his head because that's about as much movement as he's going to get from his body at the moment. "Sammy, you have to stop." He needs it to happen so badly that the sentence is nearly completely coherent.

"Nope." Sam leaps off the side of the couch and starts running sprints around the room like it's fucking track practice. "Dad told me to do everything I could think of to annoy you. I get ten dollars if I can make you puke."

That's fair, he figures. He breathes deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Inthroughthenoseoutthroughthemouthinthroughthe –

His body responds to the need to hurl before his brain knows it's happening, flings him to the carpet on all fours just in time to not be completely covered in his own puke. Has even presence of mind to hope he splashed Sam a little. Make 'im really earn his money.

Sam sounds the alarm with a patented mix of glee and disgust. "DAD!"

Footsteps shake the floor under his hands, vibrate up into his arms and resonate in his head and he couldn't look up for his father's approach if he wanted to. Which he really, really doesn't. He's back to inthroughthenoseoutthroughthemouth and his nose is throbbing.

"Go to your room, Sam."

Uh, oh.

Big, rough, strong hands grip him under the armpits and haul him upright, then let him fall back to the couch. He tips over, plants his face in the fabric and smells Cheetos again. Dean knows he's not moving. Not for a while and not unless Dad helps again, which is probably off of the table for the time being.

"Look at me, kid."

Don'twanna. Dean turns his head, feeling much too heavy to rearrange any of his twisted limbs into a more comfortable conformation.

Dad's face is swirling like a picture of a galaxy and Dean doesn't speak spaceman but somehow the anger translates perfectly. "You didn't get it from me, so who'd you get it from? Someone at that school?" They're in a bad part of town and he knows it.

He nods. Baaaaaaaad idea, Dean. Says the rest with his eyes closed. "Senior. Ricky. Got 'em from his Dad."

John sucks in a breath. "You're makin' friends with seniors now?"

He lifts a shoulder because he's completely lost the ability to form words.

"You have a good time or did you learn your lesson?"

He wants to say both, but can't imagine that's going to progress the conversation along in the direction he needs it to go. Which is over, so he can sleep for about a month. He doesn't think he says anything at all, and his eyes must be open only barely now, but he can still see the dark blur of his father shaking his head.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Dean."

And, yeah, he figures he knew that, just kinda hopes he's not gonna remember in the morning.

He's gonna remember the door and his nose and, oddly, the cat. And the disappointment. He's gonna remember the disappointment for a good long while.