TITLE: The Burden of Sight

AUTHOR: Darkbird36

SUMMARY: Sam is tired of seeing things he doesn't want to see.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Otherwise there would be no break between seasons – and Supernatural would be on every night, and twice on Sundays.

WARNINGS: Dean has a potty mouth. I tried to tell him to tone it down, but he told me to go fu-… well, you know. Later chapters contain disturbing imagry, descriptions of child abuse and violence, and mentions of rape. Please use your judgment in reading – I don't want to upset anyone.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SN fic number two. Thank you to everyone who reviewed my last story – it motivated me to start this one. So by that logic, if you review this one two, you might get even MORE stories!

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"Sam, I swear, if you puke in my car, I will hurt you." Dean ground out, glaring at his suddenly green, very drunk, brother. Sam gulped queasily and nodded, and Dean had the alarming suspicion that if his brother opened his mouth to actually speak, he would vomit instead. Oh, God help him if he fucks up my car. He accelerated, determined to get Sam to the motel before he up-chucked. No fuckin' way am I gonna put up with the smell of stale vomit in a hot car for the next two months…

They almost made it. Dean could see the neon sign when Sam choked out his name in a panicky, stop the car now I'm gonna puke kinda tone. He'd slammed on the brakes with enough force to make the seatbelts lock, and Sammy was out of the car on his knees and heaving before Dean had even unbuckled. His little brother had been retching for a good five minutes now, and Dean was torn between being grossed out and being concerned.

"Jeeze, Sammy, you're such a fuckin' lightweight…" he mumbled when the heaving finally ceased. He hooked his hands under Sam's armpits and hauled him to his feet as gently as he could.

"What was that - like, five beers? I'm ashamed, little brother, for you and me."

Sam giggled (God, but he was DRUNK!) and staggered, his hands fisting into Deans shirt for balance.

"Dude! You're stretching out my fucking shirt!"

"Sorry…" Sam gasped, laughing like Dean had said something funny. Pretty chipper or a guy who just lost his dinner in a ditch...

"Whatever, man. You're a pathetic drunk. Why can't you just get belligerent and aggressive like everyone else? You're acting like a teenage girl at prom."

Sam snorted and laughed harder.

"I'm going to walk about one hundred feet down the road and check us in to a room, okay Sam? Stay here, understand? I'll be right back. And quiet the fuck down – you sound like a goddamn hyena or something."

Ten minutes later, when Dean returned with a room key, Sam was sitting on the ground next to the car, still laughing.

He laughed while Dean wrestled him into the passenger seat, he laughed while Dean parked and got their bags, and he laughed right up until he walked through the door to their room, doubled over, and puked all over the floor.

"Aw, fuck it, Sam!" Dean shouted, jumping back to avoid being spattered. Sam moaned, suddenly not so giggly, and staggered. His face twisted in frustration and mild disgust, Dean steadied his brother and steered him towards to bed furthest from the door. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, Sam flopped backwards onto the bed like one of those little push puppets he had loved as a kid. Long arms and legs splayed out in disarray - his eyes were already drifting shut.

"Sam, stay awake! You need to change."

"Uh-kay…" Sam sighed in response, but his eyes remained closed and thirty seconds later his breath evened out in sleep.

"Asshole…" Dean muttered, pulling off his brother's shoes, socks, and jeans with potentially more force than was necessary. It was more difficult getting the shirt up over Sam's head, but too much practice attending to each other when unconscious or battered had made both Winchesters experts at the task, and soon Sam was propped on his side and tucked under the covers. Which left Dean to clean up.

"Well, this is fun…"

They were supposed to be relaxing, a quick pit-stop at a favorite bar of Dean's. He had talked Sam into it, regaling him with tales of the hot waitresses, the frothy beer, and the gullible idiots who had frequented the pool tables during his last visit.

"It's a heaven on Earth, Sam." He had insisted. "And we're gonna be half an hour from it on our way to that haunted farmhouse in Haughtenborough."

And, boy, wasn't he glad now that he had talked his brother into it. Sam had been acting withdrawn and moody lately, sleeping fitfully and snapping irritably at stupid things. Dean had thought a night off would be good for his mood, and he had honestly been glad to see his brother drinking when he had glanced up from his pool game. The kid needed to loosen up and relax, and to a Winchester, the best way of doing that was by getting a buzz on.

But Sam had barreled through 'relaxed', skipped 'pleasantly buzzed', and driven headlong into 'piss-fucking-drunk', resulting in Dean abandoning a game he was sure to win, stuffing him in the car, hauling his ass into bed, changing him, and cleaning up his vomit.

Dean wasn't a big fan of 'talking', as a general rule, but Sammy had to either shape up and snap out of it or spill the beans on what was bothering him. Dean had recognized that kind of drinking – the pursuit of a drunkenness that obliterated and numbed. He had certainly been guilty of that kind of determined consumption on more than one occasion, but somehow seeing Sam trying to drown himself in a bottle felt a little frightening.

Suddenly exhausted, he mopped up the last of the mess on the floor and washed up in the little bathroom. He kept the boor cracked, listening for any sounds from his brother in the other room, but Sammy was silent, deep asleep and unmoving.

Ten minutes later Dean was, too.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's short, but I got a late start on it tonight. More next time. Feedback helps :)