Who: Sam Winchester. Narrative. But if anyone wants to tag in, that's fine by me! What: He's drunk. Again. Someone really needs to get a leash for him or something. When: Evening. Where: The Roadhouse. Rating: PG-13.
When Sam Winchester had ventured out onto the streets that night, he had no intention in going anywhere near any form of alcohol. He was working. He was fighting. There were innocent people out there, dying and suffering because of the Horseman and Sam had to figure out how to stop them. It was what he and Dean did, wasn't it? We have to save as many people as we can, Sam recalled, his own words having formed in his mind. It was just hard to save so many people when there were so many falling at the very same time. They could only save but so many people out there. Sam knew that. He had learned that the hard way a long, long time ago. But this? What was going on right now? It was too much. Sure, maybe he'd be able to stop some random beast from mauling an innocent out on the streets, but what about everyone else? It seemed that a majority of the people out there were suffering from some severe illness that was slowly killing them all off one by one. Sam could fight monsters and demons. But he wasn't a doctor. He didn't know the first thing about how to cure someone of a disease that seemed to appear overnight.
All he could do was fight. It had been a few days since Sam had decided to do just that. He did his best. He constantly worked at it, spending more time away from everyone else than he had since he had gotten back from his not so fun trip to that alternate universe. It was mostly because he was so damn busy. However, the knowledge that he was ashamed to be around them all was also something that Sam couldn't pry from his mind. He had killed Faith. And he had attempted to kill himself. People didn't just forget about that sort of thing. Sam didn't really expect for them to either, even if he sure as hell wished that they would.
Three hours into his nightly ritual and Sam had stumbled across more corpses and disease ridden people than he had ever seen before. He managed to help those who needed it to the nearest hospital, even though, deep down, he knew that the was really walking them to their death beds. It was an unbearable thought, but it wasn't the worst to plague his mind all evening. What really broke him was his last encounter. Sam had talked to a few people in the uptown police precinct and had picked up a few leads. They eventually led him to an orphanage, where he found child after child, writhing in their beds from the illnesses that they couldn't have avoided.
Sam blanked after that. He blindly drove to the Roadhouse, knowing that the bar would already be abandoned or occupied by a mourning Cox when he got there. He didn't see any cars parked outside aside from the rental he'd picked up a few days earlier, so Sam walked over to the door and turned the knob.
It didn't budge.
He lifted a hand and stared off at the place where he knew the lock would have been. After a push from his mind, they clicked and the door instantly swung open. It was wrong, he knew it. Sam had sworn his abilities away after killing Faith. But he wasn't thinking straight right now. He just had to get away and he had to do it now.
Silently closing the door behind him, Sam walked into the dark bar and moved off toward one of the stools. He sat down and quietly sat for a long time, head low and eyes trained on the wooden surface of the bartop that spread out in front of him. Then he rose and walked around the bar and started rummaging around. It didn't take him very long to find a nice bottle of whiskey. Returning to his seat, he pried the bottle open and drank it straight.
Eventually, he got drunk. He didn't realize it until he looked up and momentarily thought that he was looking off at Jo herself. He raised his bottle in a sort of salute and a sad smile crossed his face. "Thanks for the drink," he said quietly, before reaching into his pocket (nearly toppling from the stool in the process) and slapping down a bundle of crumpled bills onto the bartop. It was a couple hundred dollars, but Sam really didn't care. Plus he was too drunk to notice.
Staggering from his seat, Sam swayed and grasped at the bottle, dragging it from the bar and, in the process, slopping some of the liquid down his front. He held it close to his chest as he slowly walked, his balance entirely unstable as he wandered over to the exit. It took a lot of effort for him to even get that far. As soon as he did, he slumped against the door and looked back at the bar.
Jo was there. Bar towel thrown over her shoulder, hand raised out in front of her, and a wide smile bolting across her face as she waved off at him. His eyes dampened instantly and Sam nodded toward her before he stumbled from the bar and out into the parking lot.