Blood, blood, blood. Sam screwed his eyes shut and leaned forward, fingers immediately grasping onto glass that had been set before him a few moments prior. He didn't need it tonight. He wanted it - badly, actually - but he didn't need it. He was stronger than this. It was just blood. Hand shaking just slightly, Sam lifted the glass to his mouth and threw some of the whiskey down his throat. It didn't burn as much as it used to. At least, the burn didn't bother him as much as it once had. He could remember a time where going out to drink like this had been nothing short of a rare occurrence for him. After Dean had died, it turned into more of a habit. He could remember not being able to physically function without a bottle of beer in one hand and a shot of whiskey in the other. Now it sort of felt the same way, except where his problem had once been alcohol it was now blood. And that, he found, wasn't very natural at all.
Sam finished off his glass and set it down, giving the bartender a slight nod as he did so. Another one. He was definitely going to need another one. Once he'd sent out another order, he heard a voice coming from a few chairs over. Sam slowly turned his head to look at the speaker, the effects of the alcohol making him a bit duller on his reactions than usual. "Huh?" Share those. The man - who was he? - was gesturing toward the peanut bowl in front of him. Oh. The bowl. Sam had stopped picking at it a while ago. He didn't even know why it was still in front of him. "Yeah. Here." He grabbed it with a hand and clumsily slid off his stool. Stepping around the two chairs, Sam offered the man (who looked vaguely familiar to him) the bowl. "I forgot I had it," he explained, shoulders rising and falling into a bit of a shrug. That aside, Sam tilted his head to the side and squinted at him, just a little. "Do I know you?"