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"I don't know how you can even look at me," Sam confides one night, alcohol in front of him that he knows he's not going to touch. Doesn't deserve to and wouldn't be able to stop if he started.
"Wasn't you, Sammy." He gets in stubborn, worn response. It's the expected answer, lie; he can still see the blood on his hands as he stares at them. His silence is telling of his lack of agreement, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean finishes his drink with a long swig, sees him reach for his.
He counts it as another failure that he doesn't stop him.
"Wasn't you, Sammy." He gets in stubborn, worn response. It's the expected answer, lie; he can still see the blood on his hands as he stares at them. His silence is telling of his lack of agreement, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean finishes his drink with a long swig, sees him reach for his.
He counts it as another failure that he doesn't stop him.