(Untitled)
[Out of Milliways: Not all of wisdom brings joy.]
*Out under the strange stars, a lone figure staggers along the lakeshore. His unsteadiness can be partly explained by half-empty bottle clutched loosely in one hand, but only partly; anyone close enough to see his face -- not that there is anybody, at the moment -- would be able to tell that ( Read more... )
*Out under the strange stars, a lone figure staggers along the lakeshore. His unsteadiness can be partly explained by half-empty bottle clutched loosely in one hand, but only partly; anyone close enough to see his face -- not that there is anybody, at the moment -- would be able to tell that ( Read more... )
Sam still doesn't know how he's gonna say what he needs to say, and when Dean had gone out to work on the Impala he'd decided to come through to Milliways to walk around outside for a while and see if he could figure it out.
The second he steps out the lake door and hears Andrew shouting, he shoves his own problems aside.
"Andrew!"
He's already scanning the area as he starts toward him, fast.
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Come out, come out, wherever you are ...
*His voice singsongs erratically, skating along the edge of a scream.*
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Not until he sees the bottle.
Sam doesn't get any less watchful, but the look Andrew gets now is a lot more concerned.
"Who are you so pissed at, dude?"
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Sam, *he says, as though he's not sure he's right about that.*
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*His face stretches into a terrible lost smile.*
Want a drink?
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Sam finds that he's hoping he never does again.
"I don't know, man--"
Take the bottle and get it away from Andrew, or let the other guy find oblivion in it?
"--why don't you tell me what we're drinking to, first?"
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*Andrew raises the bottle dramatically high, and there is gall and wormwood in his voice.*
To epically screwing it up.
*And he takes a swig.*
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Whatever's happened, he can tell it's not good; not anywhere in the neighborhood of okay, even.
The question is: just how bad is it going to be?
"Okay." Sam's watching him carefully. "Yeah, you know I can drink to that one, so..."
A beat.
"What kind of screwup are we talking about here?"
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*Andrew lowers the bottle, and the smile has drained away leaving twisted misery.*
I screwed up. Bad. Worse than bad. Two years ago and we didn't find out till now --
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"I went to a wedding, and I was two and a half years ahead of everybody else--"
"Now now, or 'then' now?"
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*A cracked laugh.*
We're at now now.
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Sam nods.
"Listen, Andrew-- whatever it is, we'll figure it out, okay?"
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Not this time.
You don't know. You don't know --
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He steps forward, reaching out to put a bracing hand on Andrew's shoulder.
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*He pauses, hearing his own words, and gives that lost-sounding laugh again.*
'S what he said. And he was right. He was right the whole time.
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