Disclaimer: I do not own Sam and Dean, or any other things you might have seen or heard in the show. Blah, blah, blah, etc, etc…
"That was really smart by the way. Taking on all those guys after drinking almost two bottles of tequila!" the blond told the brunette. "What were you thinking, tough guy?" he asked in such a condescending tone of voice that it made him want to laugh out loud. He was acting like such a mother hen and didn't even know this freaking guy.
"Because trying to hustle pool with guys that could easily pass for some form of Wrestler's Kung-Fu Mafia took a stroke of genius!" retorted the brunette. "I guess what they say about blonds must be true," he mumbled.
"Well then you must have had one hell of a dye job!" the blond practically snapped. "Didn't you have enough of this macho bullshit yet? I'm trying to help damn it! So stop using those weak insults to bait me into fighting with you! Stop trying to pick fights period!" Green eyes glittered in annoyance.
"I don't need your freaking help!" the bruised brunette snarled viciously, pulling away from the young man who was trying to drag him over to what looked like his car. "And I sure as hell didn't ask for it!" he added as an afterthought.
"Dude," the blond scoffed, "have you taken a look in a mirror lately? Or has that shiner swollen your eyes shut? You look like you should be lying down on a stretcher, or a hospital bed, or something…"
"I can take care of my own damn self!" the brunette snarled, sounding like a mean, rabid dog. Swiftly, he stalked (more like limped) away, fists clenching until they became bone-white and then unclenching.
"Watch out!" the blond yelled when a car narrowly dodged the tall, young man who was crossing the street. "Freaking idiot thinks I'm so stupid and he's crossing the street drunk as a floozy! I'd be seriously surprised if that guy even managed to graduate college…" He began running as he saw the brunette get nicked by two passing vehicles.
This time the brunette offered no resistance as he was hauled to the car.
Tense silence filled the interior of the black '67 Chevy Impala.
As they pulled into the parking lot of a motel (with the original title of Clearwater Motel), the brunette finally turned to face the blond. Dead, hollow eyes made the occupant of the driver's seat shiver slightly.
Less roughly, he now dragged the lanky and impossibly tall (taller than him, the blond noticed bitterly) to the motel room and laid it down clumsily on the spare bed.
"Take your shirt off," the blond said, his voice saying what he didn't: …And don't make me tell you again. The brunette's eyes turned upwards to meet his and he thought he'd said something wrong when raw pain briefly flitted across the handsome features of the one who lay prone on the bed.
The young man did as he was told with a little help from his new-so-called-"companion." More like unnecessary/unwanted caretaker, the brunette thought his own bitter thoughts. He ignored the green eyes which seemed to almost glow with another, unreadable emotion. The cause of this, the brunette realized, was his reaction when the blond ran his hand over the bruises, checking for broken bones and other internal injuries.
He couldn't quite hide his gasp as the shirt came away. Even the dimmest of motel rooms (in which they now resided) couldn't hide the bruises, cuts, and lacerations which seemed to envelop the well-toned upper torso.
"So all of this happened at the bar, huh? 'Cause if it did, then those guys sure did a number on you," the blond said, not really expecting a reply.
"I laid them out didn't I?" the brunette asked softly. He felt like he was on display when he realized that the blond was studying him with a half-frown on his face.
"Sure ya did, tough guy." After a pause he added, "My name's Dean by the way. Figured since I'd already seen you half-naked…" He trailed away, giving a small half-shrug. Throughout the brief introduction, Dean continued to clean the wounds as gently as possible.
"Sam," the brunette said, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as the stranger's hands neared his abdomen. After all, he was used to people taking what they wanted from him. Just because blondie-Dean, he corrected himself-seemed concerned, didn't mean anything. He knew that the best thing to do would be to leave as quickly as possible, but knew that if things came to what they usually came to, he wouldn't put up a fight. He would play along because he deserved nothing more. After all, he was used to letting people take whatever they wanted from him. Besides, he was too drained to think, so Sam decided to believe the lie he conjured up, telling himself that maybe this guy was being nice to him for the sake of it.
After a loooong silence, during which Dean patched Sam up, they were done and Dean sat on the opposite bed.
"What do your parents think about your exciting night life?" Dean was undeniably a straight shooter. Sam, though, remained quiet even as he pulled his shirt on and headed towards the door.
Dean watched Sam go with a sinking feeling. Even though he barely knew this quiet, troubled, bar-brawling stranger, there was something about him… He felt such a sense of fulfillment and more at-home when Sam was around than he had in years.
His thoughts were interrupted by a hushed, tentative voice.
"Thank you," Sam said, with his hand on the doorknob, "and sorry for the trouble and all…"
"It's OK." Dean said, jumping his feet and intercepting Sam at the door. "You wanna get something to eat?" he asked out of the blue and felt unexpectedly shy (as if he were exposed, body and mind) when Sam turned exotic, strangely-colored eyes on him, his gaze now piercing. He seemed to be searching for something. Then he nodded tersely and Dean nearly started when he felt an irrational surge of happiness burst through him. He wanted to get to know Sam better and maybe even wished for Sam to get to know him. Even if the brunette's behavior had been anything but warm and welcoming…
To Be Continued…