"You're not killing my brother." Dean threatened through gritted teeth, struggling against the three men who held him pinned to the wall. He wracked his brain to figure out how they'd managed to wind up in this position to begin with.
It was supposed to be downtime - a little pool, a little beer, maybe some fine romancing. Hell, it had been a spur of the moment thing. They'd been driving for hours, in between jobs, a skinwalker in their rear view and what was probably a nest of vamps on the horizon. Sam had mentioned something about being hungry and then there was that sign for the roadhouse - all lit up in neon and bold as you please. There was even a photo of a long-legged beauty sitting atop a pool table.
And she was blond.
Obviously, the place was just beckoning Dean to pay homage.
So of course they'd ambled in and found a dark booth in a quiet corner. Sam had ordered a salad and a grilled something-or-other that was almost meat, and Dean had indulged in his favorite greasy cheeseburger and fries.
And all had been right with the world.
But then that big guy with the long, dirty hair and the scar across his eye had taken a liking to Sam, and it just went downhill from there. When the guy strode purposefully over and sank right down in the booth beside his brother, forcing Sam to move over or be squashed. Dean shot him eye daggers.
"Can I help you?" He'd asked sarcastically, painting on his best "you must wanna die tonight" expression.
But the guy had just grinned and shook his head. He'd reached a filthy paw beneath the table and made Sam jump.
Dean's eyes grew huge. He glanced at his brother, disbelievingly. "Did he just …? Did you just …?" He asked, stepping out of the booth and grabbing the guy by his disgusting hair. He yanked the much bigger man to his feet and dragged him out of the booth, slinging him up against the wall and holding him by the throat. He'd leaned in close then and gotten his point across quite nicely, he'd thought.
"You don't EVER lay a filthy paw on my brother, you son of a bitch." He'd spit out between clenched teeth. "Here we are, trying to enjoy a nice beer and some civilized conversation and there you go butting your ugly face in where it's not welcome."
But the guy had just grinned and held up both hands in a mock surrender, and Dean had let him go, shoving him hard to the side and standing there looking deadly until the man had slunk away.
Dean figured that was the end of it, and he'd turned to Sam.
"Tone those puppy eyes down, bitch." He'd joked. "I don't wanna have to fight off a whole demon army before my cheeseburger arrives."
"Bite me, Jerk." Sam had replied, taking a swig of his beer and arguing that he wasn't sixteen anymore and could handle himself.
"Sammy, you might be 24 in big boy years, but you're still ten in little brother years so shut your cake hole." Dean had informed him in no uncertain terms.
But Sam had just shot the bitch face and rolled his eyes and then their food had arrived and that was the end of it.
Except that it wasn't.
They probably should have paid the check and left, but then Sam spotted the pool table, and they were both comfortably buzzed and they hadn't really done anything for fun in ages - not since calling in that phony burglary and getting those Ghostfacer asses locked up for a night - so Dean had let himself be led astray against his better judgment.
Well, okay. Maybe he was the one actually doing the leading, but that was just logistics.
They weren't even hustling - just playing each other for shits and giggles. But, in true Winchester fashion, trouble had found them anyway.
And now Dean was pinned against one wall in a closed barroom, and Sammy was pinned against another, and damn, Dean wished they'd just wrapped things up ten minutes sooner.
Because apparently the guy with the crush on his little brother had five good friends and an inability to understand the word 'no.'
"No really, you're not my type." Sam was trying to joke his way out of the situation, but the guy wasn't having it.
"Aww, come on. Just a little kiss there, college boy. I ain't gonna bite." And the guy was totally all up in Sam's face then, and Sam was gagging and trying to turn his head away, but he still had the presence of mind to be the smartass that his big brother had taught him to be. "Can we at least rent a movie first?" Sam quipped, twisting to the side and trying to bring a knee up. But Dean could see that he was caught fast.
"Hey, Gorgeous!" Dean called, trying to buy Sam some time, "Come on over here. I got all the sugar you need!"
"Shut it." the guy holding Dean's left arm against the wall crowed. "Ain't nobody talking to you."
"Aww, I'm hurt. You telling me you prefer the taste of veal over a big, juicy steak?" He yelled to the guy harassing his kid brother. "Come on over here now, handsome. Let me show you the benefits of experience over geekiness."
The guy finally looked his way, which meant his attention was off Sam, which meant Sam had the momentary advantage. He was finally able to bring a knee up hard and give his admirer a little something to remember the Winchesters by.
"Son of a bitch!" The guy doubled over, roaring. "Ain't no piece of ass worth this!" he wailed. "Just gut the fucker!"
Suddenly, the situation wasn't funny anymore, and Dean saw one of the two guys holding Sam wrestle his knife off his belt. He held it to Sam's throat.
"Dean!" Sam called, more of knee-jerk reaction than anything else. Any time Sam was in imminent danger of dying - which was pretty damned often - "Dean" was always the first frantic word out of his mouth.
"Saaam!" Dean called back because, hey, habit was habit. Sammy fell down; Dean dusted him off.
Then Sam's admirer was standing before Dean, all tall, solid, too many pounds of him. "What? Cat got your smart-assed tongue all of a sudden?"
Dean grinned his cockiest grin, "Come on, Fabio. Nobody's gotten hurt here yet. We can all still walk away from this."
But the guy just shook his head and grinned straight back, and Dean could tell that there was nobody manning the lighthouse. That's when he'd resorted to threats.
"You're not killing my brother." He promised, teeth clenched. "Cause you lay one hand on him, and I will end you, motherfucker."
And that's when the guy's smile changed, and he suddenly looked like the Grinch that day he'd gotten his wonderful, awful idea.
"Why not? You wanna do it?" And he looked over at Sam, grinning madly, and then he looked back at Dean. "Drag him over here." He ordered as the three men on Dean suddenly peeled him off the wall, propelling him toward Sam.
"Give me the knife." Ole Handsome demanded, taking it from the man who held it to Sam's throat. He wrestled Dean's hand up and forced his fingers around the hilt, holding them in place. Then he forced Dean to place the blade against Sam's cheek and slash downward.
"Sammy!" Dean cried out in warning, as the blade descended and his brother's cheek split open in a neat line.
"Dean!" Sam cried, frantically trying to turn his head away.
"You son of a bitch!" Dean cried, trying to take back control of his hand, but dammit, the motherfucker was strong.
Dean tried to pull away from his brother, but he had three men holding him from behind plus the one on his hand. And Sam was in no better shape; he was pinned to the wall with a guy on each arm.
They were screwed. And then one of them noticed the holster Dean had strapped to his leg beneath his longish leather coat, and he slid the shiny machete out, crowing with glee. "Looky what I found!" The man hooted.
And then suddenly, they were at the pool table, and Sam was bent over it with a bastard at each shoulder. They forced his head to the right, so he was looking at Dean, and they held him there. Then they brought Dean forward, forced the machete into his hand and raised his arm high.
Dean fought with all he was worth not to bring the wickedly sharp blade arcing down across his little brother's neck, but he was outmaneuvered. There were three hands, counting his own, on the machete, forcing it downward. And as it neared its mark, Dean met Sam's horrified gaze with his own and began begging. "Don't! Don't do this! He's just a kid!"" He cried as he saw his brother squeeze his eyes tightly shut in a last-ditch effort not to see death coming.
"Sammy!"
The cool metal made contact with Sam's neck, and, predictably, he cried out one last word.
"Dean!"
And then time just … stopped. It stopped, and suddenly all hands were off Dean and off Sam, and the machete was lying harmlessly on the floor.
And those fuckers - they were laughing.
They were laughing as Sam struggled to pull himself up from the awkward and vulnerable position they'd forced him into. And Dean … Dean could barely breathe. He just stood there, looking at Sam, warm and alive and okay with just a trail of blood running down his cheek, and he couldn't bring it all together.
But then Sam was grabbing his arm and the machete and snaking his knife out of the one guy's hand, and he was pulling them both toward the door.
"Aw, come on, fellers! We was just playin'!" Somebody called out behind them, laughter ringing out. But Sam just kept them both running.
"You okay to drive?" Sam called, as he pulled his brother in a sprint across the graveled parking lot.
But Dean couldn't answer. He was still back there at that pool table, and his arm was still swinging down in a swift and deadly arc.
"That's a no." Sam said, opening the passenger door and shoving Dean inside. "Keys!" He barked. And when Dean didn't offer them, Sam reached into the older man's jacket pocket and lifted them easily out. He slammed the door, plopped himself behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking lot., breathing heavily.
"Son of a bitch!" Sam expelled, flooring the accelerator and glancing at his shell-shocked brother.
"Next time I pick the diner!"