Bars, brothers and Winchester luck.
Chapter One.
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"Give me one friggin' reason why we can't have a beer?"
Dean sounds affronted.
Sam could give him several reasons, but he settles for the most obvious. He gestures at the run-down shack. "That's not a bar, Dean. That's a bacteria infested dive."
His brother rolls his eyes so dramatically that his head rolls around a little too. He jabs a finger at the sign rising from the grass verge on rickety wooden legs. 'Cold be.r' it proclaims in faded but once vibrant letters.
Everything about the place just gives Sam an uneasy feeling inside. His mind races to find an excuse, but the excuses slide away like slippery catfish.
Dean reinforces his argument. "Cold beer, Sammy. I don't care about the decor."
Sam's gaze drifts over the motley collection of battered vehicles on the dirt parking lot. He stares for inspiration at the sign and notes that someone has shot two eyes and a nose into the letter 'o' with a precision that makes him hope he, or she, is not a regular visitor. He doesn't point out this vandalism to Dean, as he feels his brother may regard it as a challenge.
The heat presses down on them and the dull drone of insects aggravates the headache starting at the back of Sam's eyes. Dean is still waiting. He waggles his eyebrows expectantly, gives a persuasive little grin that makes his face light up with mischief.
Sam sighs. The argument is already lost and he knows it. Nothing he can say will be a good enough reason to keep Dean from his beer, and it is a suffocating evening, heavy with heat and humidity. He relents with poor grace and follows his brother inside.
The bar is dim, dusty and stifling, but at least the beer is cold. Sam settles for a bottle because even in the dim light he can see the lip marks and fingerprints of the last few customers on the cloudy glasses. Dean isn't so fussy and for once Sam is glad his brother has a whiskey chaser, at least it neutralises some of the germs.
An hour and twenty minutes, several beers, two pool games and a bit of light-weight flirting later, Sam's gut instinct is proved to be correct and Dean is lying on his back on the smashed remains of a greasy table. Sam stands over him protectively, his fists ready, but the main antagonist has already left, departure being a more sensible option than arrest. Sam feels this may be a prudent time for them to leave too, but Dean doesn't look like he's getting up any time soon. This is a cause for concern because Dean is not one to lie down in the middle of a fight, but Sam figures he went down pretty hard and he's probably winded.
The bar tender is looking pissed and although Sam could take him, it's too hot to bother. Instead he prods Dean none too gently with his toe.
"Dean?"
Dean blinks slowly up at him and grimaces as he rolls up onto one elbow. He shakes his head, wipes at the bright trickle of blood from his nose and begrudgingly allows Sam to hoist him to his feet. Once upright, he immediately bats Sam's hands away because... well, because he's Dean, and only the certainty of imminent death would see him accepting Sam's help in front of a bar full of onlookers. He weaves his unsteady way to the bright rectangle that is the opening to the outside world and heads resolutely to the Impala.
Sam follows, really wanting to check that he's okay but resigned to waiting until they get clear of the area. At least Dean's on his own two feet and he drops into the driver's seat with a determined air, so it appears he's recovered well enough to drive.
By the time they cross the county line, Sam is breathing easier and feels reassured enough to slip into a mild bitch face. He raises his voice over the music and asks the inevitable question in a rather testy tone.
"What was that back there? Didn't occur to you to just ask if she was with someone before you hit on her?"
Dean casts a quick glance in his direction and fixes his gaze back on the steadily unfurling ribbon of road.
"I guess?" He sounds a bit vague and not too interested.
"Dude!" Sam is exasperated and it shows. "I'm tired of getting punched 'cause you can't control your base instincts."
Dean looks his way again but keeps his peace and Sam is left to stew in the passenger seat until his brother hits the brake and pulls without preamble into the parking lot of a shabby looking motel.
"Nice choice," says Sam in a sarcastic undertone that is lost on his brother, who is already half out of the driver's door.
By the time Sam has unfolded himself and stretched the stiffness out of his joints, Dean is scooping his duffle out of the back seat and heading with a determined gait towards room 104. Sam catches up with him as he pushes his way through the doorway. A flake of tired paint peels off and flutters down to the old boards like a dying butterfly and Sam wrinkles his nose at both the mental image and the stale odor of the room as it assaults his nostrils.
"Great choice man," he mutters.
"You said that already," Dean points out mildly as he throws his duffle at the foot of the nearest bed and heads for the bathroom. There's a few minutes of running water and then he emerges and flops down on his bed on his ass.
"If you're not gonna shower…?" Sam asks hopefully.
"Knock yourself out dude." Dean seems to be studying his boots with a distracted air and waves off Sam's request to check him over. "'M okay."
"You were out for a minute or two. Let me check your head at least."
"Just winded, Sammy. Go get your shower; the mother-hen routine will keep."
Tired, sticky with heat and slightly aggrieved about the possibility that one of his teeth is chipped, Sam complies, giving the air conditioning unit a hefty kick with his boot on the way past. It hiccups, coughs and emits a feeble stream of luke-warm air.
By the time he's showered, Dean is asleep and any chance of a triage is long gone. Sam sighs as he regards the recumbent form of his brother. Dean is lying face-down across the width of the bed as though he just couldn't be bothered to get into bed properly. One knee is drawn up slightly, the other socked foot protrudes into thin air. Due to his height, this means his head is only just on the mattress on the other side of the bed and one arm dangles down to the floor. Sam shudders, his inner child horrified. No matter how many monsters adult Sam has slaughtered, his inner child still regards the floor beneath the life raft of the bed as the habitat of sharks and alligators. He seriously debates the merits of lifting Dean's arm back onto the bed, but can't see any practical way this can be done without nearly dislocating his shoulder or sustaining injury himself. Waking a sleeping Dean can be a risky business.
In the end he gives up and drops into his own bed with a sigh. He flips the light switch and the room is plunged into semi-darkness. Suddenly the imaginary sharks seem all too real and he carefully draws up his long legs and makes sure nothing is in harm's way.
Dean sighs in his sleep and mutters something in an anxious tone. Sam listens, but all that follows is a soft snore. Eventually he drifts off himself despite the clammy heat and dreams unquiet dreams of hurt brothers and dirty beer glasses.
He's startled but not really surprised when the sound of the bathroom door awakens him. Dean is retching into the toilet and Sam feels the onset of dread unfurling in his stomach. He's absolutely positive his brother hasn't consumed enough beer for that to be the reason.
Chapter two to follow…
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