Drunk and Disorderly
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Happy belated birthday to Criminally Charmed. Enjoy, babes!
A drunken Dean makes a terrible mistake.
Set directly after ELAC Season 2.
Many thanks to Phx for all her wonderful advice.
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Sam glanced at his watch for the fifteenth time then closed the lid on the new laptop. It was a gift from Bobby to replace the one damaged in the car wreck.
The computer was brand new, faster, bigger, more memory… Sam shook his head, sadly.
He should have been ecstatic with the shiny new toy, but it merely served as a reminder to everything he'd lost… was still losing.
Following a quick stop at Bobby's to pick up yet another car, the brothers had moved on to their next gig pretty much straight after killing the clown, and boy was that ever the weirdest case. Sam's fear of clowns was finally faced, brought down and defeated.
Dean's anger had reached flash point, with his beloved Impala taking the brunt of it, and Sam's little speech had no doubt been the trigger. He'd heard it all that day in the yard; each strike of the tyre iron, each dent and tear, a soundtrack representing his older brother's inner turmoil.
Dean's temper plus tyre iron was not a healthy combination, and Sam wondered if it was only a matter of time before he became caught in his brother's crosshairs. And maybe, just may be, Sam would let him.
In fact, he'd already invited it more than once in the hopes his brother would find some kind of release for his grief. If that meant a black eye and broken nose, then that was just fine by Sam.
Whatever it took to put Dean back together. Sam would do it.
But it was now two am.
Where the hell is he?
Sam sighed and slipped on his boots. A drunk Dean, seething with anger, needed the kid glove treatment, and Sam was particularly practiced at it.
The motel being rundown, cheap, and downright sleazy as it was, the brothers had only been issued with the one key, so Sam grabbed the lock pick set and headed on out.
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"S-ssorry... 'scuse me..." Dean didn't so much walk out the bar, as bounce his way towards the exit, body slamming anyone who got in his path.
His brain was in a blissful state of alcoholic haze... and the stars were sooo preeettyyyy...
A large bulk blocked those stars... and his escape.
Huh.
Not stars then.
Lights?
Dean squinted up at the mountain.
In all honesty, he was rather impressed. It wasn't often he met guys this... mountainous.
Not ones so big they blocked out the recess lighting, anyhow.
Yeah.
It was one of those kinds of bars. The kind that tried to go up market when the state's smoking ban came in but failed drastically, mainly because a wooden shed in the middle of nowhere was never gonna attract the sort of clientele that didn't smoke.
Unless they were on fire...
Dean's giggle at the thought meant that Mountain Man's non-existent smile stood an even shakier chance of forming.
"You cheated me at pool, mate!" The dull boom of what sounded like a London accent reached Dean's ears, and he squinted up again with a stupid grin.
"Heeeey!" Dean's grin was now accompanied by a matching stupid voice. "I kn-knoowww yoooou! Ain't you on-oneofthe... waassstheycalled?" He blinked and squinted again. A light bulb went on in his fuzzy head, and the grin returned with the usual wattage. He raised a finger and poked it gently into Mountain's chest. "The Krays!"
Dean began nodding frantically, somehow not noticing the rapidly growing anger on the guy's face. "Yep. S'you. Youreoneof 'emalright....which twin are ya, huh?" Another squint, followed by a swwaaayyyy. "An' I'll bet you're related to fucking Ronnie Biggs! All a little ince...incesst...uh... you guyssss are all rrrrelated...rrright?"
The bar, not exactly the hive of activity, a place where most people liked to lay low, content to live in the shades of society, fell deadly quiet. It wasn't often someone came along and fucked up so thoroughly.
Several people left the bar altogether, the threat of a fight and the possible resulting police presence just too much. But others stepped forward with interest, eager for the unfolding entertainment.
It was at this point that Dean's internal warning system, which had been trying to attract his attention all night, finally got through. In part, it was due to the strange sounding accents, the odd reference to right! We're gonna do the bastard fucking over, but, mainly, Dean was slowly figuring out that the few beers he'd drunk were rather stronger than usual. And came with weird flavours and even weirder names, like Theakston's Old Peculiar, and Adnam's Broadside.
But now... now that he was pinned up against the wall with Mountain breathing down his neck, and calling him mate and fuckwit, Dean realised he'd actually strayed into an English bar!
Shit!
"You little baaarrrrstard," Mountain rumbled menacingly, accent heavy on the aaarrr. "s'Krays was my great uncles!"
Double shit!
And the double shit was confirmed by the number of angry London what're you fucking lookin' at? expressions bearing down on him from the bar crowd.
Dean, often a prideful man, and in part disagreement with the Krays' culture, also knew when it was time to play nice.
Sometimes it was just best to cut your losses.
A sudden friendly grin lit up his face.
"Dude! That's soooo cool!" An arm snaked round Mountain's shoulders. "'M just dyyyyying to know all about 'em..."
As per usual with the Dean Winchester Charm on full power, by the end of the night, Mountain – who later introduced himself as Nigel – had revealed the entire life history of his family, dating back beyond the 1940s, and any thoughts of cheating were long forgotten.
There was much talk of family, and what it really meant, the hurt, the love, but most of all, Dean learned one thing from Nigel.
"If ya brover's pissin' ya off, my advice is a concrete dunk," Nigel had raised his glass of Jameson's in a vague drunken toast. "S'what I did..."
Dean almost staggered back in shock, instantly sober. "Y-you... killed you're brother? By burying him... in cement? Dude! What the fuck's wrong with you!"
"Nah... nah nah nah, mate," Nigel, gesticulated wildly in a 'know what I mean' manner. "I never killed the little shit... luv 'im too much for that..."
Dean heaved a sigh of relief too soon, however, because Nigel wasn't finished.
"I just buried the little fucker up to his neck for a few days." He chuckled lightly. "He never went near my missus again, let me fuckin' tell ya!"
"Ooohhh....okaaayyyy..." Again, Dean's relief was short-lived.
"Mind you, me best man sure had that wrecking ball comin' to 'im after I found out about 'er and 'im the night before the wedding some years later..." Nigel tilted his head to gaze unsteadily up at the ceiling with a happy smile. "And there's nothing like a good bonfire, eh?"
Dean nearly choked on his drink.
"...then there's the acid, after all, fire don't get rid'f all the evidence..."
Some hours later, Dean staggered back to the motel room, fumbled with the key, muttering fondly about generous Londoners buying all the damn drinks, damn fools, let himself collapse on the bed, and fell fast asleep before his head hit the pillow.
It never even registered with him that the room was short by one Winchester, that the bed farthest from the door was empty.
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All Sam knew, after hours of searching for his big brother, after picking the lock and opening the motel room door, was a terrible pain in the back of his head.
Maybe he struggled; maybe he put up a fight. But it was doubtful he'd remember.
And that was it.
Lights out for Sam Winchester.
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Dean snorted into his pillow.
A wriggle, another snort, and his inner alarms were sounding again.
Someone was trying to break into the room.
Click.
He twitched.
Click-click.
An eye opened, sluggishly.
Clunk!
Dean was out of bed in a flash, pressing against the wall behind the door...
Sqqqquuuueeeeeeeaaalllll.... the door opened.
And the butt of his Taurus was coming down hard on the dark shadow's skull with a muffled thump. The intruder let out a harsh, pained grunt in response and fell silent, limbs twitching helplessly.
But Dean didn't stop there.
He kept up the relentless pounding until long after the figure stopped moving, and liquid warmth splashed over his face and neck... and then he switched on the light...
"Oh my God... Sammy?"
Dropping into a crouch beside the injured youngster, Dean's mouth gaped open, eyes practically bulging out of his face; his little brother was a mess, sprawled unconscious on the carpet, blood pulsing from a deep laceration to his forehead. But there was worse to come when he rolled the kid onto his back.
"Jesus! What the hell have I done?"
The side of Sam's head appeared caved in and his hair was matted into a bloodied clump. Two fingers to the kid's neck revealed a worryingly sluggish pulse, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest offered no comfort either.
Dean gently slipped one arm under Sam's knees and the other under his back
"Sam?" whispered Dean, watching his face anxiously, and, with a loud grunt, lifted him up and onto the nearest bed. "Sammy? Please, kiddo, open your eyes for me."
Sam remained silent and still, limbs splayed out helplessly on the mattress.
Cradling the kid's head and leaning in, his mouth hovering over Sam's ear, Dean spoke softly, trying to rouse him.
"C'mon Sammy, wake up now. M'not gonna hurt ya, I swear it," Dean grimaced at the sticky feel of blood in Sam's hair, and tried a more threatening approach. "Wake up, now, or it's the ER for you, little bro."
It didn't work, unsurprisingly. Dean shook his head in despair and reached for his car keys on the night stand. He'd only been asleep an hour or so before nearly bludgeoning his kid brother's brains out, but now he was sober as a judge.
Dean hefted Sam up and over his shoulder, the kid's long arms flopping and dangling in the process, and strode determinedly from the room.
Once he had his little brother settled in the passenger seat, Dean raced back inside and headed for the bathroom. He emerged a few seconds later, a damp washcloth in hand, locked the motel room door behind him, then slid in to the driver's seat beside Sam.
"All right, Sammy," Dean reached over and gently tugged the kid down until his head rested in the older brother's lap. "Let's get you some help."
Applying the washcloth to the devastation on the side of Sam's head, Dean turned the key in the ignition, listened to the low growl of the engine, then pulled away from the curb.
A small whimper had Dean whispering gentle encouragement and a brief glance down as they glided under a street lamp revealed Sam's pinched features, eyebrows drawn down in pain.
"S'ok, Sammy," Dean tried to sound reassuring, but in truth he was scared witless. He'd already lost so much, if he lost Sam too...
Dean shuddered at the thought. He was well aware of the cruel manner in which he'd treated his younger brother of late, knew there was no excuse for the defensive walls or the lock downs whenever the kid tried to talk to him. Sam stood by his brother's side, watching his back, keeping him from falling apart, and in return for his loyalty and devotion he received a cold shoulder and all the insults Dean could throw at him.
He deserved better.
Sam's head rolled to the side on a pained groan and Dean's eyes watered in sympathy.
"Yeah, I know it's hurts but it'll all be better soon," he whispered then bit his lip virtually bloody, eyes anxiously scanning ahead for signs to the ER. Dean's gut rolled and pitched like a fighter jet when his hand encountered fresh blood spilling from Sam's head, and just in time. Rounding a bend in the road, the bright welcoming lights of the local hospital flooded the night and Dean sighed in half hearted relief.
Another whimper and Sam's breathing picked up, mouth gaping open in distress.
"Shhhh, kiddo. ER's right here," said Dean and he eased the car gently to a stop. Pushing Sam back up in his seat, Dean pretty much flew out the driver's side, leaving the door wide open and scrambled round to his brother's. The kid slumped sideways as soon as Dean wrenched open the passenger door; he caught him neatly, holding him close and tenderly brushed a lock of soft chestnut hair out of Sam's eyes.
"Ok, here we go, Sammy." Dean shifted then rose slowly, straightening his back and lifting the kid up against his chest. "They're gonna take you away for all kinds of tests, but I'll be nearby the whole time, I promise. Just hang in there, buddy."
Heart pounding with fear, moving as fast as he dared, Dean carried his brother inside the ER, and placed him in the care of complete strangers.
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His hands were still shaking two hours later. He told himself it was down to the effort of carrying his gargantuan brother to safety.
After all, the kid was six foot four, around two hundred pounds of solid muscle, brain the size of Peru, and a heart of solid gold.
Yeah, that's all it is, thought Dean, sarcastically. He's just heavy.
"Mr Anderson?" A young male doctor with thinning blond hair and a shitty attitude called out from a set of double doors. Dean stood up and bit his tongue. No way was he going to risk being turfed out for stuffing a stethoscope up the guy's ass. He wasn't going to do anything that might impede seeing Sam. So he smiled coldly and inclined his head.
"How's he doing?" his question was clipped, sharp and to the point. I really don't like you.
"Fractured skull, severe concussion and blood loss," the doctor's answer matched perfectly. Likewise, pal. Likewise.
"Uhuh. He's gonna be ok, though, right?" Dean allowed an element of true worry bleed into his tone, but the medic just narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Dean had no idea what he'd done to piss the guy off and really didn't care…
"His attackers," the doc stopped, leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "Sure did a number on him, huh?"
Judging by the way the word attackers rolled off his tongue he clearly didn't believe Dean's story.
But that was ok. The cops hadn't either, but they had no way of disproving it.
But now Dean was getting the picture. Sam's doctor somehow, someway, knew the truth.
Or certainly suspected.
The story of Sam stumbling into their motel room, bleeding from a bad head wound and babbling incoherently just didn't seem likely. The kid hadn't regained consciousness since Dean took to playing baseball with his head, and the doc had obviously seen the evidence for himself. No way would Sam have been able to walk back to the motel, let alone speak, given his injuries.
Dean stared at him, meeting his gaze without a flinch. He felt a sudden surge of respect for the guy; he was only watching out for Sam, something Dean hadn't been so good at of late.
"Look," he relaxed his stance a little. "I know how it sounds, ok? But you don't know the kid like I do."
Guy wasn't buying it.
"Oh yeah?" Doc pursed his lips and tilted his head in consideration. "Go ahead. Do tell."
"Could we maybe find somewhere a little more… private?" asked Dean, glancing around the waiting room. It was virtually empty but Dean wasn't going to risk going public with the truth.
The medic paused, then nodded. "Ok. My office…"
They walked in an awkward silence until the doc stopped by an open door. "In here."
Once they were seated, the guy didn't mince his words.
"So, you gonna come clean?"
Dean sighed. He didn't have the energy to lie, and keeping silent wouldn't do Sam any good.
"He was probably out looking for me," he began, slumped back in his chair and stuffed both hands into his jean pockets. "Our Dad passed away a few weeks back and I…" Dean huffed and closed his eyes for a second, seeing Sam's sad face flickering in the firelight as John Winchester's shrouded body burned. "I guess I just haven't been coping like I should. Ya know?"
The doc – Dean lowered his gaze to read the guy's name tag: Michael Bailey – nodded, his expression softening a little. Young he might have been but he wasn't naïve and he wasn't without a heart; his patient's brother was clearly at the end of his tether, grieving and in pain.
"Sam's been there for me the whole time, and I…" Dean couldn't continue, just shook his head and grimaced when a lone tear escaped and rolled slowly down his face. "No matter what I say or do, no matter how badly I've treated him, he sticks around. Sammy's a good kid, but he deserves better than me."
Michael remained silent. He was a great listener and keeping quiet often encouraged people to talk.
"I was out at the local bar, getting drunk as usual," Dean sniffed and swiped at his eyes. "When I got back to our motel I didn't even know Sam wasn't there. Just fell asleep. An hour or so later someone was trying to break into our room…" he shrugged. "I jumped him from behind, knocking him out… and carried on hitting. I just lost it… and th-then I t-turned on the light…"
Michael drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. "I see."
Dean blinked away more tears and focused on the young doctor. "Do you? Do you really? 'Cos I sure didn't." His voice grew hard, self-deprecating. "Not until I turned on the light and realised I'd just damned near beaten my little brother to death. He's all I got left, and if he doesn't survive this then that's it for me." Dean nodded, his movements jerky. "I'm done."
Michael studied his patient's older brother for a long moment before coming to a decision. He didn't need to ask why Dean had lied to the cops. Had he told the truth, the guy would have been cooling his heels in a cell hours ago.
This Dean Anderson was a liar, a conman and quite possibly a thief, but that wasn't all Michael Bailey was getting from him. One of the attributes that made him so damn good at his job was his ability to read people. He could tell if someone was lying, hiding an injury or faking, whether a patient was taking something they shouldn't, and he could sniff out a time waster with frightening ease.
Dean Anderson wasn't all he seemed. Sure, he'd bullshit the law in a heart beat, but he wouldn't put his kid brother at risk by lying to his doctor.
No, Dr Bailey believed this heartbroken, guilt-ridden mess, sitting across from him, was telling the truth. Tonight was a terrible mistake which very nearly ended in tragedy, and Dean's only real crime was over reaction.
We've all been guilty of that, I guess.
Michael got to his feet. "C'mon," he said, quietly. "Let's go see your brother."
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Author's notes:
For those of you not familiar with English modern history, the Kray twins were the perpetrators of organized crime in London's East End during the 1950s and 60s, and were reported to have socialized with the likes of Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, and various politicians. It is also rumoured that various members of the cast of the Carry On films were close friends of the brothers.
To this day some argue that the twins were brutal, evil and vicious; others claim they at least did a better job than the cops at keeping the streets safe at night. Hence Dean's ambivalence, given his attitude towards law enforcement in general.
Ronnie Biggs was famous for his involvement in The Great Train Robbery of 1963. His great niece is a close friend and colleague of mine.
Cheers my darlings. Hope you've enjoyed this so far. Only one more chapter, so get those reviews up!
Kind regards,
ST xxx