title: people are crazy
summary: Dean tries to prevent a hate crime. It doesn't go well.
characters: Dean, Sam, OMCs
pairings: mildly implied OMC/OMC
spoilers: none
rating: strong T for violence and language (including some homophobic terms)
category: gen, hurt/comfort
word count: 2,250
disclaimer: not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.
notes: I hadn't planned to post this, but I figured what the hell, someone might enjoy it. this was influenced by my recent ruminations on the fact that I'm straighter than an arrow but not the slightest bit homophobic. providing that the Winchester boys are completely straight (which I know some people doubt, but I'm assuming it for this story), I think they'd be the same way.
- - - -
Dean's waiting for Sam, leaning against the Impala, watching his breath mist in the damp chill, when he sees them. It's eight in the evening, dark except for pale streetlights. He and Sam just finished a stressful hunt that cost them a lot of sleep, but very little blood for once.
The kids are walking along the wet sidewalk across the street from Dean, talking low, totally wrapped up in each other. They're maybe sixteen, one shaggy blond, the other dark-haired, both boys. Squinting, Dean can just make out that they're holding hands, fingers curled together between them. He grins a little, shifts his hip against the Impala and watches with the same mix of amusement and world-weary sadness he feels toward every teenage couple.
Dean's straight. He likes girls, likes soft warm curves and firm tits and all the other stuff that Sam still can't discuss without turning red. He's just not attracted to guys. In his world, though, "straight" is light years away from "narrow-minded, intolerant asshole", which is why he intervenes.
His trouble radar has been honed by years of experience, and Dean sees it coming well before it actually begins. The boys aren't paying much attention to their surroundings, heads bowed together, huddled close for warmth. They don't see the trouble until it cuts across their path in the form of four guys, college-age or a little older.
Dean is already moving by the time their voices carry to him, the same old pathetic slurs thrown out over-loud, hanging rancid on the cool air. Crossing the street, Dean throws a quick glance both ways, blinking away the fine mist in his eyelashes. The town isn't big, and it gets quiet after dark. There's nobody else in sight.
By the time he gets there, the boys are already cornered, just beginning to realize how scared they should be. They're pressed together, eyes skittering, searching for nonexistent escape routes. One of them takes a hard shove to the chest, slams back against the wall, faintthud a counterpoint to his boyfriend's sharp protest.
Dean reaches back as he approaches, touches the cold metal of his Colt tucked into the back of his jeans, hopes he won't need it. This could get ugly fast—the aggressors are just drunk enough to be mean and brave without being clumsy.
Another, harder shove, and the dark-haired kid's head bounces off brick with a sharp sound, his teeth clacking together. His boyfriend yells, tries to defend him, but goes down from a fist to the jaw, blood already trailing from his mouth. He barely has time to hit the ground before they get the first kick in.
"Hey!" Dean's voice crackles with authority, the military tone he learned from his dad, fit to make a corpse sit up and listen (sometimes literally). The four idiots turn toward him, their original prey forgotten for the moment. The blond kid drags himself back up against the wall with a whimper, draws a shaking arm across his bloody mouth.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean asks in a tone like the calm before a twister.
An exchange of glances, then four identical leers. "Lookit th' pretty boy," one of them says, slurring a little. " 'Cha think you're doin', pretty boy? You gonna help the queers?" The speaker steps forward, close enough for Dean to get a whiff of whiskey and bad oral hygiene. "You a queer?"
Dean quickly thinks of five reasons not to shoot them, number one beingSam would get pissy. "Why don't you boys go find some cows to tip?" He asks, rather politely considering the situation. But he can see in their faces that politeness isn't gonna help here, so he indulges in what he really wants to say. "Or go fuck your sisters like good little hillbillies?"
If there's gonna be a fight, I might as well start it, he thinks, but that's not quite the way it plays out.
In hindsight, he can't believe he didn't see it coming. He's facing the four of them, hands tingly, buzzing with adrenaline, and the fifth blindsides him with a Louisville Slugger.
When he can think again, there are bright sparks behind his eyelids and the copper taste of blood in his mouth and the cold grit of pavement beneath his palms. A shove, and he goes over, gets a steel-toe to the ribs once...twice...three times. Something cracks, and even as he curls in on himself, his hand goes back for the gun. He still can't see much, just vaguely backlit double outlines, but the thuds and cries say he's not the only one getting hurt.
He gets the brick wall at his back and levers himself up, gun in hand, covering them as his vision clears just enough to tell attackers from victims. They go still, back off when they realize they're looking down a gun barrel. They aren't that drunk.
"I said," Dean enunciates carefully, "to go. Away."
The blond kid is still down, the dark-haired one unsteady on one knee, but he can't worry about them yet. He blinks blood out of already blurry eyes and lets his rapidly slipping control show on his face. He was having a nice, peaceful evening, and they ruined it. Right now that's seeming like a pretty good reason to pull the trigger.
Still exchanging glances, like maybe they share their two brain cells as a hive mind, the idiots finally back away and head down the street, disappear into an alley.
Dean rests his weight against the wall, lets the gun droop toward the pavement. The dark-haired kid is already up, helping his boyfriend, soothing hand on his back. They're both bloody and bruised and the blond kid's arm is at an awkward angle, but they don't look much worse than Dean feels.
"Hey," he says, tongue thick and clumsy. "Where 're you headed?"
"Here." The dark-haired kid indicates the building behind them, his voice shaking a little. "My parents live in an apartment here."
"Get 'em to take you to the hospital," Dean says. His eyelids are heavy, the smell of damp earth making him feel disconnected and sleepy. "Jus'...don't come out here alone again."
"Okay, okay," they agree, backing away toward the building, their expressions caught between gratitude and wariness. Dean realizes he must look like shit, half his face flowing with blood, gun still in hand. His knees start to buckle and he stiffens them, bracing himself against the wall.
"Hey," dark-haired kid says, his tone softening. "Are you okay?"
Dean smiles, and the kid winces. Oh. Yeah. Bloody teeth. Dean leans sideways, spits out a mouthful of half-clotted blood, tries again. " 'M fine," he says. "Jus' go. Tell the police what happened. Get those bastards off the street." Because there'll be some other couple, someday, with no Dean around.
The dark-haired kid holds Dean's gaze, arm across his boyfriend's shoulders, supporting him. "I will," he says quietly, steel in his voice, and Dean thinks he'll be all right.
It's a long way back to the car, partly because of the weaving, serpentine route Dean takes. He bends over and pukes in the middle of the street, gun hand braced against his screaming ribs, heaving until there's nothing left. Then he groans miserably, wipes away strings of bile mixed with the blood still seeping from his cut lip, and heads for the three fuzzy Impalas beckoning to him from the hotel parking lot. Aw, man. He is so concussed.
He finally slides down against the car, leans his throbbing head back against cool metal, lets his eyes drift closed. The pavement is cold and damp, soaking his jeans, but Dean can't quite bring himself to move. It hurts less if he stays still, pain there but fuzzy-edged and indistinct.
"OhGod," Sam says from several miles above Dean.
Dean tilts his head back and blinks drunkenly up at his three little brothers. "You're tall," he says. "All of you."
"Oh, shit, Dean." Sam kneels in front of Dean, lets out a frustrated, concerned huff. "What happened? Who the hell did this?"
Dean blinks a few more times. He's gonna pass out, but that's okay, because Sam is here now.
He leans his head back and lets the curtain fall.
- - - -
The guy manning the counter used to be a Marine, and he wants to talk about 'Nam. Sam is exhausted, would love nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, but the veteran is friendly and has the kind of open smile you don't see much anymore. Before Sam knows it, he's telling the guy what company his dad was in and listening to stories filled with blood and fire and jungle heat.
He half expects Dean to show up and drag him out, but he doesn't. Twenty minutes later, when Sam finally walks back out into the bone-deep cold, it takes him a second to realize what he doesn't see.
Dean isn't leaning against the Impala anymore.
A few quick steps forward, and Sam sees the edge of a boot poking out. Dean sat down? On the wet pavement? He wasn't that tired.
Walking around the edge of the car, motel key in hand, Sam sucks in a sharp breath. "Oh God," he says. Somehow, during the twenty minutes Sam spent listening to stories of bloody battles, Dean managed to find the real thing.
He looks like shit, blood everywhere, arm across his ribs, dark bruising at the edge of his face. He squints unevenly up at Sam, slurs, "You're tall. All of you."
Concussion.Great.
"Oh, shit, Dean." Sam drops to his knees. "What happened? Who the hell did this?"
Dean doesn't answer, just stares off into the distance and blinks slowly. His eyes roll to white, and his head falls back against the Impala with a soft thunk.
Dammit. Getting Dean to the motel room, and figuring out how badly he's hurt, just got a lot harder. Not to mention that Sam still doesn't know what (or who) beat the hell out of his brother in a motel parking lot. Sam was just inside, separated from his brother by one flimsy door, and he didn't hear a thing.
Not knowing how severely Dean's hurt, or where, makes it a damn sight harder to move him. With much cursing and stumbling, Sam finally gets his brother inside and deposits him carefully on the bed. Dean groans and flops an arm out, smacking ineffectively at Sam's hands. His eyes crack open a sliver and he winces against the dim light from the bedside lamp.
"Hey, Dean, hey." Sam gently pats his brother's face. "You in there?"
Dean licks his lips, grimaces at the taste of blood. "Yeah," he mutters. "What...?"
"I was hoping you could tell me that. I leave you alone for twenty minutes..." Sam gets up, goes to retrieve the first-aid kit. "What hurts?"
Dean sighs and carefully drapes his arm across his midsection. "Head. Ribs."
"Broken?"
"Cracked. I think."
"Concussion?"
"Had worse."
You've also had cerebral edema, Sam thinks, but doesn't say it. Dean's had enough concussions to know how bad this one is.
"So what happened?" Sam spreads out first-aid supplies on his own bed, including a few washcloths he took from the bathroom. Dean is bleeding into the yellow bedspread, a crimson halo slowly spreading out around his head. Looking at it makes Sam feel sick.
"Ah..." Dean leaves the thought hanging for a minute, then finally picks it back up. "Couple of boys got jumped down the street."
"And you helped them?"
"Yeah."
Sam knows there's more to this than what Dean's saying. "Were they getting robbed, or what?"
"Nah. It was...the boys were together." No mistaking what he means. "Drunk assholes weren't happy about it."
"How many?"
"Five."
God.
Sam tamps down the rising anger and asks, "Can you sit up?"
"Mmm." The crease between Dean's eyebrows deepens. He doesn't move.
"Dude, I need to get to that cut. You're still bleeding." Sam moves to sit beside Dean on the bed. "C'mon, I'll help you." He knows from experience just how much fun it is to sit up with cracked ribs.
Dean groans when Sam carefully pulls him upright. Sam goes over to rummage through the first-aid supplies, giving Dean a minute to breathe through the pain.
"Mom 'n Dad," Dean says quietly. "Was the Demon that ruined things for them."
Sam holds his breath, doesn't want to break the moment.
Dean stares hazily at Sam's face. "Demon had its reasons, right? Y'know, world domination 'n everything."
Me, Sam thinks, can never stop thinking it.
"These were people, Sam." Dean leans his head forward so Sam can clean the cut, makes a sound like water hitting a hot stove. "Noreason for it." He waves a hand vaguely. "Just...why can't..."
He doesn't finish the thousand questions hanging off that phrase.
"All the shit out there, tearin' people apart," he says, so quietly Sam can hardly hear him. "Why they gotta make it worse?"
Sam gently presses a washcloth to the gash on Dean's head, watches the cloth shift from white to red, wet and soggy against his fingers. His other hand is clenched, knuckles pale, and he doesn't bother pretending he wouldn't break necks if he had them in reach.
"Yeah, well, you know what you always say," Sam says. " 'Demons I get. People are fucking crazy.' "
(fin)