Dean grinned as a wad of bills was slapped into his hand, yet another win in a long string of them. He and Sam had just finished a hunt yesterday, killing off a werewolf in Maine. Both of them were tired and sore, and Dean had decided that it was time to take a short break, at least for a day, before finding a new hunt.
After getting some well-deserved shuteye, Dean had driven them to a bar. He and Sam spent some time just enjoying a beer and hustling pool, and—not for the first time—Dean suddenly realized how much he loved having his brother back. All that time without him, while Sam was away at Stanford, Dean had always felt that there was something missing. And while he had been glad Sam was happy, he still had that Sammy-shaped hole in his heart that nothing else could fill.
His heart broke for Sam when he was forced to watch the reflection of that fire shining in his little brother's eyes. The same fire that had consumed their mother had now also taken the one Sam loved. There had been nothing Dean could do about it—and Dean hated that.
That was another reason he was glad he'd finally taken them out to a bar. It made his heart swell to finally see his little brother smile and laugh, and just do something so utterly normal for a change.
Dean took a step back from the pool table for a moment while he took a swig of his beer. Glancing across the room, he spotted Sam—who had played a few rounds and then left to take a break—sitting at the bar. Dean stopped and raised an eyebrow at what he saw.
Leaning against the bar next to Sam was a tall, biker-looking dude, wearing lots of black leather, tatted up, and a ring glittering on his nose. He was giving Sam the most suggestive look ever, an almost predatory gleam in his eye. Dean's protectiveness flared, and when the guy put his hand on Sam's leg was when Dean snapped and angrily began wading through the crowd towards the two of them.
When he got there, Sam was standing and had pushed the guy back. Dean stepped up next to his brother. "Is there a problem here?" he asked, glaring at the biker.
"This your boyfriend?" was the gravelly response aimed at Sam, with an accusatory eye on Dean.
Dean stepped between the two of them. "Why don't you just skedaddle on off somewhere else now?" he said in a low voice.
"Give me one good reason." The biker stepped closer until their faces were inches apart.
If looks could kill, biker dude would've been splattered across the walls. "I'll give you five," Dean growled, raising a fist.
For a moment, it looked like the biker was going to argue or start swinging. But he just smirked and stepped back. "Have fun with your boyfriend," he said over Dean's shoulder at Sam before turning and walking away.
Sam lightly punched Dean's arm. "Dude, chill," he said with a small laugh. "I can take care of myself."
Dean acted as if he didn't hear him. "Did he try anything else before I got over here?"
Sam shook his head. "Not really, he just kept hitting on me and being creepy. You know, I could've handled him on my own."
Of course Dean knew that. But this was his baby brother, and ever since getting him back and Jess's death, Dean felt the need to protect him at every turn, as if that would make up—at least somewhat—for the all the pain Sam had been through. And he definitely wasn't about to let some sleaze ball douche bag feel him up. But Dean being Dean, he tried to hide his outright concern—stay a safe distance away from a chick-flick moment—instead planting a smirk on his face and saying, "Well, Samantha, it's my job to watch out for bitch-ass little sisters, isn't it?"
Sam snorted. "Just go back to your game, jerk."
"Sure you don't want me to stick around? Maybe with a baseball bat to beat off all your suitors?"
Sam lightly shoved him, a smirk on his face. "Leave already!"
Dean grinned cheekily and turned to head back to the pool tables, already searching for a new opponent.
For a while, Sam was content. He could see Dean across the room, smiling as he won yet again, and was glad his brother was having fun. Sam was just fine with sitting by himself, left to his own thoughts.
Then the creepy biker showed up again a few minutes later. Sam tried to be firm without starting anything, but he was getting increasingly irritated. The guy kept trying to feel him up, putting his hands on Sam's leg or running over his back.
He was considering just slugging the guy out when he suddenly realized that his head was swimming. What the hell? He hadn't even finished two beers, how could he be drunk?
Sam rubbed his eyes, his vision beginning to blur. He was dimly aware of those big, sweaty hands running up his leg and across his shoulders again, but he didn't move to push them off this time. He was afraid that if he did, he would topple over into the floor.
Across the room, the back of Dean's neck itched. His big brother instincts were kicking in, and he turned around to glance in Sam's direction. He frowned. The biker was back and had his hands all over his brother, and Sam was doing nothing about it. He knew Sam could easily wipe the floor with the guy. So why was he just sitting there with his head in his hands?
Dean's instincts were now screaming at him to do something, and, ignoring his opponent's protests, he dropped the cue stick and began trying to make his way back to Sam.
At some point, Dean lost sight of him in the crowd, and he irritably pushed and shoved his way past everyone until he came to where Sam was sitting—or rather, had been sitting.
The biker and his little brother were nowhere to be seen.
By now, Dean's heart was pounding and his eyes widened in a panic. He called the bartender over and asked if he had seen where they'd gone.
"Yeah, that leather dude carried the tall guy off out back. Looked like he was drunk."
Drunk? Sam had only had two beers, and Dean knew he wasn't that much of a lightweight.
The word drugs flashed in his mind, sending another trill of fear through his pounding heart.
"Where's the back door?" he demanded, before running off in the direction of the bartender's pointing finger.
Sam had lost all sense of where he was. He was vaguely aware that he had been dragged off the barstool, an arm around his waist. He instantly knew it wasn't Dean, and tried to push whoever it was off him. But his limbs had gone limp and rubbery, he couldn't see except for bright swirls of color, and the world tipped and spun like a carnival ride.
Suddenly a rush of chilly air hit his face, the swirls of color turning dark and inky. The world spun sharply, and suddenly he found a cold, hard surface under his back. He pried his eyes open, blinking hard as he struggled to see into the darkness.
A face swam into view—a face that was grinning wickedly and hovering right above him. "My, my," a voice said, muffled as if underwater, "Aren't you a cutie?" A sweaty hand stroked his cheek. Wet lips pressed against his jaw line and began moving down his neck. Sam managed a groan and tried to fight back, but his arms wouldn't cooperate.
Soon the hands were at his waist, unfastening his belt and sliding down inside. Sam gasped and tried to bite back a whimper—but it came out anyway. Tears of fear, humiliation and shame prickled in his eyes as the hands became more and more invading, and there being absolutely nothing Sam could do about it.
Dean burst through the back door and looked left and right down the dark alley. He spied movement several feet away, behind a dumpster, and ran over—and his blood froze in his veins.
Sam lay groaning on the cold asphalt, what little movements he made being weak and slow. Hovering over him was the biker. The dickbag had opened Sam's jeans and had one hand inside his boxers, the other pushing Sam's shirt up as he licked and sucked Sam's stomach, slowly moving down towards his groin.
Dean lunged forward, grabbing the biker and throwing him against the alley wall. A red haze came over his vision and he didn't remember much of the brief moments after that. But when he could see again, the biker lay in a bloody pulp on the ground, Dean's knuckles aching and bleeding. He bent down and seized dickbag's collar, hauling him up to slam his back against the wall. "If you ever so much as look at my brother again," Dean hissed, "Motherfucker, I will end you." The biker's only response was blood gurgling up out of his mouth.
Dean dropped him in disgust, wiping his hands on his pants as he hurried back to Sam. "Sammy?" he said gently.
When Sam felt hands touching him again, he flinched back and tried to crawl away. But this time, the hands were no longer invading and the voice that came with them was soothing. He managed to get his eyes open again. When he saw Dean, he couldn't hold back a sob of relief.
"Hey, hey, none of that now, okay?" Dean wiped away the few tears that had escaped Sam's eyes before zipping and buckling his pants back up. "I gotcha, Sammy, okay? Just relax." He gently pulled Sam up into a sitting position, letting his baby brother's head fall into the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around a trembling Sam, the fear of what had happened and what had almost happened nearly overwhelming the both of them. Dean rubbed small circles into Sam's back as his brother shook, his hands weakly fisting Dean's shirt. "Shh, it's okay Sammy, I gotcha," Dean kept murmuring like a mantra, rocking back and forth a little. After a couple of minutes he finally pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders. He stood carefully, Sam swaying dangerously, and he wrapped his own arm around Sam's waist to steady him. Slowly but surely, they began making their way back to the Impala.
Dean opened the back door and eased Sam into the backseat. His giant brother didn't fit as easily as he used to, but Dean shucked out of his jacket and tucked it under Sam's head, folding his brother's legs in until he was curled, relatively comfortable, across the bench seat.
Sam shivered, whatever drugs he had been slipped making him weak and vulnerable against the chilly night air. Dean rubbed his arm, murmuring nonsensical soothing words, and did his best to shut the door quietly. Once in the car, he cranked up the heater until the temperature was uncomfortably high, but he didn't care because now Sam was warm and that was all that mattered.
Upon reaching a motel, Dean quickly checked in and parked in front of their room. Exiting the car, he circled around to open the back door. "Sammy?" he called quietly. When he didn't receive a reply, Dean quickly checked for a pulse, trying not to panic. Sam's heart beat slowly, but the pulse was strong. Dean let out a breath and began the cumbersome task of hauling his giant, unconscious brother inside.
It took some struggling and a few quiet curses, but Dean managed to tip Sam over his shoulder and carried him to the bed furthest from the door. He removed Sam's jacket and shoes, but left his shirt and jeans on. He didn't want Sam to feel vulnerable or exposed when he woke up.
Dean spent a few minutes bringing their bags inside and took a quick shower before settling down on the bed next to Sam. He turned on the TV, but muted it and used the captioning. He stroked Sam's hair absently as he tried to ignore the powerful urge to break something. Someone had tried to rape his baby brother. Rape. God, it was such an awful word, and it definitely didn't belong in the same sentence as Sam.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered quietly. Sam didn't respond.
It was around three in the morning when Sam finally woke. His brain felt heavy, and his body felt as though it was swimming in sludge. A headache raged through his skull, and he moaned. What happened? He wondered. He remembered the bar . . . then the biker that kept hitting on him . . . and—Oh god—
"Sammy?" A hand pressed against his cheek.
Sam tried to jerk away. "Nuuuu—" Oh god, oh god, get him off—
"Sammy, shh, it's okay, it's just me, it's Dean—"
Sam finally cracked his eyes open, eyes that Dean could immediately see were filled with terror. "Sam, look at me."
The youngest Winchester finally managed to focus on the face looming above him. "D-De-ean?"
"No, I'm Batman, remember?" Dean said with an encouraging grin.
Sam's eyes filled with tears of relief and he dropped his head back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.
"You alright?" Dean asked, and then immediately wanted to kick himself. Of course Sam wasn't alright, he was drugged and molested for Christ's sake!
"No," came Sam's whispered reply. Dean swallowed painfully past the lump in his throat and pulled Sam up into another hug, wrapping his arms around him as if he could create a barrier between Sam and the world. Sam weakly returned the embrace, trying not to sob.
After a long time, Sam pulled back and began trying to slide off the bed. His knees nearly buckled, and Dean grabbed his elbow. "Whoa, whoa, what're you doing?"
"Shower," Sam mumbled. "Need a shower . . . gotta get him off . . ."
Understanding dawned on Dean, and he slowly let go of Sam's elbow. "Well, be careful in there. Holler if you need me—I'll get you some clothes." Sam only nodded and began shuffling towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Later Dean would pretend he hadn't heard the sobs coming from the shower.
I was going to end it here, but now I think I may continue for one more chapter. What do you guys think? Should I make it a two-shot?
Please, please review! This is my first time posting any of my fics on a website, and I would love to hear how I did :)