That was the nice thing about the good drugs. They worked, and they worked fast.
Dean uneasily paced the tight confines of the small hotel room, cracking his knuckles out of nervous habit and trying not to run his shins into the tightly spaced table and chair, until he heard Sam's breathing even out into the gratifyingly soft, even rhythm of sleep.
He stepped purposefully around the sharp chair leg to the side of Sammy's bed. "Hey, Sam," he whispered, jiggling his shoulder a bit. He couldn't keep the mischievous grin off his face. "Hey! Do you remember that time I saw Rachel Nave's tits?"
Sam inhaled and rolled his face into the pillow, oblivious to Dean's voice and everything else around him.
Dean's grin twisted a bit, and he gave his sleeping brother's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Okay, you're right, that wasn't fair. And she did have nice tits. You were lucky to have them, especially at your tender age. Look, I know you're in la-la land right now buddy and you can't hear a word I'm saying. So I'm gonna leave you a note, just like the awesome big brother I am, okay? I'll be back before the good drugs even wear off."
He waited for any sign that Sam wasn't as under as he appeared to be, then walked over to the table and left the note, just as he'd promised.
"Sam—" he wrote, "Had to go do something stupid. Don't act so surprised. Stay here."
Dean knew exactly where he was going.
He didn't have an address or a name or a lead to follow, but he had a direction and a purpose. Sometimes that was all he needed. Let Sam worry about logic and details. He could run on pure determination when he needed to, and he was damn proud of that.
While the sawed-off in his lap gave him reassurance that he wouldn't get hassled by the wrong kind of asshole, it was the crowbar on the seat beside him that he was planning to carry with him when the time came. Because he wanted those fuckers to feel their own bones breaking, and he wanted to feel their pain to reverberating through his own hands. A bullet would have been too good for them.
And maybe that wouldn't make up for any of it. Maybe it wouldn't fix the yawning gulf of terrible wrongness that threaded through him, it wouldn't erase any of the helplessness or the horror of having hurt Sam. But right now, it was the only thing that seemed like a good idea. Because Sam refused to talk about blame, and dammit, Dean needed to settle down into the familiar comfort of black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking.
These people had fucked with him. With Sam. He needed to hit back.
"Hey! Impala!"
Well, I'll be damned. Blind luck strikes again.
Dean slowed and eased over to street corner decked out with graffiti-laced buildings where a crowd of youths were smoking and taunting passing pedestrians and cars. One of the kids leaned into Dean's passenger side door casually as Dean lowered the window about an inch, keeping his weapon in clear view. The kid noticed and gave him a nod. He pulled back his jacket a notch just so Dean could see his own semi.
"You know this car?" Dean asked.
"Why you down here, Impala? You got a death wish?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Yeah? You in luck! Someone looking for you!"
"Okay. So how about you tell me where to find the asshole and we just keep it between us?"
"Man! You trippin. Liberty a friend of mine." He looked back at his group of buddies and laughed at what a joke Dean was.
"Right, well thanks for the heads up then." Dean yanked on the handle of the window to close it.
"Wait, wait! I'm jus' playin! I'm a nice guy, I can help a brotha out! You just gotta… you know."
Dean scoffed. "Right." He leaned over toward the glove box. "My wallet's in here," he clarified, not wanting to get shot in the head over a misunderstanding. The kid's smile broadened as Dean slid several twenties through the slit in the window. "Now which way?"
"Brown brick building at the end of the next street, look for Liberty Investment Corp." The kid slammed a hand down on the roof of the Impala. "Pleasure doin' business with you sir!"
His whole gang burst into laughter as if this were the funniest thing they'd ever heard. Dean quickly pulled away from the curb feeling uneasy and off his game. His hand wrapped around the crowbar, trying to tap back into the need for revenge. He'd been riding it pretty much nonstop since Sam had finally given in to the exhaustion and physical shock in the hotel bathroom while Dean was carefully cleaning the cuts on his back, and his guard must have dropped at the same moment the drugs kicked in because he clutched Dean's sleeve with a hand that shook, and he didn't stop shaking until sleep overtook him.
Maybe all the crap Dean had been holding off dealing with was starting to set in. Well if that was the case, this was fucking poor timing. The run-down, single story office building emblazoned with silver, art-deco style letters appeared in front of him, poorly lit and set back in an industrial court fenced in by factories and warehouses.
Avoiding street lights, even though he strongly suspected his element of surprise had already been blown by his encounter with the street kids, Dean rounded the building and pulled up on the street behind Liberty Investment.
A dark blue, beat-to-hell '84 Lincoln sat parked in the lot behind the building, making Dean do a double take. "Oh, hell no. Baby... That's not even..." He shook his head, unable to fathom anyone, even a crackhead scumbag mistaking this thing for an Impala. For his Impala. It only made the wrongness of the situation that much more palpable.
He pulled up and parked behind the imposter vehicle, killed the engine, and pulled out his phone to put a number on speed dial before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. Then he reached for the crowbar, closing his hand around the cool steel and seizing on the surge of adrenaline brought on by the events of the day. He shook his head to drive away the feelings he didn't want and focused on the man who evidently went by the name of Liberty, the man who'd held the gun on Sam – the smug look on his face when he'd held the whip out to Dean and said convince me.
At that moment he wanted nothing more than to embed the crowbar into the man's brain pan.
Anger is a gift, mused Dean Winchester, slamming the door to the Impala and striding purposefully toward the back entrance where he heard voices carrying through the rusted metal doors.
The aged bolt yielded to the thrust of Dean's boot with a sickening, metal-on-metal screech. The conversation stopped at once, drawing all eyes in the room to him. The only sound was that of four guns being simultaneously drawn and triggers pulled back. Dean smirked, shifting the weight of the crowbar in his hand. "Fellas," he greeted.
Liberty was leaning against a wooden desk with his arms folded arrogantly over his chest in mid-conversation. At the sight of Dean, he held up a hand, which seemed to signal his men not to shoot, and took a step forward so that he was standing in the midst of his armed entourage.
"It's either the height of arrogance or stupidity not to recognize a free pass when you see one in this line of work, mate."
"Yeah, well." Dean kicked over one of the chairs standing between him and the armed men. "I'm not in your line of work. And we weren't exactly done."
"That so?"
"Give me ten minutes, you and me, without your fan club here, and we can consider our score settled."
Liberty laughed. Then his eyes narrowed and he smiled. "I see, older brother. I put you in a position of weakness. I took away your power, your ability to protect, and now you can't live with yourself until you take that back the only way you know how.
"Sure, whatever, Dr. Phil. Or maybe I'd just really like to bash your face in. Dealer's choice."
"I like you, Dean Winchester." He smiled at the glimmer of surprise on Dean's face at the use of his name. "I'll give you your ten minutes as long as you'll consider what those ten minutes will actually cost you."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"Your brother's respect."
Dean wasn't even aware of what happened next. There was no conscious thought behind the way he swung the crowbar the way he did, kicked one leg out to disarm one man while throwing his shoulder into the gut of another. All he was aware of was the thin veil of red haze clouding his vision and the coil of rage in his chest that fueled every punch, and the odd way time seemed to have slowed down and sped up at the same time, making him hyper-aware of every blow he landed.
By the time conscious thought caught up with him again, Liberty was pinned to the floor beneath his knees, and Dean felt the satisfying crack of his fist against the man's jaw, over and over again.
Again. Harder. Until I say stop.
Something Dean had barely been holding in check nearly snapped. He made a sound, like a threatening growl, and he clenched his hands around the man's throat.
"I should kill you, you son of a bitch," he ground out. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you, you worthless piece of shit. I should do the world a favor right now, shouldn't I."
Liberty choked around Dean's grip, coughing and spitting blood mixed with saliva. His eyes met Dean's. Then, ever so faintly, he smiled.
Dean jerked back. It might as well have been a slap in the face, because it had the same effect of bringing him back to reality. He took his hands off Liberty's throat, and the man gasped, curling in around his bruised windpipe as Dean stood and surveyed the room of unconscious and bloody men. Without a word, he withdrew his phone and called the number he had pre-programmed in.
"Yeah, I'd like to report a violent disturbance in the 1900 block of Liberty and Goodfellow," he said, stepping over a twitching leg. He reached down to scoop up his crowbar. "I'm pretty sure you'll find evidence of drug activity."
Sam was awake when Dean opened the door to their room, sitting at the table with the note crumpled in one hand.
"How stupid?" Sam asked, not quite looking at Dean.
Dean pulled out a chair and sat down across from Sam. "Is there any way we could just laugh this off and agree it's one of those jobs we're not going to talk about ever again?"
Sam didn't say anything. He rolled the edge of Dean's note between his thumb and finger.
"Christ, is this a sharing moment? Are you doing to make me share my feelings now too?"
"No, Dean." He was pissed. "I don't want to hear about your feelings. I'm not your goddamn therapist." He exhaled and looked up, eyebrows raised. "You kill anybody?"
Dean felt the words like a physical blow. "No, I didn't kill anybody. We don't kill people, Sam."
"I know that."
"Jesus, Sam. I just needed to… I just knocked a few heads together, okay? Unfinished business. That's it. And now it's over. Can we move on, please?"
"Sometimes I swear it's like you're trying to get killed. You walk away from things we shouldn't walk away from, and then you go charging back in like you're disappointed."
"It's not like that. I knew what I was doing."
"Oh really? So what was your plan, exactly? What backup did you have? Who would have even known where to look for your body? Thanks for the note by the way, that was really helpful." Sam crushed what was left of the paper in his fist before tossing it back toward their beds.
"Let it go, Sam."
"You don't think. You don't ever think, you just react."
"Yeah, well maybe you think too damn much."
"You know what? Screw you. You're not the only one this happened to, and you're not the only one who wanted to…"
Sam clenched his hands together. That's when Dean noticed they were still shaking.
"Hey. Sammy. You all right?"
Sam nodded. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaning forward on his elbows and pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. "I'm fine," he said. "It's fine."
Dean shoved his chair back and came around to Sam's side of the table, crouching down so that he was at eye level with his brother. He took hold of Sam's wrists and gently pulled Sam's hands away from his face. "Sam." He tapped Sam on the cheek with two fingers. "Dude, listen to me. You remember when I used to beat up kids at school who picked on you? Do you?"
Sam smirked, but he quickly ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind his hair. "Yeah, I remember."
"Same fucking thing. Okay? It's just a bigger school, and the bullies have guns, but I'm never going to stop trying to kick anyone's ass who comes after you. No matter how big of a pain in the ass you get. You're my little brother, man."
Sam was quiet for a long time. Then he nudged Dean with his elbow. "Bullies with guns. You just reduced the entire drug cartel to bunch of overgrown third-graders."
Dean laughed. "C'mere, bitch," he said, wrapping his arms around him in a way he hoped didn't hurt.
He felt Sam draw a breath that hitched ever so slightly, and Dean didn't say a word. He would fix this. They would fix it. Like always.