This story is set during the first season so may contain spoilers for canon events in that time. It seems to fit in the gap between episodes 1:11 and 1:12. Warnings for violent and frightening scenes in this chapter, depressed!anxious Dean and angry!anxious Sam. (See chapter one for disclaimer.)
Thanks to everyone for the reviews, for reading and for your follows/favorites.
What did I do?
Chapter Four
Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting at the bar before he pushed his whisky away with a resigned sigh. Despite craving the familiar comfort of the harsh burn in his throat, now the liquor was in front of him he just couldn't stomach it. One mouthful of the beer was enough to start his gut rolling and he was ready to give in and call it a night.
He was down off the stool and ready to move before his hunter's instincts finally kicked in; a tingle of danger penetrated the fog of misery clouding his mind. He turned carefully, skin prickling, to find himself face to face with three beefy and unpleasant looking men. The middle one leered at him, licking his bottom lip suggestively.
"Hey there, pretty boy," he drawled.
Dean tensed, his heart starting to race as adrenalin flooded his system. His gaze darted around the room; there was no sign of Sam.
He stared at the man in front of him. "You don't want to do this," he snarled, feeling anger beginning to simmer in his veins.
"May be I do want to do this." The man's voice was oily, his breath rancid in Dean's face. "Looker like you gotta be used to bending over…"
Every bit of the anger and hurt and frustration stored up inside Dean ignited; he lashed out, his fist connecting solidly with the man's nose. The man went down, nose broken and blood spraying and the bar erupted.
For a while Dean held his own, blending years of training and pure fury into a frenzied attack. But the odds were against him. It turned out the men had a few friends, the type who didn't mind joining in when it came to beating a single, if fierce, fighter.
In the end a pool cue shattering across his already injured back was the turning point. Dean slumped to his hands and knees, felt blood trickling down his back; he was pushing himself up off the floor when a heavy work boot smashed down on his left hand. He was still trying to pull his hand free when someone grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him out through the doorway. He grabbed hold of the frame with his right hand, trying to control his totter backwards, but the broken-nosed man slammed the door shut on his fingers, immediately snatching it open again and smashing his fist into Dean's stomach.
Winded and off-balance, Dean fell back, landing on his side in the wet dirt and darkness of the parking lot. The light from the bar was abruptly cut off as the door slammed shut. He dragged in a wheezing breath and realised he was not alone.
"You'll pay for that, boy!" The oily voice was right next to him. At the same time his father's words echoed down the years and rang in his head, warning him about the dangers of being almost too good-looking in some of the dangerous places they stayed.
Hands grasped at his arms and shoulders; he was ripped from the floor and hauled violently around the corner of the building, kicking and struggling and trying to bite the fingers grinding into his shoulders.
"Get off me, you bastards! Get the fuck off…"
A fist slammed into Dean's face, cutting off his shouts as his mouth filled with blood. There were still three of them, he realised; cold fear rippled through him as hands pulled his belt free, pawed at his jeans. He went wild with panic, kicking out, managed to land his boot in someone's crotch. He pulled and twisted and kicked until he broke free and then ran for his life, breath sobbing in his throat, absolutely terrified.
Dean ran and ran until the sounds of pursuit fell away, stopped to heave some air into his lungs and ran again, finally realising he was completely lost. Torrential rain was bouncing off the hardtop and he wandered around in the downpour for what seemed like forever, keeping to the shadows and looking for something familiar. He cursed himself, knew he'd left himself unprepared by riding into town with his eyes shut. Basic John Winchester training – "always be familiar with the area you're operating in". This crap with Sam was screwing everything up.
Eventually, on the verge of collapse and when he'd almost given up hope, he found himself within sight of the motel. He staggered into the parking lot and up the steps to the room door.
Getting the swipe card out of his pocket was a struggle with his damaged hands and when he finally managed, it didn't seem to be working. He tried swiping it again and again, panting and shaking so much with delayed reaction that it was almost impossible to get the card into the slot. There was a dim light on in the room; despite the pain in his hands, he pounded on the door with his fists. No-one came.
"Sammy," he croaked, almost passing out with pain and shock. "Sammy! Please!"
There was no answer and Dean sank to his knees, his forehead resting against the cold, wet door. "Please Sam. Let me in," he whispered.
The skin on his back was shuddering with pain, his fingers were mangled and swollen, every part of him hurt from the fight in the bar and the, the thing that nearly happened in the parking lot. He felt nauseous, left-over adrenalin sloshing around in his veins. After a while he subsided onto his backside and just sat there in the freezing rain, panting in distress, letting his mind fill with white noise.
.
In the end it was the cold that brought him back to himself. Dean became slowly aware that the icy rain had soaked right through to his skin, even his boots felt sodden. He hadn't really noticed how cold it was when he'd been moving, but now, sat on the wet floor like he was, he was freezing. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop his teeth from chattering and hauled himself wearily to his feet.
He tried hammering on the door again but his hands were too painful, so he gave it a few kicks, not having the strength to kick it open. It was a swipe card lock so there was no possibility of picking it; even if there'd been a way, he could barely move his fingers.
He couldn't believe Sam wasn't letting him in, told himself that his brother hadn't heard him, but knew it was a lie.
Finally he remembered the little laundromat and shuffled around the corner of the motel and into its brightly lit, deserted and very welcome warmth.
Dean was soaked and shaking with cold and when he saw the clock on the wall he realised he'd lost a considerable chunk of time. Despite the soaking from the rain, he could still smell the lingering aromas of the bar and the men on his clothes, overlaid with the stink of fresh blood and dirt. His skin crawled; all he wanted was get the smell off himself, so he painfully stripped down to his boxers. It was in the early hours now, the motel had very few guests and the likelihood of anyone coming to do laundry was remote.
There was an old towel by the sink; he wet a corner and carefully cleaned off the worst of the muck, wanting desperately to get into a hot shower and just scrub and scrub until his skin was raw.
Draping the damp towel around his shoulders, he put his boots and sopping leather jacket on top of one of the warm dryers. The rest of his clothes went into a washer, thankfully he had enough small change to tip in a couple of packets of washing soda and have a reasonable chance of getting his clothes clea, and at least mostly dry.
The only good thing to come out of the evening was that the fresh blood and the rain had soaked his back for so long that the shredded t-shirt finally came loose from his wounds. He thrust the garment into the bottom of a bin in disgust and huddled on a hard plastic chair next to the warmth of the machines.
The rest of the night passed slowly. Dawn found him hunched in his damp leather jacket and boots, blearily watching his clothes flipping around in the final drying cycle. He was sore all over and exhausted, just on the wrong side of cold and too wound up to doze. The pulse and drag of fever was setting in underneath the throb of his injuries.
He startled upright when a young woman in flowered PJs and a jacket bounced brightly into the laundromat with an armful of washing. She pulled up short, hand flying immediately to her sleep ruffled hair. "Oh," she gasped, her expression making it clear she had noted his good looks despite the bruising on his face.
"Err…" words failed him and he stared at her, unable to deal with the startling contrast between her pink and flowery appearance and his own dark thoughts. A pink flush crept up her cheeks and in any other circumstances she would have been unbearably cute, but right now Dean couldn't even summon up a smile. He dropped his gaze awkwardly, was saved by the ping of the dryer finishing its cycle.
.
Sam woke, smiling lazily as he planned a long, luxurious shower. The smile faded rapidly, memories of the night before slamming into his mind. He shot upright, horrified.
Dean was not in the room. He vaguely remembered the sound of him banging on the door, pleading to be let in. Sam was already out of bed and hurriedly pulling on his clothes as panic washed through him; his mind raced, "Oh God, what've I done? Why would I do that! Anythin' could've happened when I left the bar! Where is he!"
When he yanked open the room door, he immediately saw the blood stains around the door handle and drying on the boards outside. A dozen scenarios flitted through his mind, none of them good. "Oh shit! Dean!"
Bursting out through the doorway onto the breezeway, he was brought up short by the sight of his brother approaching. Dean's face was battered and bruised and strangely expressionless. He skirted around Sam, heading for the open door.
Acting on instinct, Sam reached out to him and was shocked into stillness when his brother cringed away, a little hurt noise escaping through his lips as he ducked through the doorway. Sam caught a confusing waft of wet leather, blood and washing soda as he followed him into the room.
"Dean!" he said again, but the bathroom door was already shut.
.
Dean, safely locked in the bathroom, sank down onto the toilet lid and shuddered. His face felt frozen into a mask, but somewhere inside he was just screaming and screaming.
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The boys are in a bad place, let's hope there's some comfort for them in the next chapter...
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