Dean didn't move out of the chair once he'd sat down to eat. Sam noticed that. All his brother did was move the curtain away from the window, looking down the street toward the bar, and watch. He was obviously waiting for someone.

Sam had seen the bar on his way to the deli earlier. It had that rough look to it that Sam knew Dean liked. Probably had a rough clientele, too. This was not the type of bar college kids hung out in, the kind Sam had frequented at Stanford. This was a townie bar, the kind where everyone knew everyone else, where there were 'regulars,' and where if you weren't one of them, you'd better know how to fight. Dean's favorite kind of place.

Sam knew then, that there was no way in hell that he was going to be waiting in the car while Dean went back in tonight. Whatever, and/or whomever, Dean had to take care of, Sam knew that even if Dean was in top form, he'd need back up to handle them. The fact that Dean wasn't in top form right now, however he would deny it if Sam mentioned it, proved that.

But would Sam call him on it? Would he just follow Dean in, or sneak in later? Hell, Sam thought, I should just drive right on by the place and not let Dean go in at all! Yeah, and then you'd never hear the end of it from Dean and he'd just find a way to go back there anyway, Sam.

"Stop thinking so hard, Sammy. I'm going in there and you're not."

Sam's mouth gaped open as his eyes flew to his brother.

"And shut your mouth before some flies get in. This is me, Dean, your big brother. The one who practically raised you and therefore knows all when it comes to you."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam got off his bed and walked toward the bathroom, flicking his hand against the back of Dean's head as he strode past his brother. Dean smiled a little, but as soon as the door to the bathroom closed, he let out a sigh and slumped down in his seat.

He'd spent the past hour fighting the pain in his gut and lower back, trying to keep Sam from seeing it. He was ready to throw up the half of the sub he'd managed to down, for appearance's sake. Again, to keep it all from Sam.

Why the hell couldn't he tell Sam? Why the hell was he so afraid to show weakness in front of his brother? Why the hell couldn't he let his guard down? Why the hell had he let his guard down?

Needing to get across the room quickly, the sub making its way back out, Dean thrust himself up from the chair and lurched toward the bathroom. He'd just made it to the door, hands on the doorjamb, when Sam opened it.

Sam stood back, startled, but saw the look on Dean's face and quickly stood aside, making way for Dean to get to the toilet.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked over the retching sounds his brother was making.

After a few seconds, Dean replied, "Stupid question to ask a guy that's puking, Sammy. But, yes, I'm fine." He threw up again and once more, before saying, "At least I will be, as soon as I'm done, anyway."

Sam grabbed a washcloth and put it under some cold water, soaking it through and wringing out. He handed it to Dean, who was sitting on the floor next to the toilet now, his stomach seemingly finished with its torture.

"Thanks," Dean replied, wiping his face and mouth. "I'm good now. You can go."

When Sam tried to protest, Dean gave him a shove and closed the door after him. Then he reached up and pushed the button on the knob, locking the door.

"Dean?" Sam called from the other side of the door, knocking impatiently after he'd found the door locked.

"Can't a guy have a little privacy? Huh? I gotta piss now, if that's okay with you!"

The knocking stopped and Dean dropped his chin to his chest, thankful for small favors.

Getting to his hands and knees first, and then standing, albeit stooped over, he reached over and flushed the toilet. After washing his hands and face, Dean looked into the mirror. He didn't like what he saw.

The sharp pains in his lower back and belly returned and had him doubling over. He bit his lip to stifle the cry of pain that wanted to come out. He didn't want Sam breaking the door down. And he really didn't want Sam seeing the results of his big brother's stupidity.

Yielding to his body's demands, unable to stay upright any longer, he opened his jeans and let them drop. Shoving down his underwear, he sat down on the toilet with a groan. This time, when he finished, he looked. Too much blood, he thought. "Fuckers," he whispered.

00000

When Dean emerged from the bathroom too many minutes later, Sam was waiting for him.

"Dean-"

"I threw up, Sam," Dean interrupted. "Nothing too horrible about throwing up, now."

"When half your face is bruised, throwing up usually means you have a concussion, Dean," Sam countered. "This could be serious."

"My head is fine, Sammy. I'm throwing up because I'm still hung over."

The brothers stood toe to toe with each other, each trying to stare the other down. Each trying to win the argument. Sam looked away first, shaking his head in frustration.

"So should I pack up? Be ready to high-tail it outta Dodge after you get your revenge?" he asked.

"Probably be a good idea."

Sam looked at Dean again. "What the hell, Dean?" he asked, incredulous. "What happened last night? What really happened?"

Dean held his ground. "I told you. A bad game of pool. I lost too much."

They stared at one another again for another minute before Sam again backed down and turned away, muttering, "Fine."

Dean tried not to sigh too loudly as Sam walked away. Sam didn't deserve this, he knew, and maybe, when this was over, he'd give Sam the explanation that he did deserve. But not yet. Not until he took care of things. Not until later. Maybe.

Dean walked over to the bed, retrieved his knife from under the pillow and picked up the sci-fi novel he had hoped to read from the nightstand, and shoved them both into his duffel bag. Glancing around the room for anything else that might have been theirs, he saw that Sam had been doing the same. They were packed that quickly.

He let Sam lead the way out the door and to the Impala. They threw their bags into the back seat.

"You turn in the key to the front desk. I'm heading over to "Davy's"," Dean told his brother. "I'll meet you outside when I'm done."

Sam nodded and headed for the front desk. As Dean walked across the parking lot, he checked his gun, seating it more comfortably in his waistband and under his coat.

00000

Sam stopped at the door to the motel's main office and turned, looking at Dean. Was that a limp? Dean's gait was slower than normal, he'd noticed, but… "Shit," he swore. He quickly entered the office and put the key on the desk and waited as patiently as he could for the clerk to check their records, to make sure there were no other charges to the room before she let Sam leave. As soon as the clerk made eye contact with him again and nodded that all was okay, Sam thanked her and would have run out the door if he didn't think it would look too suspicious.

He hopped into the Impala, started it up and quickly drove down the road to the bar, parking across the street from the line of motorcycles. Seeing the bikes, he confirmed his earlier assumptions about the establishment.

And confirmed his earlier decision that there was no way in Hell that he was waiting out in the car.

00000

Before Dean entered the bar, he mentally braced himself. He had to be in top form. He had to hide all the pain, all the hatred, and all the emotions – anything that would be seen as weakness – anything that would work against him.

As soon as he entered, though, and the sounds and smells assaulted him, memories of the night before came flashing back. He had to stop in the doorway for a moment, while he cursed to himself, and brace himself all over again. He ignored the curious looks he knew he got, knowing that everyone that entered the bar would get them. His game face was on again.

He scanned the bar, the stage and finally the alcove with the pool tables, searching for them. He knew they were here. He'd seen them arrive while he watched from his and Sam's motel room. He saw them park their bike. They had to be here. He didn't have the time to wait for them; he didn't have the strength. He wouldn't be able to stave off Sam that much longer.

Finally, a flash of blonde caught his eye, and he saw them, Maren and Todd, sitting at a table in the alcove. His view of them had been blocked by a couple of guys watching the game. He eased his gun into his right hand, held it tucked up tight next to his thigh, and started walking toward them.

00000

Sam entered the bar, feeling self-conscious when heads turned in his direction. They soon lost interest, though, and he realized they had just hoped it was another of their drinking buddies, ready to greet him.

He looked around and sized up the place, as Dean and their dad had taught him, looking for the exits, looking at the people, the bartenders, the layout.

He caught sight of his brother just as Dean drew down on a blonde woman near the pool tables. "Shit," he muttered, feeling his own gun in his pocket as he hurried through the crowd toward them.

00000

"You owe me some money, Bitch," Dean said, pointing his gun at Maren, and keeping his eyes on Todd, as well.

"Surprised to see you here, Dean," Todd drawled. "Thought you might've had enough fun last night."

"Again, my money, Bitch," Dean repeated a little louder, noticing the crowd paying attention to them. "You've got some thieves working this place," he told the crowd. "They were pissed they couldn't hustle me at pool last night, so they had to resort to plain out stealing. Beatin' up a poor guy and rolling him for his money. And hell, they're such wusses, they had to drug me first."

He sensed movement behind him and whipped the gun around, pointing it without looking directly behind him. It was enough to stop the man in his tracks and he quickly realized how dangerous Dean was. He put his hands out, placating, and backed away.

"I'd pay him if I were you," Sam's voice called as he joined the small group, moving deftly between people to get to his brother. "He's not in a very good mood."

Dean stole a quick glance at his brother, mentally cursed him for coming into this situation, and returned his attention to the siblings.

"We only took what we deserved," Todd spoke up.

With Todd's admission, most of the crowd moved back, apparently satisfied that Dean had proper justification for his actions, even if it was against two of their own. Dean put the gun away, knowing Sam would have his back.

"You didn't deserve anything you got last night," Dean sneered.

"You're right," Maren agreed, standing up and daring to step closer to Dean. "At least about the money." She smiled, then. "But what else we got… I'd call it a fair trade."

Dean didn't even think about the punches, they just happened. But the next thing he knew, Sam was calling his name and pulling him back away from Maren's prone form. He continued to fight Sam's hold, looking for Todd, as he was dragged to the bar's entrance.

"I got him," Sam told him, somehow knowing what he was thinking. "He's down for the count. Now let's get out of here."

Dean just nodded and let Sam lead him out of the bar and across the street to the parking lot.

"The money," he said, just as he was about to open the car door.

"I got that, too," Sam replied. "Now shut up and get in before we have fifty Hell's Angels after us."

And Dean did shut up. No longer able to hold in the pain, he doubled over and slid down to the ground next to the car.

"Dean!"