Rule 23: Don't use a rifle to prop up a broken table

Dean pulled the Impala into its parking spot in front of the motel room and grabbed the greasy bag of takeout from the passenger's seat.

Slamming the door shut, Dean stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran the length of the motel, separating the rooms from the parking lot.

Readying his key, the hunter wasn't concerned when he noticed the room's door was ajar- Sam was waiting for him to bring dinner back and probably heard the Chevy's engine rumbling as he approached- and pushed it open, his words of greeting dying on his lips before he had a chance to speak.

The room looked like a tornado had gone through it.

The television lay on its front feet from where it had originally sat atop a heavy chest of drawers; the sheets from both beds lay tangled in a heap on top of one of the beds, the mattress from the bed furthest from the door hung of the box spring at an angle. The table that had sat in a corner of the room lay on its side, one of its legs missing.

"Sam?" The bags of food fell from Dean's hands as he hastily scanned the room for signs of his brother.

"Here," a voice at the far side of the room ground out, slightly muffled.

Stepping over clothing from his and his brother's duffle bags, Dean found Sam lying on his stomach beside his bed.

The younger man lifted his head at his sibling's approach and the frown that had appeared on his face the second he saw the state of the motel room deepened.

Sam's lower lip was split, a trail of blood leaking down his chin; the left side of his face was black and blue while his right cheek had a large gash across it. His right eye was already swollen shut.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy," Dean reached down and grabbed his brother's upper arm, helping him up.

The younger man gasped in pain and his hand went to his abdomen. Dean's eyes widened at the red circle growing on the right side of his brother's t-shirt.

"Shit," the older sibling swore and reached out with his free hand, lifting the shirt to reveal a ragged wound just beside his brother's navel.

"What the hell happened?" Dean demanded. The wound didn't appear to be too deep and although it was bleeding profusely, didn't seem life threatening.

"Two… two kids…" Sam ground out, spitting blood from his mouth, "After you left to… get food…"

Dean helped his brother to his feet and had him sit on the edge of his bed after shoving the mattress back into place. As his brother spoke, Dean checked his sibling for broken bones, internal bleeding or head injuries.

"Kids?" Dean asked, "What do you mean?"

"They were young," Sam told him, "A guy and a girl."

Dean nodded, an indication for his brother to continue.

"Heard the girl first," Sam explained, "Banging on the door as if… as if she was in trouble…"

"I opened it and when I did," Sam paused, spitting blood again and Dean told himself to not worry about that, it was probably just a result of his sibling being punched in the face, "The boy forced his way in… I wasn't… wasn't prepared."

"Wasn't your fault," Dean assured him, checking the wound on his brother's abdomen and finding minute pieces of wood sticking from the broken skin, like splinters.

"Ah!" Sam cried as Dean carefully pulled on of the larger splinters out and looked questioningly at him.

"The table leg," Sam told him, grinding his teeth.

"What did they want?" Dean asked, standing and stepping into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit they kept there.

"Were they looking for money?"

"They were hunters."

Dean poked his head out of the bathroom, surprise clear on his face.

"What?"

"They said they heard about me starting the Apocalypse from some of the other hunters," Sam explained, his tone quiet.

"So they thought they'd let you have it?" Dean asked, bringing the kit out and sitting beside his brother.

"They were trying to kill me," Sam muttered, "But they got scared when they heard the car."

Dean swallowed, his eyes moist, but turned his head so Sam wouldn't see.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he simply told his brother.

Neither Winchester spoke again as Dean washed out the wound on his brother's abdomen and applied a patch of gauze or wiped the gash on his cheek, sticking it together with butterfly bandages, or handing him a cold beer from the small bar fridge in the room to lay against his swollen eye.

Once his ministrations were finished, Dean began cleaning up the motel room. Sam wanted to help but the older brother insisted he remain where he was, with a casual, "I got this, Sammy."

The younger brother watched through his good eye as his sibling crammed their clothes back into the duffels, picked the TV up and put it back onto the dresser on which it had originally sat, pushing broken glass into a corner of the room with his boot, before reaching under the bed for the broken table leg and coming out with both it and a pistol.

The jagged end of the table leg was coated with drying blood, and Dean grimaced, before tossing it aside- he'd never be able to fix the table anyway- and taking a special interest in the gun. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson Special. The safety had been taken off and the magazine was full, a bullet already in the chamber.

"I thought you said they were trying to kill you," Dean commented, "Not beat you senseless with a table leg."

Sam smiled slightly, "I said I was unprepared for them… I didn't say I couldn't defend myself."

Dean grinned back, emptied the bullets from the magazine and chamber, putting both the ammunition and gun into his duffel bag, along with his own weapons.

"Feel up to eating?" he asked his sibling. Sam shrugged, "I'll try."

Dean nodded, satisfied, and picked up the takeout bags.

"Hope you like Texas-style barbeque."

W

Sucking the last bits of meat from one of the ribs from the rack he had bought, Dean nodded towards the broken table.

"I think that's a lost cause, Sammy."

Glancing around the room to take in the table, with a jutting stump sticking out from where its fourth leg should be, and the television that was now missing its glass screen, Sam commented, "I doubt they'll give us our security deposit back."

Dean smiled. It was rare that Sam was in a joking mood these days.

"Hold on," he stood, "I think I have something that we can use to fix it until we leave."

Stepping out of the motel room, Dean went to the Impala's truck and, after glancing around to make sure no one was watching, opened her secret compartment and pulled out a hunting rifle.

Entering the room again, Sam saw what he had and immediately started to protest.

"Dean, I don't think that's-"

But Dean ignored him, righted the table and wedged the rifle underneath it, the weapon's barrel against the carpeted floor.

"See," Dean smiled, and stepped back to show that the table remained upright without assistance, "Good as new."

Sam looked skeptical but said nothing more, simply picking up the last piece of cornbread and stuffing it into his mouth

W

Later that evening, Sam dozed fitfully in bed while Dean sat at the table, laptop open as he searched for ways in which they could stop Lucifer dead in his tracks.

He wasn't having much luck.

Sighing, the hunter sat back, jiggling one foot with restless energy.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Dean decided he should join Sam and get some rest. They should leave early in the morning, in case those kids decided to come back and finish what they had started.

Dean would have liked to find them and teach them that they don't mess with his little brother but he knew Sam wouldn't approve. Even after Roy and Walt had blown them away with shotguns, Sam hadn't wanted to pursue them, telling Dean that maybe it was best if they thought they were dead.

Dean hated the thought of anyone getting away with hurting his little brother but he knew Sam had a point. They had bigger problems to deal with right no-

BANG!

Dean fell backwards in his chair with a terrified cry, even as his sibling jumped straight out of his slumber with a strangled yelp.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted, "What's happening?"

The elder Winchester, his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins, lay on his back for a long moment, trying to gather his bearings.

Slowly, his gaze was drawn to the table where he'd been sitting, to see a large hole blown through its top and a smaller hole in the ceiling directly above.

"It's okay, Sammy," he assured his brother, "I think my foot touched the trigger."

Then, realizing just what must have happened- his jiggling foot nudging the rifle's trigger and firing the gun- he began to laugh.

Sam though, didn't look amused.

"Someone's bound to have heard that," he told Dean, his severe look diminished somewhat by his bruised, swollen face.

Getting to his feet, Dean pulled the gun from underneath the table, easing the piece of furniture carefully onto its side as he did so.

"You didn't have the safety on?" Sam asked and Dean, still chuckling, shook his head.

Sam sighed and grabbed his duffle bag from the floor.

"C'mon, let's get out of here."

Dean didn't argue but picked up his own duffel and headed out to the Impala.

Opening the truck he put both bags and the gun inside while Sam climbed into the passenger's seat.

Not even bothering to return the room key to the office, Dean climbed into the Impala and started the engine.

"Dean," Sam turned to his brother, his left eye wide but the right squinting at him almost comically, "Don't ever do that again."

The older sibling didn't even have to ask what his brother was talking about. He nodded as he pulled out of the parking lot, the people staying in the rooms closest to theirs already opening their doors to see what was going on.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean muttered.

Author's Note:

Rule comes from CarverEdlundtheLast.

Thanks to Zeldalsis, StyxxsOmega, hecatass, elliereynolds777, SamDeanLover28, Mama's Stories, and Jenjoremy for reviewing.

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