Dean jumped back to the other side of the table, trying to end this peacefully one last time. "There's no need for this to get nasty. It's been a friendly game so far."

"You're not leaving with all of that cash without a chance at shoring this up."

"Sorry. I won fair and square."

"I don't think you understand."

Without a second warning, Dean realized he definitely had to fight his way out, much to his chagrin. He raised his fists when he saw Brad come into view, bringing along a big ugly head and large freaky hands towards his face. Dean whirled, ducking and striking a jab to man's underbelly. The punch caught him full in the chest, sending his opponent screaming over.

A hand grabbed him from behind, jarring him back in an attempt to pin his arm. Dean let his body fall back, pressing into the direction of the yank, grabbing the arm and moving it forward. Pulling the unseen assailant closer, he spun around and kneed in the stomach and then twirled him away by the arm. He saw the face of Harry hit the floor, smashing on the peanut shells scattered on the hardwood floor.

Rapidly, Dean stuffed his winnings into his pocket, pushing it in a wad next to his wallet. He had just finished when he heard a horrendous stomping sound. He barely had a second to register the cue stick slamming in his mid back. He faltered for a moment, and then blindly tossed a punch as he turned. His first instinct was to fight, but a few more "buddies" had joined in the fun. Silently, he told himself to never underestimate the combined home court advantage. If all else fails, there was always the run option. As much as Dean hated to admit it, this might be a good time to use that tactic.

However, before he got the chance, someone had leaped on him from nowhere. He rolled to avoid taking damage and faced his attacker. A large knee pushed upward into his ribs. Out of nowhere, a fist moved for him too. He twisted in mid air to avoid the blow, dropping to the floor and performed an elegant shoulder roll, following thru until his body was upright.

Brad and some no named thug, that Dean hadn't met, charged at him. Dean sidestepped and kicked Brad in the back and spun a clothespin move into the other guy's neck. Again, nothing surprise him as Harry came in, that beer before fueling his every move, but the angrier be became the stronger he seemed to get

Coming in close, the battle continued. Dean hated to use the moves his father taught him, but he had no choice in the matter now. He let his strikes become fiercer and more precise. In a lyrical dance, Dean struck out, talking the drunkard down easily.

Brad came up behind him and tried to take him down, but to no avail. Dean soon laid out Brad, spread eagle on the pool table.

"This is not your fight!" Dean told the others who were bristly to break in. "Back off."

Apparently, the good old boys were not in a mood to listen. Just as soon as he managed to fend off the assault of his pool friend, he found he had more ready and willing foes primed to brawl him. Out of nowhere a few jumped him in a throng of fists and grabs, tossing him against the glass mirror above the bar.

Dean slouched in a corner or the bar, shattered glass surrounding him, reflecting the light in a glittery effect. The sound of something breaking came next and Dean pressed himself further into the corner as if the sound had physically struck him. Unfortunately it did, as a splatter of blood leaked over his forehead down onto his cheek while the remnants of a beer bottle showered him with more glass.

Swimming with the blow, Dean faltered and flirted with the edge of oblivion, unconsciousness welcoming him like a lost lover. Momentarily, the pain grew intense, both horrible and incredible. New blows struck at him from multiple directions and multiple attackers. The realization that his opponents were still actively attacking, kept him awake, but he was helpless to protest or stop them now.

This had been going on for too long. It felt like thousands of fiery knives piercing his flesh and setting his nerves aflame. The air had grown solid and thick, clogging his nose and mouth, restricting his ability to breathe, but it wasn't the air, it was blood.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Dean recognized the voice of the waitress. "You're going to kill him. "

"But he…"

"Get him out of here!" The owner screamed.

"HOWARD!" She protested, but just as powerless as Dean to stop the owner or the brawlers from doing anything they wanted.

"You know the rules about bar fights."

Dean was immediately thrown out, battered, bruised, and dripping with blood, but he alive. The pain made him acutely aware of the fact he was still in this universe and not the next. His wallet was tossed on top of his chest, empty. Well, that was nice- not only taking his winnings but the 20 he put back for the celebration dinner, not that Sam would notice anything special. Slowly items from his wallet were scattered about, dropped on him, discarded.

He decided it was best to lie as still as feasible, focusing all of his attention on the simple task of breathing, which seemed an impossible task at the moment. With each inhale, his cracked ribs cursed at him. When he moved, he determined he was in some loose gravel that poked and prodded him, adding to his already miserable body. His fingers searched his pocket, digging for his cell phone, while his head swam in the murk. He managed to retrieve it and dial it, but just barely.

"Yeah?" The voice answered. "You planning on coming back with dinner soon?" Sam uttered.

"Empty… Empty."

"That's not funny. Are you coming back or…"

"Empty… Glass." Dean muttered before his voice left him and his breath rasped.

"DEAN? This isn't funny… Dean? Come on…"

He wasn't sure when Sam's voice stopped talking or just how much time had passed or would pass before he recovered enough to call Sam again, got up on his own accord, or got a rescue from his favorite little bro. Course, Sam was his only little brother, but still a favorite should mean something. He would have chuckled with his cleverness, but he knew it was the fog of his mind talking. Tomorrow, this would not be so funny. Simply because it took his mind off the throbbing bundle of nerves his body had become, he did laugh, but not for long.

"ARRHRR!" Flopping his hand over his head, he tested movement in his legs, but didn't get far before he encounter resistance. He pushed up, trying to break free of what held him in place.

"Stop moving around." A voice ordered. It was vague and distant in Dean's ear, but it had to be close to hold him in place. Repeating the attempt, he found the same result. Dean sighed painfully to himself, wondering which of the locals had come to add insult and more injury to previous injury

"God," the voice whispered. "You're a mess."

Glancing through his blood red eyes, he focused and refocused to see a familiar face. "Sammy!" He mumbled.

"Don't Sammy me… I should give you a good crack myself. Your stuff is scattered all over the place. What the hell got into you?!"

"Bubba's fist, Cletus's foot."

"Nice... joke while you lie here bleeding and..."

"I'm doing great! You should see the other guy… and the other guy, the other guy, and the other…" Dean sat up, using Sam to balance, but started to fall back.

"WHOA… easy… can you see me?"

"Ugh…"

"I'll take that as a no. Let's get you outta here."