Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. SO not mine.

Author's notes: So… this thing started out as a series of 5 images/scenes in my head I wanted to write…everything else was just a way to link them together. Sometimes that shows. Sorry.

Oh, and Miki rocks! ;)

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are more than welcome.

Company, always on the run.
Destiny with the rising sun.
Oh, I was born with 6-gun in my hand,
behind a gun I'll make my final stand.
That's why they call me:

Bad company - and I can't deny,
bad company - till the day I die.
Till the day I die
Till the day I die.

Rebel souls, deserters we are called.
Chose a gun, and threw away the sun.
Now these towns,
they all know our name.

6-gun sound is our claim to fame.
I can hear them say:

Bad company - and I won't deny,
bad bad company - till the day I die.
Till the day I die.

~Bad Company – Bad Company

It was shortly after noon when Sam shocked them all.

"I'm hungry."

He looked mildly surprised by that, like it had taken him awhile to figure it out.

Dean didn't hesitate. Of course Sam was hungry – it had been over twenty-four hours since the graveyard, and his body had been through the ringer. He should have thought of it earlier. "You want anything in particular?"

Sam seemed to consider, then simply said: "Food."

"Drive-thru it is."

The best thing about Micky-Dee's was that you were never very far away from one. Dean rolled through the drive-up ordering enough food to feed…well, someone who was recently back from the dead. And a chocolate shake. Sam had always been a sucker for chocolate shakes.

It was the first thing Sam picked up; and it was half gone before Dean pulled to the back of the lot, parking under a tree. Sam clutched the grease-laden bags almost compulsively. "You planning on sharing?" Dean asked, mostly amused.

Sam nodded vaguely, swallowing another cheeseburger pretty much without chewing. Definitely without tasting. Three bites and it was gone. Dean fought the urge to count his fingers.

Bobby grabbed a burger while Sam dug a chicken sandwich out of the bags. "You gonna eat, kid?" Bobby asked Dean.

Dean sighed, fetching a quarter pounder and snagging some fries. "We're running low on cash," he announced to the car.

"How low?" Bobby asked. He knew that hunters and people on the run needed cash to survive. And they now ranked as both.

"Low enough," Dean said wryly. "We're down to seed money." The money they used to place the first bets, the money they used to make money. Dean hated to spend it. Coming up with more seed cash would be a son-of-a-bitch. But truth was, there were some things in their world that required ready cash…things that included bribes and the ammo and various back-ally supply stores. They couldn't use the bad cards for that stuff. It would get them blackballed at places and with people they needed to have access too.

"I could hit an ATM, front you –"

"No, Bobby, man, thanks. But no. I don't want to do that to you, and besides, it would leave a trail. Call me paranoid, but I don't like that idea. At all."

"Well, you are paranoid, but I don't blame you. So what are you gonna do?"

Dean opened his mouth, ready to admit he didn't know… when Sam spoke.

Mouth full of masticated fries, Sam swallowed hard, slurping at a mostly empty coke. "We find a bar and hustle some ready cash," he said, reaching into yet another sack with his free hand. The 'duh' was implied in the tone. He didn't bother to look up from the sack as he tossed the empty cup aside.

Dean was startled into a grin. "Yeah. Right. What was I thinking?" Four months of domestication and he became a neutered housecat. Damn. "Bobby? I know you never signed on for this…do you want us to drop you off at the bus station or something..?"

"Where's the nearest bar?" Bobby growled. Dean could only be glad that he hadn't slapped him in the back of the head.

They found a likely place just over the state line. Night had fallen and the place was busy enough that strangers wouldn't stand out to much. And close enough to the highway for a quick exit should things go bad.

"Okay, guys, lets go fleece the locals."

They ambled across the dark parking lot, stretching after hours in the car. Night had fallen, and the floodlights caught the dust of crushed beer bottles and set the asphalt sparking. Sam was watching the dull shimmer so closely that Dean had to grab his arm to keep him walking in a straight line.

They'd had to wait a few hours for it to get late enough to work a joint over. Sam had slept through most of them, curled up as much as he could get in the passenger seat – arms folded and hands tucked into his hoody, drowsing in the hot sunlight coming through his window as the scenery rolled past.

Bobby stretched out in the back, reading. It was one of Sam's books, unearthed from the depths of the trunk when Bobby retrieved Sam's bag. Dean didn't think Sam would mind.

Dean himself spent most of his time listening to the radio and wondering how dull his skills had gotten. He'd never been this long without exercising his talents…at least not since he was a kid.

Well, he was about to find out. The place was pretty typical. It always amazed Dean that every one of these local watering holes thought that it was so unique, so different from every other place…but they were pretty much all the same: same old street signs hung on the walls, same neon liquor signs hanging from the ceiling – free promotions from the same companies. Same sticky floors, same smell of stale beer and, occasionally, piss. Same music. Hell, even the same faces, people just coming off work and looking to relax, mostly. No matter how far apart, no matter what accent, they were all the same.

It had always tickled Dean. He liked it. It gave a sense of continuity to a life of movement. Now it felt like…finding himself, and he started to grin as something caged inside him stepped up and stretched out.

Bobby rolled his eyes at the grin, and, snagging Sam's sleeve, tugged him toward a table in the back. "Get us a couple of beers, before you get too carried away."

"Check," Dean acknowledged. They had a pool table. Excellent. A few hours and they'd be on the road again.

"Try not to rub your hands together like that. It kind of blows your image," Bobby sneered.

Sam almost smiled. So Dean let it go.

Instead, he made his way up to the bar, ordered a pitcher and three glasses, and turned his attention to the three guys playing at the table.

Three hours later, Dean was in the zone – and up three hundred dollars. The early crowd had been perfect. Older guys who were blowing some time before heading home, who had taken the losses with embarrassed amusement…an embarrassment they decided to soothe by spreading it around, and told their buddies he was an easy mark.

He glanced over every once in awhile, but Bobby and Sam seemed good enough, Bobby still reading and playing with his knife, while Sam watched the bar with lazy eyes. Every once in awhile he'd rub at his chest, but he didn't seem uncomfortable, so Dean didn't worry.

Instead he focused on the game. He'd made a few quick bucks from the family guys, but he'd been careful to keep the amounts low. These were good guys who couldn't afford to loose much. Eventually the family men had headed home, and the place was now populated by an uneasy mix of rough-necks and teens with fake IDs from the local town. Out of the two, the kids always made Dean more nervous. The rough-necks would keep to themselves, but young bucks always had something to prove.

They were also the easiest marks. Mixing ego and adolescent pride made for big bets and too much assurance in non-existent skills.

It also made for big explosions.

"You scammed us, man!"

Dean rolled his eyes, quickly sliding the last seven hundred into his pocket, hoping that getting it out of sight would help it slip their drunk-assed minds. "I didn't do anything except win."

"You didn' win," slurred drunk-ass number two: the inferior sequel, "you cheated."

"I won fair and square," Dean argued, edging around the table to where he had more elbow room. "It's not my fault you guys suck."

Guy three glared at him, looking far too sober for Dean. He'd been the one playing, and Dean noted that he hadn't put down the pool cue.

"We didn't suck until this last game," number one muttered. "You were…" he searched for a word. "Faking it!"

"Dude, don't confuse me with your last girlfriend."

It took them awhile to figure that one out. Long enough that Dean had backed away from the table, and toward the more populated part of the bar.

But he'd been watching thing one and thing two so closely he hadn't tracked the more sober – and more quiet – number three.

It was a mistake he regretted as soon as three cracked the pool cue into the side of his head.

The world bounced as agony jolted through his head. He was on the ground almost before he felt the blow, trying instinctively to stay on his hands and knees, trying to decide which way was up, and why did his skull feel like it was made of crushed eggshell…?

He weakly shook it, which turned out to be an awesomely bad idea, as his balance crumbled and he just knew he was going to faceplant in the sticky-gross floor –

– then he was getting jerked to his feet. He staggered a bit, catching his equilibrium against the nearest steady object, which was growling in a deceptively friendly tone: "Did you just blindside my brother?"

Dean blinked, and when his vision cleared he was shoulder to shoulder with Sam…except this hulking, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, dangerous guy staring at number three with such…malevolence…it couldn't be Sam.

Sam still had one hand twisted in Dean's collar, but his gaze was locked on the guy with the stick…the guy who was backing away.

"No," Sam rumbled. "You don't get to just walk away from that." And Dean suddenly found himself alone as Sam jumped Three.

"Fuck, man!" Two hollered, stumbling away as Sam knocked Three to the floor, easily straddling him. Sam's fists rose and fell. Thing One was more adventurous than Two…or more stupid. Sometimes it was the same thing. He reached for Sam's hood, obviously intending to drag him off his buddy – but Sam's head snapped up and he landed a beautiful right hook. One's head snapped backward, and he staggered back and fell, clutching his obviously broken nose. Blood dripped from his cupped hands, his eyes shone wide and frightened above.

The interruption didn't even slow Sam down. He was methodically pulverizing Three, his expression almost calm.

"Somebody call the damned cops!" Two shouted, and Dean glanced around to see if anyone was.

The bar has gone still as everyone, rough necks and townies alike gaped at the brutal beating taking place. The bartender seemed to be the only one not spooked. She had her cell out.

"Time to go," Bobby muttered, grabbing his arm. Dean nodded, pulling his arm free.

"Sam!" He grabbed the center of Sam's sweater, already blocking the fist he knew would be coming is way. The expected blow thudded against his forearm as Sam swung on the new attack automatically. It was hard enough that Dean felt the slam of it all the way to his shoulder.

"Fuck," he muttered, and twisted his arm away. He could already feel the bruise forming. He ignored it as he went from blocking Sam to catching his face. Making Sam see him. Facing eyes that were alive and cold and furious. "Sam…?"

"What?" he snarled. "I'm a little busy here." Blood dripped from his torn knuckles.

"Sam," Dean said again, fighting to keep his tone light and his eyes steady. "He's pulped. It's enough, Sam. We have to go. Now."

Sam came up without a fight when Dean pulled. Three wasn't even moaning, his face was rapidly swelling, and Dean diagnosed a fractured cheekbone and dislocated jaw with just a glance. Sam didn't seem to notice his handy work. His eyes flicked over the other two, crouched on the floor. "Nobody fucks with my brother except me."

Dean felt those words go deep enough to hit bone. He shuddered with it.

"Out. Now." He pushed at Sam's back, and Sam moved.

Bobby was already in the car. They passed the cops going the other direction as they hit the highway. Dean hoped they brought an ambulance, too.

Once on the road, Dean hesitated to look at Sam. His gut twisted, wondering if he would see that knowing smirk, that almost affectionate menace. The expression that echoed…someone else. Someone whose words Dean had just heard come from Sam's mouth.

"Is there any food left?" Sam asked instead, rooting through the crumpled bags with bruised and swollen hands. His torn knuckles left bloody smears on the white paper. Dean's own blood ran cold, and Bobby didn't look much better.

"Do you have any idea what you just did in there, son?" the older hunter asked, more gently then Dean would have expected.

"Beat the crap out of some guy who was messing with Dean," Sam answered promptly, sounding more animated than he had since he woke up…almost hyped. He scavenged a burger.

"Don't," Dean said, reaching over and taking the sandwich from him before he could unwrap it. Sam met his eyes – and suddenly shuddered. His breathing sped. He started to shiver a little.

"Dean?"

Dean snatched glances at him as he drove. "Sam? You back with us?"

"I never left," he pointed out, sounding confused…and dull again. Flat. Disinterested. The shivering faded into the same low-grade trembling that he'd been suffering periodically since waking.

"You remember what happened?" Bobby asked.

Sam shrugged, eyeing the sandwich. "Beat the crap out of some guy who was threatening Dean," he repeated, but neutrally this time. "I take it you're upset?" He was still watching the burger.

Dean sucked his teeth. "Upset? You could say that, yeah. You just went Michael Myers on that guy, Sam."

"He was hurting you."

"It was overkill. Literally! What the hell, Sam?"

Sam leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "It was…too much. Too loud. Too…busy. And he shouldn't have hurt you. He shouldn't have. I'm not sorry." He looked at the sandwich again, then looked out the window.

Dean huffed. "Damn it. You can have the burger, Sam. You need to wash up first. You have that guy's blood all over your hands. You don't want to eat that do you?"

The words split the air like lightening, sudden and sharp and unexpectedly dangerous.

Sam didn't respond, but he settled more firmly into his seat.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Dean wasn't sure if he was less worried now that flat-Sam was back…or just so damned worried overall that it had overloaded into a sort of acceptance.

Bobby sighed in the back. "At least tell me we got the money?"

"We got enough for awhile," Dean hedged.

"So where do we go now?"

"We go pick up Cas, then we run."