Dean and Bobby stopped just inside the door of the Lonesome Roadhouse and stood studying their surroundings. It was a hunter thing – always know where your exits are and notice who you're dealing with. What they noticed immediately was an especially rough-looking crowd, and Dean wondered to himself how in the world Sam had ever even found this place, let alone why he'd want to actually venture inside.
"Damn, Bobby. I've seen a lot of dives in my day, but this place makes me want to turn tail and get the the hell out of Dodge."
"You're not kidding, boy." Bobby agreed. "Keep an eye on your six."
Dean nodded as the two made their way carefully to the bar, sidestepping to avoid becoming entangled in a fight that was taking place in the middle of the floor directly in front of them.
Dean caught the bartender's eye and nodded. When he approached, Dean ordered two beers. His eyes wandered toward the back of the bar where a couple stood up against the wall, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were in a public place. Dean saw worn body parts that he could have done without as he looked quickly away and shot Bobby a haunted look. The older hunter just snickered and shook his head silently as he took a sip of his beer. "Ain't no accounting for taste here." He agreed.
"I think I need a shower."
"I think I need boiled." Bobby returned. "This stink ain't comin' off that easy."
When the bartender passed by a second time, Dean shot out a hand to stop him. "Could you tell me if you've seen this guy recently?" He held out the flyer with Sam's photo.
The bartender took the paper, studied it for a moment and turned resentful eyes back to Dean. "You cops just don't give up, do you?" He snorted. "Why don't you let the kid alone? You don't think he's been through enough already?" He slapped the flyer down on the bar and slid it back over to Dean. "You know, he seemed like a nice kid. He didn't deserve what happened to him, but you guys hounding him all the time – that just makes it all worse somehow. Give the kid some peace already."
Dean gaped at the guy, unable to compose his next question, but Bobby stepped in quick. "We look like cops to you?" He roared. "We're his family." He pointed to Dean. "That's his brother. I'm his uncle. Kid's been missing for a while. We'd like to find him. So if you got anything else to say, how about you keep that in mind, hunh?"
The bartender snorted, "Family, my ass." He replied. "If you're not cops than you're something worse. Way I see it, either one spells bad news for the kid. So just take it back outside, why don't you?"
Dean found his words then, "Look." He said, "This is Sam. He's my brother, and I've been looking for him for a long time. You're the first solid lead we've had in weeks, so you'll understand when I say either you elaborate, or I'm going to help you get the words out. You get my meaning?"
The bartender stared at Dean, unfazed by his threats. He'd seen it all, after all, and he didn't scare easily. "I'm not telling you a damned thing." He turned to walk away.
Dean caught him by the arm and dragged him close. He pulled the guy forward until they were forehead to forehead and barked a final threat. "I'm not asking again. Now you tell me everything you know about what went on in this dive with my little brother, or I'm not going to be responsible for what comes next. You got that?"
"Greg, you need a hand?" Someone called out from the other side of the bar. The bartender held Dean's gaze for a moment before seeming to relent. "No, James. We're all good here." He glared at Dean, "Aren't we, friend?" He snarled.
"That's depends on the next words out of your mouth." Dean replied, turning the guy loose.
Greg straightened his shirt as his eyes shot daggers at Dean. "What's there to say?" He offered. "The kid made the mistake of talking to the wrong dude. I don't know why he did it. It was obvious from the get-go that he was going to get his ass kicked or worse."
Bobby squinted angrily, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Greg sighed, "This kid here?" He gestured to the flyer. "He was in a while back. He bellied up to the bar next to bad news, big as you please. He got his ass handed to him on a plate for his trouble."
"Handed to him how?" Dean barked.
"Out back, behind the dumpster. I didn't find him til closing. Called the cops. Called the ambulance, and they took him away. That's the last I saw of him."
Dean sat back, suddenly sick. He swallowed hard but couldn't find the courage to ask the next obvious question. The bartender studied his pale face for a moment and saw something there that he hadn't before. He sighed and stepped forward, reclaiming the paper with Sam's face on it, worrying it gently in his hands. "Look, I waited on him that night, you know? I could tell he'd never been in a place like this before, and I tried to warn him. I turned him away initially, but he forced his ID in my face, and I didn't have any choice but to serve him. I knew he was in trouble the minute he stepped through the door – good looking kid like that all alone? Then he sidled up next to Big Ben, and sat down, and that pretty much sealed the deal."
"Who the fuck is Big Ben?" Dean asked hollowly.
"Big Ben is that mountain of madness standing over there in the corner," Greg replied. "He's the one who put the hurt on your brother, and you'd be well advised to stay the fuck away from him."
Dean and Bobby both leaned in to look at the man Greg singled out. The dude was standing at the pool table, every bit of 300 pounds, tattooed to China and back, and well over six feet tall. He had an ugly expression on his feral face as he leaned in to make his shot.
Dean looked at Bobby, blinking rapidly. He couldn't force his throat to work.
"What did he do to Sam?" Bobby finally asked the question.
Greg studied the two sympathetically, before choosing his next words carefully. "I don't know how far it went, honestly. Nobody witnessed anything, or if they did, they ain't talking. The cops have been here more than once. Hell, they shut me down for three days because of it. " He offered. "To me, the kid looked like he'd gone a round with an Amtrak train – beat to hell and gone, but his clothes were intact if that means anything."
Dean had a look on his face like a land mine ready to detonate at any moment. He took a draw on his beer before responding, "If the cops have been around, why the hell is THAT still here shooting pool?" He jerked his head toward the corner."
"You deaf or something? No witnesses. Look at the guy? Would you say anything against him?"
"So what?" Bobby cut in. "They just let it go?"
"Oh, they come round every now and again, looking for the kid to try and get his story, but he ain't been back before or since."
"You said he went to the hospital? No one talked to him there?"
"Way I heard it, the kid hightailed it out a window as soon as he was able. No one's seen him since."
Dean turned away from the bar wordlessly and took a final pull from his beer. He studied the man who was unknowingly enjoying his last night at the Lonesome Roadhouse.
The bartender followed the boy's gaze. "Like I said," He interrupted. "You let it go, or I'll be pulling you out from the dumpster tomorrow morning. Big Ben is not someone you want to mess with." He looked pointedly at Bobby. "Even two to one. You take him home, pal." He gestured toward Dean. "He'll live a lot longer that way."
Bobby plopped a fifty down on the bar for the man's trouble and nodded. "Thanks for the information."
Greg looked at the bill and pushed it back toward Bobby. "This one's on the house." He replied. "That kid has haunted me since the day he walked through my door."
Dean and Bobby made their way back to the Impala and sat, silently turning over this newest information.
"Balls." Bobby said softly.
Dean turned to look out the window, trying to compose himself, throat working convulsively with no sound coming out. All he could see was Sam as he'd last left him – standing sad and alone and looking every bit of 16 - on that curb in Pennsylvania. He beat his fists against the steering wheel then until he drew blood.
"How do I live with this?" he sobbed, turning to look at his lifelong friend. "Bobby, how do I go on from this?"
Bobby studied the young man before him who was more like a son than an adopted nephew and fought to speak over the painful lump clogging his throat. "You just do, Dean." He said gently, pulling the sobbing boy into a rough embrace. "You just do. For Sam."
Later, long after the bar had settled down for the night and Greg had flipped the "closed" sign on the door, a big man exited the bar and strode purposefully over to one of the last two cars in the lot. He was feeling good, but not sloppy drunk, which was how he liked it, and he figured he'd maybe pay a visit to an old girlfriend who still lived on the other side of town. She wouldn't be at all happy to see him, but the man didn't care. He'd have his fun regardless.
It was these final thoughts that played through his mind as the grizzled guy in the battered ball cap stepped out of the sleek, black car and approached him gravely. Big Ben had turned to face the man when he felt the pain in the small of his back. It felt like he'd just been filleted as he dropped to his knees in front of the stranger. A man moved in close behind him, a chin digging roughly into his shoulder. A paper appeared in front of him, and he recognized the face on it instantly.
"I'm Dean." The voice on his shoulder whispered quietly in his ear as his life left him. "And I think you know my brother."
Late the next afternoon, Greg opened up the back door to set out the two bags of trash from last night's shift, but the path to his dumpster was blocked by a big man stretched out in an ocean of blood, his pale face forever frozen in a look of abject horror.
The bar owner stepped forward and studied the man silently. Then he casually fished out his phone and made two calls. An hour later, the obstruction in his back alley had been taken care of, as his younger brother sat nursing a free beer at the end of the bar and his older brother hosed blood off the concrete and out of his truck bed liner.