Anywhere Else But Here
Anywhere Else But Here
Summary: Dean loses a game of pool against the wrong guy.
Warnings: Sexual assault of a minor.
A/N: Something I wrote while I was meant to be finishing something else. Whoops!
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Sam is yelling by the time Dean's ears stop ringing enough for him to hear again. The naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling is mind-splittingly bright, haloing into blinding rings, and the scuffed and stained surface of an old pool table scratches at the side of Dean's face. He squints at it in confusion while he tries to remember where he is and why his head feels like it's caving in.
“Let me go - let go - get your fucking hands off me!”
Okay, get Sam first, then figure it out. I'm coming, Sammy, he tries to say, but his mouth surprises him by producing a guttural moaning noise instead, and when he tries to straighten up he finds that there's a set of hands holding him down against the table, twisting his arms painfully behind his back.
They're in a bar, Dean thinks fuzzily, the kind of dive that doesn't give a damn that his ID is fake and would probably even serve Sam if the kid wanted to take a shot at ordering. Not that he would. Dean remembers watching his brother thump down into a booth near the pool table in a huff, pulling his homework from his backpack and bending his head over it with a scowl, like he was blaming his English essay for Dad wanting to take off that weekend.
“You cheated,” Sam is spitting now, breathless with desperation and outrage that Dean is sure has nothing to do with them skipping town. Dean tries to raise his head to catch sight of what's going on but the second he moves, the grip on his arms tightens, and the light bulb is seriously sending laser beams into his eyeballs, Jesus, why is he in so much pain?
“He cheated first,” a deep, smoke-gravelled voice replies, sounding more amused than anything. Dean can imagine that Sammy doesn't make a very intimidating sight, standing there in his torn up jeans and Dean's old hoodie that always slips down over his hands, with his too-long hair flopping all over his face like it always does... Now Dean just has to figure out why all 5'2 of Sammy is trying to sound intimidating...
“Dean doesn't cheat,” Sam denies furiously, which would make Dean laugh if he didn't think it would make his brain explode. Of course he cheats, of course... It all falls into place. He was trying to hustle, that's why they're in this crappy bar, to get a bit of cash together so they could keep the motel room for another couple of nights until Dad gets back and hopefully eat something more exciting than noodles for dinner. Dean guesses that the pool game didn't end so well for him.
“Well, Dean lost,” the voice growls, just as Dean predicted, “And it's time to pay up.”
“Don't - don't - stop it, get off me!” Sam is suddenly pleading and the men are laughing and Dean's head is spinning but there is no way, no way, anyone is going to make Sammy sound so panicked without Dean doing something about it. He gathers himself together as much as he can and takes a deep breath.
“Leave'im'lone.” The words all run together in a thick, goopy line and it takes a moment for Dean to be sure that he's actually spoken out loud but it's a definite improvement on his first attempt. The laughter stops.
“Got something to say, boy?” The hands holding him shift, jerking him upright so sharply that his arms almost pop out of their sockets. The room spins nauseatingly and vivid red stains his vision. The general agony in his head sharpens to a point just above his left eyebrow and throbs angrily. At first, he thinks it's the pain that's blinding him but then he blinks and it clears some of the blood from his eyes.
“I said, leave him alone,” he says again, even clearer this time. He'd be proud of that if he could also stop himself from sagging pathetically against the man who holds him. The sudden memory of a pool cue headed towards his face at high speed makes a lot of sense, makes a lot more sense than the current image before his eyes.
A giant of a man - Dean remembers jokingly calling him Tiny; broad shoulders, massive gut, shaved head and missing teeth - holds Sam against him with one meaty arm clamped across the kid's skinny chest. The other hand is shoved down the front of Sam's jeans. Sam squirms and struggles, his own hands scrabbling desperately, and uselessly, at the offending limb, face flushed with humiliation.
Next to Sam and Tiny stands a smaller but somehow even more intimidating man. He's leaning in close, junkie-thin and tall, towering over Sam. He holds a pool cue in one hand, resting his palm casually on the tip as he swings it slowly back and forth, and leers at Dean over the top of Sam's head. This is Dwight, Dean recalls, owner of both the gravelly voice he's been hearing and the pool cue he remembers flying towards him.
“He's just a kid,” Dean growls, standing as straight as he can, which isn't very. “He has nothing to do with this.”
Dwight laughs at that and traces a nicotine-stained finger down Sam's cheek. Sam flinches his head to the side. “Maybe you don't remember, hot shot, but you owe me two hundred bucks and it looks to me like little brother here is all you have to trade.”
Dean chokes as his lungs threaten to shut down in fear. “Sammy's not up for trade,” he snarls futilely. What can he do? There must be something, some way out of this, but he can't think, the room is shimmering like a mirage and he's being held in a death grip against the pool table. What can he do?
“Dean,” Sam implores him anxiously, trying to twist away from Tiny's grasp. The help me is clearly implied.
“I'll get you your money,” Dean continues hastily. “I'll get you more than two hundred. Just let him go.” His mouth is making promises the rest of him can't keep but all he can think to do is try to keep talking until the floor stops swaying under his feet...
Dwight hasn't stopped chuckling to himself. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, shaking one loose. “I don't want your money, boy. I already know you don't got it. So I made a deal with the kid while you were napping -” His grin is so wide Dean can see all his crooked, yellow teeth. “- he's gonna get down on his knees and convince me not to break all your fingers, ain't that right, kid?”
Sam shakes his head desperately, on the verge of tears. “Please-” he starts but the muscles in Tiny's beefy forearm tighten and he breaks off with a pained whine, trying to fold over.
“Stop it!” Dean barks. “Stop it! Let him go!” He struggles as hard as he can against the hands that hold him back, trying to remember how big the guy behind him is, trying to find a moment of weakness in the man's grasp to exploit. “Don't fucking touch him. He's a kid, you bastard. He's not even 16 yet!”
Dwight rests his pool cue against the table and lights up his cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke into Sam's face. “Perfect.”
“Dean,” Sam whimpers, like he can't help himself, gasping when Tiny suddenly releases his grip and shoves him to his knees. Immediately he tries to curl forward, hands reaching between his legs defensively, but the giant man won't let him. Tiny's massive hands look even bigger clamped onto Sam's slender shoulders, so close to his throat, holding him upright. The man could snap Sam's neck in a second. Dean is so terrified that he can hardly breathe, and Dwight is fumbling one-handed with his belt.
“Stop!” he gasps frantically. “Don't - damn it, you can break my fingers, you can take my car, I'll do anything, just leave him alone, please!”
“Are you really begging me?” Dwight asks, delighted. “What's wrong? You wanted to be his first?”
“You're disgusting!” Sam spits, before Dean gets the chance, and Dwight backhands him hard across the face. The resounding crack echoes through the bar, and Tiny lets go, allowing Sam to crumple, clutching at his jaw. “Oww,” he moans, “That hurts, you fucking pervert!”
Sam moves so fast, he's almost a blur in Dean's concussed vision. His hand darts out to snatch Dwight's abandoned pool cue and, to Dean's amazement, it dawns on him that Sam must have goaded Dwight into hitting him deliberately so that he could fall closer to the weapon. He barely has time to start being impressed before Sam's swinging the pool cue up, right between Dwight's legs - Dwight folds with a high-pitched squawk - then jabbing it backwards and driving it hard into Tiny's junk instead.
“What the fuck!” a voice in Dean's ear exclaims. Dean stops trying to strain forwards and jerks his head back instead. He feels a nose crunch under the back of his skull, hears a muffled yelp, and ignores the renewed pain in his head in favour of wrenching his arms free. Sam is swinging the pool cue at Tiny's fat head and Dean hears splintering wood as he spins around and throws a punch. It's sloppy, not anywhere near as much force or accuracy as he's used to, but by chance he manages to connect with the broken nose again and the man goes down wailing, blood spurting out between his fingers. Dean turns, ready to head for Dwight, and finds Sam in his way, tossing aside half a broken pool cue.
“Lets go, lets go.” Sam tugs at his shirtsleeve.
“Move,” Dean growls, taking a woozy step forward. “I'm gonna pound his face in.”
“You move!” Sam growls back, “Or I'll pound your face in!” And Dean is so stunned by this threat that he lets Sammy drag him out the door without even thinking about arguing. It feels strangely like the ground is rocking back and forth beneath his feet but the crisp night air feels refreshingly cool against his throbbing forehead.
“What are you doing?” he asks when Sam shoves him into the Impala's passenger seat but Sam just rolls his eyes and shuts the door. “You can't drive,” Dean says dumbly when Sam slips into the drivers side and starts the engine.
“You have a concussion,” Sam says, already pulling out of the lot. “I know how to drive.”
“Only for emergencies,” Dean remembers vaguely, gingerly probing at the tacky wound above his eyebrow with his fingertips, and for some reason this makes Sam break out into a fit of hysterical laughter so strong that Dean feels the car swerve before Sam sucks in a breath and manages to straighten it up.
“You don't think it's an emergency?” Sam asks, staring determinedly out the windscreen. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and pushes the too-long sleeves of his - Dean's - hoodie back up to his elbows, and Dean thinks about how small Sammy looked pinned against Tiny's chest.
“It's an emergency,” he agrees, forcing himself to sit up straighter in an attempt to get a hold of himself. His head really hurts. “Fuck... I'm sorry, Sammy, my head's all messed up.”
“I know,” Sam says, and laughs that hysterical laugh again, turning the steering wheel rather sharper than necessary.
“Sam... are you okay?” Dean ventures worriedly, bracing himself against the door.
Sam still won't look at him. A bruise is blossoming along his jaw where Dwight struck him. “Me? Fine. I'm fine. Fine, except for those fucking perverts fucking feeling me up and holding me down and threatening to fuck me while you bled all over the fucking pool table, I'm fucking awesome!” Sam's voice climbs until he's yelling and smacking the steering wheel with hands clenched tight into fists, and for a brief moment Dean's afraid that they'll crash but then he realizes that they're not even driving anymore, Sam must've pulled over, so he reaches out and drags the kid into a hug, letting Sam sob and beat against his chest instead. “You fucking asshole, Dean! Don't you ever, ever-”
“I know. I know, Sammy, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I am an asshole. I'll never let anything like that happen ever again, I swear to God, I won't let anyone touch you,” Dean rambles, ignoring the dull thumps of Sam's fists against his ribs. “I was stupid, thinking I could win against those guys, thinking that they'd let me win.”
Sam drags in a ragged breath and smacks him one last time. “Yeah, you were. Moron.”
“That scared the shit out of me,” Dean admits breathlessly, his grip tightening automatically as he unwillingly pictures the scene around the pool table. “I'm so lucky that you're so fucking awesome. You're so fucking awesome.”
Sam huffs a damp laugh. “Everyone underestimates me. Dad says that's my greatest strength right now.”
“You're pretty damn impressive, Sammy.”
Sam pulls away, surreptitiously swiping at his face with his too-long sleeves. “Saved your dumb ass,” he mutters, and shuffles back across the bench seat to start the engine.
END