FIC: A Good Man is Hard to Find (2/21)
Title: A Good Man is Hard to Find
Author:
kimonkey7
Rating: R for language and voilence-y stuff
Characters: Dean and Sam (Gen)
Spoilers: mid-late season one
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Dean keeps his word, and ramifications scatter like salt shot. Secrets, liquor, and bad things. Whump, angst, and banter. Title borrowed from Flannery O'Connor.
Author’s Notes: Thanks to all who've read. I hope you'll stay on this bumpy, dark journey with me.
chap 1
CHAPTER TWO
By the time Sam pushes through the heavy wooden door, Dean’s at the bar with a shot and a beer. By the time he reaches the stool next to his brother, the shot glass is empty on the bar, amber ghosting down the insides, and the older man’s lips are kissing the edge of a Mason jar topped with white foam.
“I get it. You’re gonna get drunk. Don’t make me clean up your puke, too.”
“I told you I’m not talkin’ to you.”
“Because of something I did? Or you did?”
Dean’s head turns slowly toward his brother, smooth, like it’s on a lazy Susan, but he’s unable to hide the flash of hurt and terror that rockets through his eyes before he speaks:
“I’m not talkin’ to you. Starting now. Hey! Barkeep!” And Dean turns from his brother to the bartender, motioning over the shot glass. “I’ll take another.”
Mike, apparently of Mike’s Bar, is wearing a shirt that says ‘Mike’ on the pocket. Mike is massive. Mike might be a giant, and Sam has to peel his eyes away from the man because it’s not polite to stare. But the guy is huge; at least 6’5, maybe three feet across. He looks like he keeps a spare keg under the expanse of his white t-shirt, but the youngest Winchester knows there’s at least half as much muscle as there is fat there, and half would be good enough to bust some skulls. Especially if there’s an axe handle or baseball bat under the counter which, looking around the red-brown glow of the bar, Sam decides there probably is.
Mike sets down another shot in front of Dean. His voice is gravelly and deep and it’s obvious the guy started smoking when he was five or six. “Two bucks.”
“Dean.”
He drops a twenty on the bar. “Listen, Mike, is it?”
The mountain does not speak.
“Listen, Mike. I’ll take a beer every other shot until that runs out.” He lays another twenty next to it. “That’s your tip.”
“Dean, come on…”
The mountain turns to the younger man. “You with him?”
“Yes,” says Sam, while Dean simultaneously denies it.
Mike gives the lanky Winchester the once over, watches Dean knock back the second shot, and slides the forty dollars off the bar and into his pocket.
“What’ll you have?” Mike asks the younger man from the corner of his mouth.
“Uh…just a Coke, please.”
Distaste stumbles across the man-mountain’s countenance but Sam’s not sure if it’s because of his drink order or the good manners. “Rum and Coke?”
When Mike’s lip twitches he figures it out.
“Beer’s cool.”
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It’s around the third shot and the start of the second beer when Dean pushes himself off the stool and walks a preeetty straight line to the restroom in back. Sam hops up to follow and is stopped by a harsh whistle before he goes ten feet.
He looks back to see Mike staring him down.
“Don’t leave that here,” the giant bartender growls, motioning to Sam’s laptop.
He’s been passing the hour doing research for the gig in Sylvania, Ohio.
“I’m not gonna listen to you whine when it gets ripped off.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Sam says, loping back and grabbing the computer off the bar.
When he pushes through the men’s room door, his brother’s slamming out of the stall with watery eyes, looking pale.
Dean shoves past him toward the sink and flips on the cold water. He’s dousing his face and willing the sink to stop pulsing when Sam leans against the paper towel dispenser next to the counter.
“Dean, man…”
The older Winchester reaches blindly for a towel and mauls his brother’s t-shirt with wet hands until Sam moves aside.
“Come on. You’ve had enough.”
“Au contraire, mon frere,” Dean says from behind the paper toweling. “I just made room for more.”
He pushes past his brother again and heads back to the bar, Sam right behind him.
Dean’s on his fifth shot and two-thirds through his second beer when there’s a commotion over by the juke box.
All Sam’s alarms go off when Dean’s whole body perks and he’s sliding off the cracked-upholstery stool, stumbling to gain his balance.
Male voices rise and Sam hears something about ‘I heard enough fucking power ballads. Play some Skynard…’ and his big brother is whooping ‘Hell, yeah!’ and crossing the room before the younger man can grab him.
“Dean!”
Mr. Red Flannel Shirt tells Carhartt Jacket he’s got five fucking dollars in play and Senor Carhartt is just gonna hafta fucking WAIT.
Dean is motioning to the guy in the flannel shirt who’s only a little smaller than Mike the human dive cliff. “Hey, man. Seersly. Journey SUCKS, man. Le’s hear a lil Skynard, huh? Lil ‘Simple Man’?” Dean reaches out and clumsily drops his hand on Mr. Flannel’s shoulder.
It is immediately and gruffly knocked off. “Whynchoo mine yer own bizness.”
‘Aw, crap,’ Sam thinks as he steps toward them, ‘He’s drunker than Dean.’ The younger man sees his brother stiffening, pulling back his shoulders. Fuck. It’s classic pre-fight mode.
“Hey, guys,” says Sam, stepping between the local and Dean. He’s not thinking of anything except getting his big brother out of here without a) blood, and b) cops. He lays his hands on both men, one on each of their shoulders.
Like synchronized swimmers, Flannel and Dean swat the younger Winchester’s considerable hands aside.
“Dude, hands!” Dean says, maintaining fierce eye contact with the burly townie.
Sam’s couple of extra inches of height make it difficult to read Flannel’s eyes, the bill of the man’s cap serving as bluff. All he can see is that the local tack store must have been out of CAT and Dekalb hats because this guy’s says ‘Farmers know how to plow’. But his inner commentary is cut short when the man stabs Sam’s chest with a meaty finger.
“You an’ himmer real touchy feely, aren’tcha.”
It’s instant sobriety for Dean. His hand slaps away Mr. Flannel’s and it flies up like it’s spring loaded. “Don’t touch my brother.”
“Hey!”
The call comes from Mike. Across the room he’s looming over the wooden bar; palms down, straight arms framing his gut. He looks like a king walrus and Dean and Sam’s eyes go to him. “No bullshit in my bar.”
Flannel takes the opportunity to swing on Dean.
But the guy’s a lefty, and Dean catches his draw in his periphery. He ducks out of instinct and feels the punch skim through the hair on top of his head, realizing a second later where that means the blow is going to land. He pops up in time to see the hick asshole playing some heavy metal chin music on his stunned little brother.
Sam falls back against the juke box with a bone-crunching thud and ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ jumps and silences. He wants to call out - it’s okay, I’m okay, PLEASE don’t hurt him - but the wind is knocked out of him and it’s too late anyway; Dean is diving at the guy like a first-string linebacker.
Mr. Flannel’s twisting from the follow-through momentum so Dean catches him on the side of his chest and slightly off balance. They’re both airborne for a couple of feet until the townie’s hip catches a table, knocking and flipping it with the weight of their bodies.
Beers are flying, as are patrons. Flannel’s body hitting the cement floor and the tipping table create a scissor effect and the rising edge of the wooden table top catches Dean on the cheek. It’s not enough to take him down, but it hurts like a motherfucker and rebounds him like a pinball off a bumper. Flannel twists under him and gains a better position on his back.
Dean recovers quick and slams down on the townie again, all pissed-off and throbbing right cheek and tunnel vision, so he doesn’t see the man’s hand scrabbling for something off to his left, doesn’t see Red Flannel’s arm coming to bear, but sure as shit feels the half full Mason jar when it crashes against the side of his head.
It’s a crazy blend of pain and wet/cold when the glass explodes. Dean sees a jagged shard pass so close to his right eye it’s blurry, and the thought flashes in his head that if he’d closed his eyes his lid would have been sliced open. He feels the glass slip across the curve of his brow and travel forward to create a horizon of a gash across the bridge of his nose. He’s falling to the side from the force, off the local’s chest, and through it all, he’s doing his best to punch the crap outta the guy’s face.
But the impact on the cement floor is almost his undoing. His shoulder hits first with a jaw-clenching thud, followed by his head, and then Red Flannel is up somehow - moves fast for a fucking lard ass hick - and his muddy boots are stomping savagely on Dean’s right shoulder and side.
He vaguely hears Sam calling his name and he figures that means his little brother is okay. What’s keeping Dean conscious is the pain and the blood; because he could use a little penance right now. He wants the release of the punishment he’s receiving. Oh, Betsy…What the fuck did I do?
Mr. Flannel gets in three or four bootlicks, Dean’s not sure, and then it all stops. Through the blood that’s covering his face like paint, filling his right eye, he sees the mountain that is Mike hoisting the bulky townie by his collar like the catch of the day.
“I told you guys no bullshit in my bar. Now get the fuck outta here, before I call the cops.”
Sam’s grabbing at Dean on the floor, trying to get him up, mumbling apologies to the barkeep and admonitions at his brother.
The older Winchester is all about the adrenaline because it’s the only thing that helps him stifle the girly scream he wants to loose when Sam tries to pull him into a sitting position by his right arm.
Pain, like a flaming sledgehammer, pounds against the front of his shoulder. With his left hand, he grabs on to his little brother, mostly getting a fist full of hoodie and upper arm, but he’s on his feet. No intention, though, of standing up straight. His head is far too swimmy, his vision a little too gray, and between his shoulder and his ribs, he’ll take a whole new torso, thank you very much.
“Jesus, Dean,” drops from Sam’s lips when he dips to take in the damage on his older brother’s face and head. He looks like a Texas Chainsaw extra; half his face crimson, the other half pale like death.
Dean wants to push his brother off him and tell him he’s ridiculous. Wants to tell him to leave him alone. Tell him he’s fine. That he HAD that fucking townie bitch. But the barroom is suddenly spinning like a parking lot Tilt-a-Whirl and the older Winchester’s only statement is of the Technicolor variety as he vomits liquid heat all over the cracked cement floor.
“Didn’t I ask you to please not puke?” Sam grimaces, his arm around Dean’s back and shoulder for support.
“’M still not talkin’ t’ you,” he grinds out as Sam walks them to the bar, grabs the laptop, and guides them out into the parking lot.
**************************************************************
His older brother is swaying slightly and Sam’s not convinced it’s entirely from the alcohol. There’s a pretty ripe goose egg under the hair behind Dean’s temple, and the gash across his nose and the one above his eye are bleeding profusely.
The older man refuses to even get into the car until Sam finds something to staunch the flow. “I’m not gonna bleed all over the inside of m’ baby, Sammy.”
“Dean-“
“Sam.”
“Fine,” he says, balancing his older brother against the passenger side front panel of the Impala.
The younger man digs a stray motel towel from Dean’s duffel in the back seat, presses it into his brother’s hands, and then nabs the first aid kit from the trunk.
By the time he returns, the towel has gone from white to carmine and Sam realizes the first aid kit is out of the question. A stupid and useless option. Besides, there’s nothing inside for a likely concussion.
Sam eases a left hand and the sticky red towel from his brother’s face.
Dean lets out a wince and groan as his little brother probes and pushes at the cut over his right eye, bumping his giant hand against the mouse formed by the table top that had introduced itself to his cheek. “Fuck, Sammy. Careful!”
“Dude. This is beyond band-aids and peroxide.”
“Come on, man. I had worse b’fore.”
“Dean. This cut by your eye…I’m not gonna risk that getting infected, man. You probably have a concussion and-“
The older Winchester tries to push his brother away with his right hand but stops halfway when a popping sound, loud enough for both men to hear, emanates from his shoulder.
“Whoa!”
“Fuck!” hisses Dean, the bloody towel dropping as he bends at the waist, pulling in his right arm.
“Dude. Did that come from your BODY?” Sam’s crouching in the mud in front of Dean’s hunched form, trying not to freak about the fact it sounds like there’s a waitress snapping gum inside his brother’s shoulder.
Dean slides his butt along the sleek black steel of the Chevy, inching away from his younger brother’s inspection. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck ME! Whatever is up with his shoulder is not good, and it feels like a kind of direct and merciless punishment from God for what he’s done. But Dean reminds himself he doesn’t believe in God. Because God would never fuck over people like he’s fucked over Betsy and Sammy and nearly everyone the older man has ever loved.
Sam reaches out to steady his brother, whose feet seem to be tangling in the goopiness of the parking lot. Again his hand is brushed away.
“Get off me.”
“Dean. You need to go to the hospital.”
“Fine.”
“Dea-“ and he stops halfway through, because the argument he’s expecting doesn’t come. And that makes it worse because he knows it MUST be bad; Dean never relents. His big brother just doesn’t back down. And now Sam’s a little more scared than he was five minutes ago.
Dean’s straightening and moving toward the passenger side door. There’s just enough alcohol in him to forget the immediate past and reach for the door handle with his right hand. There’s another click/pops and a sort of tearing sound and then Dean’s curled in half again, left hand hugging his right elbow to his side.
“Lemme get it, lemme get it,” Sam chants and slip-slides past Dean to yank open the Impala’s door. “Come on, let’s go.” He’s trying to corral his brother into the car but Dean’s not budging. He keeps looking down at the ground and mumbling under his breath.
“Dean! Let’s go, man.”
He looks up, his face shiny-red with blood. “I dropped m’ towel.”
Sam sighs heavily, groans a bit, even, and then he’s in the backseat again, digging through Dean’s duffel. When he can’t find another towel, he snags a black t-shirt (blood stains are less noticeable on black) and then shoves it, mostly lovingly, into his brother’s hands. “Okay now?”
“Yeah,” sighs Dean, and slides around the door and then carefully into the front seat.
Sam closes the door before his brother can try to reach for it.
**************************************************************
Dean’s silent the whole way to the emergency room of the little hospital the next town over. He doesn’t even bitch about Sam’s driving, just bleeds into the bunched up t-shirt from his duffle and grunts out breaths every time the Impala breeches a sharp curve.
“I know it’s kind of a pain, but you need to keep him awake until the doctor can see him. He might have a concussion.”
Yeah. The admitting nurse has no freaking idea how NOT fun it is to keep a still-drunk, still-bleeding, brooding, pissed-off, ready-to-pass-out Dean Winchester alert. For an hour and a half. Sam’d rather masturbate in public.
He keeps looking at the older man and knows there’s so much more going on than blood and exploding body parts and too much to drink. Because there’s something that made Dean drink too much in the first place. Something happened in that abandoned building seventy miles back while Sam waited like a complete and utter asshole in the car. He wonders briefly if the doctors in the ER would be willing to inject his big brother with sodium pentathol if he were to ask nicely.
Every time Sam nudges a nodding-off Dean, he’s met with a whiny, grumbled ‘get off me’ or ‘hands, dude’ or ‘what’s your PROBLEM’ or the quaint stand-by of the middle digit, stuck cruelly in his face. Ah, yes. Brotherly love.
It’s another half hour or so before a different nurse calls for Percy Collins, and Sam nearly forgets that’s the name on the insurance card they’re using tonight. He hops up from the shiny plastic chair and kicks at his brother’s feet. “Let’s go.”
“Dude, man, FUCK,” Dean groans, caught mid-drowse. But he pulls his legs under him like a trooper and forces himself out of the chair.
Sam’s got him by the left arm and helps him lope to the exam room behind the swinging door.
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To Chapter 3...