Title: No Words
Characters: Dean, Sam
Pairing: Dean/OMC (slash, not wincest)
Warnings: violence, sex, language
Word Count: 3865
Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas.
Summary: Dean's attacked in a non-supernatural way, and Sam takes matters into his own hands.
Author's note: This is for pheebs1, who made posted a prompt on spngleeweek asking for Sam kicking ass and taking names. Legoline inspired me to experiment with narrative structure. Thank you to janissa11 and missyjack for the excellent betas--they helped make this story so very much better than it was.
Sometimes, Dean needed things to be strictly physical: no words, no dancing, no politeness, no flirting beyond "You. Now," and quick heat with no promises. And no fucking apologies.
The blond man with his lips wrapped around Dean's cock was a perfect example--an appraising look, licked lips, raised eyebrow, and he'd followed Dean out to the alley behind the club without any words.
Dean leaned back against the brick wall, canting his hips forward, gazing through slit eyes at the stranger. A few years younger and about half a head shorter than Dean, blond hair that curled a little over his ears and forehead. He took the two steps over to stand in front of Dean and then dropped to his knees.
Dean was already hard. Anonymous cocksucking--fucking hot, brutally honest, some nights it was just the right thing. He popped the button on his jeans, unzipped, and shoved his underwear down to free himself. The guy said nothing, just sighed and leaned forward, wrapped one hand around the base of Dean's cock and slid the head into his mouth. Dean watched the blond head bob up and down until the heat and the pressure swamped him, and he let his head drop back against the wall, rough edges of the bricks catching in his hair.
The guy let go of his cock, all mouth and no hands now, and Dean arched his hips forward and went deeper into the guy's mouth. He stretched like a bridge, balanced in a tense arc between the balls of his feet pressing down into the blacktop and his shoulder blades and head grinding into the bricks behind him. His senses pulled inward, focused only on the hot pleasure cresting inside him, and all he could hear was his own gasping breaths.
That was the mistake.
Sam walked into Eddie's Taphouse and sat down at the bar, rounding his shoulders down, hunching his back to disguise his size. Didn't want anyone noticing him too much. Not yet. It was only late afternoon, but the hardcore drinkers were already in attendance. They always were.
He stared down at the bar, watching the room through his peripheral vision. Listening to scraps of conversation from the men sitting at the other end of the bar. Watching to see who was talking.
"…really scared the shit out of that little cocksucker last night." A man with a scraggly red moustache.
A bartender in a dirty white t-shirt came to stand in front of him, and Sam ordered a draft without looking at him.
"Ran off like a jack rabbit." Some guy with a blue baseball cap.
The beer landed on the bar in front of him, but he didn't look up. Knew the anger burning in him would be visible in his eyes. He needed the element of surprise. Even though he'd be alone in this fight, everything else aligned in his favor: reach, strength, training, the element of surprise. Not to mention being the only entirely sober man in the room.
"…fucked up the other faggot real good." The tallest of the three, still a few inches shorter than Sam, thick layer of fat over muscle, head shaved bald, bruise on his cheek.
"Left him in that alley like the trash he is." Ball Cap again.
Sam had to wrestle control over his breathing, keeping it slow and casual only through rough force and years of training. Enough. God, enough. He stood up from the barstool and walked towards the back of the bar, keeping his pace casual. He stopped when he reached the men, placing himself between Baldy and Moustache, with Ball Cap a few feet ahead of him.
Baldy turned to look at him, and Sam punched him full in the face, bone cracking under his knuckles, then whipped his arm back and clocked Moustache with his elbow. He sent a quick thanks to Dad for making him practice that combo for so many hours and came back with a jab under Baldy's chin with his left fist, and watched Baldy slump back against the bar and slide down to the floor.
Ball Cap jumped off his barstool. Sam grinned, swung a leg out and knocked him down. Moustache was trying to move in on him, blood streaming from his nose courtesy of Sam's elbow, when Sam spun around, punched him in the gut with his left, and opened a gash on his face with his right. The man fell to his knees, curled around his belly.
Ball Cap struggled to his feet and Sam turned around, knocked him back to the floor with a punch to the face. He rested a foot on the man's chest, not pushing down, just holding him in place, making the man understand just how powerless he was in this moment.
Sam looked around at the few other bar patrons, who were all gaping at him as though he were a wendigo that had just beamed into the room. Only the bartender seemed to be paying him no mind. The man stood behind the bar with a rag in his hand, slowly cleaning glasses. Sam looked down at the three men on the floor: one unconscious, two not likely to get up very soon. It was enough, and he knew he had to get out of the bar before somebody decided to call the cops.
The adrenaline started to wear off, and he felt his knuckles throbbing, split skin stinging from sweat, a sullen ache from his elbow. He pressed down a little on Ball Cap's ribs and met the man's eyes. "You three so much as walk past that club again, and I'm going to know. I'm going to know, and I'm going to be back. You understand?"
The man nodded spastically, and Sam stepped off him. Sam turned and walked out of the bar, the sounds of Ball Cap's gasps and Moustache's low groans following him to the door.
Pain smashed into the right side of Dean's face, changing the view behind his eyelids from the sparkles of impending orgasm to spinning confusion and hot bolts of agony. His knees collapsed, his ass slammed back against the wall, and he struggled to open his eyes and understand the shouts. When the alley came into focus he saw three men circling the blond who'd been sucking him off just seconds ago, who was still on his knees, looking scared as shit.
"Hey, boys," Dean called out, locking his knees enough to stand up away from the support of the wall. "Why don't you mess with somebody your own size?"
They turned toward him, grinning, and swaggered over to him.
"Run!" Dean told the blond, who hesitated, still on the ground staring at Dean. "Dude, get the fuck out of here!"
The guy ran, quick footsteps skidding through the alley.
Dean smirked at his attackers, struggling to keep his feet against the relentless waves of dizziness that swamped him. They'd hit him in the head with a fucking rock. Hick bastards. He swung out a fist, connected with the tallest man's cheek, and a pile driver caught him in the stomach.
The punch forced the air out of him, and before he could draw a breath another blow slammed him back against the wall. His lungs shuddered and seized from the double attack, and he gasped fruitlessly. He swung again, but the scene swam in front of his eyes, and his fist only hit what felt like a shoulder. A fist loomed in his field of vision, and his head snapped back, pounded against the wall behind him, and everything went suddenly bright before collapsing into darkness.
He didn't feel it when he hit the ground.
Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket while he sat watching Dean sleep, late morning sunlight slipping in under the motel drapes. He pulled his phone out and frowned at the display: Dean. He stalked into the bathroom and closed the door silently before pressing the connect button and hissing into the phone.
"Who the hell is this?"
"I, um. My name's Eric. Uh…"
Sam held his anger in check. This guy didn't sound like somebody who would or could have been one of Dean's attackers, but voices could be deceiving. "How did you get Dean's phone?"
"I didn't get his name. Um, cute guy? Green eyes?"
Sam wished he had some clue what had happened the night before. "Yeah. Now what the hell happened?"
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't know he had a boyfriend-"
"Or, you know, S.O., whatever. I'm sorry, but we were in the alley. These assholes showed up, and he told me to run. So, uh, I did because I like, seriously suck at fighting."
"What assholes? Showed up where?"
"The club. Hot Ice, you know? Corner of 18th and Center?"
"And it was just some guys, I don't know. I came back to see if the guy, uh, Dean, was still there, and he was gone, but his phone was on the ground."
Sam's head spun, trying to connect the dots. "Look, where are you?"
"I'm leaving the phone with the bartender at the club. I don't know anything else. I'm--like I said, I'm sorry. Is he okay? Dean?"
"He'll be okay."
The kid hung up, and Sam pocketed the phone, sat down on the closed toilet and put his head in his hands. Unless he was totally misunderstanding the situation, it sounded like Dean had been hooking up with this guy at a club--a gay club?--when he was attacked. By humans. Gay-bashers. This wasn't going to go a long toward convincing Dean that people made more sense than demons.
Sam stood up and walked back out of the bathroom. He looked at Dean, at the angry bruise on the side of his face, at the bedding covering the rest of his injuries. Dean was what? Bi? Sam realized that he couldn't possibly care less.
He walked over and gently touched the less-injured side of Dean's face. The skin felt warm, no longer clammy, and Dean didn't react to the touch at all. The pain pills ought to hold him under for a while, and in the meantime Sam had some business to take care of.
He grabbed the room key and the keys to the Impala and drove to the club, only about half a mile from the motel. It looked shabby, seedy, the way they always did in the light of day when the neon was turned off. The front door was locked, so Sam went around to the back of the club. Sam looked at the alley that ran behind the club and remembered what Eric had said.
A bloodied rock lay on he ground near the brick wall, and Sam thought about the ugly bruise on right side of Dean's face. Bastards. Stupid fucking ignorant assholes.
He pounded on the back door, and kept at it until somebody answered. A guy, medium height, well-muscled in a gym sort of way, late 30's.
"Can I help you?" He glared at Sam, looking harassed and impatient.
"Yeah. My brother was beat up here last night. I think you have his phone?"
"Oh." The man's face froze, and then he gave Sam a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry, I was just…" The man's gaze flickered back into the club. "Come on inside."
Sam followed him, watching as the man reached behind the bar and placed Dean's phone on the counter.
"Here's the phone. Your brother okay?"
"He's pretty beat up, but he'll be okay in a few days."
"He's lucky. Last time these guys hit, both of the kids ended up in the hospital." He shook his head, jaw clenched and eyes bright with anger. "One of them almost died from a punctured lung."
"What? Why the hell are those guys still out there?"
The man forced out a mirthless laugh. "The cops around here aren't too interested in a little case of queer-bashing. Official word is that they investigated but there wasn't enough evidence to point to any suspects."
"But you know who did it?"
"Not their names, but who they are, yeah. Bunch of guys who hang out at the Taphouse down the street."
"Okay." He'd have to wait until later, but that was good, gave him time to make sure Dean was okay. "Yeah. Thanks for the information."
"You going to take care of your brother?"
Sam nodded, wanted to say always, but he wasn't sure that he always had. He turned away and walked toward the back door.
"Watch out for yourself, too," the man called out, like he knew what Sam had planned.
Dean woke to sharp points of pain, gravel biting into the bruises on the side of his face. "Fuck," he whispered, pulling his arms under him and pushing himself up to sit.
The alley swam around him, and he leaned over, heaving beer and bile onto the ground. His ribs and stomach ached to match his head, and for a minute all he could do was breathe shallowly and work on not throwing up or passing out again.
Fucking bastards. Psychotic fucking humans. Dean pressed himself up to his knees and held still again, waiting until the pounding in his head quieted down a little before trying to stand up. His jeans felt oddly loose, and he looked down to see his fly unzipped, his cock dangling over the top of his shorts. Shit. Shit. Tucked himself into his pants and zipped up. He hoped the blond kid had gotten away.
He reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall and slowly pushed up to his feet, staying bent over when his ears started to ring again. Should call Sammy, he thought, but then he remembered where he was.
They'd never talked about this, and he'd had a shitty enough night as it was without finding out how Sam might feel about back-alley cocksucking. He kept his hand on the wall while he stood up. The street was none too steady around him, but he thought his legs would hold him, and the motel was only a few blocks away.
Breathing made his ribs hurt, moving his legs pulled on the bruised muscles in his gut, and every step of his boots against concrete sent a sick shudder through his head. He'd had worse, though. Worse, and with something behind him that could finish the job. He pushed the pain aside and concentrated on the blurry sidewalk in front of him, welcomed each step as a step closer to his bed.
When he saw the motel parking lot in front of him, he focused on the grill of the Impala. When he could lay his hand on the hood, he felt himself start to relax. He let the car support him until he was only a couple of steps away from the door to their room. He stumbled to the door and leaned against it, digging in his pocket for the room key.
He couldn't quite keep his hand from shaking, and when he slid the card in the first time the light blinked red, and the door refused to open. The second try, finally, the light blinked green, and the door swung open. He took a step into the dark room, tried to adjust his eyes to see if Sam was on the bed or not, but then he tripped on the stupid fucking shag rug and lost his balance.
The impact of his knees hitting the floor reverberated sickly in his head, and he let himself slump all the way to the floor. At least the rug felt better under his face than the alley had.
The lock clicking open woke Sam, but he just threw his arm over his head and hoped that Dean managed to get to bed without making too much noise. He heard unsteady steps as Dean stumbled into the room and sighed. Great. That's just great. Dean didn't get drunk often, but when he did it could be a spectacularly irritating affair.
Sam listened to another stumbling step, and then he heard a crash as Dean went down. That's enough. He sat up, clicked on the light, and shook his head as he looked at Dean, who was face-first on the floor, trying to pull his knees up under him.
"Jesus, Dean. You need some help getting to the bathroom?" He'd really prefer not to have to keep smelling puke until they checked out of this room.
"Go back t'bed," Dean slurred, but Sam stood up anyway. He took the couple of steps toward Dean and then grabbed his shoulder, pulling him up to his knees. Dean hissed, yanking his arm away and sagging back down to his hands and knees.
"What'd you do to yourself?" Dean didn't reply, just stayed on the floor, swaying a little with each breath.
A twinge of worry tightened in the back of Sam's neck, and he knelt down next to Dean. He reached out, tilting Dean's head up, and winced at the sight of the wound on his brother's face. A deep bruise, red going to purple, stretched from the right side of his forehead, down his eye and onto his cheek. The skin had broken over the brow and cheekbone, and streams of blood were crusted down that half of his face.
"Shit. What happened to you?"
Dean batted Sam's hand away, nearly losing his balance in the process. "Told ya to go back t'sleep."
"Where else are you hurt?" Sam needed to get Dean over to the bed, get his shirt off, and figure out if he could take care of this here. Dean didn't reply, just let his head loll back down between his arms.
"Come on." Sam wedged his shoulder under Dean's and pushed him up more gently this time, wrapped his arm around his brother's waist to steady him when he staggered on his feet. Dean groaned when Sam's hand pressed into his ribs. "Sorry! Come on." He slid his hand lower and halfway lifted Dean, twisting and pushing him down to sit on the bed.
Dean panted roughly and sagged backwards, but Sam braced him with one hand behind Dean's neck. He reached over to fix the pillows, then guided Dean back onto the mattress and lifted his legs up onto the bed. He looked up at his brother's closed eyes and put a hand to his less-bruised cheek. "Dean. Hey, no sleeping."
"Fuck off," Dean batted his hand away again and then stifled a groan at the movement.
"Stay awake. I'll be right back."
Dean woke, his head pounding, cursing himself for whatever he'd done the night before. Staying flat sounded like a good idea to most of his body, but his bladder disagreed, so he rolled to his side. Sharp pain cut through his ribs, and he fell back, hissing shallow breaths into his lungs.
Oh, yeah. Fuck. Got distracted. Got jumped. Got the Florence Nightingale treatment from Sam.
"Hey," Sam called. "How do you feel?"
Dean cracked his eyes open, taking in Sam's slightly-blurry form standing beside the bed. "I'm all right."
"Seriously, Dean, you were pretty out of it last night. Might not be a bad idea to get checked out." Sam turned on the light next to the bed, and Dean winced at the bright spikes of light that invaded his eyes. "How does your head feel?"
"How the hell do you think it feels? Look, I gotta take a leak." Dean rolled up again, expecting the pain in his ribs this time, and pushed through it until he sat up on the side of the bed. He stood up, but the room swam around him. "Fuck," he breathed, sure he was on his way back down to the bed.
He closed his eyes in relief when he felt Sam's hand wrap around his bicep. Sam didn't say anything, just helped him into the bathroom. Dean felt steadier standing on the hard tile of the bathroom floor, so he waved Sam out the door and took care of his bladder. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the utterly foul taste in his mouth and winced at the sight in the mirror.
Bandages covered parts of both sides of his face, and a lot of the rest of it was deeply bruised. Not going to be charming anyone for a few days, dude. Dean tugged up his t-shirt to check out the bruises on his stomach and chest. Nasty, but he'd had worse. He suddenly remembered Sam examining him last night, gentle fingers skating over each rib, looking for breaks. It'd hurt like a bitch, even through the painkillers, though Sam had probably been as gentle as he could.
Badly bruised, he'd said, maybe a couple cracks. No breaks.
A light knock at the door. "Hey, let me in. I need to check your bandages."
Dean sighed and let Sam in, wondered if he'd still have that stupid concerned look on his face if he knew what Dean had been doing in that alley. How stupid he'd been.
"Sit down, okay? I've got to put more antiseptic stuff on your face."
Dean thought about refusing, but just sat down, figuring this was his punishment. He was just about to close his eyes when he noticed the marks on Sam's hand as it moved towards his cheek.
"Hey." He reached out and grabbed the long fingers, pulled Sam's hand down into the light and checked out the scraped and swollen knuckles. They hadn't fought anything in days; Sam's hands were fine yesterday afternoon. "What the hell did you do?"
Sam yanked his hand back and looked away. "Just had a little talk with some guys."
"Yeah? Talking with your fists?"
"Only way to make some people understand."
Dean stared up at his little brother. "How did you--"
"Your friend Eric called."
"Eric, the guy you met at the bar last night. He found your phone." Sam smiled a sick, tense smile. "He was worried about you."
Dean's lungs felt tight under his ribs. "Okay, yeah. He okay?"
"He's fine. Man, why didn't tell me?"
"Yeah, all right. Just, in case you're wondering, it doesn't make any difference to me. Okay?" Sam's eyes had that sincere-caring-brother look oozing out of them, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"You done with your chick flick moment?" Still, he felt like he could breathe better, even as the waning adrenaline trembled through him.
"Yeah." Sam grinned and reached toward Dean's face again, and Dean closed his eyes. He felt Sam brace him with one warm hand on his shoulder, while his other hand removed the bandages from his face, swabbed him with alcohol and ointment, then put fresh bandages on.
Sam liked to talk too much sometimes, but Sam's scraped knuckles and his gentle fingers on Dean's face told Dean more than anything that they were okay. Sam hadn't forgotten this language that they spoke together, but sometimes he forgot that they didn't need words.