After a hunt goes wrong, Sam tries to escape with a bit of liquor and a game of pool … and learns that demons just don't take defeat easily! Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean!
This story was originally begun by me for a round robin story over at SBA. (If you don't know what that is, follow the link in my profile!) So while I began it, I fully expect it to sway from the original conglomeration, as I didn't write all of the original, just the first chapter, which is here, in its entirety. It was just one of those things that niggled at me to complete, so everything after chapter one, while still my creation, swayed off course as it is from my perspective rather than the group.
Sadly, the boys don't belong to me, though that leprechaun I've kidnapped has assured me that my wish will be granted soon!
What's even sadder? This is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! Mine I tell you, all mine!
Reviews are the best drugs alive! They give you a good high, leave you begging for more, and have no side effects!
He could still smell the coppery tang of blood (Dean's blood) and the acidic sulfur that seemed to permeate everything; his hair, his clothes, Sam even swore he could feel it still, one hot shower later, on his skin. And while the whiskey that he was nursing left a nice burn down his throat and into his stomach, it didn't do much to drown out the screams of that girl that begged him to make it stop, to make it all go away.
He had; he'd shot her.
Put her down like a dog, dragged his brother to safety, then hightailed it for the motel where, one patch job later, left Dean passed out in the bed closest to the door and Sam … well, Sam here, in this crap bar where he was currently drinking away the guilt.
Or at least trying to.
Across the smoke filled room of a bar Dean would have definitely felt at home in, Sam glanced to the game of pool that had been going on since he'd come in here. While some of the players switched and changed, one always remained the same; one big biker dude who sported a leather jacket that bore the patch that no doubt signified his 'gang'. The gang consisted, at least in this bar, of one wiry man who, while thin, had a mean look to him much like a ferret, and Sam could tell instantly he was more than he appeared. There was also a large man who was more girth than brains (judging by his miscalculations in the game) and another smaller man who seemed to suffer from Napoleon Syndrome. And then there was the drunken redhead that floated from one to the other, but always came back to Big Biker Dude.
"You don't want any of that, sweetie."
Sam turned his head to glance at the waitress, an older woman of about forty, who, while still slightly pretty, looked like she was once a knock out before life dragged her down.
"Them. They're no good. Sweet thing like yourself could get hurt."
The Sam that was in Stanford might have heeded her warning. He was, after all, the young kid that wanted to play it safe. But he was no longer that boy with dreams of college and a wife and kids. Sam was all Winchester, and if there was one thing that Sam inherited from John, it was stubbornness.
Not to mention that snarky pigheadedness that came straight from Dean and a determination that was plain and simply … Sam.
Flashing the waitress a dimpled smile that belied innocence, Sam downed the amber contents of the glass and stood to his full height of 6'4".
"I think I can handle myself."
Sam had one thing going for him in a situation like this; he looked every bit the naïve college kid. And, with their pockets empty from a hunt gone wrong and his mood dark, Sam had the drive to pull this one off and walk out of there with that puppy dog look that seemed to fool everyone but his brother.
Dean knew that Sam could kick ass when he wanted to … when he needed to.
It took about fifteen minutes to get the goons to notice him. Another ten before they asked if he wanted to play. Sam grinned and made his way from his table (where he'd played solo) to theirs before nodding with that utterly boyish (if not cleverly placed) grin.
"Sure. My brother taught me, though I'm not nearly as good as he is."
Now that wasn't a complete lie … was it?
"This is the big league kid, we play for money."
Sam shrugged and grinned, causing the men around him to just beam. They had their sucker.
Sam lost the first game, though he made enough decent shots to make the second game win plausible. He threw the third completely, and by the forth, when Frank, as Big Biker Dude was named, decided to go for broke … Sam took the table. He would have quit there, but Frank and his gang decided they needed the opportunity to win back their money, but after the sixth game, he had to call it quits. He couldn't have Dean wake up alone and start scouring the streets for him.
"I'm sorry guys, but I really have to go cram for an exam and …"
"And run off with our money?"
"Hey, you're the one who suggested we play for it."
"Then why don't you just give it back then?"
"Would you have given mine back?"
Silence ensued for a moment before Sam shook his head. "That's what I thought."
Sam could have said later that it all started when he took up the game, but that wasn't true was it? He'd looked over his competition, and he was smart enough, good enough to read people fairly well; it was a Winchester trait. So it wasn't that he missed it, it was that it wasn't there, not at first, not when he took up that game. It didn't come until after, when Frank laid a strong hand on Sam's shoulder, the action hardly meant to be sympathizing.
It was that moment that Sam knew he was about to have to fight or flee.
Turning, his mouth opened to say something, anything (because Sam prided himself on not going off half cocked) when he caught sight of the weasel (appropriate name, huh?) and the way his eyes went from blue … to black as a grin curled into something far more sinister than the thought of teaching some college kid a lesson.
"Hit him, Frankie."
That was the moment that Sam realized he'd been set up to be ripped apart … all at the hands of a demon.
"Hit him with this…"
The knife he was passing to Frank wasn't anything near what was used for cutting food. It was long, curved, and utterly deadly. That knife, it wasn't for show, for toying with, it was used to kill, nothing less. And as Frank's hand wrapped around the hilt, Sam knew it was now or never. The urge to flee kicked into overtime, but he also knew he wasn't getting out without one thing.
So the more passive of the Winchester's balled up his hand, drew back his fist, and slammed it into Frankie's nose … drawing first blood.
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Coming up: Dean!