By: Karen B.

Summary: Teen-chester fic. Sam - 14. Dean- 18. Sam's turn to go on a date. Dean plays chaperon. A little bit of romance, a little bit of action, a little bit of hurt -- kick in some big bro Dean -- for kicks.

Rated: Lighthearted -- a few bad words.

Disclaimer: The muse dictates -- I just hear and obey. I do not own the characters of Supernatural -- they however -- own me.

Thank you for your time,




We'd moved again. Another middle of nowhere town. Location, population, Mayor, Mailman -- didn't matter none. Was just another place we'd soon depart from -- like every other. A town where I'd live out another lie. A town where no one would remember me -- because my name never matched the face in the mirror. I finished shaving -- what little fuzz I had -- and put my razor away.

On the upside, I was only two weeks into being the newcomer and had landed myself a girlfriend. Well, sort of a girlfriend. We'd only been hanging out at the library after school, and afterward going for ice cream once or twice. I hadn't even kissed her -- forget that -- we hadn't even held hands. Dean said, I was being pathetic. I said, I was being gentlemanly. Dean said, I was a dork. I said, I didn't expect anything less from God's gift to woman.

There wasn't much to do in such a small town. Our choices -- The Starlite Drive-In. Known for its cheesy out-of-date flicks, or the local Café. Known for its greasy fries and fresh strawberry shakes. We chose the drive-in; which meant Dean had to drive us in.

Dean could be a pain in the ass big brother, just as much as he could be awesome. Tonight, he was awesome, parking us close to the screen in the less populated section, and silently slipping out of the Impala heading straight for the concession stand. Becky and I smiled at one another, immediately hitting the front seat. It felt really good sitting behind the wheel, even if I was too young to drive.

I tossed my head slightly, letting my bangs fall over my eyes, and taking a secret peek over at Becky. She looked so pretty in her faded blue jeans -- nice jeans -- a pale blue sweater -- nice sweater, and no makeup. She didn't need to put that junk on -- a swipe of pink lip gloss to shine up her lips was more than she needed. I started worrying about the kiss issue. To kiss or not to kiss. Kiss now or kiss later. Tilt left or tilt right -- eyes open or eyes closed. I wondered what flavor lip gloss she used -- apple blossom. I was sure it was apple blossom, looked like apple blossom. Crap, did I remember to brush my teeth? I ran my tongue over them, they felt clean.

Becky turned toward me and smiled sweetly.

Busted -- I shyly glanced away, being sure to remain hidden behind my hair.

"So, uh…" I stared out the front windshield struggling to think of something to say. while waiting for the movie to start. "We're reading Chaucer's Canterbury Tales in Mrs. Davis's English Lit class. Have you ever read, Chaucer?" I asked.


"Geoffrey Chaucer, he was a medieval English poet. The Canterbury Tales is recognized as the first book of poetry written in the English language. Before Chaucer's time, even poets who lived in England always wrote in Italian or Latin, which meant that poetry was only understandable by rich and educated people. During that period, English was considered to be low-class and boring. The Canterbury Tales helped to change all th…thaa…t…'ehh." I stuttered, running a hand through my hair -- suddenly embarrassed. I'd been rambling on, Becky just staring at me, blinking and wide-eyed. "Uncool stuff?" I squirmed.

"Sam, you're so cute," Becky said with sincerity.

The old-fashion speaker attached to the open window crackled to life -- finally.

"Em, movies going to start soon," I said, my right foot tapping nervously against the floorboard. Sudden Impact, one of Dean's favorite movies. When Dean wasn't pretending he was Batman -- he was badass cop, Harry Callahan. "Hope you like Dirty Harry -- one of Dean's fa…favorites." I stuttered again --crap.

Dean. Dean. Dean. All I talked about was, Dean. Becky must be thinking, I sounded like a five-year-old missing his daddy.

"I like being with you, Sam." Becky smiled, sweetly.

I cleared my throat trying to get rid of one of the butterflies that had somehow escaped my stomach, ending up trapped in my windpipe. I fumbled with a loose thread on my jacket, thinking I wasn't dressed up to par, and also thinking if I kept on rambling like the geek boy Dean always said I was -- I'd blow this date. Chaucer? Come on Sam, you've got to come up with something more interesting than dead poets to talk about. I watched as the stupid advertisement with the dancing hotdog and bun came up on the large 100-foot screen. Becky scooted close, settling her silky brunette head on my shoulder. The hotdog pulsed and danced around, the bun opened, and the hotdog dove in -- talk about symbolic. I tried not to fidget in my seat, glancing in the side mirror to see if my face had turned red. Becky just giggled.

No red face.


Strike that -- not so good -- I caught sight of Dean heading back.

"Already," I mumbled, brushing Becky's hair out of my mouth.

Damn it, he said he wouldn't interfere. I watched him round the four-door green Ford parked behind us -- their windows already steamed heavily with fog. Dean walked by the car peering in -- a perverted smirk on his face. My brother, Dean, the world and every chick in it -- his oyster. I shook my head and frowned watching my testosterone-overloaded brother.

The only thing Dean ever had on his mind these days was sex. The only thing I ever had on my mind was keeping my stories straight. Lying was the Winchester way. For obvious reasons. I hated lying. However, when asked to introduce myself and my unique talent to a classroom full of new faces -- I couldn't exactly stand front and center and use my real name -- or my real unique talent. I was sure hunting down ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and all things that go bump in the night would label me the new kid who just landed from outer space. My made-up names changed all the time, but I kept my unique talent the same -- building my own telescope. At least that was a believable talent -- and the only true fact about myself I could reveal.

Waking up to a new school, teachers and friends as often as Dad cleaned his weapon's stash was challenging. I had to memorize name, address, and father's occupation. Why. When. How. Where. Talk about an identity crisis. So many times, I'd look in the mirror wondering just who it was glaring back at me. I didn't blend in well, maybe it was because I never had time to blend. Worse, was getting attached to people I'd soon leave far behind.

My thoughts were interrupted by Dean, still wearing his perverted smirk. "Here you go, Romeo and Juliet." He shoved an armload of snacks through the open window. One large, ice-rattling Coke -- two straws. A greasy box of buttered popcorn -- extra butter. Snowcaps -- my personal favorite. A bag of cherry-red Twizzlers, and a Trojan, also cherry-red, discretely palmed into my hand -- and wasn't that just creepy-sick.

"Dean!" I protested, quickly shoving the love supply in my jacket pocket before Becky could see.

"It's good times, Sammy." Dean winked, glancing at Becky, then back to me. "Hot babe in a Panther's jersey working concession, Sammy. That's where I'll be if you need…"Dean winked again. " …Anything."

I'd made the mortal mistake back at the motel room, of telling Dean how nervous I was about this date. That I didn't even know what I would talk to Becky about. I cringed, recalling big brother's sage advice, still stabbing me in places I didn't want to be stabbed in.

"You have some real hang-ups, you know that, man?" Dean had laughed. "Drive-in, dude." He elbowed me in the ribs hard enough to make me bend at the waist. "No talking -- necking, and if you're really lucky, Sam -- who-ha."

"Who-ha?" I'd questioned, rubbing my sore ribs.

"Yeah, Sammy, you know…" Dean waggled his brows. "Who-ha!"

"Why can't you just say intercourse, like everybody else, Dean?"

"Nobody says intercourse." Dean cocked his head to one side. "You are so, gay."


My thoughts shifted back to the present. I glanced over at Becky who was twisting her hair around her finger. The small movement sending my inner butterflies into a storm squall.

I wasn't sure what was more dangerous, my nerves, or Dean, instructing me on anything other than separating darks from lights, Algebra two, Martial arts, or weapons training.

Dating was nerve wracking, for one simple reason -- It was hard to be myself without dropping the stack of lies I always carried around in my arms. Not to mention, stomach butterflies were a horrible monster I didn't know how to hunt and kill. It was stupid really -- I shouldn't be so flipped-out. Not like Becky and I would ever get past date number ten. Speed dating also being the Winchester way as we never stayed around long enough for anything to be other than that. Becky wasn't my first date, by far, but this was the first time I'd ever gotten to take a girl to a drive-in. I really liked Becky a lot. Aside from ice cream and the library and shared beacons in science class this was our first real date.

"Your brother's sweet," Becky said, opening the bag of Twizzlers,

"Yeah, I guess." My foot tapped faster, palms sweating -- heart racing.

"Want one?" Becky held a Twizzler out to me.

"Sure, thanks." I took the red licorice only to have the Twizzler slip through my sweaty fingers, dropping to the floorboards.

"Oops, sorry," we said in unison, bumping heads when we both bent to get the roped candy.

We sat up, and stared at each other -- should I kiss her?

Thankfully, Clint's .45 firing broke the awkward moment and we both stared out the front windshield at the screen, munching on Twizzlers.

I really liked Becky a lot -- I know -- I said that already. Whenever I looked at her, my heart would sometimes skip a beat. I was pretty sure she liked me, too. She was here, right? I wanted to hold her hand, but my palms were wet. I wanted to say something charming, cute and clever, but my tongue seemed to be Twizzler-glued to the roof of my mouth.

My nervousness was interrupted by Becky leaning in to nibble on my earlobe, sending my butterflies out the window. I turned and made eye contact, gazing briefly at her soft, pink lips -- back to meet her eyes.

I smiled.

She smiled.

Gently cupping her chin with one hand, I leaned in, keeping eye contact -- guiding her lips toward mine. I closed my eyes just as our lips met, tongues gently brushing against each others -- so not gay.

I wrapped Becky in my arms, hugging her close.





Relaxed, until I heard a loud noise.



At first I thought it was my heart, but when Becky stopped kissing me and the banging continued, we drew apart.

"What the?" I turned in my seat staring out the back window, watching a kid strut along side the car, like a peacock in heat.

"It's that jerk, Mike," Becky grumbled. "He just won't leave me alone."

Mike, in everyway, was big.

"Old boyfriend?" I cringed as the douche bag's balled fist punched the Impala harder this time.

"He wishes," Becky huffed.

Three other's came into view behind Mike -- looking like they could be poster children for America's Most Wanted. One large kid was wearing an Ozzi Osborne concert tee. He held a screwdriver in his hand, strolling along the passenger side of the car -- metal screeching against metal.

"Holy crap! Dean's going to flip!"

I scrambled for the handle. "Becky, stay in the car and lock the doors after me!" I ordered.


"Just do it. Shit!" I swore under my breath, knowing where this was heading. I totally hated fighting as much as I hated hunting, but if there was anything worth fighting over it was my brother's baby and a girl's honor. Getting the door open, I placed one foot to the ground, glancing briefly at Becky. She looked scared. "Don't worry," I said softly. "It'll be o…" Before I could finish, a hand fisted into my jacket, yanking me out into the night air.

Mike let go of my shirt and I drew back against the Impala clicking the door shut. I could hear Becky, still inside the car calling my name -- over and over.

Mike leaned toward me, threateningly. "I don't like how you smell... " Mike glanced past me into the car obviously hearing Becky's cries. "...Sam." He turned back toward me, narrowing his eyes.

"It's called soap," I said, looking Mike right in the eye. "Don't think you've ever used it before."

Mike glanced over his shoulder at his gang, "Kids funny," he said, whirling back and landing a hard right to my stomach.

"Arraaagh!" I gripped at my stomach, tennis shoes slipping on gravel -- dropping to my knees.

"Stop! Mike, stop it!" I could hear Becky yelling as I gulped back the red-hot lava bubbling in my throat.

"Need a hand, Sam." Mike pulled me up to standing.

"I've got him." Someone off to my right yanked me hard out of Mike's hold.

I'd managed to head butt the douche, block a punch, and counter with a strike of my own before -- ker-thunk -- I was towed away from the car.

"Sam!" My eyes stopped rolling long enough to catch a peek of Becky running away from the car -- on the verge of tears.


America's Most Wanted had lugged me off behind the big screen, a junkyard for every product sold at the concession stand -- and then some. Paper cups, popcorn barrels, and chunks of glass littered the pebbly ground. Several yards away, stood a single light pole dimly lighting the area, yet bright enough to gather a heavy swarm of insects.

I hit the ground several times before hearing the rattle of metal -- my back slammed against a chain link fence. Sounded like flies buzzing in my ears. My heart pounded, vision blurred, and head spun. I'd fought hard, but was losing ground fast.

"Fucky'all," I whooshed out all in one breath.

"Ohhh, Sammy….we'd all like to see that." Mike glanced around at the others. "Wouldn't we?" The others laughed, like they were Mike's personal puppets -- life-sized.

"Nobody calls me, Sammy!" I swiped a hand over my forehead, peering at my hand -- blood -- coming from a nice, deep cut splayed across my palm "Go to hell!" I spat, loudly, ignoring the burning sting.

"I am your hell." Mike stood in front of me -- eyes flashing red-tide angry -- even in the dark. Ozzie stood right behind him, the other two douche bags positioned next to me --holding me upright.

"Becky's my girl, Sam," Mike spat in my face, leaning in even closer.

"Not what she said," I growled.

"You little, freak!" Mike's fist came up fast, catching me in the jaw and snapping my head back against the fence.

"So." I spit blood from my mouth. "Guess this means we can't be friends? Teammates? Blood brothers." I smirked. Glancing up at the night sky, I saw stars, but those stars quickly turned shadowy -- screeching and darting around. Bats.

"No way, you little troll-freak." Mike shoved me back, rattling the fence harder. "Becky's too good for freaks," he ranted.

"I …am… not… a freak!" I yelled.

Wasn't the first damn time someone had called me a freak. I hated that word, with everything in me. More than I hated moving around. More than I hated always being the new kid. Lying. Hunting. Dean sometimes would call me a freak, good-humouredly, but the word enraged me -- even said jokingly. Whenever Dean would call me that, I'd just storm off and hide in my room. If I didn't' have a room, I'd find a quiet place outside under a tree. I just had to get away. I felt like David Banner or something. Like I'd hulk out -- at the mere mention of the word. I swore I would -- could feel something deep inside me come to a boil whenever the word was said -- to my face or not. Something was hiding in the darkness. Something monstrous wanting to rage out of its cage. Maybe I was just crazy -- crazy scared the crap out of me. It was a word -- just a word -- sticks and stones, right?

I continued to gaze upward at the swarm of black-felt shadows zipping around. The colony of bats -- blind insectivores -- using screeches and clicks to locate their food.

"Look at me when I talk to you, freak." Mike and the rest of America's Most Wanted made the mistake of following my gaze.

One of Dad's laws. Distract and evade.

I took advantage, kicking out with my foot, wiggling loose, balling a fist and swinging at the closest target -- Mike. Got him square, blood pouring from his nose and splattering onto my jacket sleeve.

Before I could make another move, Ozzie grabbed hold of me and someone's giant fist landed in the center of my stomach dropping me, knees scrapping against gravel.

"Arrrr," I threw up, staring into the glob and gasping for breath.

Everyone laughed -- everyone but me.

Mike stepped up and yanked me back to my feet by my hair. I swallowed hard, looking him in the eye.

"You ready to quit, Sam? Just say the word." Mike's smile widened.

"No," I snapped. "I don't quit!"

"What are you going to do, geek boy? Knock us all down?" More laughter.

"Soon as I catch my breath," I pledged.

"Aren't you the competitive one." Mike pointed a finger at me. "Just remember how you feel now, freak -- because when we're done with you you're going to feel way worse."

"Hey, let's play kickball with his head!" Ozzie suggested, the other two poster boys joined in, forming a circle around me

"How about Frisbee," someone else suggested

"Both, fun games." Mike shoved me hard center circle, rubbing blood from his chin. "I get first ups." I dodged the potshot Mike took at my face.

"Our turn." Two douche bags jumped me at once, and I swung wild, hearing my knuckles connect with a hard cheekbone before twisting sideways, falling, the back of my head smacking against something sharp.

Standing stiffly, I swung at the next guy who came at me. Apparently I missed as I went down again, this time on both hands and knees -- my right eye now staring into blackness. I found myself at the bottom of the pile, all four creeps pounding the wind out of me. Man, I'd really screwed up. Dad's number one crucial rule when it came to fighting: No brawl -- back alley, bar, street, or against all odds -- should ever last longer than thirty seconds. I was well past the time limit. Fists kept landing to my right eyeball, I turned my head away. Through the tangle of arms, legs, and barrage of punches, I saw a figure blending in with the shadows heading our way.

"Dean," I called out, somehow recovering the ability to breathe.

Palms to the ground, I scrambled out from under the pile. Climbing shakily to my feet, fighting back tears. Dean neared, and I could see his muscles tense even under his leather, hands curled into fists at his sides.

"You can't get away from us, freak!" Mike said, everyone advancing to trap me again inside the circle.

"Hey, sweet-cheeks!" Dean's voice was deep, slick and clam. "Looks like he just did," Dean said, face shrouded in shadows, his stance straight and tall -- his best batman impersonation yet.

The action came to a standstill, everyone's attention now on Batman…'eh…Dean.

"You okay, freak?" Dean directed my way.

"Nobody calls him that." Mike gave me a hard shove.

"I'm okay, Dean," I mumbled, barely keeping my feet under me.

"What the fuck do you want?" Mike glared at my brother.

Dean made his way out of the shadows, but didn't answer. He was quiet, real quiet -- gets that way when he's beyond angry. Dean sized-up each of Mike's followers, until his eyes came to rest on me -- I looked away in shame.


My guard dog's standard offer. What do you want me to do, bro? Dean would take down all four dicks with one word from me. There would be no stopping my brother, not until each one of these guys was ass-kicked and bloody. But Dean also knew -- being a Winchester meant standing up for yourself. No douching-out allowed. Dean wouldn't zap me of that dignity, if that was what I wanted.

"Want your ass kicked, too, man!" Ozzie took a step toward Dean.

"Sam!" Dean called, more forcefully insisting on an answer, obviously itching to repay the damage.

I looked back at my brother. His face was turning red, fists shaking with anticipation. He was wound tight, ready to spin wild. I could see the glint in his eyes -- that whole Clint Eastwood glint. If I let him off his leash -- no one would leave lucky.

"I can deal, one on one," I told Dean, my gaze falling on Mike -- the one.

"You got it, little brother."

"You going to rescue the freak?" Mike growled, also advancing on Dean. "You think you're tough enough?"

"I can walk the walk." Dean smiled, but didn't make a move.

"Prove it!" One of the puppets taunted.

"My guess is you're one of those little kids that pulled the legs off spiders," Dean accused.

"You're right. I was," the douche answered proudly. "Scared?"

"Never, but you will be," Dean assured. "When you girls get home tonight, don't forget to write in your diaries." Dean raised a hand, writing in the air with his imaginary pencil. "Dear penis, today we lost our balls. Ha!" Dean laughed -- everyone else growled. "Tough audience," he snickered, taking a few steps inward. Pressing index finger and thumb to his lips, Dean blew, giving a two-fingered shrill whistle.

Even though it hurt, I had to laugh. Dean's plans of attack on a hunt or otherwise -- always inspirational. The shrill sound had grabbed everyone's attention -- including the bats feeding above -- echolocation can be a very cool thing. Silent wings swooped down in Pied Piper mode, dive bombing all around.

"Holy shit!" Mike yelled as he and his puppets took off running past Dean, like they were running a marathon.

"Whoa there!" Dean snagged Mike by the shirt collar, yanking him back. "Not you! Now this is what is called a good old-fashion beat down." Dean shoved Mike toward me. "Square off," Dean ordered, crossing his arms over his chest and taking two steps back, yet ready to block Mike should he try to cut and run again.

"What's with you, man?" Mike directed toward Dean.

"I like to watch," Dean waggled his brow.

"You're one sick, messed up, crazy dude," Mike sneered.

"Been said. Square off," Dean repeated, in that cool, calm voice that could make a snake squeamish.

"Fine." Mike faced me. "Bring it, feak boy."

Fighting sucked. Common sense told me...oh hell. I wanted to kick the jerks ass -- if for no other reason than he deserved it. And now that the odds were even, thanks to Dean and a few bats, I had my chance. I pulled my shoulders back, got my feet solidly under me feeling my center of gravity. Knees slightly bent, I moved in a circle around Mike, staying on the balls of my feet for speed, balance -- control. I did as Dad taught, imagining a barrier, a solid brick wall between my opponent and myself. Not a brick wall of protection, but an imaginary wall to plow my fist through -- allowing for a much harder delivery. I brought both fists up in front of me, close to my chin.

"Kung-Fu his ass, Sammy!" Dean yelled.

"Give it your best shot, freak," Mike taunted, jabbing at my face.

There was the 'freak' thing again, making me more mad, because deep down, somehow I knew they were right.

Mike and I went at it for a long while, trading hard punches. Mike was a fairly good fighter, but even in my already beat-up state, I was getting the better of him. I stepped forward, aggressively punching, backing Mike up farther and farther. Adrenaline pumping, nerve endings spiking.

"That's my boy." I caught a glimpse of Dean, arms still crossed, standing on the sideline.

I started having a hard time staying focused, my ribs and head hurt, and everything kinda looked grainy, like a giant sandpit. Just when I was beginning to think neither one of us would be announced the winner of this fight, I executed a drop kick but was caught of guard -- by Becky standing behind Den -- tears in her eyes.

A balled-up hulk of a fist pumped one, two, three times -- hard in my face, and once in my stomach. I went down. I think I threw up -- then -- lights out.


I was roused by Dean's voice, loud over the sound of Led Zeppelin's, Stairway to Heaven.

"Don't worry, Betsy."


"Right. He'll be okay. Sam's tough."

Peeking open one eye -- because it was the only eye that would peek open -- I saw nothing. Everything was completely out of focus. By sound, smell, and touch alone, I deduced I was lying in the back seat of the Impala. I felt really crappy. My chest hurt, my head, my stomach, and my right eye was broken -- getting hit -- sucked.

"Gaw," I groaned.

"You alive?" Dean asked as the Impala rolled slowly to a stop.

"I'm alive." I barely could speak around my fat, bloody lip, and embarrassment of letting Mike get the drop on me.

"Told you, Sam's tough."

"Sam, I'm so sorry." Becky's voice floated over the front passenger seat. The car door squeaked opened. "I'll call you tomorrow." The car door shut, the Impala pulling back out onto the road.

"Ughhh." I tired to wiggle my way into a sitting position. Glancing at the palm of my hand, I noted my cut was now tightly wrapped, blood soaking through the white gauze. Wonder when he did that? "Dean," I moaned. "Really feel…Stop! " I swallowed down hard. "Going to hurl."

"Son of a bitch!"

The car lurched forward and so did the butterflies that had gathered once again in my stomach, seeming to block my airway and the vile, chunky thing wanting to erupt out my throat.

"Never mind." I sat up further, gaining control.

"Sam, just stay down, we'll be back at the motel soon. You can hurl all you want there, okay."

"Okay." I let my body weight take me back flat to the leather seat.

Dean lowered the radio. "Man, that was some midnight showing. You sure can take a beating."

"Thanks -- I think….uhhhh," I groaned, staring at the roof of the car.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean asked. I didn't need to see my brother's face to know he was worried about me.

"Is that supposed to be a trick question?" I tried to crane my neck to count how many, but truth was, I didn't know -- seeing everything in shades of blurry. "I can't see too well right now, Dean."

"Fine. Lead singer for Zeppelin?" Dean switched coherency-test tactics.

"Robert Plant," I answered without hesitation. I didn't have a concussion, was just beat to hell.


"Jimmy Page."

"Drums?" Dean continued to gage my mental awareness.

"John Bonham."

"Drive-ins are made for?"

"Necking," I admitted with a smile, remembering the sweet kiss Becky and I shared.

"And?" Dean demanded.

"Who-ha," I announced, knowing exactly what Dean wanted to hear.

"Good job," Dean clucked. "Now tell me, what's Dad's rule about being caught off-guard?"

"Don't be that dude," I bit out, tasting bile and gagging.

"Right," Dean muttered. " And…"

"Always maintain awareness of your surroundings," I recited.

"Executing the drop kick?" Dean grumbled.

"Just, don't."

"Seriously, don't," Dean reminded. "And why?"

"Because, I'm not done training."

"And, when you're out numbered?" Dean continued his unnecessary drill.

"Scramble. Get the hell out." I licked blood off my lip, twisting to get comfortable. "Hurts."

"What hurts worse, Sam?"

"That's not one of Dad's rules."


"Being someone else's, Bitch."

"Yahatzee," Dean praised.

"Boggle," I yawned, resting further back against the seat.

"What are you talking about?"

"I hate Yhatzee -- like Boggle."


"Whatever, Dean."

The rest of the ride back to the motel came in white flashes -- spurts of consciousness.

I remembered shivering hard. Dean leaning over the seat to cover me with his jacket. I sighed a thank you, the warmth just as comforting as the leathery smell crowding my mind -- easing the shakes. Once, I glanced out the window -- not a good idea. Stars swirled in the night sky, making me breath heavy -- making me dizzy. Something red-hot slithered through my belly. I remembered telling Dean I was about to be sick. Being pulled from the Impala. Dean whistling under his breath, when that red-hot slithering thing splattered out my mouth to the pavement. Dean giving me water, asking me if I could walk. Me, murmuring I didn't think so. My aching body being lifted and slung over a shoulder, fingers grasping at a strong back.

Then, everything turned into the big, black nothing.


Someone touched the side of my face.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" I ground out through clenched teeth. "Stay away."

"Not a chance." That someone squeezed my shoulder.

"Huh?" I licked my lips, still tasting blood.

"Open your eyes, Sam."

The familiar voice guided me through the dark. I struggled in earnest, blinking once, twice, on the third blink I was able to creek open one eye. Everything was fuzzy and the room spun. Felt sick, achy, like I had the flu. I tried to sit up, pain spilling through my chest, stomach, arms, legs -- everywhere.

"Sammy." Someone held down my shoulders.

"Ouch!" I looked up.

"I wouldn't try to sit up just yet," Dean warned.

A quick glance around brought me to realize, I was back in our motel room. Lying in my crappy bed, on Dean's lap.

"Hey." I relaxed a little, slumping back against my brother. "What happen?"

"You took a few hard knocks."

"I remember those few hard knocks." I stiffened. "What wild thing hit me this time?"

"Mike, and three other dicks."

"Oh." I could feel my face flush red -- embarrassed a bunch of humans could get the better of me. "Right. Dicks." Gawd, my head hurt. I raised a hand to inspect the area in question. "Stitches?" I asked.

"Nah." Dean grabbed my hand mid-air. "Spit and glue."

"Can't see out of my right eye."

"It looks like shit. Black, blue, purple, red, swollen completely shut." Dean poked a finger around the area. "Does it hurt?"

"Gaaah! Dude!" I jerked my head away. "Does now." I blinked, considering Dean with my half-good eye. "What's the other eye look like?" I only asked because Dean's face was swimming around, like a dying fish in a fishbowl.

"The big dick you were fighting took off not looking half as miserable as you do right now…" Dean dabbed at my neck with a cold washcloth. "…Although, you did land a few good punches to his nose."

"Dean --"

"Like a glazed donut." Dean brushed a piece of damp hair back off my forehead, staring at my eye.

I nodded, agreeably.

"Want me to slice your eye open, like Mickey did for Rocky?"

"No!" I stiffened. "Hell, no!" I turned my head away. "That would hurt worse."

"I doubt you could hurt worse than you do now, kiddo," Dean said with total pity. "You were supposed to be making hickeys, Sammy boy, making who-ha. At the very least kissing Bridgett…"


"Not kissing dirt."

I closed my eye, exhausted, hand stinging -- everything stinging -- including my pride.

"Yo, Sam."


"Look at me."

"I don't want to look at you."


I sighed and opened my one eye.

"You can take a shot better than Rocky, man. That douche was a real bruiser and you took him on -- no fear -- earned his and everyone else's respect." Dean turned his head. "I'm proud of you, Sam," he whispered to the wall.

"If Dad were here, he wouldn't say that."

"No." Dean turned back, dipping down so close I could see the little, brown specks swimming in the green of his eyes. "Dad wouldn't say it, Sammy, but he'd sure think it --then he'd friggin' lance that eye." Dean smiled, settling back against the headboard, pulling me with him.

"Dean." My head lolled lazily.

"Yeah, pal?" Dean cupped the side of my face.

"I'm glad you're not Dad," I muttered sleepily, closing my eye and resting against the coolness of my brother's palm.



"Give me back my Trojan."

The end.