Okay, it happens sometimes. I get my head handed to me. When I piss off the wrong people (note: always plural, I've never been taken down by only one person, unless that person was an eight foot Sasquatch) and always when the lamebrains either don't know that Sam is with me or they haven't learned yet: Don't Piss Off the Little Brother.

So, we meet up with a lamebrain or three tonight. It's not bad enough we have to find a way to stop the Apocalypse in its tracks, we also get to deal with morons. Great. I am so not in the mood for this.

Sam's on my right side, at the end of the bar, nursing a beer and torturing the salt off a pretzel. I made sure to put myself between him and anybody else so that nobody dies tonight. Because he is not in his happy place. He's finally recovered from his second withdrawal. We've finally recovered, from the physical effects of it, anyway. Sam's still pissed at himself for succumbing, never mind that a friggin' Angel of the Lord couldn't withstand his own vessel's temptations. And I'm still pissed at - at more things than I can list all at one time.

So tonight is not a good night for anybody or anything to be messing with us.

And still they try.

"You're in my seat." Moron number 1 fouls into my face.

"That's funny…" I shift and pretend to be considering something. "I don't feel your name under my ass."

Sam snorts a little laugh behind me and Moron 1 glares at him a second, but only a second, before I see his face go paler and his eyes go wider and I know Sam is straightening up behind me. That's right, buddy. Meet Megatron. And he already doesn't like you.

Moron 1 gets smart, rapidly, and slinks away from us. I think he must get some ribbing from his moron-friends because they laugh at him and he glares at us and I guess Sam must not be noticing because the glare lasts more than a second this time.


"Can we just get out of here?" Sam asks me.

"Like crashing in a dive motel room is gonna be any better than this place?"

The sound of raised voices and glasses breaking has him sighing.

"At least it'd be quiet."

He takes his glass and some tortured pretzels and goes off to a table in the corner. Must be quieter over there.

It's sure not quieter near me when Moron 1 slimes back over.

"You and your girlfriend have a lover's quarrel?" He asks, smirking toward his moron-friends like he thinks he aced this one.

Nice try, doofus. `

"Like the one you had with your sister?"

His face goes blood red and I can all but see the curl of smoke coming out the top of his head. I've faced down angels, archangels, demons, Horsemen, and one really sleazy devil. What does he think he can do?

More than I was anticipating apparently, when he stomps off behind me and all I have is a second's warning of somebody gasping, before a chair crashes across my shoulders and I'm on the floor like a floundered fish, with starry vision and a spine that's pulsing worse than my head suddenly is. I can't move, so I can't avoid the boot that catches me in the side and indents my ribs.

But that's all that happens to me and my starry vision clears enough to see those boots leave the floor and go airborne, and the next thing I hear is the satisfying crash of body against bar stool.

Score one for Little Brother.

I look up and Sam is standing over me and in front of me, between me and the rest of the barroom. My head is still spinning and my spine is still pounding, my whole body feels like an electrified funny bone and I can't move one muscle voluntarily. But Sam will stand there until I can. His hands are fists and his back is straight, but he's not even breathing hard.

"Anybody else?" He growls into the silent room. The only answer he gets is a shotgun aimed square at his neck.

"Get out of my place." The bartender snarls at him, lifting the gun as emphasis. Sam only looks annoyed. He turns just enough to look at the guy.

"Get out of my face." He answers back. "That gun's dusty, so you haven't touched it in too long. The shells – if there are any – are old. You fire that thing and you'll blow your own eye out and not even scratch me."

Then he turns back to his fascinated audience, not even waiting to see the shotgun get lowered and put away. He's waiting for any comers. But there aren't any.

Moron 1 is struggling up to his feet and I'm getting some feeling back in mine and Sam reaches down to haul me up by the shoulder that isn't closest to my sorry ribs. Keeping his eyes on the barroom, and helping me along by touch alone, he keeps me standing and gets me moving and we head for the door.

"You're lucky you're helping your boyfriend home," Moron 1 spits out from bloody lips. "Or I'd put you on the floor."

Just like that, in one smooth movement, I'm in a chair, and Sam turns to face the idiot. He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders, and does that head-tilt-neck-crack thing that means death whenever it doesn't simply mean 'bring it.'

"Here I am."

Well, the moron is pretty well stuck. He can't not try something with Sam now. Not with his friends, not to mention the whole rest of the barroom, witness to his threat. His pride is worth more to him than his skin.

So, he charges, a move that's so obvious that, even half-concussed, even I can see it coming.

I'm not sure Sam even touches him, if he trips him or just gets out of the way and lets the moron trip himself over his own stupidity. He crashes headfirst into a table and hits the floor and has the good sense not to try to get up again.

"Any more of you Yahoos want to try something, I might actually break a sweat." Sam says, sounding pissed that he's had to deal with such a poor opponent. "Nobody? Great. We're leaving."

He makes that last part sound more like a threat than a promise and with a hand under my shoulder again, he gets me on my feet and keeps me upright across the floor and out to the car. My legs are rubber and my vision pulses along with my head and my spine, but he keeps me upright and moving.

"How many fingers?" He asks as he unlocks the car one handed.

"Ten, the last time I had to look." I tell him, since he's not holding up any fingers.

"Everything has feeling in it? Arms? Feet?"


"Anything broken?"

"Maybe a rib."

He grumbles a curse and sits me in the shotgun seat and decides he's going to have a look at my ribs right here right now in the friggin' bar parking lot. I push his hands away from yanking up my t-shirt.

"Dude, you're not undressing me here in front of the moron who accused us of dating."

"You're the one who accused him of dating his sister." Sam points out. I admit it, I smile a little bit. The bruised and maybe broken rib was worth the look on the moron's face when I said it. Still –

"Let's get to a motel first, all right?"

"Now he wants a motel." He grumbles again and makes sure I'm all nice and tucked into my seat before he shuts the door and goes around to the driver's side. He guns us out of the parking lot but he's still too pissed and I'm too grateful that he saved my ass to call him on it.

"You okay?" I finally ask. The question only seems to confuse Sam.

"He didn't lay a finger on me."

That's not what I meant.

"I give him points for trying." I say. Sam rolls his eyes and shrugs and maybe finally gets what I'm asking.

"Yeah, I'm okay. You?"

"Never better."

He takes that with the grunt of derision it deserves and keeps driving to find us a motel on the far end of town. Away from the morons, hopefully. And when we get there, he carries in all the gear, nearly carries me in, salts the room, checks my ribs, pulls off my boots and gives me the painkillers and water, then as I start dozing off he ices my shoulders and my ribs and unfolds a blanket across me and finds something on the TV to watch because he's going to be awake awhile to keep checking periodically that I don't have a concussion or lose feeling in my extremities, and he does it all like he could do it in his sleep, which he could.

I can't help thinking that I got my head handed to me tonight by a single moron...

I'm nearly asleep when I feel the ice bags across my shoulders being replaced and a fingernail across my bare foot has me twitching away from the touch. Then a big hand skims my hair and presses my shoulder and a big shadow settled across me when Sam takes his seat again on the edge of his bed closest to me.

I can't help thinking...it was worth it.

The end.