Dean had never had a panic attack. This was pretty remarkable, considering some of the scary, evil shit he'd dealt with in his lifetime. Tonight, however, had been particularly bad. What had begun as a relaxing day off went south pretty quickly.
Cash was low, so they hit two bars in succession, building up their financial stores by hustling pool. The evening's third stop, Rick's Hideaway, turned out to be a huge mistake.
Two many beers had gotten him nothing but cocky. Dean should have known better than to hit up two dives in the same town on the same night. It shouldn't have surprised him to be accosted by a biker he'd hustled two hours earlier—and three of his friends. They always seemed to know that hurting Sam was the best way to get to Dean.
"He's got a concussion, a sprained wrist, and two broken ribs. That stab wound on his left thigh missed the femoral artery by about a quarter inch. I'd say he was lucky, Mr. Wallace," the doctor finished itemizing Sam's injuries.
So, this is what a panic attack feels like, Dean mused, as his throat began to close up and his hands tingled.