Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

He's So Crazy, Just Crazy About Me

Dean was watching him again.

Dean was always watching him. When he wasn't focused on a potential target, he was watching Sam. Sam, for his part, was quite alright with it. He liked the knowledge that his brother's eyes were on him, following his movements, looking out for him.

He had realized at some point through the years that his brother might be a little crazy. Hell, he had to be a little crazy himself, he supposed, to be okay with the things Dean did to others. The older Winchester, however, was a little psychotic. Sometimes a lot psychotic. It didn't matter to Sam: he loved the other man exactly as he was.

He raised hazel eyes to his brother, whom was sitting down the bar a bit, and a smirk touched his lips as he found the other's green gaze locked on him. Dean's eyes shifted to his mouth, and the other man shot him a slight smile. Sam winked at him and turned his attention back to the intoxicated, suited man sitting next to him. The one who had bought him several beers and had asked twice his age (followed by "That's good, 'cause I ain't hittin' up no underage kid" when Sam had assured him that he was 21). They chatted for a bit, sports and college and traveling, before the drunk man finally leaned in and suggested,

"How about we get out of here?"

Sam shot him a smile, dimples showing slightly, and nodded in agreement. He slid off his stool to follow the other; he could feel Dean's gaze on him as he followed the other man toward the exit.

It wasn't hard to lure the drunk man away from the bar and to a closed and abandoned gas station a short distance down the street. Some flirting and the promise of more privacy did the trick. The lot itself was unkempt, graffiti covering the building and the windows broken out. Sam did a quick scan for surveillance cameras and, as expected, found none. The place had been closed for a long time.

They moved around the building, out of view from the street, shoes crunching on broken glass. "Like it out in the open?" the man behind him questioned. Sam glanced over his shoulder, found the man staring at his ass, and shot him a grin and a nod.

They reached the parking area behind the building, which was lit dimly by the few street lights scattered about that weren't blown out or broken. Sam was about to turn and face the man behind him, when hands landed on his hips and he was shoved forward, against the brick wall of the old building. He cursed beneath his breath, pressed his hands against the brick to try to give himself some leverage and push away from it. Rough hands grabbed his arms, jerking them away from the wall and behind his back. A huff of breath was pushed out of him as he was pressed forward, face against the brick.

"Bet you like it rough, don't you, whore?" The drunk man kept a firm grip on his arms as he stepped forward to press up against Sam, and the pinned man cursed himself beneath his breath. He had let his guard down and found himself in a precarious situation because of it. Sam winced as strong fingers bit into his wrists; seconds later, something was wrapped around them in an attempt to bind them.

That was not okay. At. All.

Sam bucked back against the man, nearly dislodging him. The stranger let out a curse, shoved him hard against the wall; his head cracked against the brick as he was shoved forward, stunning him momentarily. He tried to shake it off as his hands were bound – not very secure, it felt like a tie binding them, but it would still take him a minute to get them free. The stranger grabbed the waist of his jeans, jerked him back against him, and reached around to fumble for their button.

"Gonna fuck you into the ground," the scent of whiskey wafted over him as the man leered in his ear –it brought to memory his long-gone father - and Sam jerked against the bindings around his wrists. He knew Dean would be there soon; he only had to keep this asshole off him until his brother appeared.

His jeans were undone suddenly and being shoved off his hips, and he threw his head back, trying to headbutt the other. He caught the other with a glancing blow, drawing pained curses and receiving a hard blow in return to the back of his neck. It sent him to his knees and fingers caught hold of his longish hair to jerk him to his feet again.

"Dean.." the word had barely left his lips when the stranger, whom was trying to press up against him, was gone suddenly. The hand in his hair pulled free – he winced at the sting of the pull – and he half-turned in an attempt to pinpoint the man's location.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he found Dean behind him, hand tangled in the stranger's hair. The rage on Dean's face was almost like a living thing, fury and possessiveness and straight-out hatred flickering across the older Winchester's features. Sam staggered his stance slightly, bettering his footing and leaning against the wall; he watched as the drunk man swung fruitlessly at the empty air in front of him, curses spilling from his mouth.

Dean jerked the man's head back hard, hard enough to throw off his balance and pull him off his feet. The man hit the concrete, head cracking the asphalt with a dull thud and bouncing. Sam heard a partial groan from the downed man; it was cut off as Dean delivered a hard kick to the side of his head. His brother fell to his knees then and began hitting the drunk, fist striking flesh.

It took only several blows for Sam to realize how angry his brother really was: Dean wasn't relenting in the force of his strikes. He struck hard, cutting flesh and drawing blood, over and over. Within minutes the drunk had a broken nose, broken jaw, and blood was spurting from his nose and mouth.

Sam watched, wide-eyed, as his brother delivered his wrath on the unfortunate man on the ground. Even when he was certain the stranger was dead – he was fairly certain the several brutal strikes which were delivered to the throat had ensured that - Dean continued hitting him.

It wasn't until he called, "Dean.." that the other man stopped, and stopped instantly. Dean's green gaze, dark in their fury, raised to him immediately, fist poised above the man's battered, unrecognizable face. His brother was on his feet a second later and advancing toward him, covered in blood not his own. It spotted his face, his clothes, covered his fist and forearm. The older Winchester reached him, half-turned him to free his bound wrists, which he had forgotten while watching Dean inflict his wrath.

When Dean turned him to face him again, Sam stepped immediately into his arms. He ignored the blood, the rage still etched on Dean's features, the throbbing in his own head. He stepped into his brother's arms and he felt safe again; more-so when Dean's arms circled him, pulling him closer.

"My Sammy," the older man was muttering against his skin, face buried against his neck and hands running over him, "My Sammy, fucker hurt my boy, fucking kill him for hurting my boy."

"S'okay, Dean," Sam nuzzled the other's cheek, and the tension in Dean's neck and shoulders eased slightly, "I'm okay."

They parted slightly – but only slightly – several minutes later. Sam shot his brother a wry smile and said sheepishly, "Shouldn't have kept my back to him. Guess I fucked that one up." He saw the dark look touch Dean's features again and he hugged the other, "No, ssh, I'm okay, Dean. I'm okay." The other man brushed a finger over the bruise near his temple, where his head had struck the wall. Fingers slipped to the back of his neck, tugging him close, and Dean's mouth brushed his own.

Dean took his hand and led him through the dark parking lot. Sam glanced over at the mangled mess lying nearby, bleeding on the ground, that had been a breathing person minutes before. His attention turned back to Dean as the other raised his hand to brush lips against the back of it.

His brother was a little psychotic, probably.
Sam didn't care: he loved him just as he was.