Chapter Text
June 18th, 2018
10:42PM
Dean has been hit plenty of times. Tonight is nothing new.
It is, however, situationally… different.
Something about him makes people want to crack their knuckles against his jaw. Maybe it’s the way he runs his mouth. Maybe it’s his aloof attitude. Maybe it’s jealousy - he can’t even begin to fathom the number of times he’s been called pretty boy only for those words to be followed up with a beating. And it’s not like Dean doesn’t defend himself; he’s quite adept at fighting back and whenever his friends or family see a black eye or split lip his reply is always, “You should see the other guy”. A lot of the time men get threatened by Dean and his Southern charm, an obvious transplant in Boston with his honey voice and chivalrous manner.
It was business that had brought him up from Texas two years ago. After graduating culinary school Dean laid out all the plans to open up his own little place. In Austin, however, the niche market for the type of cafe he wanted to open was depressingly small. All the lenders said the same thing:
“This isn’t the right neighborhood.”
“This isn’t the right vibe.”
“Maybe if you went to College Town…”
But Dean wanted to make money and have a good location. There was going to be no compromise. Add an itch to get out of the life he'd been living for twenty years and you've got a recipe for wanderlust. He didn’t discover his passion so late in the game to let it go up in smoke. A call up to uncle Bobby had the crazy old coot suggesting Dean and his brother move towards Boston where their uncle had put down roots, trading small town life in Texas after the death of their father for the hustle and bustle of the city.
Bobby had opened a bookstore and ran it like a well-oiled machine and he let Dean know the inside scoop of a restaurant space that had recently been vacated by a bankrupt business. Dean and Sam packed up, Dean snagged a loan, and the rest is - as they say - history.
Anyway, back to present: Dean is being held up only by the lapels of his coat collar, hands zip tied together, his six foot frame feeling a bit like a rag doll as he’s shaken and slapped one more time for good measure.
“This is how all my favorite dates start,” Dean manages to say through a split lip, teeth covered in blood when he smiles.
The burly blond man currently serving him his ass on a platter narrows his gaze. “This doesn’t have to be so bad, brother. Just tell me where he is.”
Dean snorts - a blood clot shoots out of his nose and he laughs when it spatters into the man’s scruffy beard. “What are you, French? I like ‘em exotic. This is my lucky night.” This guy is unnaturally strong. Is he juiced up on something?
Steely blue eyes narrow even further and the man shoves Dean up against a wall, Dean trying not to think about what kind of liquid is seeping through his coat to get sticky on his skin. This building is kinda gross. The resulting noise Dean makes from impact is a garbled wheeze and he can’t save his pride, wincing and closing his eyes as he tips his head back against the wall.
“Ok- let’s compromise,” Dean whuffs out. He’s clearly in no position to be negotiating, but this guy had come charging in with something crazy in his eyes and on his tongue and Dean is a professional deflector. “I ain’t tellin’ you where Sammy is.”
The man gives him a warning shake, Dean’s head knocking back against the wall and sending stars exploding into his vision. After he swims a little Dean keeps his eyes closed, trying to rely on muscle memory to talk.
“Take me. What- whatever… he did, take me.”
There’s a beat of silence where neither men move. When Dean cracks a crusty eye open he sees the man examining him thoughtfully. Suddenly gravity is Dean’s abuser as the man lets him go and allows him to drop to the wet, dirty floor, Dean gasping for breath and trying to roll onto his back so he can open his lungs and regulate his breathing.
“Don’t move,” the man warns, before turning his back.
Dean tosses a weak thumbs up. “D’accord.”
The man pulls out a cell phone and brings it up to his ear. Through blurry vision Dean assesses the situation; the man is wearing a fitted, nice suit, the straps of his shoulder holster visible whenever he rotates his arms a certain way. Armed, brutish, but apparently not so stupid since he’s taking Dean’s offer into consideration. He speaks on the phone in hushed tones and then hangs up, sliding the device into his pocket as he looks down at Dean - who knows he’s just the picture of pretty as he sends a charming, bloodied smile up at his assailant.
“Gonna show me what’s behind door number one?”
The man raises his fist, and everything goes black.