Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor the characters, nor much of anything really.

A/N: After recently marathoning all of Supernatural, and eagerly awaiting the next season, I decided to satisfy my supernatural itch by writing a fanfic. Yikes! I write this for entertainment purposes and not historical accuracy. As a WARNING I will mention that there is a great likely hood of M/M relationship(s). Don't worry, I won't go crazy with it, I like plot more than extremely ooc mush. I'm also a sucker for angst, so happy endings are not my forte. Sorry! Throughout this story there will be situations that reflect events that happen in the series. It won't be in chronological order. I do it simply because it makes me smile.

Enjoy!

Chapter One: Whiskey in Hand

By: Zavijah

"Damnit Sammy."

Palming the horn of his saddle, Dean leaned forward to take some of his weight off the ache in his side. They'd been riding for hours since the mess in Blackwater — or was it Blackhorn. He couldn't remember. All the crags and valleys they chased their quarry into blurred into the same middle of nowhere hell hole. Dean didn't really pay attention to where they were, where they had been, or where they were going. As long as the next town had a watering hole, he didn't give a damn.

"Sammy," He repeated more loudly, growling to make a point that he wanted his brother's attention. He was pretty damn sure he'd been heard the first time and could perfectly imagine the faint eye roll Sam had given in response. "We've been riding since dawn don't you think it's—"

"—We," Sam calmly interrupted, "need to get you to a doctor."

"Ah piss on that. Let's stop and I'll do it myself."

"We have nothing to disinfect the wound, Dean."

"I have that—"

"You drank it."

Dean opened his mouth to argue but paused. Oh yeah, he had drank off the last of the whiskey hours earlier. Still, Sam didn't have to say it like it was such a bad thing. "I was thirsty," spoken defensively. "And in pain."

"I'm not—" Sam's lips thinned, and for a moment they both rode on in mutual silence; at least until Sam's had better control of his tone. "I'm not faulting you for it. All I'm saying is that because we don't have the right supplies we need to find someone who does."

Dean grumbled, half working on another pointless remark to continue the argument but the pain in his side changed his mind; for a couple of minutes. "You know I could just —"

"No, for the last time Dean, no. Just – just shut up and ride."

Admittedly, Dean knew he wasn't going to win the argument - not when Sam was in mother hen mode. The cuts weren't that deep, but pointing that out would only set his brother off on some mumbo-jumbo medical rant. With as much as they traveled, Dean often wondered when Sam had the time to gather that kind of information. Their doctoring experience consisted of copious amounts of liquor, crooked stitching, and searing hot metal. Their needlework might be neater if less alcohol was involved, but Dean wasn't complaining. Not about that anyway. "Can we at least hurry it up, this slow pace is going to put sores on my ass."

Without waiting for approval, doubting he'd even get it, Dean urged his horse into a canter to leave Sam behind. A fresh wave of pain radiated from his side, reminding him why they had been taking it easy. He'd managed. Always did. It wasn't the worst injury he'd endured on the job. Likely it fell into the category of one of his many stupid mistakes, but he'd live to see another fight so it really wasn't worth the fuss. Not until he was dead anyway, then anyone and everyone could belly-ache until the cows came home because he sure as hell wouldn't have to listen to it while he was six feet under.

It took the better part of the day before the peaks of roofs appeared on the horizon. A simple enough town by the looks of it. Dean had seen enough in his years to find nothing special in this one. Same wooden buildings in desperate need of new paint. Same musty smell of dirt and horses. No doubt it would have the same clueless mucks milling about and getting in his way. He was just ecstatic to meet them. Dean drew his horse to a slow walk, falling into place alongside his brother. Together their gazes surveyed the street, taking in anything of worth. A suit was looking them over from the awning of a store; a tall, thin man with crow's feet around his eyes. He gave them a quick smile and nod of head, but as far as Dean could tell it was done out of some sort of amusement than anything genial. Dean didn't doubt that he and his brother looked like they had just ridden out of hell. They hadn't had time to wash up after their hunt so under the dust of the road were patches of dried blood. Some new, but most of the stains were old. Dean felt it gave his duster character. It was old, beat up, and use to belong to his father. He wouldn't trade it for anything.

Dean's hazel eyes passed over the suited man - that he had already pegged as trouble - and settled instead on a woman hunched over a wash bucket. An old, withered creature with skin aged to a eerie shade of gray. If she hadn't been moving, busy trying to vigorously scrub out a stain, Dean would have sworn she was a corpse. Her eyes, one fogged nearly to the point of blindness, flicked up to his own and Dean felt a shiver crawl down his spine. He didn't know if he was simply just disturbed by her ragged appearance, or the chill was instinct telling him there was something off about the old woman. Dean turned his head to catch Sam's gaze, but found his brother occupied with reading the weathered signs along the street. Tch, probably looking for the local doc. A glance back showed the old woman shuffling around a corner and out of his line of sight.

It was probably nothing.

"Sam, hold up." Dean lead his horse to the nearby hitching post. He outright ignored the disapproving look his brother gave him as he struggled to dismount. Dean couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood that was making his shirt stick to his side. He didn't look, merely tugged his duster close to hide it from view. He only had enough patience for one worrying nancy at a time. Dean rolled his shoulders and neck, easing out the tension before straightening his stance.

"Dean.." the sigh was loud and clear in Sam's tone, could just about hear the reluctance to speak the next few words. ".. what are you doing."

A familiar smile curled on Dean's lips, paired with a playful glint in his eyes. He managed to muster a half-innocent look before looking back at his brother. "What does it look like? I'm getting supplies."

Sam pointedly looked at the building in front of them, not the least bit amused. "I'm serious Dean."

The blonde-haired rider feigned a hurt look, "Me too, Sammy. No one takes this more seriously than me."

"Dean.."

But Dean didn't heed the call, already on the wooden walkway and passing through the batwing doors to step into the Saloon. Dean noted, as he quickly glanced over the interior, that this one was one of the cleaner joints he'd ever had the pleasure of gracing. It still smelled like the others, not much could cover the stench of spilled spirits, sweat, and despair. Ah, his home away from home. Dean sauntered his way toward the bar while eying the set of poker tables. Later he and Sammy would have to run a game, get a bit of padding for their pockets before heading back out on the road. They'd need to find a place to sell some acquired goods as well. The routine was the same for every town. They rarely stayed in one place more than a couple days. Anything longer and, for one reason or another, their very presence seemed to stir up trouble.

Besides, Dean couldn't imagine settling anywhere. It seemed so.. domestic.

"Barkeep," Dean lift two fingers as he flagged for the dark-haired man's attention with one hand and removed his hat with the other. "Pour me a double of your best whiskey."

The smile Dean gave was more reflex than anything else. He slid on to a stool seat and his eyes had already shifted away from the brooding look the man was giving him to eye the working girl at the end of the bar. A server, if he had to make a guess, but the cut of her skirt that likely earned her extra tips promised more. Dean gave her a nod and a smile. She was a red-head with ivory skin, and a damn beautiful sight after such a hellish week. "I don't suppose you're free tonight. I might need an extra pair of hands to help me out."

The redhead looked up, green eyes measuring him for worth - but even as she tried to remain neutral in expression, Dean caught the way her lips quirked upwards in a brief smile. Yet before she could give a response, a shot glass slammed on the polish wood in front of Dean, snaring the hunter's attention away from the woman. Dean's smile, however, didn't fade. In fact it grew, shifting into something more mocking than inviting. He directed the expression up at the bartender staring him down. It wasn't that far of a leap in logic to guess he'd somehow offended the man. Such an unhappy looking fellow too - a troubled expression, weighing under a heavily furrowed brow. The man couldn't be much older than himself. Dean snorted lightly, unimpressed and downright amused. He hadn't been in town for more than ten minutes and already he was on someone's bad side. Not surprising. Dean took the glass, swirling the whiskey around before once more directing the cheeky expression up at the barkeep. "Thanks."

"Anything else I can do for you." The man replied, his voice low and graveled like he'd spent too many sleepless nights drinking his own stock. The tone was flat, deadpan even, and no match against Dean's more expressive play on words.

"Yes, actually," Dean began, drawing out his reply to test the bartender's patience. He evenly met the man's unflinching gaze, sipping nonchalantly at his drink before continuing. "I'm looking for a room for the night and maybe some.. " Hazel eyes drifted back toward the woman, giving her an quick wink. "..entertainment."

"We're not that kind of establishment." Spoken in that same no nonsense tone.

Dean arched a brow, taking another swig of his drink. "You don't have any rooms?"

The bartender's lips thinned in frustration, "We have rooms."

"Then what's the problem?"

The dark-haired man drew in his lower lip, diverting his gaze to glance thoughtfully at the red-headed woman before looking back to Dean. "We are not a house of ill-repute. Keep your hands off the girls."

"Jumping to conclusions aren't you chief?" Never had Dean Winchester need to pay for the company of a woman. "I was just thinking the lady here looks like she might have the voice of an Angel if she were to sing."

The bartender's brow furrowed further as his dark blue eyes searched Dean's expression for any sign of ruse, or innuendo. Whatever he was looking for, there must have not been enough of it to form a solid conclusion. The man settled for maintaining steady eye contact, of which Dean met easily and waited for the other man to yield.

"Cas," The woman gently called, slowly drawing the bartender away from the stare down. Dean went back to his drink as the woman spared them an apologetic smile. She glanced between the two men before focusing on the one she'd referred to as Cas. "The man's harmless."

"Doesn't change what I said," Cas replied while settling a lingering look of mistrust on Dean.

"Can't be worse than the usual ilk." She spoke with practiced ease, as if this wasn't the first time the bartender had acted protectively over her. "I can take care of myself."

The two shared a look before Cas moved away, picking up a glass to polish with the hem of his apron. "I know."

Dean's interest in the pair was gone, having returned his give-a-damn to his drink. He downed the rest, letting it burn down his throat and settle in his gut. Whiskey was the best medicine that any man could afford. A real cure-all. He savored the smoky flavor left on his tongue. It was strong too, which meant it was an honest drink and not cut with water. Not many saloons could be held to such a high caliber. Those that could serve straight alcohol were those that could afford it. Dean was skeptical about this little out of the way place being able manage it. Not something he was about to question, because as long as he was getting the good stuff, he wasn't going to complain.

"Hey Cas," Dean set his empty drink down, the heavy glass bottom tapping purposely against the wood.

"Novak."

Dean let his brow raise to show his lack of comprehension. It took a moment of silently regarding the glowering bartender before Dean decided the man needed a little more than a look to explain the response. "Novak?"

"My name is Novak."

The man just had no social graces, Dean decided. A very literal sort, which made Dean wonder how Cas – Novak – had become a bartender in the first place. The man didn't have the usual personality type that Dean encountered when at the bar; namely old gray-haired men that were nothing but polite. This Novak guy just kind of irritated him; especially when apparently he needed some special privilege to call him Cas. Granted, Dean wasn't having the best day so his tolerance for the general public was dangerously low. "Novak," Dean pronounced carefully, the smile fading from his features so he matched the bartender's frank look. He again tapped his glass to the bar to communicate his desire for a refill. As the man moved to comply, Dean changed his mind. "Know what, just give me the bottle so I don't have to talk to you anymore."

Fishing into his pocket, Dean tossed a few coins on the counter that he considered fair payment and accepted the bottle set down next to his empty glass. It was only three-fourths full and likely wouldn't see Dean through more than a couple days. It had a nice amber color, a beautiful sight to look at instead of the dejected look the bartender wore – or was it angry; pensive perhaps. Dean honestly couldn't tell. It was myriad of different things that mashed together to make up the faint scowl-like expression that was firmly placed on the man's face. There was pain in the look, pain that Dean could relate to and that was the last thing he wanted to do; have some heart to heart about why life was hardly worth living and the world was just one long latrine ditch. Nothing but a craphole.

"Rough day?" The red-head inquired from where she continued to lean against the bar.

"You might say that," Dean smirked at the predictability of the question, and his own omission. There was much and more he didn't tell other people. "Or I might be planning on sharing with someone in the near future."

The invitation was placed and Dean was certain it was going to earn him the woman's company, if not for the creak of the swinging doors announcing the arrival of another customer. A newcomer that just happened to walk right up to where Dean was seating at the bar. Dean inwardly growled, reading the amusement in the red-head's face as by mere coincidence it sounded like he had meant he planned to share drinks with the man now standing near him. Dean didn't have to look to know it was Sam. "You have awful timing."

"Nice to see you too. Hey –" Sam's attention had gone to the bartender. "Can we get a room here?"

"With two beds," Dean interjected, perhaps a bit too quickly, because now the woman was flat out grinning at him. Great, that was just what Dean needed to finish off his night, some local yokels thinking he was some Aunt Fancy. Dean leaned into the bar, splaying fingers over the forth coming headache. "I hate you Sammy."

"Yeah well.." Undeterred by the words as always, Sam only paused as long as it took to pay the bartender for a room. "While you were being useless–"

"Getting supplies," Dean corrected while gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

"–I was looking for a doctor. Found his office but he wasn't in at the time so.."

A faint shrug of Sam's shoulders was all Dean needed to see to finish the meaning behind the words. So his younger brother helped himself to the doctor's supplies since the man wasn't available. It explained why Sam was so quick to ask for a room - he wanted to move on to arts and crafts, starting with needlepoint. Dean gave his tall brother a bored look, ignoring the antsy fidgeting and simply pouring himself another shot of whiskey. "I already found the doctor."

"What?" Disbelief furrowed in Sam's brow. "I barely left you ten minutes ago."

"Sam," Dean began politely before gesturing at the confused looking bartender. "Meet Doctor Novak."

".. I'm not a doctor.."

The bartender's flat-line words went mostly unnoticed as Sam had lifted his hands, fingers pointing at his brother. Dean was certain Sam was going to snap right then and there but, as always, his younger brother managed to find that zen-like serenity from within and rein back his aggression. Such a shame, Dean would rather deal with his brother angry instead of the mothering attempts.r

Sam's hands dropped to the bar, but he was still shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Calm down Sammy, I didn't say it was your kind of doctor."

"Why does he keep referring to me as a doctor?" The dark-haired man inquired from behind the bar, flicking a confused look between the two men on the other side. What he earned in response was both Dean and Sam giving him matching blank stares.

Dean was the first to break the silence. He jerked his thumb at Cas while addressing his brother. "He's an idiot."

"You're just an asshole," Sam countered before turning away. He was giving the dark-haired, scuffy jawed bartender that ever predictable apologetic smile. It pissed Dean off sometimes. He never asked for Sam to apologize for him, and honestly he didn't want his younger brother doing it. He wasn't sorry for what he did and often said to other people. If he said something that upset someone, it was highly likely that it was done on purpose. The truth hurt and all that crap. In his not so humble opinion, most people needed to man up and stop being a bunch of pansies.

"Is your friend okay?" Cas asked, not sounding concerned but hinting that Sam needed to escort his friend elsewhere.

"My brother will be fine," Sam grabbed the bottle of whiskey, knowing it would serve as the reins he needed to steer Dean away from the bar. "Where did you say that room was?"

"Upstairs, second door on the right."

Dean had a moment to enjoy the confused look still adorning Cas's face before a nudge from Sam had him standing from the stool. He managed to straighten up without wincing at the pain in his side. Hell, even spared a smile for the red-head as proof to himself that everything was under control. Yeah, he had just strolled into a saloon with intents on drinking himself into a coma and was attempting to start a fight with the nearest person over nothing. Completely in control.

"Nice to see you are getting along with the locals," Sam chided in the form of teasing as he joined Dean on the stairs.

Dean snorted, glancing side-long at his brother but not back at the two they'd left at the bar. "Ask me if I care."

There came no retort, but Dean wasn't oblivious to the way Sam shook his head. Dean almost started up again, but wearily let it go. He was tired - more than tired. The day just needed to be over, because anyone in his shoes would be more than a touch grouchy. He'd invite anyone else to clean out a nest of blood-suckers only to get there and find out there was more than vamps lurking there, get ripped up, lose all the holy water, and manage to let half the suckers get away. One of their worst hunts to date. Tomorrow wasn't shaping up to be any better, not when he and Sam were going to have to start the hunt all over again, starting with an empty nest and a trail gone cold.

"Give me that bottle Sam, I need it."

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