"You can't even cook a fucking vegetarian burger right!" Said burger and it's plate are viciously thrown across the room. Dean ducks just before it shatters into jagged shards on the wall behind him, ceramic and food raining down on him. Hands curled into fists, Dean winces and slowly sinks to his knees.

Goddamn him. Why can't he do a single damn thing right? He fucking ruins everything he touches, as Sam constantly reminds him. He's starting to believe it. Or maybe he's known. His father probably planted that seed

"I'm talking to you. Apologize for that piece of shit you call dinner." Sam knocks back his fifth bottle of beer and slams it down, rattling the table. The bottle falls and rolls off the edge of the table, bouncing and spattering His steps are uneven and blundering. A drunkard in his prime. And yet, a six-foot-four giant with the strength of a raging bull. Khaki slacks only serve to accentuate his long, lean, powerful legs. The tight pinstripe dress shirt hugs a broad chest and rigid muscle. To most, it's an incredibly attractive sight. Dean had been one of those people. There'd been a time when he'd stared, and stared, and stared. When he'd been awed that such a man would even consider someone like Dean Winchester, when he had gorgeous, stable men and women eating out the palm of his hand.

He's followed the recipe to a T. He knows it's done right. But what is his diminutive word against Sam's drunken authority?

"Sorry," he mutters, eyes trained on the ground, watching the laces of his polished boat shoes as they bounce daintily. airily on a daunting size twelve. He's expecting it when blunt fingernails scrape against his skull and tug none-too-gently at his short hair, yanking him viciously to his feet. He inwardly flinches as Sam lifts a hand. Dean has learned to school his facial expressions into as little give as he can. If Sam knows how much it hurts, how each blow damages Dean both physically and emotionally, it'll never stop. Dean's head snaps to the side and he's momentarily blinded by the whiplash. Slowly, he faces Sam again. His once vibrant, joyous green eyes are now empty, and resigned. He's used to this; he's just waiting until it's over.

Three years ago, it hadn't been like this. In fact, things had been great. Dean felt loved and cherished and wanted. For the first six months, his past didn't matter. It didn't matter who he was or what he came from. He and Sam had spent nights curled together on the sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn as they watched re-runs of Friends and Seinfeld.

Sam hasn't always been so violent. Then, of course, as most stories like these go, he started drinking. Dean would accidentally drop a plate as he did the dishes and the cycle would begin. Drunken rage, the violent misuse of Dean's body, then, the apologies.

'Baby, I'm so sorry.'

'Oh, sweetheart, you know I love you.'

'I won't do it again.'

Dean's personal favorite: 'You'll be better next time.'

For a while, Dean believed him. And he'd whispered 'I know, Sammy. It's okay. It doesn't even hurt'. Though his lip was split from the violent pounding of Sam's pelvis. Though his hips were sore from the finger-shaped bruises that adorned them. Though his eye was swollen shut. When Dean looks back at incidents like these, in retrospect, his whole fucking life has led up to this cliche. The poor, abused house-wife with the less than squeaky-clean, middle-class background. Scrounging for his life against a Goliath. But he's no goddamn David and he has no chance.

Sam's hand tightens and brings Dean out of his reverie. He sucks air through his teeth in a quiet hiss as Sam slams his head into the wall, tugging at his hair. "Listen to me when I'm talkin' to you," growls the glorified lawyer. Dean's seen Sam in action. Ironically, he's watched Sam defend domestic abuse victims with a sort of ferocious determination that makes him both sick and curious. And angry. Long fingers grip his jaw tight and force him to meet brown eyes he once found beautiful. The pressure of his fingers is blunt and hard, enough to bruise. He doesn't flinch. It's well-known pain. He and bruises are well acquainted.

"On your knees. Turn around. Take off your shirt."

He does as he's told. The tell-tale sound of leather sliding through belt loops causes him to tense. There's no warning before the belt cracks harshly against his pale skin, leaving behind brilliant red welts that taper into a jagged, bloodied point. He can't help but cry out. Sam's decided to use the buckle again. Dean isn't sure how many times Sam hits him. He gets lost amongst the vicious smacks and snips of the folded leather. Near the end, he comes 'round to find himself flat on his front, the sole of Sam's shoe pressing his face into the pristine linoleum of their up-scale loft apartment. All on Sam's pay check. Lawyers really hit it big in New York.

When it's over, Dean's numb. Emotionally, mentally, physically. His head feels heavy. There's a thick, wet puddle of blood pooling beneath his head. He shifts to his knees and nearly cracks a molar as his shattered kneecap protests loudly. He doesn't remember much. Just the strangely hypnotic way blood had spewed from his mouth to paint the linoleum like contemporary art. He's dizzy when he manages to push himself into a sitting position. Concussion. His sixth, since his stay with Sam.

The kitchen is silent, save for Dean's harsh breathing.

Sam wipes his bloodied hands with a dish towel. "I'm gonna go to bed," he says quietly. Dean can tell the apologizing is about to begin. "Why don't you get this cleaned up then have a nice, hot shower?" He stoops and presses a kiss to Dean's forehead. Dean hums his assent and watches his retreating form.

"Y...es, Sah- Sammy," he murmurs, voice thick and slow. It feels as if something's been jarred loose. Or something's been broken. There's a ringing in his ears and he lifts a shaking hand. The left side of his skull is...dented. Something feels loose. He realizes he can't see out his right eye.

Dean scrubs his own blood from the linoleum for an hour, and showers for another half. When he eventually crawls into bed, it's just after eleven. Sam stirs and wraps large, seemingly safe arms around his battered body. His kneecap is swollen and the way Sam's trying to tangle their legs together is agony.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Baby. I didn't mean it," whispers Sam as he presses gentle kisses to Dean's forehead. Dean can't feel the left side of his face as he slurs a repsonse.

"Ah kn-uhw, Sah-Semmy."

oOo

He wakes to an empty bed and a blood-soaked pillow case. He leaves it submerged in cold water in the bathroom sink. Dean's well-versed in the art of removing bloodstains.

" 'm hea'ing ou'," Dean struggles to say around a thick tongue and foggy brain. as he leans against the entryway to Sam's study. The lawyer is seated at his desk, feet crossed firmly at its corner. His fingers pause in their rapid typing on his laptop as he lifts his head. Shaggy brown hair falls floppily against his forehead, still sleep-mussed. Sam smiles softly and stands. He looks nothing like the drunken monster from last night. Sleep-soft and friendly. Sam presses a gentle kiss to his swollen cheeks, the large gash at his temple.

"Remember, we have dinner plans tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't be late," Sam murmurs. His voice is so soft and Dean's foggy mind conjures a smile because how could this man ever hurt him? Such a gentle giant. Dean accepts the warm hug, pressing a sloppy kiss to Sam's bare chest.

Dean limps out the loft door five minutes later, barista apron tied around his waist. He struggles to fit his arms through the sleeves of his father's old, beat up leather jacket. His limbs are heavy. He doesn't notice, when he sees his reflection in the mirror walls of the loft elevator, that there's an odd cloud in his right eye. And it's blooming in his left. The left side of his head is still matted with blood, causing the short hairs of his sideburns to stick messily against the curve of his cheekbones. The first sign that something's wrong: he doesn't care. The blood doesn't register. Just the simple 'ding' of the elevator as he reaches ground floor and the quiet whir of the housing generator.

When he steps onto the city bus, it takes several tries to swipe his MetroCard, much to the disgruntlement of the other passengers. The bus driver, Mister Earl, as Dean's come to know him, frowns at Dean.

"Dean? You...you've gotta scratch there." One brown, wrinkled finger taps its owner's temple.

"I f'll."

Dean limps along after the sensor beeps his pay.

Dean makes to take his usual seat. Mama Edan, the blue-haired old woman that owns the Garden of Edan flower shop shuffles onto the bus, tennis-ball adorned walker preceding. He stands and offers his seat out of southern hospitality. Despite the protestations from seventy-five percent of his battered body, he grips a pole. The fog that's settled over his mind prevents him from seeing her gratitude shift to horror. Mama Edan stares at the side of his head like she's seen a monster.

Dean's seen monsters. They don't look like him. They look like Samuel Singer.

The bus groans and grinds to a stop twenty feet from the coffee shop. Cup O' Bliss. His place of work for nearly five years. It's the only positive constant in his life. The smell of fresh mocha in the morning is enough to make a bad yesterday a good today. The quiet hum of their blenders.

He doesn't see the gazes of worried strangers as he stumbles off the bus and into the light snow that covers the side walk. Dazed, Dean sits there a moment, letting the cool crystals sooth the burn of his damaged body. When a passing cyclist crushes his hand beneath their bike tires, he picks himself up. His vision is fuzzy, buzzing. Christmas lights are beautiful smudges against a grey-blue morning sky. Street lamps remind him of postcards in the way they blur.

Dean makes a mental note to buy some postcards.

His heavy work boots thump against waxed and polished faux-granite. removes his beanie, which hasn't been serving its purpose this morning. He couldn't fit it over the odd lump on the side of his head.

"Dean, you're la- Jesus fucking Christ!"

He ignores Alistair, his cliché 'stern-yet-caring' boss, in favor of searching blindly for a coat peg. He only wants to hang his hat. Why is Alis shouting at him? A hand settles on his shoulder and yanks him away from the rack. Dean makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, as if he's protesting as well as sobbing.

"Wha- yuh doin'?" he asks, words blending and rounded. Unseeing eyes search in the semi-vision. There's a small sliver of sight, but Alistair is an otherwise unidentifiable mass with a single slash of red for his uniform collar. Like a watercolor painting.

"No, kid, what you doin'?" Alistair snaps. "Holy fuck, the hell happened to your head?"

Dean squints. He doesn't feel right, he doesn't feel well, he's in pain and the last thing he wants is more shouting. "I f'll."

The last thing he hears before his knee gives and his consciousness slips away is a softly muttered "Bullshit, Dean-o."