Prompt from CornishGirl.

Coffee and Cigarettes

He wakes to the coppery taste of blood, and one thought: Awesome. Because if blood in your mouth isn't evidence of a night well spent, he doesn't know what is.

A second thought follows right on the heels of the first: Ow. That pretty much takes the cake for the moment. He remembers a big guy – scratch that; he remembers three of them. One with a mouth, one with an empty bottle, and one with steel-toed construction boots.

Fuck me but good.

Everything hurts. Especially his head. His right arm is twisted and trapped beneath the rest of him, and seems like a little too much work to try to extricate at the moment. There's a hot, puffy ache screaming from that hand, and he'd rather not investigate too deeply at the moment. So instead he lets his left hand float up lazily from his chest to cradle his aching head. His fingers feel out some kind of gash there, over his ear, and blood in his hair. Right. Bottle. He pulls his hand away, holds it in front of his face and forces his eyes open. Can't see anything outside of red-stained fingers, and that could account for the elephants stampeding through his head. He gives in to the parade, lets his eyes fall closed and groans, runs his tongue over fuzzy teeth and a canyon splitting his lower lip.

He hears voices, unfamiliar faraway ones, and then clear as a bell: Sammy. Yelling. Pissed. Dad must be home. Which means it's time for Dean to cowboy up and throw on his referee whistle. He shifts and works that right arm free, hissing as his hand drags across the coarse fabric of his jeans. Something broken there, definitely. A finger or two popped against the mouthy one's nose. He levels up on his elbow, noting for the first time the strangeness of the hard surface beneath him, and forces his eyes open again.

Which is a giant, massive, FUBAR kind of mistake.

His eyes are stabbed by the bare, bright bulb up above, and that's his first real clue that the evening took a hard left turn somewhere. Because the Winchesters might not be suburban royalty, but they have lampshades. The oddness of his rock-hard sleeping surface only strengthens the 'not at home' theory, because they also have mattresses. Usually.

He takes slow, blurry stock of his surroundings: cheap gray paint chipping away from concrete walls, urinal in the corner, metal bunk to sleep on, and, yep, bars to match. Dad is gonna be so pissed.

But first, Sammy. Because right now Sam has his face pressed up to the bars, and that face is fire-engine red.

Dean turns his head and grins, slow and sloppy. "Hiya, Sammy."

Sammy's not amused, not even a little bit. He grips a bar tightly, knuckles white. "What the fuck, Dean?"

That's a curve ball, because Sammy doesn't sound like this. Sammy doesn't TALK like this.

"Potty mouth," Dean accuses. It's then that he realizes not only is he in a whole HEAP of pain, he's also still somewhat drunk. "Where'm I?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Drunk tank, Dean."

Sounds about right. "Shit."

"Yeah. So."

Dean rolls himself upright gingerly, aware of about four new sources of pain as he does so. Couple of ribs, back, knee maybe, as he lays boot sole to pee-stained concrete. Dumped broken and bleeding on a steel slab without so much as a Band-Aid. "Police in this town have dick for bedside manner, Sammy."

"Maybe you shouldn't have taken a swing at them, Dean."

Dean sniffs blood, stares down at his puffy, broken fingers. "They do this?"

"Uh, no, that would be the work of the three apartment buildings you apparently picked a fight with."

"I'm sure they had it comin.'"

Sam scoffs. "You don't even remember?"

Dean waves his heavy, hurting hand. "It'll come back. Always does." He grips the side of the slab with his left hand and heaves himself to his feet, gasping as a sharp pain cuts through his chest, but he makes it upright, and wavers for only a minute, eyes squeezed shut and hands stuck out to find some kind of balance.

"Dean."

"M'good." He looks up at Sammy, starts the arduous, limping journey across the cell to the bars.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "I see they fixed your face."

Gonna owe 'im one for that. "Hilarious."

"How bad is it?"

"How bad does it look?" Lisping through the split lip.

"Not great."

He makes it to the bars, keeps his broken hand snug against his middle but grips with his left near Sam, to keep from giving in to gravity and his shaky left knee.

Sam coughs and recoils. "Dean, did you smoke?"

"Huh?"

"You smell like an ashtray. That someone threw up in."

"I mighta thrown up," Dean admits with a nod that is a really bad idea.

"Yeah, I figured." Sam sighs, then clenches his jaw. "So did you have a good time?" No pleasantries, just pissed.

"What?"

"You feel like a grown-up now? That's what you said, right? That's why you couldn't spend your birthday with ME, your asshole little brother, that you're twenty-one now and had to go out and spend the night like a grown-up is supposed to."

There's a chance Dean started drifting off during all of that, because all of a sudden Sam's slamming a palm against the bars next to Dean's face. "Hey!"

"Hmm?"

"I'm talking to you, you ass."

Sammy sounds kinda like Dean, if Dean was talking to himself, and it throws him for a loop, kicks him in the ass and doesn't stop to take his name. He smiles fondly. "When'd you get so big?"

"When I had to." The metal bars between them do nothing to water down Sam's anger.

"You look like Dad."

"Don't even – " Sam bites off the rest, shakes his head.

Dean's getting sleepy, slumping against the bars. "Can we go home yet?"

Sam swallows. "No. Not yet."

"What? Why?" Dean notices the paper cup in Sam's hand. "S'that coffee?" He kinda wants to hug Sam and throw up on his shoes all at the same time.

"Uh, yeah. Not for you, though."

"Why can't we go home yet?"

"Don't be an asshole, Dean. You know why."

"Sammy."

"I had to."

"Sammy," he groans, lets his face smack the bars.

"I'm sixteen, Dean. They weren't going to release you to me. Hell, you're gonna be lucky if they release you at all."

A jangle of keys signals the approach of an officer, but there are two sets of footsteps. One is heavy, pissed.

Dad. Aw, fuck, Sammy.

"I had to," Sam repeats through clenched teeth. And then, maybe a twinkle of amusement, for which Dean is already plotting sweet vengeance. Or will be, as soon as his head stops swimming. "'Sides, looks like you woke up just in time."

Dad comes to an aggressive stop several steps from the cell, but the fire in his eyes reaches Dean just fine. The officer, sporting a fresh shiner Dean can only assume is in the shape of his elbow, unlocks the cell door, but Dean doesn't move. Wonders briefly if he could ask to stay a little longer. Actually, officer, I think I would benefit greatly from another night spent in your cold, urine-soaked cell. Also, sorry about the eye.

"It's trash day," the officer says with a sneer as he pulls open the door.

"What?"

"It means I'm here to pick up the garbage." Dad takes the coffee from Sam and clears his throat. "Car. Now." Not an invitation.

"Yes, sir," Dean mumbles. He cradles his right hand to his stomach and trips in the narrow hallway because besides the fact his knee is refusing to bear any weight whatsoever, hello, still drunk. And possibly also concussed.

He's surprised to see the sun when he limps out of the station, surprised even more to see the Impala mud-splattered with the rear window spider-webbed with cracks. He realizes now his father is equally muddy, with a bloody tear across the upper arm of his Carhart jacket. "You were in the middle of a job?"

Dad cocks an eyebrow as he yanks open the door: The fuck you think, kid? "If I was in the middle of a job you'd still be rotting in there."

Fair enough.

"Drunk tank, Dean?" Dad grits.

Sam snorts. "Right, like you've never – "

The kid's reeling from a head slap before he can even push out all of the words, and from the backseat. Son of a bitch talks fast, too. Dad isn't pissed. Dad is PISSED.

The drive back is silent, and chilly, what with the broken window and it being January and all. Dean leans heavily against the door, and by the time they get home he's seriously fighting the need to hurl and pass out but not necessarily in that order.

Dad hits the brakes, throws her so roughly into 'park' you'd think it was the Impala he'd just had to pick up from local PD. "House. Now."

Sam's inside like he was shot from a gun, but Dean is slow getting out of the car. Dad is waiting with arms crossed at the nose of her. "Need a hand?"

"No. I'm okay." Relatively speaking. Dean swallows. "Sir."

All the same, Dad hangs back, and when the elevation discrepancy between the sidewalk and porch buckles Dean's knee, steals his vision and threatens his consciousness, Dad's there to steady him, a strong hand around his upper arm. He as good as hauls Dean the rest of the way into the house, releases him roughly once they're across the threshold, nearly throwing him into a chair.

"Sam, go to your room."

Sam shoots Dean one more look that's somewhere between apologetic and smug before he backs down the hallway. Dean shrugs carefully out of his coat and drapes it over the edge of the table. Dad grabs his hand, studies the broken fingers and tsks. "I'll find a couple of splints."

Dean winces. "What about your arm?"

"Just a scratch." Dad narrows his eyes, takes Dean by the chin. His fingers smear the blood there. "Might need a stitch or two in that lip, too, if it's not too late."

"Yes, sir."

Dad releases him, gives Dean a pat on the cheek that he can't translate. He opens the cabinet under the sink and pulls out the first aid kit, starts rummaging through the contents. "How's your head?"

"It's awesome."

"Sure, kid. You know what day it is?"

"January twenty-fifth."

"Okay, that was cheating. What DAY is it?"

"Friday?"

"Close, kiddo. But no cigar."

Dean flinches as his father leans over him and inspects whatever mark the beer bottle left over his ear. He presses a wad of gauze to the cut.

"So what happened?"

"What'd the cops say?"

Dad presses harder on his head, drawing a wince. "They said I got a hot-headed smartass for a son. What happened?"

"Got into it with a couple of guys."

"You start it?"

Dean grins. "I finished it."

His father pulls away, moves to sit in the chair next to him. He carefully slides a pair of splints onto Dean's broken middle and ring fingers. "What, you forget how to throw a punch? They nearly put you in the hospital, kid. You didn't finish anything. They almost finished you." He looks away a moment, out the window. "You do all this 'cause I wasn't here?"

Dean squirms in his chair. "I'm okay, Dad."

"Just a little stupid, that it?"

"Yes, sir."

John tsks again, studying Dean's face. "Too late for that stitch, I think. Looks like you'll have something to remember the night by." He hands over another wad of gauze for Dean to hold to his mouth, then moves his hands across the table to wear Dean's coat is. He lifts it and pulls it onto his lap, starts patting down the pockets.

Dean pulls the gauze pad away and runs his tongue over his lip, licking away bits of cotton that have stuck to the split. "Dad – "

"Maybe even stupider than I thought," Dad says, dragging the half-empty pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket.

Dean shakes his head. "That little rat."

"This isn't Sam's fault."

"You know, it's nice to see you two getting along for a change. Having a nice bonding experience, huh?"

"I'm not fucking around, Dean. I see these in the house again and you're gonna eat the pack. I don't care how old you are."

Dean taps his splinted fingers on the tabletop and slouches in his chair. His ribs scream their protest. "Yes, sir."

"So you feel like a grown-up now?"

Dean snorts, returning the gauze to his lip before he's tempted to let these two idiots know that for all their fighting, they're pretty much the same damn person.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothin.'"

"Sure. Happy birthday, kid."