So earlier I was talking about weapons the Winchesters have that I’d love to see them actually use, and I decided to be the change I want to see in the world.
Dean breaks his knuckles like bad habits on other people’s teeth.
The first time, Sam turns up at the bar just in time to watch a gang of ragged 9-to-5s haul Dean out into the parking lot by the collar of his jacket, a crowd of guys that probably aren’t friends really, but nobody likes a hustler.
They shove him down into the gravel hard enough that he skids a foot or so, and one of the other guys staggers up straight towards him. The guy strips off his ratty button-front, and sweat glistens on his skin where his greasy undershirt isn’t covering it.
He flicks a switchblade outta somewhere, his jeans pocket maybe, and Dean eyes it, steady. He stands up a little straighter and shrugs out of his own jacket, keeping his fists clenched tight at his sides. He cracks his neck, and that’s when he spots Sam. He doesn’t say anything or give him so much as a telling look before he turns his eyes back on the other guy.
When they’re spitting distance apart, Dean’s left shoulder dips and his right fist plugs forward and back again, twice, fast as a shot. There’s a chink sound Sam’s not used to, along with the regular crack when Dean’s fist meets the other guy’s mouth. The guy drops flat on his back - too drunk to stay on his feet after that, probably - and howls like a hurt dog. The crowd backs off a little when they get a good look at him.
The guy’s front teeth are wrecked, hanging loose in his gums and flecking his blood-red lips with spots of yellow-white. A set of brass knuckles hangs loose and easy off Dean’s bruised fingers.
“One’a you morons better turn him on his side, ‘fore he chokes on his own blood,” Dean says, looks at Sam and jerks his head towards the car on the other side of the lot.
Sam follows him, skirts around the guy still lying on the ground and tries not to gawk too hard at the bloody teeth he’s spitting up onto his chest.
Dean’s got the trunk open by the time Sam gets to the car, and he’s wiping the knuckles off on his shirt before he hangs them back up. Sam’s seen them in there before, but he hadn’t ever seen ‘em used, just figured Dean wanted to look cool. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring at them until he looks up and Dean’s giving him a smirk like he’s some kinda hotshot now.
“Guess I showed that guy,” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes, even knowing Dean’ll see right through it.
“Aw, come on, little brother,” Dean coos, slamming the trunk and hooking his good fingers in Sam’s belt loops, the ones that aren’t swelling, pulling him forward. “I think that kinda…bravery..deserves a kiss, at least.”
Sam snorts and says, “At least, huh?” but he leans in and plants one right on Dean’s lips, lets Dean suck on his tongue and savors the feel of his even teeth, of his mouth that doesn’t taste like blood.
