Dean "Stranger"

You hear the fight before you see it.

A dull impact carries from somewhere behind the bar, followed by the scrape of shoes across wet pavement and a man's voice barking something you can't quite make out.

By the time you round the corner, you're already walking into the middle of it.

One man is down.

He's crumpled near the edge of the building, curled partly onto his side with one arm tucked beneath him. He's moving enough to tell you he's conscious, but whatever happened before you got here has taken him out of the fight.

Three men are still on their feet.

Except it isn't three men fighting each other.

It's two on one.

The man in the middle is tall—well over six feet, broad through the shoulders, dark hair curling from beneath a battered ball cap. A worn brown jacket hangs open over a black shirt, his faded jeans are torn at one knee, and his work boots skid slightly across the damp pavement as he shifts his weight.

He's already taken damage.

There's blood beneath his nose and along one side of his mouth, an ugly scrape across his cheek, and the way he's keeping one elbow slightly closer to his ribs suggests something there hurts.

The two men in front of him don't seem particularly concerned.

They spread apart.

Not far. Just enough.

One stays directly in front of him while the other begins moving toward his left.

The tall man's eyes flick between them.

Front.

Left.

Front again.

He adjusts with them.

The first attacker lunges.

Dean doesn't throw some dramatic haymaker. He steps just far enough off-line that the punch glances past his shoulder, catches the man's wrist and upper arm for barely a second, and drives a short punch into his ribs.

The man folds slightly.

Dean immediately shoves him away.

Not to hurt him.

To make space.

Because the second attacker is already coming.

Dean barely gets his forearm up before a fist crashes into it. The impact knocks him sideways. His boot splashes through a shallow puddle, his balance breaks for half a second, and the second man takes advantage—grabbing a fistful of Dean's jacket and driving him backward.

Dean's shoulder hits the brick wall.

Hard.

His face tightens.

The first attacker has recovered.

Now they're both closing again.

You pull out your phone.

Your thumb is already moving toward 911.

Dean sees the first man coming.

He plants one boot against the pavement, twists out of the grip on his jacket, and drives his shoulder into the man pinning him against the wall. The sudden weight sends the attacker stumbling backward.

Dean follows.

One step.

A compact right hand catches the man across the jaw.

His knees buckle.

Dean catches a handful of his hoodie almost instinctively, redirects his fall away from himself, and lets him hit the pavement.

He doesn't follow him down.

Doesn't kick him.

Doesn't hit him again.

Because there is still one man standing.

The last attacker rushes him before Dean can fully reset.

Dean turns just in time to absorb the collision.

They slam together.

For several ugly seconds there isn't anything resembling a clean fight—just hands grabbing clothing, boots fighting for traction, shoulders crashing together, the two men wrestling for enough control to land something meaningful.

The attacker gets one.

A fist catches Dean high across the cheek.

His head snaps sideways.

Dean staggers.

The man comes after him.

That's his mistake.

Dean's expression changes.

Not rage.

Focus.

He slips the next swing, steps inside it, and drives a short punch into the man's stomach.

The attacker doubles over.

Dean catches him high on the shoulder, turns him, and sends him stumbling several steps across the wet pavement.

The man tries to straighten.

Dean closes the distance first.

One final punch lands cleanly across the jaw.

The attacker drops.

And Dean stops.

Just like that.

Three men are now on the pavement.

Dean is the only one left standing.

Your phone is still in your hand.

911 is waiting on the screen.

For several seconds, Dean doesn't move.

He stands between the three fallen men with his chest heaving, shoulders rising and falling beneath the battered jacket.

Then he straightens.

Or tries to.

Something about the movement is wrong.

His face tightens almost immediately. One hand presses against his ribs, fingers spreading over his side as he takes a slow breath that clearly doesn't feel very fucking good.

He releases it.

Wipes the blood beneath his mouth with the back of his hand.

And starts walking toward you.

You lower the phone slightly as he gets closer.

There's something vaguely familiar about him.

But the man approaching you doesn't look much like anyone you remember.

He's taller. Broader. His face has hardened with age and disappeared beneath several days of stubble. His dark hair has grown longer, curling around his ears beneath the cap. Blood, bruising, exhaustion, and years you weren't there for have changed everything else.

You don't recognize him.

Not until he looks at you.

Steel-blue eyes meet yours beneath the brim of his cap.

And suddenly the years collapse.

Dean.

The recognition isn't one-sided.

His eyes settle on your face.

There.

For barely a fraction of a second, his stride hitches.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Immediate recognition.

Then something shutters behind those steel-blue eyes.

Dean says nothing.

He doesn't say your name.

Doesn't ask what you're doing here.

Doesn't explain the three men lying behind him.

He just walks past you.

Close enough that you can hear how uneven his breathing has become.

You turn.

Dean keeps going.

Ten feet.

Fifteen.

His steps aren't straight anymore.

One boot lands slightly wrong and he corrects it. His hand finds the wall for a second before he pushes himself away from it.

He keeps walking.

Of course he fucking does.

Another few steps.

His pace slows.

His shoulders sag.

Then his legs simply stop holding him.

Dean goes down.

There is no attempt to catch himself.

He hits the pavement face-first and doesn't move.

The phone is already in your hand when you reach him.

Up close, the damage looks worse. Blood at his mouth. Swelling along his cheek. Scraped knuckles. His breathing is shallow and uneven, and when you try to get a response from him, there isn't one.

Dean is unconscious.

This time, you finish dialing 911.

---

Red and blue light eventually floods the alley.

An ambulance rolls toward you with its flashers reflecting in long streaks across the wet pavement. The paramedics are moving before the vehicle has completely settled.

After that, everything happens quickly.

Gloves and questions.

A hand stabilizing Dean's head.

Another checking his pupils.

A cervical collar.

Someone asking what happened while another paramedic checks his breathing, pulse, ribs, and the blood along his face.

They carefully roll him.

Dean doesn't properly wake up.

Within minutes he's secured to a stretcher and being wheeled toward the waiting ambulance.

You stand nearby while the stretcher locks into place.

One of the EMTs remains at the rear doors.

She looks at Dean.

Then at you.

EMT: "You know him?"

It's a considerably more complicated question than it should be.

Her attention shifts briefly toward Dean before returning to you.

EMT: "We're taking him to the ER."

She reaches for one of the rear doors, then hesitates.

EMT: "If you want to ride with him, you can."

Behind her, Dean lies unconscious beneath the harsh interior lights of the ambulance.

The same kid you used to know.

The same man who recognized you immediately.

And apparently the same stubborn bastard who saw you standing ten feet away and decided that collapsing face-first in an alley was still preferable to asking you for help.