Work Text:
-o-
Dean loved hockey; he really did.
He liked moving on the ice – following the puck, rising and falling with the action. It was a dance; it had a rhythm. Dean liked the sport, plain and simple.
If he liked the celebrity that came with it?
Well, he couldn’t be blamed for that.
In the northeast, hockey was as big as football, and puck bunnies were all over the place. He’d been a favorite since high school – and yeah, being blonde, big, and rich helped.
The fact that he had a letterman’s jacket and a starting jersey?
Certainly improved his odds.
The girls fawned over him. The guys wanted to be him.
Dean liked hockey a lot.
But even Dean, at his most cocky, had to concede that press days kind of sucked. Yeah, here were reporters and cameras. There were fans and girls wearing almost nothing.
And Dean was expected to smile. Sign autographs. Make small talk.
All. Day. Long.
By the end, he’d be too tired to take anyone home but himself, and crash in his bed for a long, well-deserved rest.
-o-
“That one is hot,” Logan whispered, nudging Dean.
Dean scoffed. “Are you really that shallow?” he muttered, signing an autobiography for a little boy named Jack. Jack grinned at him, with a gap-toothed smile. “We’re here for the public, Logan. We’re serving the greater good.”
Logan snorted, signing something for a housewife. “I think she could serve a much greater good.”
Dean smirked, winking at the girl – she winked back with a little wave. “Sorry, bro. She’s out of your league.”
Logan gaped. “And she’s in yours?”
Dean shrugged. “See whose line she gets in. Just see.”
Dean smiled politely, taking a selfie with a pre-teen boy wearing a Briar jersey. Logan made a peace sign, posing for the housewife.
The lines sorted, and – there she was.
The leggy brunette Logan had been eyeing.
Biting her lip in Dean’s lane.
Logan cursed under his breath.
Dean slapped him on the back. “It’s okay, bro. It takes a lot of effort to be loved like this.”
“I hate you,” Logan muttered.
And Dean welcomed the next guest.
It was a guy.
A big guy.
Big enough for Dean to do a double-take. Broad shouldered – and ripped. Gym rat, no doubt. The kind of bulk that someone took way too much time to develop. His face was broad, too – soft curls in mousy brown hair. His eyes were dark, just slightly too wide, and he grinned at Dean with the expectation matched only by Jack, the 8-year-old.
“Hey!” the guy said. “Dean Di Laurentis! You’re great!”
That was – the kind of thing people said at this stuff. The awkward small talk was especially awkward and small, and it was Dean’s job to smile through it.
For the team.
Publicity and fundraising and money.
For the team.
“Yeah, thanks!” Dean said, smiling as brightly as he could. “We love playing for you all out there.”
“Wow,” the guy said, almost starstruck. He shook his head. “I’ve been following you since you were a freshman. I can’t believe it’s you. Number 66!”
Dean pointed at his jersey with a chuckle. “Number 66!”
Next to him, Logan snorted. “You going to hit on that one?”
Dean kicked him under the table. “Can I – sign something for you? Take a picture?”
“Oh!” the guy said. “Right.”
He produced a picture.
Black and white glossy.
Of Dean.
8x10.
Yeah, that wasn’t weird.
Not really.
But, coming from a guy who was bigger and more ripped than him, looking at him like that.
It felt a little weird.
“Okay,” Dean said, taking it. Next to him, Logan sounded like he was dying. Dean kicked him again. “Can I make it out to someone?”
The guy leaned forward, intent.
Like – very intent.
“Anthony,” he said. “My name is Anthony.”
He put down another piece of paper – with his name.
And his phone number.
Next to him, Logan nearly choked.
Dean bit his lip, and purposefully took the photo – but not the paper. He scrawled the note To Anthony. Go Briar!
Before scrawling his name.
He pushed it back. “There you go, bud.”
Anthony hesitated, taking the photo.
Before pushing the paper back at him. “For later, maybe,” he said. “We could – meet up.”
“Oh, man,” Dean said, chuckling with an air that he hoped wasn’t too forced. “We have a long day here.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” Anthony said earnestly.
Of course he didn’t.
Behind Anthony, the line was still growing. The hot brunette was waiting expectantly.
“And after, we’re all going back. It’s a team thing,” he said with a shrug, pushing the paper back. “Maybe another time.”
Anthony looked hurt for a second, something breaking across his expression. He collected his photo, but didn’t take the number back. “Can I get a picture?” he asked instead.
“Sure,” Dean said. “Of course.”
Anthony leaned in, their shoulders touched as he held up his phone. The man was warm, and he smelled musky. Dean shuddered a little as the man positioned his phone. “Go Briar!” Dean said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
The man’s hand rested on his thigh, just for a second. “Go Briar!”
Before the flash blinded him, and it was over.
Anthony was gone, and Dean picked up his phone number as the next person came, crumpling up as he welcomed them, and continued with his day.
A little kid. A college girl. A nerdy father getting an autograph for his kid. Three teenagers. And by the time he got to the girl Logan had been ogling, he almost didn’t care.
Almost.
But for Logan’s sake, he flirted extra hard, and when she slid her number across, he took it, watching as she left.
“I hate you,” Logan muttered.
“You hate what you cannot attain, bro,” Dean said, patting him on the chest. They both watched as she exited, and Dean did another double-take.
Anthony was still there.
Glowering.
Dean frowned – confused – before he turned and stalked off, too.
It was all the same.
He had no time for flirting.
He had no time for personal connections.
No, today, it was all about the fans, and Dean’s queue was longer than ever.
-o-
Logan was more than ready for the day to be done.
Two-a-day practices. Relentless line drills. Weight training.
He’d take all of that, any day of the week, over this.
His hand was cramped from signing things, and his face hurt. No one was supposed to smile that much. Shit.
“Good job, everyone!” Coach Jensen said. “By all accounts, we earned more money this year than any year prior. It’s a Briar U record.”
Garrett clapped, and Tucker whistled while the team tittered in appreciation.
“I know it’s been a long day, so pizza is on me at Malone’s,” he said. “No drinking – but all the slices you can eat.”
The team started to disperse, and Dean slapped Logan on the back. “You survive?”
Logan laughed – with a low groan. “That seems like a low bar.”
“The lowest,” Dean agreed, getting up and rolling his shoulders. “But, I mean, it’s the price we pay for being beautiful.”
Logan got up after him, making a face. “You really are impossible, you know that?”
“Impossibly perfect, yes,” Dean said. “Should I remind you how long my line was?”
Logan did not need to be reminded. There had been no official count – no player-specific tabulations – but they all knew.
Dean’s line had been longer than anyone else’s.
Twice as long as Logan’s.
He would be pissed, but he wasn’t surprised. And screw it, Dean was pretty amazing.
“Whatever, man,” Logan said. “It’s all for a good cause, right?”
“The best,” Dean agreed.
“Hey,” Logan said, grabbing his bag. “You going to call that girl?”
Dean looked back with a frown. “What?”
“The girl,” Logan said. He tipped his head. “The hot one, who gave you her number?”
“Oh!” Dean said, and he laughed. “Dude, I got like 10 numbers today.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Including the one from your brawny admirer.”
Dean held his hands out. “I appeal to all types, what can I say,” he smirked. “But no, I’m going solo tonight. This shit’s too exhausting.”
“I will agree to that,” he said. “Shall we?”
Most of the team had filtered out, the remaining stragglers getting their things.
“Shit,” Dean said, checking something. “I must have left my phone back out on the table.”
“Really, dude?” Logan said. Garrett and Tucker were at the door. “They’re all leaving–”
The hockey rink – which had been set up for their showcase – was dark now, with just a few lights left on. “Then, go catch up,” Dean said. “I’ll be right there, okay?”
Because it had been a long day.
And he wasn’t Dean’s babysitter.
“Okay, man,” he said. “Catch you soon? Try not to pick up any hot chicks before you get to Malone’s okay.”
“I make no promises,” Dean vowed.
Logan huffed, rolling his eyes as he walked out, more than ready for this day to be over already.
-o-
Dean made his way back, snaking through the stands and to the vestibule where they’d been set up. While most of the paraphernalia had been picked up, the tables were still there – undoubtedly to be handled by the janitorial staff.
His phone wasn't on the table. He frowned, looking – and there it was.
On the ground.
He must have dropped it.
He picked it up, swiping up a piece of paper, too. He unwrinkled it – it was Anthony’s number.
He shook his head, laughing to himself as he shoved them both in his pocket.
It was finally time to kick back and relax.
-o-
The parking lot was almost empty by the time he caught up with Tucker and Garrett. “Hey!” he called. “Can I catch a ride?”
The sky above rumbled with a flicker of lightning.
“Yeah, we should go before it rains,” Tucker said.
“I thought you were with Dean?” Garrett said, glancing to where Dean’s car was parked – not far from Garrett’s Jeep.
“Asshole left his phone,” he said. “And I do not want to get wet.”
There was another clap of thunder and the spattering of the first rain drops. “Then, let’s hit it,” Garrett said.
And they climbed in the car, just as the deluge started.
-o-
It was raining by the time he got outside – a lot. Dean glowered at it, sighing as he shoved his phone in his pocket and hiked his bag up on his shoulder.
Pizza. Friends.
He’d endured a whole day of the public.
He could handle a little rain.
He took a breath and pushed out at a brisk pace, crossing the lot toward his car to catch up with his friends. The storm was picking up – a low groan of thunder. And then a flash of light.
He wasn’t scared of storms – or the dark – or anything.
But something felt – off.
Because the parking lot was very empty. And the storm was very loud.
And he was very alone.
Dean picked up his pace, jogging now as the rain pelted him.
Then, with another crack of thunder, the night split open.
And then, for a split second, he saw it.
A presence – a large man.
Looming.
"Dude," Dean said, startled. "What the hell--"
He tensed, gauging his best escape – too far from the car, not close enough to the building, and–
The thunder rolled and the man stepped forward again. 6’5’’ and bulking, soaked in the rain, t-shirt clinging to his defined chest.
“I just wanted to get to know you better,” he said in a low voice.
Dean’s breath caught, and he could just make it out now – the meaty features, a broad nose, wide-set eyes. The fan from before. He licked his lips, swallowing hard as he held up his hands. “It’s just been a long day, man,” he said, stammering a little now as the man approached and Dean’s chance for escape narrowed. “But if you want to get a drink–”
It was a desperate bid.
That got him nowhere.
The man snarled, closing the rest of the distance while Dean tried to step back with his hands up. “Just, hey–”
“You flirted with every girl there,” the man growled, eyes black as reached for Dean. “But you blew me off.”
Dean opened his mouth to apologize. “I didn’t, man. I’m going home alone–”
He took another step, ready to run – somewhere, anywhere–
But in a flash of lightning, the man reached forward. He was expecting a hit, but the large fingers wrapped around his throat.
Dean startled, reaching his hands up to pull them off.
Then, the man squeezed.
Hard.
The grip overwhelmed him before he could clock it, the sheer force compressing his windpipe. The size of the hands was a problem, easily curling around his neck and pressing hard against his spine. Dean gurgled, panic setting in, as his wet fingers tried to find purchase.
“I came all this way to see you,” the man seethed, eyes burning as he shook Dean. “Just you!”
The force was blinding, and he faltered, gurgling for air as the fingers shifted, loosening – and pressing thumb first into the soft spot at the base of his neck. He threw his head back – pain and terror – and the rain blinded him as he looked up at the sky.
“You blew me off!” the man said – half sobbing, half yelling. He trashed Dean again, jerking his neck back and then forward. “Why did you do that?!”
No.
The panic coalesced to a moment of clarity. He wasn’t a passive victim. Screw that. He knew how to fight. He knew.
Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself, moving his fingers from the man’s relentless grip – and scraping at his face instead. He gouged hard, swiping blindly as he felt flesh give and blood.
The man howled, his grip loosening, and Dean drew in a breath – enough to clear his head.
To run. To fight. To–
He saw the glint of metal, but wasn’t fast enough to stop it. The knife plunged – hard and fast – into his gut.
Dean staggered, breath catching as he gaped.
The man braced him with one hand on his throat, pulling the knife back out with a meaty squick.
And Dean stood there, too dumbfounded to move, as the knife landed again, burying itself deep in his side.
Pain exploded as warm blood seeped out. In the haze of the rain he could see red blossoming against his white jersey, spreading faster and faster. His head spun–
He didn’t even protect himself this time.
The man reached his hand back up, circling Dean’s neck. The grip was unrelenting this time, and Dean didn’t even have time to take a breath. He gagged and choked, reaching his hands up in desperation – the pain from the stab wounds long forgotten as his body needed to breathe.
In response, the thick fingers pressed down harder, and the man loomed over him. Dean’s legs trembled, and the man sneered, pressing him down.
He collapsed, knees on the pavement as the man increased the pressure. His fingers constricted, touching around the back of Dean’s neck as he shook him, and Dean’s hands reached up to weakly swat at them. He found purchase on the man’s wrist, but there was no way to dislodge his grip, and his right hand lifted up to hit the man, scratch him–
Nothing.
Weak pats were all he could muster as the man leaned down and squeezed hard. He drew his face close to Dean’s, hot breath on his cheek as he stared him down hard. The blood had soaked down his front, spreading over his shorts now. He could feel it, streaking down his legs.
“You should have said yes,” he said, squelching out the last of Dean’s air.
He gaped, pathetic and useless as his hands lost their dexterity. The man craned him back even more, thrashing him again.
“You should have said yes!” he screamed, the roar lost in a clash of thunder. The lightning illuminated the man’s face, just enough for Dean to see the maniacal gaze as he choked him out.
The blood was still flowing. The oxygen was gone.
The man closed his grip, one more time, as Dean’s hands fell away.
With a snort, the man threw him down. Dean felt the rush of air and the impact as his body connected with the ground. Knees bent and body folded, he convulsed, one last time as his arms fell limp.
And the last thing he saw was the man’s looming figure as everything went black.
-o-
“Shit,” Logan said.
The windshield wipers were at full blast, and Garrett gave him a long look from the driver’s seat. “Shit?”
“I – forgot something,” Logan said, going through his bag.
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” Tucker said tiredly. “I need pizza.”
“No, like – I forgot to give this back,” he said, holding up the keys from his bag. “I kind of forgot to leave these for the crew tomorrow.”
Garrett groaned. “Are those the keys the staff gave us for equipment?”
“The ones we’re supposed to leave for the janitor,” Logan confirmed.
“Shit,” Garrett moaned, taking the next turn to get them in the other direction.
Tucker made a squawk of protest.
Shit.
-o-
The rain on his face roused him, just a little, just enough.
No.
That wasn’t–
“I just wanted to talk. That’s all.”
Dean blinked, the rain blinding him. He gasped, half choking on water.
No, blood.
Above him, Anthony’s hulking figure looked pained. “And you threw away my number!”
Dean tried to apologize. He tried to explain.
But his voice didn’t work.
His body didn’t work.
Anthony leaned forward, eyes wide. Dean flinched, trying to pull away, but his legs were tangled and–
“But you took hers,” Anthony said.
He lifted his hand, brushing it up Dean’s leg and lingering on his stomach. He lifted the jersey, fingering along the gashes. Dean whimpered.
“You just had to give me a chance,” Anthony begged, lifting his bloody fingers to Dean’s face. He stroked his cheek.
Then brushed his neck.
“One. Chance.”
And his fingers locked in place, pressing down.
Dean tried to gasp – but there was no air. Dean tried to yell – but he had no voice. Dean tried to fight – but he’d already lost.
He twitched, body convulsing.
He was bleeding out, but it didn’t matter. The lack of oxygen misfired in his brain.
He saw Anthony grit his teeth, baring down in a flash of lightning.
Dean seized, pain exploding, and then he saw nothing at all.
-o-
The parking lot was empty – except for Dean’s car.
“He hasn’t left yet?” Tucker asked.
Garrett frowned, pulling up toward it. “That’s weird–”
Logan peered out, trying to make sense of it. Dean’s car, parked in place.
The empty lot and the meager lights above. Then, a flash of lightning–
“Is that–?” Logan asked, squinting.
There was a dark form, something laying in the parking lot.
“What is that?” Garrett said, putting the car in park.
“Huh,” Tucker said. “That almost looks like–”
Logan’s stomach dropped. “Oh, shit–”
He didn’t wait for the others. He threw the door open, and flung himself into the rain. Running, wet footfalls across the pavement.
“Dean?” he called, heart pounding in his throat. “Dean!”
He splashed through a puddle–
Of red.
And crashed to his knees.
“No,” he said, choking on it. The disbelief racked him. “Dean–”
The figure was long, stretched out on its back. The legs were tucked under, the body bent awkwardly. It looked uncomfortable. It looked wrong.
But that wasn’t–
Logan blinked, taking a halting breath.
That wasn’t the problem.
The figure was plastered red, blood soaking the shorts. The jersey was ruined – torn and grotesquely stained. The arms were splayed out, laying palm up and limp, and the neck was bruised – red and mottled.
The face was pale, features facing the rain. Blonde hair matted down.
“Dean!” he yelled, and his voice broke. “Oh shit, Dean!”
-o-
Consciousness came back unexpectedly, with a grating pressure. Something grinding down, pressing on his chest.
“Doctor? He’s awake.”
The reality of it was hard to make sense of. It wasn’t raining, at least. Or–
He was inside.
He blinked, the lights blinding him. Too white, too bright.
Movement was hard to track, bobbing in and out, in and out.
“Dean? Can you hear me?”
He startled – the face too close, the voice too loud. He tried to speak, but–
“There’s a tube in your throat, Dean. It’s helping you breathe.”
It was said as a comfort, but it just made Dean panic. He seized, reaching his hand up – just to find himself restrained.
“You’ve been very badly injured, Dean. But we’re taking care of you.”
But someone had cut his clothes off. He was all but naked, stretched out and exposed. He could feel it, the air prickling on his skin, and someone reached up to feel his neck–
And he whimpered around the tube, shaking his head.
“Relax. You’re okay.”
But he wasn’t. Dean wasn’t okay.
He was scared. He was tired. He was–
“Doctor? His pressure is dropping–”
Something pinged, and his body went taut.
“Okay, we need to redline him to the OR before he bleeds out – now.”
He shook, the tremors up and down his body as his vision started to go white.
“We’re going to give you something to help you relax, Dean. It’ll be okay.”
He shook his head, eyes burning as something blared.
“He’s crashing–”
And Dean lost consciousness again.
-o-
It had been a long day.
The night was longer.
Dean had been alive – somehow. Covered in blood, pale, and unconscious, but the medics found a heartbeat after unfurling his body and taking his vitals. The guys could only watch as the medics treated him, loading him up, and taking him to the hospital – leaving them, standing in the rain as it beat the pavement clean of Dean’s blood.
That had been hours ago.
Since then, they’d called the coach and Dean’s parents before turning up – wet and shellshocked in the ER. They must have looked pathetic enough for a kindly nurse to help them, getting them something dry to wear and getting an update on Dean.
He was in surgery.
He was alive, but–
It would be a long surgery.
When they asked for more, no answers were forthcoming, and Logan didn’t know how to make sense of it. Garrett didn’t stop pacing; the stupid dumbfounded look stayed on Tucker’s face. And Logan just dropped his head into his hands, thinking about the last time he’d talked to Dean.
Why hadn’t he stayed? Why hadn’t he waited?
Would Dean be with them now if he had? Would Logan be in the next operating room?
It wasn’t until the cops showed up, serious and sorry, that Logan understood.
“We have the video footage,” the officer explained carefully. She hesitated, looking the three of them over. She’d already taken their statement about what they knew – which wasn’t much. She was looking for more. “It’s not an easy watch–”
“Wait,” Logan said. “You have video footage?”
She nodded. “There’s good video angles of the rink parking lot,” she said. “The attack was caught on tape.”
Garrett swore, and Tucker – honest to God – whimpered.
“Show me,” Logan said flatly. His voice felt hoarse. “Show me.”
She regarded him, eyes scanning the others. “It is disturbing–”
“I need to see what happened,” Logan demanded. “I need to know why my best friend is in surgery. I need to know.”
Maybe he said it emphatically enough. Maybe he looked pathetic enough, in his borrowed clothes and still-damp hair. Maybe she needed the leads more than he needed his sanity.
She lifted her phone, holding it out to him. The image was a little grainy – grayscale – but when she pressed play, it came to life.
He watched as he saw himself – trailing after Tucker and Garrett – jog across the parking lot. They loaded into the Jeep, and pulled out, leaving Dean’s car alone in the image. It was no more than a minute – sixty damn seconds – before the rain started and Dean’s figure appeared.
Logan pulled the screen closer, and Tucker and Garrett leaned in to watch. Dean was moving quickly through the rain, head down as the rain pelted him.
And then–
Another figure.
This one was unfamiliar – and huge. He was bigger than Dean, bulking in a way that felt like too much. He wasn’t fast – but he was direct – and Dean barely had time to react before he was on him.
Logan’s fingers tightened on the phone, breath taut in his chest as he watched. The man grappled with Dean, grabbing at his neck. The blonde fought back, getting his hands up to deflect. They went back and forth as the man squeezed – and Dean scratched his face – hard.
Logan shuddered as the man drew back. And for a second, it looked like it might be over.
But the man recovered faster than Dean.
With a flash of lightning, Logan saw the flash of a knife.
“Oh, shit,” Garrett said.
Tucker was speechless.
Logan wasn’t sure he was breathing.
It happened fast. The man braced Dean by the neck and stabbed him – once, and twice – two hard slashes in his stomach. Blood spattered, flecking into the air, before the red stain on Dean’s shirt started to spread. Shocked, Dean looked down, grappling with his shirt and his ruined stomach.
Logan wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to look away.
But he couldn’t.
He watched, helpless, as the man went for Dean’s neck again. Dean lifted his hands again, eyes up in shock, but he was too weak to fight back now. His hands hit the man’s wrists uselessly, and the man loomed larger, pressing Dean back.
Dean struggled, bent over as the man seethed. It wasn’t long before Dean was forced to his knees.
“I can’t–” Tucker said, turning away.
Garrett’s jaw was set hard, eyes bright.
Logan couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, his whole world zoning out.
The man’s grip was massive, encircling Dean’s throat with ease. Now that Dean was on his knees, the man had all the leverage, and he didn’t let up. Dean flailed, hands slapping at the man’s massive biceps, fingers gripping weakly at his wrist.
To no avail.
The man shook Dean, getting down in his face. He couldn’t see Dean’s face from this angle and distance, but he could see the way his body gave in. The submission was slow – and fast – as the man squeezed again – and shook Dean hard.
He patted the man’s arm – one more time – before his arm fell away. He was going limp as the man finally threw him down, and Dean collapsed in a heap, tangled on his back. He twitched, body struggling, before his arms fell limp and splayed out around him. With another shudder, his body sank down – defeated.
There was a beat. A moment of stillness, and Logan thought maybe the footage had stopped.
Tucker spared a glance; Garrett’s hands were fists.
And then, another flash of lightning illuminated the screen, and the man stepped forward. He stood massively tall over Dean’s prone form – still and sprawled as the rain soaked him. The blood was everywhere now – Dean’s jersey was stained with it, his shorts discolored. He could see the sticky pool on the ground as the man stepped over the broken figure.
The figure shuddered, almost uncontrollably, as he got down, running a hand up Dean’s leg and lifting the shirt. Logan watched, horrified, as the man fondled the wounds, tracing his hands up to Dean’s neck once more.
Dean made no effort to defend himself, but his body seized violently as the man latched down, squeezing Dean’s throat.
It felt like a lifetime.
The seconds that passed as the man throttled Dean, jerking his lifelessly body on the ground before he finally let go. He shuddered again, dropping his head forward and pressing his forehead to Dean’s for a long, intimate moment.
He looked back with a sudden start, and then he got up. He stepped off of Dean, lumbering away into the rain and darkness with a muted flash of lightning, and leaving Dean’s broken body where he’d left it.
Another beat passed as the rain continued to fall and Dean didn’t move.
Then, headlights filled the screen, and Logan recognized the Jeep.
The woman took the phone back, killing the feed.
“It happened fast,” she said, and Logan wasn’t sure if this was a consolation or a damnation. “It looked personal.”
Tucker was shaking, having gone white next to him. Garrett was vibrating, too angry to speak.
And Logan just shook his head. “We don’t know that guy.”
The woman considered that. “You didn’t know him?” she confirmed.
“No,” Logan said. “And I don’t think Dean did either. I mean–”
He looked helplessly at Tucker and Garrett. Tucker was too far gone to reply, but Garrett nodded. “I’ve never seen him.”
The detective looked dubious, but Logan shook his head. “We live together, in the same house. We have a lot of the same classes. We play hockey together and train–”
“So you don’t think Dean knew this guy,” the detective concluded carefully.
“We were all going to get pizza,” Tucker said. “He wasn’t about to – whatever.”
Logan nodded in affirmation. “It’s true,” he said. “We were all going down to Malone’s. We’d been at the rink all day, doing press and meet and greets. We were tired, all the people–”
His eyes widened.
The detective noticed. “You remember something.”
“Can I see him again?” Logan said, reaching for the phone.
She brought up something, scrolling. And then she handed it to him.
Logan looked.
The broad shoulders. The defined physique.
“Wait,” he said.
“You know him?” the cop asked, suddenly hopeful.
Logan pointed at the screen. “He was there, at the meet and greet,” he said. “This guy was a fan in Dean’s line.”
Garrett frowned, looking at it closer. Tucker, too. “Wait, I did see him,” Tucker said slowly. “He hung out, like, all day.”
“He–” Logan started and then stopped as his stomach clenched.
“He what?” the detective said, eager now.
“He tried to give Dean his number,” he said dumbly. He let out a sound, something strangled and disbelieving. “He flirted.”
The cop looked intent now. “Did Dean reciprocate?”
“No,” Logan said.
“Dean doesn’t swing that way,” Garrett said.
“But he was nice,” Logan said. “And everyone flirted with him, all day long. It was – nothing.”
Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
He’d seen the footage. He’d found Dean’s body. He was sitting in a damn hospital waiting room. It wasn’t nothing.
A stupid joke. All their bantering.
A joke. A contest. A friendly back and forth.
And now Dean was fighting for his life.
“Can you describe him for me?” the detective asked, getting out her notebook.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, more numb than ever. “Yeah, I can.”
-o-
“Oxygen levels are holding steady, and his BP is stable.”
Dean felt himself rise to consciousness again, soft and steady.
“I want to monitor him for another 30 minutes, make sure he’s maintaining his vitals before we transfer him to the ICU. Check the wound carefully for bleeding; the internal damage was extensive, and he’s at a high risk of recurrence.”
It seemed important – but not. Dean couldn’t make himself care.
“We already have him on bleeding protocol, and we’re actively looking for signs of infection...”
“Also, be sure to check the throat–”
Someone touched him – brushing against his arm.
Dean tensed despite himself.
“We’ve ruled out any fractures or breaks, but the bruising is extensive, and with the post operative conditions, the risk of swelling–”
The touch moved to Dean’s collarbone.
“I want to make sure his airway stays secure.”
Fingers against his throat.
And Dean seized.
Large hands, pressing down. Fingers wrapped all the way around, pressing into his windpipe and driving him down.
“Doctor, heart rate is increasing, and his BP is up–”
“Shit. Is he stroking out?”
Hot breath in his face, air squelched out as he grappled weakly. The grip was too strong as it pushed him down and held him, shaking him until his hands fell away, until he stopped fighting, until–
Touch on his face, lifting his eyelids. “Dean? Can you hear me? Dean?”
Flashes of lightning. Rolling thunder. The bulking figure, pressing down, squeezing, shaking. Leaning close to finish him off.
“He’s panicking. We need to calm him down–”
He was helpless then; he was helpless now. The drugs overpowered him, just like Anthony, and there was nothing he could do as his body surrendered again.
-o-
The interview with the cop lasted at least an hour. By the time they were done, the storm had stopped outside, and Logan, Tucker, and Garrett were left alone in the waiting room. A few other guys stopped by; the coach made an appearance.
It was a horrible sort of irony.
If Logan had waited two minutes for Dean to get his phone – he might not have been waiting hours for him to get out of surgery. He might not be waiting all night, just to see if Dean would live or die.
Dean’s parents asked for updates, but there was nothing to tell them. There was nothing to do.
Until a doctor came out to talk to them, tired and serious.
“Dean made it through surgery,” he said. “We’re transferring him up to the ICU right now.”
“And he’s okay?” Logan asked. “I mean, he’s going to be okay?”
The question was painfully simplistic, and he knew that.
But what else was there to ask?
What else even mattered?
“His condition is still critical. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the internal damage was extensive,” he explained. “We have to watch for any ongoing bleeding or infection, but he is stable for now.”
That was good news, Logan was sure of it. He just didn’t know how to make sense of it.
“So, he was stabbed–?” Garrett said, still processing it as well.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “He sustained two stab wounds to the torso. One was more of a glancing blow, doing mostly superficial damage. But the other nicked his kidney and perforated his intestines. It required extensive repair, which is why the surgery took so long.”
Tucker swore under his brother. “But he really is okay?”
The doctor’s expression softened a little bit with something like pity. “Like I said, critical but stable. The fact that he made it through surgery is great, and we will be closely monitoring him for the next few days.”
“When will he be back on the ice?” Garrett asked. “I mean – shit. This is bad, right?”
The doctor tipped his head. “I’m not ready to talk about the timeline of his recovery, not until we get him off the critical list and out of the ICU,” he said. “One thing at a time.”
Dean was alive, Logan told himself, letting himself believe it. Dean was still with them.
Logan didn’t know shit about medicine. He didn’t know about ICUs or recovery times. He didn’t know about rehab and recovery.
There was just one thing to ask, really.
“Can we see him?”
-o-
Dean slept – but not quite. It was a hazy sort of twilight, in and out. He couldn’t do anything when they touched him, and he was moved without his consent. But the touch was gentle, and the voices were soft, and Dean was too tired to fight them anyway.
Giving up, it turned out, was easier the more you did it.
Submit yourself once.
Submit yourself a thousand times.
And, then, the guys were there.
Dean stared, blinking a few times as he tried to clear his vision and make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Guys?” he croaked. “Hey–”
He tried to sit up, but that wasn’t going to happen. He was far too weak to do anything, and they were quick to settle next to him. Logan in the center, flanked by Tucker and Garrett. He couldn’t remember calling them; he couldn’t remember much of anything. But shit, he was glad they were here.
“Hey, D,” Garrett said, patting him on the wrist. “How are you doing, man?”
Tucker’s expression looked watery, like he might cry. Logan’s face looked funny.
“Shit,” he said tiredly, a long exhale as he worked to keep his eyelids open. “I think I got stabbed.”
There were bandages wrapping his body, and people kept talking about puncture wounds – like the clinical description matched up with the knife in his gut in the parking lot.
Tucker looked away now, almost like he couldn’t take it.
Garrett winced, and Logan nodded. “Yeah, man,” he said. “You got stabbed.”
It seemed like that was a bigger deal, but Dean couldn’t quite focus enough to make it count. He hummed instead, tipping his head to the side. “I got stabbed twice,” he recalled balefully.
Garrett’s hand squeezed his wrist. “But you’re okay now, D. You’re okay.”
He nodded vaguely, swallowing with a wince. That hurt.
But then, everything hurt.
In a dull sort of way. Detached.
He looked back at his friends. “It does feel okay,” he said earnestly. “I think they have me on some drugs–”
He trailed off, trying to make sense of it. The IV was in the crook of his arm, and someone had plastered electrodes across his chest. The bulky bandages were kind of itchy, and there was a plastic mask over his face.
Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
He frowned, trying to lift his hand to move it.
He didn’t have the strength. Or the coordination.
Or – anything.
“Yeah,” Logan said. “I mean, you just got out of major surgery, so–”
“But you’re okay,” Garrett said again, and Dean was starting to wonder who he was trying to convince.
Tucker finally was able to look up. “Do you remember much?”
That was – a question.
He blinked a few times. “Yeah,” he said. “We were at the rink. Press day?”
Tucker nodded; they all did.
Dean wrinkled his nose. “There was a guy in the parking lot.”
Garrett’s hand pulled back, and Tucker looked down again. Logan’s expression went hard. “Do you remember the guy? The cops have been asking.”
He was–
Large. Bulky.
Messed up in the head.
“Anthony,” he said vaguely. “He wanted – to go get a drink.”
Dean wondered if that would have helped. If getting a drink would have made it better.
Or if it would have ended the same way.
The guys exchanged a look, and Dean shook his head. “Am I really okay?”
Garrett and Tucker looked like they couldn’t answer, but Logan leaned forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe, you’re in a hospital,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
That made sense.
As much as anything made sense.
He was tired, really. And it really did hurt – a lot.
He sagged without thinking, eyelids starting to droop. “It’s been a really long day, guys.”
Logan nodded in commiseration. “Yeah, it would have been better to do this before press day,” he quipped. “It could have saved us all the trouble.”
Dean gave him an earnest nod. “The event would have flopped without me.”
Logan blinked at him, and Garrett burst out laughing. Tucker half snorted his laugh, before Logan’s face finally broke into a grin. “You’re probably right about that.”
Dean knew that. Dean was usually right.
“But hey, get some rest, okay?” Logan said, patting his shoulder again. “You looked wiped, man.”
He felt it. Everything was getting heavy, and consciousness began to feel fuzzy.
What was going out one more time?
His friends were here. He was safe in a hospital. Everything was okay.
And Dean closed his eyes again.
-o-
By the time Logan sat down – like well and truly sat down – he realized it had been 24 hours since this all started. A day ago, they’d been setting up for the meet and greet.
24 hours later, he was camped out in a hospital room, watching a very high Dean drift in and out of consciousness. He had been tired last night.
He was downright exhausted now.
His adrenaline had faded, and the practical realities set in. Garrett stepped out to make some phone calls – Dean’s parents, his sister. Tucker had finally gotten in contact with Beau, who was out of town with the football team. And Logan all but passed out in the chair by Dean’s bed as the rest of their teammates came and went.
Coach Jensen came by eventually and shooed him out. “I’m down one player; let’s not make it two. You look like you’re ready to collapse, kid.”
He was, too. He was tired; he was hungry.
He was everything.
He made it to the cafeteria with the help of one of the guys, and he ate a stack of pancakes before he fell asleep with his head propped upon his hand. He must have needed the sleep, because the guys didn’t wake him, and he didn’t rouse until someone poked him.
“Hey,” he said. “The cops are here.”
“Hm?” he said, blinking drowsily. “What?”
When he opened his eyes, the detective from before was there. He stared at her, dumb for a moment.
“Oh,” he said, realizing this wasn’t a dream. “Right.”
“Thanks,” she said with a little smile. “We were doubling back to show you some photos of suspects. We have pulled some additional footage from the area, but we heard Dean’s awake.”
Logan blinked rapidly, clearing his head as best he could. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s up in the ICU.”
“We could really use his statement,” she said, sounding a little eager.
“Well, he’s pretty drugged up right now,” Logan said. “Been in and out–”
She nodded. “Well, I’ll clear it with his doctors first,” she said. “But the faster we can get moving on the case, the better. We don’t want the suspect to get away.”
Logan frowned as he considered this for the first. “Wait,” he said. “That guy is still out there.”
It seemed obvious; he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought about it.
“Could he come back?” Logan asked. “Is Dean safe?”
Her smile was polite. “We have no reason to suspect he’s in danger now,” she said. “But we would like to make sure we jump on these leads. I can go check with his doctor, like I said–”
Logan got up, following her out. “I’ll go check on Dean,” he said. He turned back toward the guys. “You got this?”
“We’ll finish up and be up soon,” they said.
“Say hey to Dean for us!” the other echoed.
Logan nodded, following after the cop, as he made his way back up to Dean.
-o-
The thing about hospitals, Dean was finding out, was that you were never alone. Someone was always there when he woke up, and he would be prodded awake for all sorts of things. Checking his vitals. Assessing his cognition. Changing his bandage.
So it wasn’t unusual for someone to be in the room. In fact, Dean smiled warily at them, eyes half open as he sighed. “I’m fine, just gonna sleep,” he slurred to no one in particular and flashing a weak thumbs up.
It was odd, though. The silence that followed.
A strained breath.
“You’re fine.”
Dean squinted, forcing his eyes to open. He wasn’t sure what drugs he was on, but they weren’t as strong as they were before, and the keening background pain was stronger. Exhaustion – he was assured – was normal, but this–
This wasn’t normal.
The figure by the bed was big. Bigger than Logan and Tucker, even bigger than Garrett. The nurses on his shift so far had all been women, and the doctor hadn’t been like that.
But he knew, right?
His brain couldn’t process it, but his body stiffened out of reflex. He heard the heartbeat on the monitor pick up its pace, as his eyes opened wider and he gripped anxiously at the sheets.
“No.”
Anthony was there, bigger than ever by the side of Dean’s hospital bed. He was still in the same clothes from last night – rumpled and flecked red.
Blood.
Dean’s blood.
Dean couldn’t see a knife, but he hadn’t seen it the first time either – and it was impossible to miss the wide hands, hanging limp by Anthony’s side.
He gasped, not sure what to do as Anthony took a step forward. “I’m sorry!”
That wasn’t – it.
Dean blinked, confused.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Anthony sobbed. His face contorted as he cried, tears down his face. There was a red scratch – vivid and painful looking – but the man seemed oblivious as he reached for Dean’s side. “I just wanted to spend time with you, I swear. I’m not a bad guy.”
Dean had evidence to the contrary, but now didn’t seem like the time to argue.
“I just wanted to talk,” Anthony continued. “If you got to know me, you’d see. I think we would hit it off, I do.”
That seemed unlikely, all things considered, but Dean was stuck in this bed – trapped by wires and tubes – and where were the nurses now? Where were his friends?
How did this guy get in here?
It wasn’t like he could just sneak in. It wasn’t like he was small and could go unnoticed.
“Please, Dean Di Laurentis,” Anthony begged. He lifted his hands, reaching for him–
And Dean couldn’t help him.
He panicked.
His body contorted – pulling back out of sheer instinct. This guy had stabbed him – twice. And choked him – twice. And Dean had survived surgery and oh, shit--
He flailed, grappling around for the call button.
Shit.
Anthony stopped – his face freezing. His body stopped moving, the tears still on his cheeks as something went hard in his eyes.
“But you don’t want that,” Anthony said, like this was some kind of realization.
Dean shook his head, weakly licking his lips. “No, I just – it’s been a lot–”
He fumbled for an answer, a defense, an explanation.
Shit, an out. Something.
Anything.
“I just wanted a chance,” Anthony said, voice deepening now. He straightened with a shudder, his whole body going stiff as his eyes narrowed. “Just give me a chance!”
Whatever Dean might have said – didn’t matter. Anthony reached down, grabbing him roughly around the shoulders. His meaty fingers dug in, shaking him, snaking up to his neck–
And Dean didn’t wait for them to constrict.
He screamed.
The sound was loud – before Anthony’s fingers locked in, snuffing it out. He gagged, bucking wildly. The tubes and wires pulled uncomfortably, and something pinged. Anthony’s face was twisted in rage. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
He pulled tighter, cinching his hands so impossibly tight that something felt like it popped. Dean’s eyes blew wide, head lolling back in shock before the pressure abated. He was too shocked to register it, though – his body jerking a little before he pulled in a stunted breath. Loud and wheezing – then another.
“If you won’t give me a chance, then you don’t get one either,” Anthony said.
Dean squeaked, blinking wildly as he tried to yell. He made a sound – garbled and inarticulate.
“No more chances,” Anthony said, advancing on Dean again. He made another sound – louder now – before Anthony was on him.
But not his hands. No–
Dean seized, fresh panic jolting him.
He was too late; he was too slow.
The pillow pressed over his face – confusing at first. He flailed, grabbing at Anthony’s arms. He grappled, kicking and bucking, before Anthony pressed down harder.
The suffocating weight was overwhelming, and Dean blinked blindly against the fabric. He gaped, struggling and straining for air, but the pillow squelched it all out. He inhaled, wet fabric in his mouth, and his lungs felt like they were ready to burst.
He tightened his grip, one last burst of desperation–
Before the need became too much.
He collapsed back, limp against the bed as the pillow pressed down more firmly. His hand slipped down, falling off the bed, the other going limp on his chest.
Neurons firing but no action was realized. Synapses working but no connections made.
Dean shuddered, and it was over before he even had a chance to let go.
-o-
Logan’s nerves were twitching again, anxiety firing restlessly in the back of his mind. It was just stupid, and he knew that. The trauma of the last 24 hours was just messing with him. That was all. Dean was safe; Dean was tucked comfortably in a hospital bed. Give him another 12 hours, and he would have the phone numbers of three nurses. Logan was sure of it.
Dean was irresistible.
Dean was invincible.
Dean was Dean.
He found solace in that – confidence.
But when he pushed into Dean’s room–
That confidence evaporated. That solace was gone.
Because Dean was tucked into the bed all right.
With a large, towering figure above him. Familiar–
And wrong.
The man was broad in the chest and shoulders, mousy hair in disarray. He was working hard, straining, and it took Logan a long moment to realize he was pressing a pillow down hard.
Right over Dean’s face.
The man grunted, jerking his arms harder, but Dean’s figure was still – rocking lightly on the bed with the effort. One arm had flopped off the edge, and the other wasn’t moving – the blankets in disarray, but still.
“What the hell?” Logan said.
An alarm sounded – as all the monitors seemed to explode at once.
The man looked up, pillow slack in his hands as he turned. Wide brown eyes – a scratch down his face. “I just wanted to talk to him!”
Logan gaped, looking at Dean’s still figure again.
The man lunged at him – hard.
“Why couldn’t I just talk to him?”
The man caught Logan, sending them both crashing down. He hit hard, his ass on the tile and head slamming against the wall. The man’s sheer force was overwhelming, and he barely had a chance to realize what was happening before his hands were around his neck.
A squeezing.
He gasped, pushing up and gasping. The world spun, his consciousness shifting before the door opened and all hell broke loose.
A nurse yelled; a security guard came storming in. The man on top of him flexed, and Logan’s vision went white, his head lolling back–
Before a rush of oxygen filled his lungs.
He slumped back, sliding down the wall, blinking dazedly as he saw the man get hauled back and thrown face first into the ground. His throat burned, vision still hazy at the edges, but he pushed himself up to see–
Dean.
One of the nurses had removed the pillow, and Logan could see him now. His face was blanched again, lips tinged blue as his mouth hung open. His head was lolled loosely to the side. And his eyes–
Open.
And fixed on nothing.
Logan’s heart stuttered, and his breathing stopped. He stood up on shaky legs, watching as they lowered Dean’s bed flat and pushed all the blankets aside. Someone took Dean by the head, rolling it back center and pressing a bag over his face and pumping it. Another person got on the bed, kneeling next to him, starting compressions.
The intensity of it was numbing, watching as Dean’s chest caved in and his body jerked. Someone picked up his hand, laying it back on the bed, keeping up the frenetic pace as a doctor finally arrived.
“How long has he been down?”
“A minute – maybe more,” the nurse at Dean’s head reported. “He was smothered with a pillow.”
The doctor made a face, but didn’t look – not even as the man wailed and struggled in his handcuffs, the security guard’s knee in his back.
“Pause compressions, let’s see what we’ve got–”
The nurse stopped, and they stared at the monitor.
“Okay, resume CPR,” the doctor said. “Give him a dose of epi, and let’s see if we can get him back in a shockable rhythm.”
The compressions continued as someone injected something into the IV. Logan watched – his entire body buzzing – until the doctor nodded.
“Pause CPR,” he said. This time, he looked encouraged. “He’s in v-fib. Get me paddles, charged to 200.”
The room went quiet and Logan’s ears rang. He watched as they placed two paddles on Dean’s chest. “Clear!”
And Dean jolted.
The current ran through his body, making him twitch. His body settled back down, and the doctor made a face.
“Let’s try 250,” he said, grimacing as he placed the paddles on Dean’s chest one more. “Clear!”
The shock was stronger this time, and Logan watched as his back arched slightly – his fingers twitching in response. He slumped back – lifeless on the bed – but the doctor grinned.
And the steady, familiar sound of a heartbeat filled the room.
“Okay, he’s back,” the doctor said, handing the paddles back to the nurse. “I want to keep him on oxygen and let’s run scans and bloodwork again. I want to make sure he hasn’t suffered any setbacks.”
The nurses nodded, tending to Dean with practice care as they shifted him back on the bed – adjusting his wires and tubes, slipping a fresh mask over his face. The doctor leaned down, listening to his chest with a few nods before turning back.
“Is this the guy?” he asked the guards.
“Cops are coming up,” he reported.
“Get him out of my patients room,” he ordered. He looked at Logan. “You’re his–?”
“Friend,” Logan supplied. He swallowed, taking a shaky breath. “Is he okay?”
“Seems like he’s having a bit of a bad day,” the doctor said dryly.
“You have no idea,” Logan said warily, stepping closer to see Dean again.
He was still pale, but his color was returning. The rise and fall of his chest was steady.
“I have to check his incision site, so you should really step out,” the doctor said.
Logan hesitated, even as the security guards manhandled the man out of the room.
The doctor inclined his head. “But yeah,” he said. “I think he’s going to be okay.”
That was enough, then.
After everything. After all this.
That was enough.
He bit his lip, taking a moment to squeeze Dean’s hand, before he saw himself out into the hall. He made it there just as Tucker and Garrett came up – wide eyed and confused.
“What the hell, man?” Garrett said.
“Is Dean okay?” Tucker asked. “Logan?”
The words didn’t come; the emotions were too strong.
He choked, catching on a cry, and at least when he fell apart, his friends were there to catch him. The long, hard end.
To a long, hard day.
-o-
In the end, Dean just wanted to sleep.
That wasn’t really a thing, unfortunately. After Anthony’s second attack, the doctors had been thorough. He’d been forced to go through a full neurological check, and they drew more blood and sent him for about three scans. He slept on and off while they tracked him, drowsily answering the same questions about his name and birthdate as he was passed around.
He was used to being the center of attention; he was used to being touched.
But this was getting to be a bit much.
By the time he was finally deposited back in his room with an all clear, he was more than a little done with the whole thing.
He dozed off almost immediately, only vaguely aware of people as they came and went, and he wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he opened his eyes and saw Logan.
Looking much worse for wear, sitting next to his bed.
“Hey,” he said slowly. “You look like shit, man.”
Logan actually laughed, half choking on the sound. “Do you need a mirror?”
Dean made a sound, shrugging slightly. “I’ve been choked, stabbed, and smothered,” he countered. “What’s your excuse?”
Logan sighed, shaking his head in bemusement. “Fair enough,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Honestly?” he said. “Like shit.”
“Yeah,” Logan said gently. “I’ll bet. It’s been – a lot.”
That was an understatement, and Dean had been unconscious for parts of it. He couldn’t imagine what it had been for Logan.
He kept his eyes open with a long, slow breath. “You know,” he said. “Next time we do a meet and greet? I’ll leave all the fans to you.”
Logan smirked, almost despite himself. “There’s nothing you can do about it. You’re just too popular, D.”
He chuckled, soft and breathless. “Oh, man, you’re killing me,” he said, wincing as he pulled a hand over his tender torso. “Literally.”
“Nah, dude,” Logan said. “Pretty sure you did that to yourself. You’re just too pretty to live.”
Dean groaned. “Stop making me laugh!”
“I’m serious,” Logan deadpanned. “The guy who did this? Will never face a day in prison. The jury will look at you, and agree. He had no choice.”
Dean nodded along with a low noise of agreement. “I mean, we can’t really blame him. I am irresistible.”
Logan grinned, his eyes crinkling as he nodded. “You’re something, anyway.”
He settled, laughter tapering off as he sank back into the pillows. “Hey, Logan?”
“Yeah, D,” Logan said.
“Will you stay with me this time?” he asked.
It was kind of needy. It was kind of pathetic.
It was kind of what he needed, though.
And he kind of didn’t have the energy to fight it.
Logan smiled softly, pulling a chair up and settling down before resting his hand on Dean’s arm. “Every time I leave you alone, you kind of almost die.”
Dean nodded vaguely as his energy flagged.
“So, yeah, I’ll stay,” Logan said, giving his wrist a squeeze. “I’ll stay.”
Because Dean liked hockey – he did. He liked girls and flirting and hooking up, too.
But sometimes, what Dean liked most, was being with his friends.