Thanks to the overwhelming support of my wonderful friends houndsheart, raesummer, and spanishfanito on tumblr, I've decided to re-post and continue with this story. It's a long, winding tale with many twists, turns, and mind-fucks, but in the end, it'll all make sense.

Thank you to everyone who has read this fic so far, and much love from the bottom of my heart to my supporters.

The Piper's Pit wasn't the biggest attraction in Wellsboro, but with a population of only thirty-three hundred, it quickly became the local "watering hole." The Pit was more of a hole-in-the-wall than anything else, cramped uncomfortably between a small barber shop (the only one within a 50 mile radius where you could get an outstanding straight-razor shave) and an adult video store complete with flashing, neon triple X's in the window.

At first glance, the gathering ground was nothing to write home about. As soon as you stepped foot into the bar, your sinuses were immediately attacked by the pungent plume of stale cigarette smoke and skunk beer. The hardwood floor boasted scuffed battle scars from frequent drunken brawls, and the bare brick walls were littered with peeling sports posters and years-outdated local ads. The tables were rickety, the barstools duct-taped beyond repair, and the single toilet in the men's restroom threatened to overflow after every flush. But the one redeeming quality of the seemingly seedy lounge was, of course, the comfort.

After a long day's toiling in the gas fields high on the ridges outside of town, the hard-hatted men in their white, company-issued pick-up trucks would wind their way down the steep trails in a rumbling herd and line up across the street. Stumbling across the road in a pack of laughter, the laborers would file into the bar, claiming their seats and opening tabs all around.

It was nights like those that Seth's tip jar overflowed, stuffed to the brim with crumpled dollar bills and loose change.

The two-toned bartender worked himself into a sweat, constantly reaching into the coolers behind him for long-necked bottles of Budweiser and sliding them across the counter and into the meaty grips of thirsty customers. The overhead speakers kicked into action, pulsing with the top Country & Western hits of the decade as Seth powered on the stereo under the counter before turning to take inventory of the brightly colored liquor bottles lining the shelves behind him. His pen scratched against the notepad in his hand as he mentally took note of the current stock. He glanced over his shoulder- pleased as the bar's patrons seemed to be content for the time being- before rushing off into the back-room to grab the needed supplies.

"Can I get some service out here?" A gruff voiced called from the other side of the counter, and Seth rolled his eyes, stuffing bottles of Bacardi and Kahlua in his arms before retreating from the storage area.

"Little early tonight, Ambrose," Seth muttered as he set the bottles on the counter and grabbed a tumbler from the stack beside them. He shoveled a scoop of ice into the glass and poured a finger of Jack over it, the warm liquid popping against the chilly cubes. Before he could grab the soda gun, Ambrose snatched his wrist with a smirk.

"Hold the Coke tonight, pretty boy."

Seth shook the offending appendage off of his arm and topped the glass off with another couple fingers of the amber liquid, shoving it at the other man with a quick glare. He turned back toward the bottles he'd retrieved and twisted the caps off, tossing them in the trash before inserting the pourers and lining them up along the shelf.

"No, no, Sethie. I said 'hold the Coke'," Ambrose chided behind the rim of his glass, pale blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Seth rolled his own chocolate orbs for the second time that evening and grabbed another tumbler off the counter, filling it to the brim with the caramel-colored soda.

"You know, that joke wasn't funny the first time you made it, Dean" the bartender grumbled, holding the glass up for his customer to see.

"And yet you go along with it anyway," the man retorted, downing his drink with lightning speed and slamming it on the counter. "How about another?"

Seth gritted his teeth and flipped his own glass, filling the auburn haired man's with the bubbly soda. "Finish it, then maybe."

"Yes, mom."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, Dean nursing his sweating glass of Coke as Seth kicked back into customer-service mode, swiftly mixing cocktails and pouring shots as more customers filed into the lounge. The bartender wiped his brow after finishing off a Mojito with a sprig of fresh mint and began to wipe down the counter. He chanced a glance at his lone customer sitting at the bar who was seemingly occupied with staring pensively into the half-empty glass in front of him. Seth sighed and tossed the towel over his shoulder, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning forward to be heard over the crowd. "Where's your twin?"

Dean looked up after a moment and shrugged. "Roman? Probably went home."

"Today was his last day, right?" Seth questioned, quirking a brow.

"Yeah," the other man replied, hunching his shoulders, worry showing itself in the thin lines on his forehead, "guess he took it rough. Having to quit and all."

"Well, he still gets to work in the office, though, right? Probably be a hell of a lot better on his knee than being out there in the field," the bartender offered.

"Yeah, it will be," Dean started, lifting his empty glass and rattling the few cubes left in the bottom, "how about another, Mr. Rollins?"

Seth smirked and grabbed the proffered vessel, emptying the melting ice into the sink with a clunk and topping it off, this time with a generous helping of soda. Dean knit his brows together in confusion, but the other man stopped him before he could begin to protest. "Nah, man. The night's still young, and as much as I'd love to see you leave, I'd rather not set your mope-y ass out on the streets just yet. You gonna behave tonight?"

Dean's lips turned up in a crooked smile, and he raised two fingers in a crude salute. "Scout's honor."

"Yeah, yeah, likely story," a deep voice grumbled behind the auburn as a large, warm hand settled on his shoulder.

Dean cocked his head slightly and glanced up into the steely gray eyes of his best friend. "Didn't think you'd make it tonight, Ro," he winked, patting the barstool beside him.

Roman huffed out a laugh and hopped up beside his friend, groaning deeply as he settled onto the rickety seat. Dean shot a knowing glance the man's way and signaled for Seth to grab a couple lagers from the cooler. "And miss my pity party? What kind of friend would I be?"

Seth popped the top off of one of the chilly bottles and slid it across the counter. "Ah, shit, Dean. Should I call the stripper to cancel? I knew it was a bad idea to put that deposit down."

Dean shrugged his shoulders with a sigh. "Apparently Mr. Reigns isn't in the mood for any fun tonight," he chided, knocking elbows with the raven-haired Samoan beside him, "and to think Candy was gonna come in all the way from Charleston just for your benefit."

The taller man rolled his eyes and nodded a 'thanks' to the bartender before taking a hard swig from the icy bottle of Yuengling. "Well, sadly for her, she's gonna have to find another willing participant."

A whistle signaled for Seth to get back to work, and he excused himself from the pair before heading down the bar toward the waiting crowd of thirsty patrons. Dean reached into the pocket of his faded leather jacket, re-emerging with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He pulled a cancer stick from the pack, setting it to his lips and lighting the tip with a quick spark. He sucked in a deep lungful of the pungent smoke and tipped his head back to blow it out, a bluish halo encircling him like a wreath. Roman groaned beside him, and he cracked open a euphorically closed eye, watching the other man gently rub his right knee through the dirty green corduroys.

"Bad today?" Dean questioned, nodding at the injured joint.

Roman sighed and dug his fingers into the swelled kneecap, grabbing the bottle of lager and taking another comforting gulp. "Overdid myself. Wanted to let them know I wasn't down for the count."

"You and your damn ego," the scruffy man muttered, taking another drag off his smoke, "Just because you can't work in the field anymore, doesn't mean you're useless."

"Rather be dead" the Samoan replied darkly, finishing off the bottle and reaching for the next.

Dean grabbed his wrist, thumb gently brushing over the warm pulse point beneath it. "I could do it, ya know. Want me to? Take you out into the alley, break your neck… leave you for dead? Or better yet," he chuckled, pink tongue darting out to trace along his plump bottom lip, "lay you out right here? Break that bottle and slit your throat with it? Let you bleed out over the counter while Seth screams like a bitch? Jesus, the mess would be worth it, though. Could you see it? You're a big guy. He'd be trying to clean up for weeks."

Roman shuddered slightly, steely eyes locking with the other's baby blues while his heartbeat quickened in anticipation for the strike. "You say that, but this," Dean whispered, pressing gently on the rapidly pulsing vein, "this says otherwise."

"You're not right, you know that?" Ro laughed uncomfortably, shaking the hand off.

"Mmm," the other man replied, leaning back and scratching at the exposed expanse of belly his shirt left as it rode up, "but you wouldn't have it any other way."

Roman didn't have to reply. Dean could see straight through him, and it would do the man no good to deny that fact. Before he met the so-called "lunatic fringe," life had been, well, dreadfully dull. Get up, go to work, come home, eat, sleep, and so on. A broken record of a day that kept repeating itself as the needle scratched deeper and deeper under his skin. It wasn't until one evening that Roman had had enough. Sitting in a pathetic state of cracker crumbs and empty water bottles while the local news anchors reported the same boring stories on the television, he came to the conclusion that something had to give. He pushed himself up off of the threadbare sofa in his measly apartment, threw on the black leather jacket hanging beside the door, and let himself out into the chilly mountain air. Looking around, he noticed the lack of bustle and sighed deeply.

Wellsboro was definitely unlike anywhere he'd lived before. The man was homesick, longing for the palm trees and salty ocean breezes of his hometown. Lazy days on the beach followed by endless nights around the fire pit with his extensive family. Gorgeously tanned beauties in sundresses and the quirky shops on Quitewater Boardwalk. Wellsboro was quite the opposite. Instead of swaying palms and gentle breezes, he had ragged oaks and stinging gusts. Long hours in the field and an empty apartment to face each night. Busty blondes decked out in camouflage and a main strip that consisted of nothing but a few run-down shops. His life was flipped upside-down, and Roman was clawing desperately for something that resembled normalcy.

Until he met Dean.

Roman's boots crunched over the packed snow as he trudged toward the dimly lit gas station in the distance. The cold hurt- froze him half to death and chilled the man down to the bone. He pulled the lapels of his jacket up and bowed his head against the icy breeze, black mane whipping around in long curls. He dreamt of the Florida coastline, willing the freezing white bullshit to become warm, golden sand. The sky a beautiful cerulean, puffy clouds lazily rolling across the azure expanse while the sun shone brightly across the ocean. He fucking missed it.

"Hey, watch it!" a gruff voice called, snapping Roman out of his peaceful daydream. It was too late. He barreled straight into the voice's owner, knocking them over and onto the wet concrete below. "God damn it, man, can't you see I'm fucking doing something?"

Ro rolled over and pushed himself up, brushing the ebony tresses out of his face. "Shit, I'm sorry," he apologized, extending a hand to help the other man to his feet. He hauled the stranger up and brushed the loose powder off the man's back in apology. "I didn't see you, man."

The stranger rolled his eyes. "Course you didn't. You big shots roll into town, act like you own the fucking place… rent's already insane as it is, and now you have the greedy shits raising their rates 'cause you fucks can afford a thousand bucks a week." He rambled, turning away from the larger man and setting back to action, clawing his way through the snowy mound. "You guys turn up. Grocery store runs out of milk, hookers show up on every street corner, the river's polluted…"

"Wait, what?" Roman guffawed, eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "You're blaming us for that shit?"

"Excuse you," the man replied, glancing back at the Samoan, "I've done plenty of research, and that shit you guys emit causes a lot of damage, okay?"

"Alright, whatever you say," Roman shrugged and stepped around the scruffy man, resuming his trek toward the convenience store.

"Hey, the least you could do is get me a coffee or something, you fuckwit!"

Roman tapped the toes of his boots on the sidewalk, shaking off as much slush as he could before making his way into the small shop. A small blonde stood behind the register, snapping her gum and flipping through the newest issue of Tiger Beat. She glanced up in greeting and resumed her task, seemingly unimpressed with the visitor. The man made his way toward the coolers and reluctantly grabbed a six-pack of Natty, mentally criticizing the store on its poor selection, before snatching a bag of potato chips and a king size Twix from their respective racks. He approached the counter and set his items down, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

The girl finally looked up and scowled. "No beer sales after ten."

"What?" the man asked incredulously, checking his watch for the time. 10:01.

She pointed at a fluorescent green sign taped to the back of the register, blowing a large bubble and popping it between her fingers. "No beer sales after ten. Owner's rule."

Roman huffed and pushed the six-pack over for the girl to set behind the counter. "Okay, just this then, I guess."

The cashier rolled her eyes and punched the items into the register, carelessly throwing them in a paper bag marked with a seemingly insulting smiley face and 'Thanks… come again!' "It'll be $6.50," she stated, holding her palm out expectantly.

"$6.50 for chips and a candy bar? Really?" He questioned, baffled by the insane total.

"Small business in a shitty area. Gotta make a buck somehow."

"Yeah, fine," he muttered, handing the bill over. Glancing out the window, Ro had to question his poor life decisions as he noticed the stranger he ran into earlier was still digging furiously through the packed snow. He watched the man for another moment before holding up in his hand in suspension. "Hang on a sec. I forgot something." He raced over toward the coffee bar and grabbed two large styrofoam cups, filling them to the brim with the steaming, black liquid and pocketing a few creamers. "Sorry, these too."

The girl handed Roman his change and the paper bag with a sarcastic "Thanks, come again" before settling herself back into the trashy teen mag on the counter.

"Oh, it's the 'gas-hole' again. Come to fuck with me some more?" The stranger groused, looking up as the taller man approached before once again returning to his frantic searching.

"Gas-hole? Haven't heard that one before," Roman countered, bumping the other man in the shoulder with one of the coffee cups, "and to think I went out of my way to prevent your freezing to death."

The stranger quirked a brow and cautiously took the offered beverage, seemingly contemplating its contents. "How do I know this isn't laced with PCP or something? Fucking plow me over and get me coffee, and I don't even know your damn name-"

"Roman," the Samoan offered warmly, extending a hand in proper greeting.

"The fuck kind of name is 'Roman'?" The stranger asked incredulously, lip curled in distaste. "Parents think you're too good for a normal name like John or Paul or George?"

"Or Ringo?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Well, that's it. Now what's yours so I know to leave whenever I hear it?"

The stranger huffed a laugh, pale eyes glinting in the streetlight. "Dean."