Chapter Text
Dean stifled a groan as he finished wrapping up his shoulder, taping it down and wincing as he readjusted his shirt over the top. The corner of the shirt was stained slightly with crimson, and Dean glared at its reflection in the mirror before him for a solid twenty seconds, debating if he could get away with it being vampire or wendigo or...something.
Unfortunately, Sammy was too damn smart for that.
Dean sighed, wiped his hand over the back of his neck, which was slick with sweat, and grabbed his jacket from where it was thrown over the closed toilet seat. He could already feel the increase in the already verging-on-unbearable heat as he pulled it over his good arm, held his breath, counted to three, and pulled it onto the other.
“Son of a-” Dean clenched his jaw, hard, hissing through his teeth at the pull of the frankly crappy stitching job. The heat radiating from his shoulder spread across his body like wildfire, leaving him a sweaty mess who needed a shower every few seconds. He would’ve thought that, it being at least fifteen hours since that werewolf-who-turned-out-to-just-be-a-super-shady-human had stabbed him he wouldn’t still be feeling this insanely crappy. He had cleaned it thoroughly, and painfully, and kept it clean while patching himself up so, unless the knife hadn’t been as sparkling as it looked, it shouldn’t be infected.
The angry red under the layers of white stated otherwise.
Dean rolled his shoulder, slowly, practicing maintaining the stoic facade through the pain, since they were going out after a possible wendigo case in a few minutes - things were bound to get messy, and he couldn’t risk Sammy’s life because he was in a bit of pain.
The wound spiked, and he sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth to stop himself grimacing. Each beat of his heart sent a pulse of ow ow, son of a bitch, owww through his veins, pulsing at his fingertips with irritating aggression, but, as far as he could tell, he wasn’t giving anything away.
He let go of the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, closing his eyes against the fucking heat and allowing himself to grimace, to show weakness, to be vulnerable, because it was just himself in that bathroom. No younger brother casting patronisingly concerned looks when he thought Dean couldn’t tell. No angel hell-bent on patching up every little boo-boo that fell upon him.
More than anything, he wished his uncle Bobby was still here. He would glare and grumble and call him an idjit, chuck a cold one his way and patch him up, properly . He wouldn’t go on a tangent on how he needed to take care of himself, wouldn’t tie him to a bed with an order of no hunting until you’re feeling better!, and he definitely wouldn’t keep bringing it up. Bobby understood that everything everyone was telling him, Dean had heard a million times before, and he understood that, if he didn’t listen then, he definitely wasn’t about to listen now.
One of the many reasons he missed the hell out of that man.
Dean reached for the cold tap with eyes still shut, splashed a demon-worthy amount of water over his face and neck, dragging dripping hands through sweat-soaked hair, and sighing in relief. The tap squeaked as he turned it off, leaning heavily against the cool linoleum of the sink, giving himself a damned minute to breathe.
He just needed to fucking breathe.
There was a knock - Sammy - on the other side of the door, and Dean didn’t even bother to restrain his groan of irritation.
“Dude, we gotta leave, like, now. The hell are you doing in there?”
Dean took a breath, fixed his posture, checked his ‘everything is peaches and cream’ expression, and opened the bathroom door, leaning against the doorframe with his usual facade. “The hell are you not? How many times do I have to tell you, always piss before long journeys so we don’t have to pull over for your pissbitch of a bladder.”
Sam rolled his eyes, then frowned. “Why is your face dripping?”
Crap. “I was cooling myself down, it’s boiling in here.” Dean hoped to every god he knew that the shake he heard in his voice wasn’t picked up.
Sam’s eyes narrowed, and for a second Dean thought he was screwed. Then, the lines in Sam’s face smoothed. “Yeah, I hear ya. Must be getting a heat wave or something.”
Oh thank fuck my shoulder isn’t the cause of this. “Must be.”
Sam hummed, studying the wall, before glancing back at Dean. The frown was back as he seemed to assess him in under a second. “Why are you wearing your jacket?”
“Uh-” Dean cleared his throat, flexing his shoulder. “Good point.”
Sam rolled his eyes, turning on his heel to walk back down the corridor, calling over his shoulder as he went. “I’ll be in the car. Be there in five or I’m leaving without you.”
Dean groaned pointedly. “Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Dean waited until the plaid back rounded the corner before letting out the grunt of pain he had been biting down on, pressing his hand to his shoulder and squeezing his eyes tight shut because holy mother of all fuck owww.
His fault for leaning against his bad shoulder, he supposed.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth, held it, straightened his posture and let the breath out shakily, biting his lip. To put it simply, this was going to suck.
Blinking the hallway back into focus, he shook his head and pushed off the wall, staggering slightly when another burst of pain tilted the room and hitting the adjacent wall, hard, on his bad shoulder.
“Mother of-” His knees turned into jelly as he sunk to the floor, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket and breathing hard through his nose, trying to regain his composure long enough to make it to his room, change his shirt, make it all the fucking way outside were he could collapse into his baby. Sitting down for the next four hours was going to be bliss.
The second the hallway came to what he supposed was going to be as close to its normal angle as he was going to get, he pushed himself up, allowing a string of curses to tumble from his lips, now sore from biting down on them so hard - the taste of copper tipped his tongue.
His room was only thirty or so paces away. Using his good hand, he trailed the wall to give himself some form of anchor on the tilt. The wall was rough, cool as his fingertips dragged over it, occasionally pressing his palm against it when the tremor in his legs threatened to topple him over. His open doorway came into view, wobbling in his warbled vision, and he had to blink hard a couple times to stop it doubling.
Swallowing the nausea, he finally leant against his doorway on his way in and picked up a stray shirt from the edge of his unkempt bed. The mattress dipped below his weight as he sat, taking the weight off his grateful legs and peeling off his jacket. He rubbed the fabric of the shirt between his thumb and forefinger, chewing the inside of his cheek because he really, really didn’t want to go back through the pain of taking off his current shirt and putting on another.
It’s only a bit of pain, son. Breathe through it, fight through it. Deal with it.
Dean closed his eyes against his father’s voice, sucked in a breath, and pulled off his shirt in one quick overhead motion that hurt like a bitch but that didn’t matter because he had to keep moving, keep going, don’t stop now.
Each shockwave throb set pricks behind his eyes and his shoulder burned like acid with each breath he took, forcing them to short, aching stutters. Biting down on his already dead lip harder, he pulled on the black shirt, barely letting a groan escape as he thread his arm through. Tugging the shirt over his exposed lower back, he flopped backwards onto the bed, the jolt in his shoulder only increasing the black spots spinning like an optical illusion on the ceiling he stared at, dazed, floaty…
Baby’s horn sounded from outside, jolting him back. He forced himself to sit, forced his breathing to deepen and slow, forced his legs to support his weight as he made his way down the hallway and into the main room.
Breathe through it, fight through it. Deal with it.
The metal railing was cool beneath his clammy palm, each stair clanking beneath his boots. Despite the promise of no let up of the heat, his jacket was slung over his good shoulder, weighted with three phones and a wallet full of cash from the other night’s pool game. Making conscious breaths, in, two three four, hold, two three four, out, two three four, he opened the bunker door.
A cool breeze hit his face like a blissful kiss, blowing away the heat, cooling the droplets forming on his forehead and the bridge of his nose. The sun was half an hour off setting on the horizon, throwing the sky in beautiful shades of pink and blue behind Baby, where a certain impatient younger brother had his nose glued to his computer screen.
Dean smirked. Sammy had a very distinct concentration face, had since he first learned how to concentrate - his frown line deepened down to the bridge of his nose, which scrunched between narrowed eyes, and his lower left lip sat between his teeth. Dean found the look just as endearing as he did when they were younger.
Dean blinked his vision out of tripling, flexed his shoulder against another wave of pain and pretended his legs functioned like a normal human being’s. His boots crunched under the gravel, a slightly unsteady rhythm, and he was thankful when he collapsed into the driver’s seat, startling Sam out of his...whatever he was doing.
“What took you so long?” Sammy’s tone was a lot more concerned than irritated, despite what his expression was telling him.
Dean frowned. “What do you mean? Five minutes, you gave me.”
Sam’s expression hardened. “Dean I’ve been waiting for fifteen.”
Oh...shit. Dean swallowed. Did he pass out or something? He didn’t think he did...He shrugged his good shoulder. “Oh well, I’m here now. Let’s hit the road!”
Forcing a grin, he turned the key, rolled down the windows to let the breeze in, and peeled away from the bunker.
-------
By the time they pulled into the motel parking lot closest to their case, Sammy was asleep, and Dean was a blink away from joining him. His shoulder had been protesting since the first half hour from being held up without support, and the stiffness in his joints from trying not to move it only made it more painful.
Dean cut the engine and bit down on his lip - something that was going to end up becoming a nervous habit at this point - to stifle a groan, not wanting to wake Sammy with this. He could deal with it. He just needed another shower, a bucket of chicken and pie. Lots of pie.
At least the night was cooler. The perspiration on his brow had reduced, meaning that he was right, it wasn’t infected. It was just freaking hot.
He pressed his hand against his shoulder, wincing at the pressure. Had he taken painkillers before they left?....he didn’t remember. Probably didn’t.
Slipping his hand inside his shirt, he ran his thumb against the bandages, frowning at how damp they felt... oh, no, no, no-
Pulling his shirt down, he could see that, sure enough, the bandages were stained red, and quite a surprising amount as well. Seriously, was his stitching really that crap?
“Fffuck.” He hissed as he pushed against it, the stain expanding. It felt warm, incredibly warm, and tender. “God damnit.” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes for the acute irritation this shoulder thing was giving him. Why did stab wounds have to be such princesses? Couldn’t they just happen and then piss off like every other wound?
Quietly as not to rouse Sam, he opened the glove box and fished out the first aid kit, slipping it into his jacket pocket before making sure his shirt was fully covering the bandages. Giving himself another second to breathe, to feel, to properly suppress the pain, he shook Sam awake.
“Hey, Sammy, we’re here.”
Sam sniffled, frowning, blinking awake. He flexed his shoulders, rubbing his eyes, getting his bearings. “Mm.... What time is it?”
Dean glanced down at his watch. “Just gone half midnight.”
Sam hummed, grabbing his bag at his feet. “Go check in, I’ll bring the bags.”
At that point, Dean could have collapsed from the relief of not having to carry anything. He opened his door, closing it behind him as Sam opened his.
The chill was more cold than cool, but Dean didn’t risk slipping his jacket on like Sam did, and instead made a beeline for the main building.
After checking in with the obviously drunk dude behind the counter (a very trying task), he made his way to the building block, key in hand, where Sammy was waiting. His younger brother was still half asleep, slumped over, three different bags hanging from his arms.
“26.” Dean spoke, voice lowered. Sam just nodded, ran a hand through his hair and turned towards the appropriate door.
It wasn’t the worst motel room they stayed in. Minimalistic suspicious stains, two half-decent looking beds and, low and behold, hot water.
Sammy immediately dumped the bags next to the door and found the bed farthest from the door, sitting on its edge with a yawn as he began to sleepily remove his boots, untying the laces with fumbly fingers. Dean watched with nostalgic amusement, until he realised Sam was staring back.
“You gonna sleep?” Sam asked, moving on to the other boot.
Dean hummed. “Shower first.”
Sam hummed back, toeing off his boots and shrugging out of his jacket. He crawled under the covers, wrapping his arms around one of the pillows, his hair falling in front of his eyes. Dean just about heard the mumbled, “Don’t use all the hot water.”
Dean laughed, stepping into the bathroom but not bothering to answer back - Sammy was already asleep, snuggled into the pillow he held.
The click of the bathroom door’s lock was like a trigger for Dean’s knees to suddenly remember his current predicament, and promptly collapsed beneath him, allowing his forehead to smack against the surprisingly sharp sink counter.
“Argh, fuck!” Dean grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes tight shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his aching forehead. His body twisted so he was leaning against the counter, cool against the lower part of Dean’s back where his shirt lifted slightly.
Dean blinked, clearing the red splotches from his vision and his four bloodied hands into the trembling one. He mentally cursed at the red that covered his palm and dripped down his wrist, matching the warmth trickling down into his eyebrow. Already, he could feel the bruise forming, and a distant part of himself that wasn’t distorted with the added pain chastised him for getting an injury he couldn’t hide as easily. Not to mention he might have given himself a concussion from a fucking sink.
Typical. Fucking typical.
The ache in his forehead seemed to throb in the base of his skull, behind his eyes, in his limp shoulder, hell, his entire bloodstream seemed to be playing a samba of pain, right to the tips of his fingers. Through the haze of hurt and heat as Dean slouched, legs stretched out, panting through the tight grip on his lungs and blinking away tears of frustrated exhaustion, there was one thought going through his mind:
This stab wound was a right drama queen.
Honestly, it thinks it can just appear and then take over his life? It thinks it had the right to scream in protest at every little movement? It thinks it can just make him feel like crap for the sake of it? He has a job to do, and he can’t be wasting time, sitting around because his baby of a wound wants to be difficult while people die!
Unfortunately, the mental protests didn’t make his legs any less of a useless, numb jumble of spaghetti across the frankly disgusting motel bathroom floor.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mooon.” He whimpered, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and pushing himself off the counter with a muffled groan. His good arm shook with the exertion of taking the responsibility where his princess arm hung limp, as unmoving as possible, in his lap.
The blood on his face was dripping off his chin now, adding to the growing puddle on his shirt that was so blissfully black. The only way he could tell there was any blood at all was the gross way it clung to his chest, drying and sticky and so fucking warm. Gingerly, he pulled the hem of his shirt, back aching in protest when he removed his arm from holding himself up, and lifted the shirt over his head, dragging it across his already bloody face, and letting it fall around the elbow of his bad arm.
The bandages weren’t even hinted at white anymore. Eyes landing on the first aid kit just out of arm's reach, he swallowed, breathed, and leant over, ignoring how his stitches pulled and sent shockwaves across his back. The green of the kit turned brown under his grip.
The scissors were stiff, fumbly in his slick grip and getting the joint rusted with red as he cut through the saturated bandages. The fuzz in the corners of his vision made it hard to concentrate and harder to see where he was cutting. The fact that he expected to cut himself didn’t make it any less painful against his inflamed flesh, and his vision blasted white with a strangled gasp.
Dean’s never liked this feeling - the numb, fiddly fingers, the pins and needles crawling up his slick back, the build of nausea in his throat that worsened with every pound in the back of his skull. He liked to be in control of his situation, in ship-shape, ready to jump into action and gank a monster or save a civilian or drag his clueless little brother out of the firing line.
You protect that boy with your life, Dean!
“Yessir.” Dean breathed, blinking the ceiling back into his spinning view, his neck aching from being craned up against the side of the counter. Dropping the scissors, he just about reached the bathroom handle, sliding the lock open and pulling open the door.
His clueless little brother was still drooling into his pillow, and the grasp on Dean’s lungs let up a little.
The bandages fell loosely to the floor, adding to the mix of damp and sticky substances Dean didn’t have the mental or emotional capacity to pay any attention to right now. Turns out the stitching was crappier than Dean thought - thick crimson oozed between the dark thread, spilling down his torso and collecting in puddles at his legs. At this point, Dean didn’t know how he could bleed any more.
The darkness threatening to drag him back to Hell told him he probably couldn’t.
His clammy, vibrating hands slipped into autopilot - cut the bad stitching, thread the needle, pull it through, in, out, cross, in, out, cross - and Dean’s mind drifted back to childhood memories of learning first aid with Daddy Dearest.
Something in particular that hit him, something that had seemed normal back then but holy mother of god, how did John get away with that , was when he would sit you down, stick his belt between your teeth and cut your arm open, giving you a needle and thread with the warning of you got two minutes before you bleed out! and would only jump in when your body couldn’t take in any more.
Dean always had steady hands, was an incredible shot, if he did say so himself. He aced those lessons pretty much the first time, only a couple hiccups every now and then if he’d had a particularly rough day.
Sammy, however, was a walking anxiety attack. His hands shook worse than a drug addict going through withdrawal on his calmest of days, always had. He mainly struggled with threading the thread through the needle that simply would not sit still, and it took him seven pass-outs to get past step one.
Back then was Dean’s first few experiences with the horrible feeling of being able to feel your body slowly shut down without the slightest way to stop it. The wrenching hole in the centre of your chest that seemed to suck all of your energy into its abyss.
The needle fell as Dean’s hand went limp, and something inside him told him that that was bad, that the sudden painlessness was a big no no, that he needed to swallow his ego and ask Sammy for help because he was no good to him dead.
But Dean liked the numb. It was a comfortable contrast from the constant ache of anxiety and fight or flight that had claimed his gut long ago and had yet to relax its grip. It was like a pat to the shoulder, a palm to the cheek, a pair of concerned green eyes telling him it’s okay now. Sammy’s still drooling into his pillow, and the monsters could be fought by someone who could keep their eyes open.
So he didn’t fight when the needle fell between numb fingers, sinking into the crimson pools on the linoleum floor, and he certainly didn’t fight falling with it.