Fic: Blood and Alcohol (Gen)
Dec. 21st, 2010 11:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theron09This one’s for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
raloria who is awesome :D I really hope you enjoy this and I hope we get to talk a bit more next year! Merry Christmas.
Title: Blood and Alcohol
Summary: For raloria , who asked for a hurt/comfort fic with the boys being all brotherly.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Swearing.
"Sam!”
He caught the gun that Dean threw at him, clicked the safety off and brought his hand up, ready to shoot the werewolf that was moving towards him. Too late. The creature lashed out, knocking the gun away as it sent him reeling to the floor.
Rolling with the impact, he readied himself for a fight, but none came. Spinning around, he caught sight of Dean, locked in battle with the werewolf. There was no doubt about who was coming off worse. Dean had lost his gun, too and, Sam realized, had pulled the wolf away from him anyway. He shook his head as he forced himself to stand up; Dean had always been too damn willing to sacrifice himself.
He ran for the gun, cursing when Dean shouted in pain. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He had to. Kneeling down, he grabbed the gun, twisted around to aim. Dean was on the ground now, still scrabbling for a purchase on the werewolf as the creature prepared to bite. He fired, watching with satisfaction as he met his mark. The wolf fell to the side and he felt a pang of regret for the human that it had once been – it wasn’t like it had asked to become a monster.
Dean groaned, tried to sit up and he hurried to stop him, placed gentle hands on his shoulders to keep him lying down.
“Let me check you over first.”
“M’fine.”
“Don’t be a dick. Let me look at you.”
“Fine, fucking hen.” It wasn’t as though he could move much anyway.
“Hen? Really, Dean?”
“Yeah. You’re a fucking mother hen.”
He ignored the comment, taking an inventory of Dean’s injuries –the cut on his head, the blood pouring out of the gouge on his stomach, the scratches on his shoulder - even as he reached for his cell.
“What’re – what’re you doing, Sammy?” Dean grabbed his arm, his grip loose.
“Phoning for an ambulance.”
“No. It’s not – not that bad.”
“Really, Dean?” He looked down at where Dean’s hand was covering the bleeding wound on his stomach, “Because it looks pretty bad to me, Dean.”
He grimaced, “Look. Just get me back to the motel. If you – if you still think I need the hospital after a couple of hours, take me. Just, not now, not-” He broke off as Sam began to help him to his feet.
“Fine. But I’m taking another look at you when we get there and if that bleeding doesn’t stop, we’re going to the hospital.”
Dean nodded, grunting with the exertion that it was taking to reach the Impala. Shaking his head, Sam helped him to lay down on the back seat before walking around to the driver’s door. He climbed in, looking back at Dean who was just barely keeping his eyes open.
“Motel, Sam. Promise me.”
He reached over and turned the music up to full blast, anything that might help Dean to stay conscious. “I promise.”
---
By the time they reached the motel, Dean was out cold. Sam sat, staring out of the windscreen for a moment, as he tried to figure out what to do. After being knocked on the head, Dean wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind but he did have a point. A hospital would mean questions, probably the police, and it was a big risk to take. But Dean had been knocked on the head, and the wound on his stomach was still oozing blood. He’d just have to do what they’d agreed on; check Dean over himself and see how serious it was.
In the back, Dean was starting to regain consciousness and it spurred Sam into action; if he waited much longer, Dean would be awake enough to insist on walking to their room by himself.
He got out of the car and pulled open Dean’s door, grimaced at the blood on the seat as he picked Dean up. He ignored Dean’s protests; if he let Dean walk by himself, it would take longer to get to room which meant more blood and more chance of someone getting suspicious.
It was only when he reached the door that he realized he had a problem; he needed a free hand to open the door.
“Dean, you’re going to have to help me out for a minute, okay?”
Dean smirked, slurring his words as he spoke, “You’re supposed to be smart, genius.”
“I am smart. Here,” He helped Dean to lean against the wall, “Don’t move.”
Once he’d opened the door, Dean refused to let him lift him up again so they made their way inside slowly, Sam walking behind Dean, ready to catch him if he fell.
Dean half-sank, half-fell onto the bed, cursing as the movement jarred his body. He gripped the sheets tightly for a moment as he tried to control his breathing and then brought his right hand back up to the stomach. Sam stared at the crimson handprint that was smudged onto the sheets.
“Sammy, calling Doctor Sammy.”
His head snapped up and he looked at Dean’s pale, sweat soaked face for a second before nodding, “Okay. Okay, first aid kit.” He grabbed it from the nightstand where they’d left it in case of an emergency then turned back to tend to Dean.
Dean’s t-shirt was a write-off; Sam pulled the shreds of clothing away from Dean’s sticky skin, apologising when his brother hissed in pain. He kept hold of one of the pieces of the t-shirt and pressed it against Dean’s stomach.
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding, Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Fuck.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut as Sam pressed down on the wound.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
His eyes opened again and he looked at Sam, “It’s okay. Not your fault. Keep going.”
He pressed harder, and harder, until the bleeding started to slow, “Okay, I need you to-” He grabbed Dean’s hand, pressed it against the bit of cloth, “Need you to hold this here, okay? Hard as you can.”
Dean nodded, biting his lip, “Sounds like a bad porn movie.”
He laughed, “You would know.” He turned the first aid bag upside down, tossing all of the contents on the bed, and searched for the things that he would need. He found the bottle of alcohol that they always kept handy and unscrewed the top before turning back to Dean. “This is going to hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
He nodded and reached for Dean’s hand, pulling it gently away from his stomach. Next came the cloth, which he threw down onto the floor. He didn’t wait for Dean to give him the go-ahead, just poured the alcohol over the wound, closing his eyes at the pained noise that Dean made.
“How many?”
“What?”
Dean swallowed, ran his tongue over his dry lips, “How many stitches?”
“I’m not sure, twenty, maybe more.”
“Right.”
“You going to be okay? You need something to bite?” He reached for his belt even as he was talking, unbuckled it and placed it in Dean’s mouth, meeting his eyes, “It’s going to hurt but I have to keep going, okay?”
He nodded and turned his head away, to the side, as Sam prepared the needle.
Sam stitched as quickly as he could, blocked out the grunts of pain that Dean was making. He had to do what was best for Dean, no matter how much it hurt him. He cut the thread when he was finished, splashed a little more alcohol on the spot just to be sure.
Dean reached up and took the belt out of his mouth, drank huge gulps of the water that Sam handed him. “That’s the worst over with, Sam. I’m okay.”
“Still need to check you’re not concussed.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three what?”
“Stiches. I’m not concussed, Sam.”
He bit his lip, then stood up, “Come on,” He helped Dean to stand up, half-carried him over to the other bed and helped him to get settled, “Get some sleep.”
“Don’t want to.”
He ran a hand over Dean’s forehead, “Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to miss out on anything.”
“Hmm.” He was fighting to keep his eyes open now, determined to stay awake and make sure that Sam tended to his own wounds properly.
“Dean, sleep. You can check me out later.”
“Right,” He shut his eyes, “Okay.”
“I’ll be waking you up in an hour anyway. Concussion, remember?”
Dean groaned, “You need to work on your bedside manner. Matron.”
Sam waited until his brother’s breathing had steadied out before turning back to look at the other bed. The sheets were covered in blood and whiskey. He shrugged; it wasn’t like he’d be sleeping until Dean got better, anyway.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 12:03 pm (UTC)(you know, in that fucked up Winchester way...) ;-)
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Date: 2010-12-21 12:28 pm (UTC)Haha, yeah, I know exactly what you mean.
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Date: 2010-12-21 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 06:23 am (UTC)In other words, it was perfect, sweetie. Thank you!!!! :D *hugs*
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Date: 2010-12-22 11:50 am (UTC)You're very welcome XD
*huggles*
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Date: 2010-12-22 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 02:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-31 02:48 pm (UTC)I'm so glad that you're enjoying my h/c writing!