I'm new to the fandom, so sorry for any OOC moments ahead of time.
Sam held his arms tighter around Dean's neck, squeezing as the pain in his ankle grew too intense.
"Hang on, buddy, just a few more blocks," Dean assured him. He hoisted Sam higher on his back and trudged on, wondering which speed would be the fastest yet at the same time cause the least discomfort to his little brother.
Dean could feel wet, warm blood from Sam's ankle sinking into his jeans, just above his knee, where Sam's foot hung. He shifted Sam a little higher, and the boy rested his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean turned his head to look at the street, half-expecting the Impala to roll up and the door to swing open. Was it so wrong to ask for a little guidance? Or just a frickin' ride to the hospital? He had faith in his father - yes - but sometimes the man's desire to go after a goddamn ghoul butted heads with Dean's desire to get his brother some goddamn help.
He coulda given me the car, at least, Dean thought bitterly, Just a ricochet - yeah, right. The kid's been shot.
Sam groaned softly as Dean stepped off the sidewalk and began to cross the street.
"Sorry, Sammy," Dean muttered, hurrying his pace. He squinted ahead of him into the darkness, searching it for the green glow of the neon motel sign. He could spot a bright corner of the sign behind the imposing brick building in front of him. Urgency pounded in his heartbeat. He gently stepped up onto the sidewalk, holding Sam to his back tightly to avoid jostling the kid too much.
Once they had finally arrived at the motel's door, he let go of Sam's good leg and pulled the key to their room out of his pocket. He quickly unlocked the door and shoved it open, then hurried inside.
He set Sam down on the bed carefully, then dove down between the beds, searching for the first-aid kit he'd stashed in the table between their beds. He pulled out tweezers and a bandage. His eye caught on the heavy whiskey bottle also stashed in the cupboard. His eye dashed from the whiskey to his twelve year old brother, then to the bottle, then to Sam.
"Sammy, is it really killin' you?" he asked timidly. Stupid Dean, 'course it is. It's a friggin' bullet wound. He's never had worse.
"'S OK," Sam hissed through gritted teeth.
I'll take that as a yes, Dean thought, and grabbed the bottle.
He swiftly uncapped it and scooped up the medical tools, then the bottle before hurrying back to Sam.
He paused for a moment before his little brother, observing him. Evaluating him.
Sam was lying as still as he could on the bed, his little hands fisted tightly, nails digging into his flesh. Dean could see his brother straining to breathe through the pain, his eyes clenched shut.
"Sammy, you gotta do something for me, OK?" Dean said, laying the tweezers and the gauze on the ground at the foot of the bed.
Sam barely moved, just a slight tilt of his head.
"You gotta drink this stuff. It's nasty, I know, but it's gonna make it feel a little better."
Sam opened his eyes and, gritting his teeth through the pain, worked his way up onto his elbows. As his gaze caught his older brother's, Dean found himself surprised. He'd expected hate in his brother's eyes, or at least blame. After all, it had been Dean who'd pulled the trigger.
Sam reached out his hand and clasped the neck of the bottle with one shaking hand. Dean helped him support it, helped him tip the heavy glass bottle down his throat.
Sam spluttered but kept drinking. He finally pushed the bottle away, coughing at the burning in his throat.
"Dean?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yeah, bud," Dean responded absentmindedly as he scrutinized the bullet wound on Sam's ankle. It had been made, he suspected, by a ricochet of the bullet he'd blasted off at the ghoul they'd been fighting. He shoved a pillow under the foot to elevate it and carefully pulled off Sam's shoe and blood-drenched sock.
Dean was surprised once again, this time by how small his brother's foot was. The kid was only twelve, after all, but still – Dean sometimes forgot his brother was still just a kid.
"Is it really bad?" Sam asked timidly.
Dean shook his head and grinned up at Sam. "Nothin' I ain't seen before," he assured Sam, and grabbed the tweezers from the floor. He glanced down at them and noticed that they were a bit dusty. He reached over to the first-aid kit and grabbed the rubbing alcohol. He quickly poured some alcohol over the tweezers, then took a deep breath.
"OK, Sammy, you ready?" he asked, making sure his voice was sturdy and confident in the face of his little brother's fear.
Sam nodded and leaned back against the bed. He gritted his teeth in preparation. He'd already noticed a certain haze to his thoughts, a lazy ebbing of his fears. He took a shaky breath and tried to swallow the nasty taste in his mouth, but a sharp pain in his ankle surprised him.
He called out, a strangled yell.
"It's OK," Dean said, popping up off of the ground, the tweezers in one hand, the bit of bulled held tightly between the two pinchers. Dean reached down and brushed Sam's sweaty hair off of his forehead, his thumb rubbing the kid's head. "You're OK. All done, kid, all done."
Sam could only groan.
Dean set to work patching up the ankle. He determined that stitches were not necessary, partly because the skin was so torn and Dean had no idea how he would be able to stitch it up. He managed to wrap the foot in a snug bandage, then propped another pillow under it for good measure, leaving the injured limb a few inches above Sam's head.
"There ya go, buddy." Dean helped Sam drink another long swig of the whiskey, then sat himself down by the side of the bed.
Sam breathed heavily for the next few minutes, trying to regain his calm. He groaned out loud as pain shot up his leg. "Dean, it really hurts," he whimpered.
Dean sat up quickly and snagged the whiskey from the bedside table. He slid his hand under Sam's neck and raised his little brother's head enough so that the boy could take another long sip of whiskey.
Sam coughed, the harsh sound emanating from deep within his chest. He breathed in pitifully, a soft moan coming from him.
"Sam … Sammy, you're gonna be all right," Dean said, lost for what to do. He finally decided on resting his hand on his little brother's head, brushing the sweaty hair away in a methodic, rhythmic motion. "Deep breaths, Sammy."
Sam's eyes fluttered shut, from a combination of the pain and the hypnotic motion of Dean's thumb on his forehead.