Reckless

They leave now and they're leaving two bodies inside, one poor was-a-girl shot execution-style and one still-a-raving lunatic ripped right the fuck apart, fingerprints scattered like confetti all over the damn building, and DNA samples like the special gift with purchase: splatters of blood from Sam's torn hands and a small but concerning enough crescent-moon shaped puddle where Dean had dropped like a rock when Sam clocked Gordon and he tore away from his neck.

It was instinct and reflex to do so, but probably not the smartest play, and Sam knows what kind of break he caught, how lucky he is. How lucky DEAN is. He can't do more than assume, but the only thing worse than fangs going in has to be fangs ripping out. He probably caused more damage than the vampire did. It was dumbass, and reckless, but what else was he supposed to do?

In this line of work, it seems like there's always something with bloody jaws coming at you. Knowing it was Dean's blood dripping down Gordon's chin, knowing that Dean was bleeding and down but not knowing if he was alive or dead, something inside of him snapped, something dark and angry he hasn't felt since he emptied a clip into Jake Talley in that graveyard in Wyoming.

Of all the fears he has already, he now has this brand new and absolutely terrifying one to contend with: what will he become if he can't save his brother? This? The kind of guy who can separate a body from its head with his goddamn bare hands?

Head pounding and swimming, Sam stands next to the car while Dean gropes one-handed in the trunk of the Impala. He stares down at the torn flesh of his palms, stinging from the bits of barbed wire that had pushed through the dirty rags he grabbed in needless haste to protect himself.

Adrenaline, that's what it was. That's ALL it was, because there's no way he made a clear-headed conscious decision to tear Gordon's head off like that, even with the possibility the vampire had just killed his brother. There's no way that's the kind of guy he is.

Sam can improvise when his back's against the wall or Dean's in trouble, sure, but he's not the guy who gets down and dirty. He's not reckless. He's the guy who stops, and thinks, and plans, and runs calculations. Calculations like, all injuries aside, how monumentally screwed they will be if they leave now.

They leave now and they're leaving prints, and blood. A trail, a too-easy game of Connect the Dots for Hendrickson and whoever else is on their case and asses at this point. It's more than stupid not to go back in and clean it up. It's reckless.

Sam swallows. "Dean."

Every now and then they take whatever clean linens are left in the motel room, and Dean finally finds something useable, emerges from the trunk with a white hand towel. He doubles it up and quickly swaps it with where his hand's been keeping pressure on the bite wound. "Ah." He grimaces, and his heavily stained fingers drag bright red blood all over the towel as he holds it in place.

In the moonlight his face is drawn and sickeningly white, and Sam forgets his own throbbing head and hands for a minute, tries to decide if the amount of blood his brother's lost is cause for emergency. Of course, there's no way to know for sure, because there's no way to know how much Gordon took. Drank. Sam swallows again, feels sick. "Dean."

Dean closes his eyes. "No, yeah, I know."

Sam settles for swiping his bloody hands down the thighs of his jeans, because the shallow cuts there are NOT cause for emergency. He wipes a finger under his nose and disposes of the blood there, as well. "We gotta clean up, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. I know, just gimme a minute." Dean leans against the open trunk lid, in a manner only Sam would recognize for the falter it really is, and not a lean at all.

Not good. This is the same guy who sliced his own damn arm open, who let Lucy the vamp get within chomping distance without a single wayward thought for his own wellbeing only days ago. Sam clenches his jaw, balls his hands into fists. They feel ablaze, like he's palming fire. "I swear to God, Dean. If that's not clotting in five minutes I'm dragging your ass to an ER."

Dean sighs but doesn't straighten. If anything, he presses even heavier against the car. "S'just a little bite, Sam."

It WAS a little bite, before Sam forced Gordon to redirect his attention. "And why do you think vampires go for the throat, Dean?"

"They got a thing for aftershave?"

"Arteries. That's why." There's no such thing as a superficial vampire bite.

Dean rolls his eyes, rotates his body against the car so he's not looking at Sam anymore, but doesn't straighten.

Sam steps around, putting himself right back in his brother's direct eye line. "You wanna give up and go to Hell, fine, but you're not gonna go tonight, bleeding out in a damn parking lot!"

"What's the difference?"

He's asking for it, so Sam gives it to him. "The difference is that you need to help me clean up the mess we just made in there, so your little brother doesn't spend life without you in a federal prison."

Dean shakes his head. "That was a bitch move, Sammy." He pulls the towel away from his neck, tilts his head so Sam can gratefully confirm the bleeding has all but stopped. He pitches the towel at Sam and starts back for the warehouse with a sniff and an unsteady gait. "A real bitch move."

Sam's okay with it, because a bitch move is where he makes his money, that's his down and dirty, not raw violence. This type of play requires forethought and planning, and knowing how to draw out the exact response he wants. This. Dean up and walking around, pissed and a little slow-moving, but moving. A bitch move here and there is how he keeps them both from being so goddamn reckless.

The clean-up is mostly slow and mostly Dean's doing, with Sam using his useless hands to point out the things they touched and spotting his brother in case the blood loss catches up to him and sends him to the ground. They wipe the prints and mop up the blood, and it's grotesque but safe enough to leave the bodies if the rest of the evidence is taken care of. Sam can't help the thought that creeps in, that Gordon doesn't deserve much better. That poor girl, though.

"Can't save 'em all, Sammy," Dean reminds him on the walk back to the car, sounding tired. He stops at the open trunk, pulls the keys from his pocket and stares at them, having not yet chosen a side.

Sam knows what he's thinking, what he'll never ask, and feels like a piece of shit that he can't help his brother out right now. He grimaces, holds his shredded, aching palms out for Dean to see. "You're gonna have to drive back, man."

"Yeah."

"You good?"

Exhausted and light-headed, clearly, but he's gonna make it, for Sam. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay, because you look a little…"

Dean cocks his head. "I look fantastic, like usual. Get your ass in the car." He opens the door for Sam and everything.

Sam drops onto the bench seat with a grin, laying the backs of his hands on his thighs. "Yeah, yeah."

They're two miles from the motel with the Impala starts to complain with a metallic rattle. She's old, and it happens, but Dean takes it hard. He lays a hand on the dash. "Aw, come on, baby." He sighs. "I just cannot catch a break."

Or maybe Sam just caught his break for him this time.

A/N: Gonna work on some episode tags and missing scenes while I await the next big story idea.