Disclaimer: Not mine. I am super impressed with the writers for the show, though. Amazing season 3 so far!
"Give me the shovel," Sam grunted as he pushed Dean away, carefully schooling his features against his brother's scrutiny.
Without hesitation, Dean passed, or more accurately, shoved the shovel over, still enraged at himself for losing the scratch tickets and at Sam for his obvious amusement at the situation. He paused, his anger giving way to guilt as Sam's face flickered from amusement to pain as he struggled to keep the shovel in his grasp.
"Let's get out of here," Dean grunted back, suddenly itching to get out of the graveyard and somewhere they could get cleaned up and he could take care of Sam's shoulder.
His anger acutely peaked again as Bela's car squealed from its hidden spot on the road. Curse him for allowing her to sneak up on them and for allowing her to hurt Sam. His anger fueled his steps as he headed back to his beloved Impala, leaving Sam to his own devices as he struggled along behind.
"You okay?" he prompted as Sam grunted his way into the Impala.
"Shut up, Dean." came his brother's reply causing Dean's emotions to rollercoaster again, this time from concern to amusement. Good for you, Sammy, he thought, better hang onto that grit until we get you cleaned up.
Eager to put some distance between his brother and the new pursuers, Dean pointed the Impala West and attempted to determine an appropriate balance between achieving a safe distance and taking care of his brother's arm before infection set in.
Glancing at his brother in the passenger seat didn't help resolve his debate. Sam's arm was still covered by his jacket and he clutched a handkerchief, concealing the wound. Furthermore, Sam had set his jaw and closed his eyes, sufficiently cutting himself off from scrutiny. "Take a picture, Dean" Sam clipped out, startling Dean from his appraisal.
"Dude, we can't go back to the hotel. How far can you make it before we stop?" Dean tried an attempt at sincerity.
At his words, Sam offered him a weary glance. "Dean, it's just a flesh wound. I'm okay. Just get us out of here."
Sam's words would have been more reassuring if he hadn't punctuated them by dropping his head back against the headrest and letting out a grunting sigh. "Just stay out of the potholes, jerk."
"Suck it up, bitch. It's just a flesh wound." Dean chuckled, as he turned his attention back to the road and swallowed his concern.
Forty minutes later Dean had sufficiently lost the being-pursued-like-a-rabbit-on-a-fox-hunt feeling and began scanning the darkening horizon for a motel. Sam's ragged breathing belied his appearance of sleep and Dean offered "Last chance for an ER, Sam."
His only reply was a withering stare so Dean shrugged and followed the signs toward a slightly ramshackle motel.
Dean hurried the check-in along, actually paying cash to speed the transaction, stuffing down a flash of temper at the reminder of his lost winnings. His emotional peaks and valleys combined with his efforts at keeping his accident-prone brother safe had started to take its toll and he was ready for a shower and soft bed.
Seeing his flash of anger, the clerk visibly hesitated and Dean kicked himself and tried a charming grin. The combination apparently didn't have the desired effect on the middle-aged male attendant and Dean counted himself lucky when the man handed over a key and he quickly backpedaled his way out without a word.
Coming back outside, Dean experienced a flash of pride as he saw his brother had hauled his lanky ass out of the car and had already pulled their duffels from the trunk. His own personal energizer bunny - takes a beating but keeps on going.
His pride gave way to compassion as Sam wavered slightly and studiously avoided his gaze. That streak of independence that had driven Sam across the country, distinctly away from the safety of his father's arms seemed to be rearing its ugly head, but Dean could already see the walls crumbling as his brother slowly paled where he stood.
"Come on, buddy. Let's get you inside before you pass out," Dean said softly, daring to take his brother's arm to guide him to the room.
Sam spared his brother a glance, but to his credit, did not pull away, sensing that Dean needed the contact as much as he did.
Once inside, Dean guided Sam to the furthest bed and started to strip his brother's jacket. At that, Sam did pull away. "Leave it, Dean, okay? My shoulder's throbbing and I don't need you poking at it right now. Just let me sleep."
The brothers stared at each other for a moment, neither gaze wavering.
"Not an option, Sam." Dean carefully broke the silence, hoping that his brother wasn't going to force him to do this the hard way. Dean gave him another minute without further breaking the silence. Finally Sam tilted his head down in defeat and Dean allowed himself to breathe again.
"I can do it myself?" Sam attempted to assert but it came out more as a question and Dean only shook his head gently.
"I know you can, Sam. But I'm here, so you don't have to." Dean let his words sink in and then added, "Don't worry; I'll do a good job. You're a bitch when you have an infection."
At that Sam's lip flicked upwards a little, his grin not quite reaching his eyes. "That's what I'm worried about. You scrub out wounds with the same effort you put into pots and pans," Sam joked, a little shy of levity.
"Take off your jacket and your shirt," Dean ordered as he shrugged out of his own jacket and went to retrieve the first aid kit. He took his time washing his hands, giving Sam some space to pull himself together.
"Dean, come on already," Sam's voice huffed from the other room, letting Dean know that he was ready to bear his ministrations.
"Wow, Sam, you weren't lying. It really is just a flesh wound," Dean said letting relief wash over him a little when he actually laid eyes on his brother's injury.
"Ugh," Sam groaned, "then why does it hurt so much?"
"We'll fix it, kiddo," he said soothingly. Before tending the arm, Dean scanned his brother's torso. Bruises from the last day were starting to make an appearance. He checked out his brother's forearm as well, but luckily his thick jacket had protected it from the flames.
Sam closed his eyes against the scrutiny and let out a bone weary sigh.
"You sure do take a beating, you know that? At least you could always have a backup career as a Bobo doll if we get strapped for cash," Dean joked.
Sam's retort was bitten off as Dean firmly pressed a square of clean white gauze against his tender shoulder to stem the fresh bleeding that had resulted from his struggles with his shirt.
"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothed, "the bleeding has almost already stopped. Just breathe through it for a minute." As he spoke, he pushed Sam back to lean against the headboard.
Sam glared in response, apparently trying to hold onto the anger that was keeping his other emotions at bay. Dean's heart broke a little remembering how open Sam had been when they were younger. At five, seven, and even thirteen, Sam had allowed Dean to see his pain and to gently wash it away. When had that changed? Dean blinked, trying to reconcile his memories of a little boy with the man that sat stiff under his steady hand.
As his anger faltered, Sam's breathing started to pick up again so Dean intercepted with "Dude, I have to ask… how the hell did you manage to lose your shoe?"
"Sewer monster" Sam clipped out. "Reached right out… of the grate… and took it. Good thing I have… killer reflexes… would have taken my foot… Dude, ease up already."
Dean lessened the pressure and checked to see if the bleeding had slowed. Pleased with his brother's ability to clot, he reached across and plucked the bottle of peroxide from the kit lying open on the bed.
Sam's wary eyes followed his movements but he kept his thoughts to himself.
"It looks like you were pretty lucky after all, Sam. The graze is deep, but at least it will be easy to clean out."
"Ha," Sam snorted. "I never took you for the silver lining type of guy, Dean."
Dean pulled the gauze fully away from the wound without response and after a glance into his brother's trusting brown eyes he deftly pulled the edges of the wound apart and poured peroxide along its length.
Only a small grunt escaped his brother's lips before he set his jaw and turned his head away from the pain. His right hand rose as if to brush away Dean's prodding hands, but Sam redirected its movement midair and grasped the bedpost behind his right ear instead. He buried his face in his own forearm and all tough-guy pretense now gone, whimpered, "Ow, Dean."
Opting for speed over coddling, Dean steeled himself against his brother's fresh pain and doused the jagged gouge with another dose of peroxide.
"I'm gonna have to stitch it, Sammy. Do you need a second?" Dean asked, impressed by the calmness of his voice.
Sam shook his head "no" and Dean hesitated, unsure whether Sam was answering his question or protesting the suggestion of stitches.
'Easy way or hard way' flashed through Dean's mind again and he decided to take the response as an invitation to continue.
Sam stayed in place while Dean prepared the needle, keeping his head turned away and his eyes glued shut against his arm. As the bubbling of the peroxide slowed, his breath slowly returned to normal.
To further ease him towards relaxation, Dean broke in "Dude, if we're going to play superheroes, we should at least get some of those super powers."
Sam only response was a quirk of his eyebrow, but Dean felt like he had him on the line.
"Think about it, dude, luck was great, but skin made of armor would definitely come in handy in our line of work."
"What are you talking about?" came Sam's muffled reply.
"Come on, Sam, who needs to dodge bullets if you could just let them bounce off?"
Sam's eyebrow quirk expanded to a sidelong glance and Dean congratulated himself on peaking his brother's interest. He slowly started to stitch the inflamed laceration while the wheels turned in his brother's head.
"Still thinking of yourself as Batman, Dean?" came Sam's throaty reply.
"Well, I already have the kickass car… and the flamboyant sidekick," Dean reasoned and then chuckled to himself as Sam turned his head all the way around to counter him.
"I am not your sidekick, Dean!" Sam harrumphed.
"I'm just saying that you're the one that likes to wear tights," Dean batted back lightly as he pulled the third neat stitch into place.
"That was a play Dean! You know - Shakespeare? Even your illiterate ass must have heard of him," Sam huffed. "Besides, the sidekick is always the shorter, little guy… know any short guys, Dean?"
"Nah, it isn't about height, the superhero is always the dapper, good-looking one. Sidekicks are the gangly, uncoordinated, accident-prone guys that they take under their wing. Accident-prone, Sam - remind you of anyone?"
Sam stared him down with exasperation and then followed Dean's gaze to his arm as he finished the last stitch. He held his silence as Dean soothed antibiotic ointment gently over the swollen area and only winced slightly as Dean wrapped his handiwork with a clean bandage.
"All done, Sam," Dean comforted, "You did good."
Sam continued to eye his brother as Dean cleaned up the soiled supplies and took the offered Tylenol without opposition.
"Get some rest, Sam. We'll regroup in the morning." Dean watched as Sam shuffled down until he was resting more comfortably against the pillows. "You need anything else before I take a shower?"
Sam mutely shook his head, his eyes already flagging. Retiring to the washroom, Dean spent the next 15 minutes rinsing away his stress under a steady stream of hot water. He might not be good at a lot of things, but moments like this reminded him that he was damn good at taking care of his brother.
Having sufficiently rinsed away the grime of the day, Dean soundlessly returned to the bedroom. Pausing over his brother's bed he watched Sam's chest slowly rise and fall and let his eyes linger over Sam's sleep-softened features. Watching his brother, a grin spread across his face and, bullet-dodging and gun-jamming aside, he felt like a damn superhero.
His grin remained in place as he settled into his own soft bed, only faltering when Sam's voice carried across the small space.
"Dude. I can't believe you made me carry the shovel."
The End.