Tools of the Trade
By Carol M
Genre: Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 7100
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: through early season 3, set sometime before Dream A Little Dream of Me
Summary: An old enemy comes to take revenge against Dean. Will Sam find him in time and be able to put him back together? Written for Challenge 6 : A Dean-focused h/c fic and art challenge based on the anonymous prompt Dean gets pepper sprayed.
Enjoy!
It was the throb in his head that finally awakened Dean from unconsciousness. The pain was sharp and unforgiving, focused over his left eye where he'd been clocked with some ridiculously heavy metal object. He could feel the trickle of blood still oozing from the wound and the tight itchiness of the dried blood that already clung to his face. He shivered against a chill in the room, his jacket and over shirt having been removed, leaving him in only a T-shirt and jeans. He realized he was bound to a chair, his arms secured tightly behind his back with unforgiving metal chains. His feet too were secured to the chair, leaving him trapped and helpless. His heart sped up as the sickening hell of his predicament crashed down upon him. When he heard his captor speak, his heart exploded.
"Come on, Dean. Wakey wakey. We don't want this party to start without you."
The voice was high-pitched, female and the tone did things to his stomach that made him want to throw up all over himself. He blinked his eyes furiously, trying to make the blurry figure standing in front of him come into focus. When his vision cleared, he glimpsed a petite redhead standing before him, her hair long and kinky curly, her eyes a vivid shade of grey. She wore a leather jacket and tight jeans and he could see a thorny rose tattoo on her neck peeking out from the collar of the jacket. He had never seen her before in his life, he was sure of that. Still, there was a familiarity to her that he just couldn't place.
"That's it, baby. Come around. You boys came right to me. Just like I knew you would."
He and Sam had been investigating a series of electrical storms and cattle mutilations near Memphis that had been identical to the pattern that had followed the Yellow Eyed Demon. The same demon he had killed six months earlier. Dean focused his attention on the girl once again, noting the way she carried herself. Light and springy. Flirtatious. Deadly. "Meg," he proclaimed in a gravelly voice laced with pain.
"Hi," she said with a smile.
Dean struggled against his restraints, grunting and cursing as he realized there was no give.
"Oh come on, baby. You think I don't know how to secure my man nice and tight."
"Where's Sam?" Dean asked, unable to hide the concern in his voice.
"Looking for you I would imagine. Don't worry. It's gonna take baby brother awhile to find us." She stepped to him and grabbed the collar of his jacket, rubbing it between her fingers. "Gives us plenty of time alone."
"Thought it was Sammy you were into, not me."
Meg chuckled. "You're right. Sam's much more my style for recreational activities. But unfortunately for you, this is a business call."
"What kind of business is that?"
"Revenge. See I believe it was you, Dean, who murdered my brother and my father."
Dean tried to hide the unease that coursed through his veins. He thrust his face out boldly so it was only inches away from Meg's. "Yeah well, your father killed my mother and my dad too. I'd say we're more than even."
"Tit for tat, huh, Dean? Not exactly. See, not only did you kill my family, but you tortured me and sent me back to hell. Twice. I'm more than a little ticked off about it. I need blood. Your blood, Dean. That's the only thing that's gonna make me whole again."
He shuddered against his restraints again, ignoring the spinning throb of his head, desperate to get loose, but the chains seemed to tighten more as he struggled against them.
"Call it a human devil's trap," said Meg, acknowledging the chains. "You're not getting out of those unless I say so."
Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard, feeling claustrophobic. He broke out in a hot sweat and his breath turned into panicky wheezes. "Whaddaya gonna do, bitch? Have your slutty way with me?" He opened his eyes, taking deeper breaths, trying to get himself under control.
"In a matter of speaking, yes." Meg disappeared from his eye line momentarily before reappearing, rolling a metal cart in front of her. On top of it were several knives, an iron rod, a container of salt, a canister of something Dean couldn't identify and the Colt.
His heartbeat went from zero to eighty in about a second.
"I'm gonna give you a taste of your own medicine. The way you torture and kill my kind and other things that go bump in the night. Now you're gonna know what it feels like. Think of this as a little preview of what hell has in store for you. You've pissed a lot of dark souls off. They're just aching to cut a notch off that pretty face of yours."
Dean's gut tingled with dread. "I'm flattered."
Meg bent down in front of him, her face so close to his their noses were almost touching. "Don't be." She lurched forward and bit his nose hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to bleed.
"Bitch," he growled, trying to knock her off of him. His nose burned, blood drizzling down his lip and into his mouth.
She backed off, smiling at him, taunting him, her teeth and lips coated in his blood. "I'm just getting started, baby."
Dean spit the blood pooling in his mouth in her general direction, glaring at her with everything he had in him.
"You're very scary. Really. I'm quaking in my high-heeled boots." Meg wandered over to the cart and picked up the iron rod. She swung it experimentally as if she were on deck at a baseball game. "What is it about iron, huh?" she asked, stepping over to Dean. "I mean, you swing it at the nasty and they just evaporate into dust. I wonder if it hurts them? Did you ever wonder that, Dean?" Without warning, she swung the rod at him like she was aiming for a home run. The rod crashed against Dean's upper arm like a torpedo. He couldn't stop the gasp that escaped his lips as the distinctive sound of cracking bone filled the room. His arm felt like it had exploded. His vision went hazy and his mouth filled with bile as his stomach turned inside out from the mind-numbing pain. A harsh slap across the face split his lip and brought him back to his senses.
"Uh, uh," said Meg, barely able to contain the lustful satisfaction in her eyes. "No sleeping on the job." She drew the rod back again and then slammed it forward, the blow catching Dean across the chest and bouncing off his ribs. His breath left him and the pain in his arm faded, replaced by the new throb pulsing across his chest. He gagged as he tried to suck in a breath, involuntary tears of pain and distress pricking at his eyes.
"Hmmm," said Meg. "You're still here. Didn't disintegrate like a ghost. Guess we'll have to try something else."
"Go… hell," Dean choked out, wheezing against the void still in his chest.
"Honey, quit getting confused. You're the one who's going to hell, not me. That bonehead deal you made for your brother guarantees it."
Dean closed his eyes and simply concentrated on trying to catch his breath and getting his pain level under control. While his broken arm sucked, he'd had worse and it would heal. At least it was his left arm. His ribs, even though they were smarting like hell, seemed to have made it by the blow relatively unscathed except for some swelling that would turn into glorious bruises in a day or two. Still, not a deal-breaker. He could take this. All he had to do was hold on until Sam found him. It was just a matter of time.
It had to be.
He heard the sharp creak of metal on metal and opened his eyes. He saw Meg was sharpening a knife.
"Silver," she said, holding the knife up in the air for him to see.
The blade was long, twelve inches and the edges were razor sharp. Dean unconsciously tried to shrink away as Meg approached him, the knife gleaming in her hand like an angry flame. "Tell you what, Meg. I'll take your word on the silver. Promise."
"Yeah, I'll bet," she said, unmoved. She raised the knife and slashed it across his chest, first right and then left.
Dean surprisingly felt nothing at first, just a weird tingling sensation, and then it seemed to hit him all at once, fire lancing across his chest as blood trickled out, staining his slashed T-shirt. Meg swiped once, twice, three more times with the knife, the cuts shallow, but long and painful.
She dropped the knife and dashed back to the table, grabbing the container of salt.
"Aw no, come on!" Dean shouted, his body tensing in impending doom.
"This stuff's supposed to protect you from all the big bad things that go bump in the night, right?" She hurried back to him and shook the container straight at the open, bleeding cuts. As the salt hit, it was like he was being attacked by a thousand stinging bees. He shrieked, his chest agony. Meg continued to pour the salt out and when the container was empty she used her hand to rub the salt abrasively into the wounds.
"Ahhhh huhhhh," Dean screamed, his body seized up in pain. "Haven't you… ahhh… made your point yet, you bloodthirsty skank?"
"Can't take the pain, can you Dean?" Meg responded, licking at his blood that stained her hand. "It's gonna be a hundred…a thousand times worse in hell. You should prepare yourself."
"Just as long as Sam's alive," Dean gasped. "That's all that matters. I can take the pain. It's worth it."
"You know your daddy was good at taking the pain." A sick smile spread across Meg's face. "The things they did to him."
Dean felt nausea boil in his belly again, his heart speeding up in anger and sorrow. "Shut up."
"He did it all for you. When they cut off his arms and his legs and then burned him alive…"
"Shut up! I'm warning you, bitch!"
"When they stabbed him through the lungs and the kidneys…"
"I'm gonna kill you, Meg. Mark my words here and now. Even if I have to march out of hell myself and find you!"
"How you gonna do that Dean? How you gonna climb off the rack when they're doing this to you." She picked up the tiny canister he hadn't been able to identify and hit a firing button. Before he registered the liquid shooting out, it was already hitting him right in his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
Pepper spray.
"This is what holy water feels like to a demon, Dean. Isn't much fun, is it?"
There was a second or two delay of feeling and Dean silently prayed she had gotten a bad batch. And then it hit him like a wall of flames. His eyeballs felt like they were melting away inside his head, like a sharp laser was scoring away at them bit by bit. His eyes clenched as tears of absolute agony rolled down his face. But it wasn't just his face. It was his nose too. The delicate skin inside felt like it was riddled with angry fire ants. He was sure the liquid dripping down from his nostrils had to be blood, not snot. He found that his mouth was just as screwed as his nose and eyes. His throat felt like he had swallowed a hot coal and his tongue and gums burned so hot he was sure steam was rising off of them. His lungs too felt like he was trying to breathe past a room full of fire. He sputtered and choked against the horrific pain. Coupled with the fact that he absolutely could not open his eyes to see, Dean was left feeling panicked and out of control. He was scared to death if he admitted the truth to himself. He hoped and prayed that Sam would be riding in on his white horse anytime now.
"Soothing isn't it?" he heard Meg say. He jerked against the chains and spat out a loogie of spit and snot as the pepper spray continued to torch his respiratory system. He couldn't see her , couldn't see what she was up to next and that lack of foresight made his jaw clench with tension and his heart speed up to warp. "Like a…" he began, coughing, his voice hoarse and wet, "day at the spa."
"Right," she whispered, her tone wanton and seductive.
He heard her back at the cart, metal clanging together. His belly clenched with fear and he tried to open his eyes again, but it was like he was staring directly into the sun. His eyes flooded with tears and they involuntarily squeezed shut. "What's up next on the hit parade?" he asked, swallowing against the burn tearing up his gullet.
"Little eye for an eye action, Dean," Meg answered.
He then heard the unmistakable sound of bullets being loaded into the Colt and then the gun being cocked. Dean's whole body tensed up. He reared against his restraints, desperately trying to open his eyes. But all the greeted him was a blurry slit of light that burned his eyes from the outside in, forcing them shut again. "What are you doing, Meg?" he demanded, his breath coming out in frightful gasps.
"Justice," answered Meg. "You killed my brother with this gun. And you killed my father. They exploded inside their meat suits until the light went out of their eyes."
"What light, bitch? As far as I can tell, your kind's eyes are dark as death itself. There's no light. Just horrible, evil darkness."
The gun fired and Dean jumped out of his skin, waiting to feel the pain of a bullet wound, the sound of the shot echoing through his ears. But there was no pain. No nothing.
Except for the sound of Meg laughing.
"Little jumpy there, aren't you Dean?"
"Look, enough with the foreplay. If you're gonna do it then…" He never finished the sentence. Another gunshot filled the air and then Dean felt his left side burst with agony. He felt the bullet enter just under his ribs and come ripping out through his back, the bullet settling into the wood of the chair with a thud. The pain was an immediate punch to the gut with an electrified hammer. The wound had been expertly placed, not hitting anything vital, designed to hurt like hell and eventually cause him to bleed to death or die of infection, whichever came first.
Dean groaned, trying to breathe past the pain and ignore the wet stickiness of blood leaking all over his shirt and down his side. He tried to open his eyes, but the hazy slit of light that greeted him caused his stomach to roll and his head to swim. He gagged, dry heaving off to the side, the movement pulling at his injured ribs and jarring the gunshot wound.
"Not so pleasant, is it, Dean? The pain explodes through your insides and makes it hard to think, hard to breathe."
"Not… so… bad."
"Right," Meg said and then there was a hand grabbing at his side, violently squeezing the bullet wound. The sharp, piercing pain began to throb throughout Dean's whole body.
"Ahhhhh!" he screamed in torment, unable to stop it. He couldn't stop the tears that streamed down his face, now not from the pepper spray, but from the pure unadulterated misery coursing through his entire body.
"Awwww, am I hurting you, Dean?" said Meg in a voice so chilling it gave Dean goose bumps. She squeezed his wound even harder and Dean saw white, his head spinning, his ears buzzing.
"No, no," she said, removing her hand from his side and slapping him across the face again. "No passing out on me now. Not until I say so."
"Eat me, bitch," said Dean, sniffling and sputtering past blood, sweat, snot and tears.
"You just don't know when to shut up, do you? That's alright. I don't need any of your fancy hunter tools to put you down like the dog you are. I'll just use me fists."
Dean watched through fuzzy eyes as she wound back her fist and then all of a sudden his cheek crackled in pain, and he and the chair were tipping over to the ground. He landed with a crash to the floor, his already broken arm taking the brunt of the impact. The pain hit him like a ton of bricks and stole his breath. He must've blacked out for a few minutes because the next thing he knew, he was upright in the chair again and Meg was spouting off at him.
"Whaddaya think, baby? You wanna go again?"
Dean's body pulsed with pain. His head, his eyes, his nose, his cheek, his ribs, his arms, his hands, his shoulders and his abdomen. He felt pushed to his physical and spiritual limit. He couldn't take anymore. And it had only been a few hours. How the hell was he going to survive hell? More tears leaked from his burning eyes, but this time it wasn't from pain or discomfort. It was from fear. He wanted to go home. He wanted his car. He wanted Sam. God, he wanted Sam.
It was the last coherent thought he had before he passed out cold as much from terror and dread as from pain and blood loss.
Sam was putting the final touches on his rescue plan. He had managed to track Dean and Meg to an abandoned warehouse and had gotten there just in time to see Meg shoot his brother with the Colt. He was about to charge at her with the wrath of God when he realized there was a better way to take care of her, a way that might not involve getting either Dean or himself killed.
There was only one entrance to the basement area where Meg held Dean, and more importantly, only one exit. Sam got to work on a devil's trap crudely made of chalk coupling it with a few heavy lines of salt and a puddle of holy water for good measure to ensure that Meg wouldn't escape. Then he shimmied up an air duct that would place him just above Meg and Dean and repeated an exorcism ritual to himself, making sure he knew all the words. He spied Dean through the grate, his heart sinking when he realized Dean was out for the count despite the fact that Meg kept savagely punching him in the face and torso. He shimmied closer to Meg, the movement echoing through the duct. Meg stopped mid punch and glanced up at the grate, a huge grin on her face.
"Howdy, Sam . So good to see you."
Sam wasted no time and began to chant the exorcism ritual. Meg choked against the body she was possessing and swung her arm in Sam's direction. Before he registered what was happening, he was falling through the grate and crashing to the floor. He kept at the ritual though, speeding through the verses, nodding in satisfaction as Meg moaned and shook as the exorcism started to take a deeper hold on her.
"You little bastard," she screamed, throwing Sam into the cart of weapons she had used against Dean. He landed hard, the force knocking the air out of his lungs. He saw the Colt and clamored anxiously for it as he tried to regain his air and his words, but Meg kicked it away with a smile.
"Nice try, Sammy. Is this what you're gonna do when Dean goes to hell? Stage some kind of pathetic rescue mission?"
Sam was finally able to take a breath. He grappled for a flask of holy water from his back as he vehemently began reciting the exorcism again. He finally got the flask out and tossed the water at her, steam rising off of her as the vessel of the body she had chosen once again began to reject her. She sped around the room, looking for escape, her eyes wild and murderous. She shrieked when she came upon the devil's trap and other goodies Sam had left for her. She glared back at him, the demon form of Meg just barely hanging onto the body it possessed. "Tell your brother I was just getting started. Hell will be a million times worse for him." With that, she opened her mouth and poured out of the body in a long stream of black smoke. The girl Meg was possessing collapsed bonelessly to the floor, obviously dead. Sam took a moment to close the girl's still open eyes with his hand and rearranged her body in a more respectful pose before heading over to his brother.
Dean was slouched forward in the chair, blood dripping from his lips, soft wheezing pants puffing out of his mouth. Sam carefully set him back against the chair and checked the bullet wound, noting that the bleeding was slow but steady. He pushed his hand firmly against it to momentarily staunch the blood, eliciting a soft moan from Dean.
"Dean, hey, come on, man. Wake up. Come on, it's me."
Dean groaned again, louder this time and his eyes fluttered open and then immediately shut again. "S'mmy?"
"Yeah, Dean, it's me. You're safe. Meg's gone."
Sam moved around Dean and got to work on the chains that were holding his brother to the chair. After a few moments, he managed to get them off Dean's arms and legs. Sam moved in front of Dean as his brother sagged forward, Dean's left arm wrapping around Sam's torso and his head coming to rest against Sam's belly.
"Knew you'd come, Sammy," mumbled Dean against Sam's stomach.
Sam lightly wrapped his arms around Dean and they remained like that for a few moments as Dean caught his breath and Sam ensured himself that his brother was still alive and still with him.
That he'd gotten there in time.
"Dean, we gotta get you outta here." He felt Dean nod against his belly. Sam eased Dean off of him so he could look him over. He noticed the way Dean kept clenching his eyes shut. "What's wrong with your eyes?"
Dean tried to open his eyes wide and Sam had just enough time to see how red and irritated they appeared before his brother abruptly shut them.
"Pepper spray," Dean murmured miserably.
"Ugh. That's just bitchy."
"Tellin' me, dude."
"I've got some holy water we can use to rinse it out," said Sam as he slid Dean out of the chair and laid him out on the ground so he could address his many injuries. He took off the plaid over shirt he was wearing and pressed it against the gunshot wound, wrapping it around Dean's waist so it would soak up the blood from both the entry and the exit wound.
"Ah," Dean panted, wincing hard against the pain.
"Easy, bro." Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out the flask of holy water once again. He scooted up to Dean's head and got ready to pour. "Try and open your eyes for me, man."
Dean blinked his eyes open, looking slightly weary of the holy water.
"This is gonna help you, not hurt you. Promise, man."
"Kay, Sammy," Dean said, noticeably struggling to keep his eyes open.
Sam poured, the water dripping into Dean's eyes and then trickling down his cheeks and into his hair. Sam kept pouring and pouring as Dean blinked against the constant barrage of water. "Does it feel any better?"
Dean merely shook his head in misery, his eyes clenching shut once again.
"Damn it," said Sam, replacing the empty flask in his back pocket. He moved his hand over Dean's body, looking for further injury. The broken arm was obvious along with the knock on the head, the cuts across Dean's chest and the bruises from the beatings. "I missing anything, Dean?"
"Nuh uh," Dean moaned, his face pasty and sweaty, his body trembling.
"Can you walk?"
"Mmmmmm… yeah."
"Right," said Sam. He stood up and put an arm under Dean's back and another under his knees.
Before he could lift his brother up, Dean shoved his hands away. "I c'n walk!" Dean made a motion to sit up and screamed in pain as his bullet wound folded in half.
"Dean, come on, man," said Sam, reaching for Dean's legs.
Dean pushed him off. "I'm fine!" he insisted, his eyes clenching shut, his body shaky with exertion as he struggled to stand "Just be my eyes, Sammy. And don't let me bleed out."
Sam helped Dean to his feet, taking most of his weight, pressing a hand firmly against the flannel on the bullet wound, which earned him a throaty groan from Dean. "You know, you're pretty demanding."
"Respect your elders, Sam."
"Whatever you say, grandpa," said Sam, grabbing the Colt off the cart as he led his nearly blind and stumbling brother out of the basement . By the time they got outside to the Impala, Dean could barely stand.
"We're here. We're here, man." Sam held his brother against the car while he struggled to open the passenger's side door. Once he got it propped open, he eased Dean inside, taking care to be gentle with his injuries. "You alright?"
Dean merely groaned and wrapped his good arm around his bleeding stomach.
Sam shut the door and dashed to the driver's side, quickly sliding in the seat and closing the door behind him. He glanced at Dean, who'd gone deathly pale in just the few seconds it had taken Sam to get in the car. "Dean, you okay?"
Dean clutched his stomach and groaned. He blinked his eyes open, revealing painful looking scarlet orbs as his breath quickened and his body quaked. "Sammy I don't feel good," he admitted, listing to the side in weakness.
"Here," said Sam, reaching around to Dean's other arm and pulling him into his lap. "Just lay down for awhile, okay."
Dean all but collapsed into Sam's lap, any pretense of being strong and resilient busted wide open by the fact that his body was struggling to hold on. Sam felt the heat and tremors rolling off his brother's body and the shallow way he breathed. Sam wrapped his arm protectively around his semi-conscious brother and held his hand against Dean's gunshot wound, relieved to see that the flannel had slowed the bleeding.
"Ooohhh," Dean grunted.
"It's alright. I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna get you better." Sam reached into his jacket for his phone with his free hand. He dialed Bobby and then started the car, screeching onto the highway.
Bobby answered after half a ring. "Sam, you find him?"
Sam squeezed Dean a little tighter. "Yeah, I got him. Bobby, it was Meg. She did a real number on him. Shot, stabbed, the works. You know anyone around here who might be able to lend a hand? Painkillers, antibiotics, stuff like that? Our first aid kit's pretty much bone dry when it comes to the hard stuff."
"Yeah," said Bobby. "Just hold tight a few hours, alright. Get him to a motel. I'll have someone there before sunset."
"Thanks Bobby," said Sam, relief washing over him.
"You tell that brother of yours to be more careful. We don't need him checking out on us early."
Sam gulped, the statement hitting him in the gut. "Yeah, I will," he choked out.
"It'll be okay, Sam. We're gonna find him a way out of this.
Sam nodded, fighting back tears. "I know."
"Look, I gotta get on the horn. Let me know where you land."
"Will do, Bobby. Thanks."
Sam hung up the phone and glanced down at Dean, who had begun shivering like it was below zero outside. Sam grappled for a blanket in the backseat and spread it over Dean, tucking it around him and squeezing him closer. "Hang on, man. Please just hang on."
Sam sped along the highway for several miles, searching desperately for an out of the way motel they could hole up in for a few days while Dean recovered. When he saw an inviting sign advertising the Sun Inn just a mile up the road, Sam pushed the pedal to the floor in relief. He reached the inn's parking lot a second later and threw the car into park. He eased himself out from under his brother and then took a minute to settle Dean's head comfortably against the seat. "Be right back, man."
He checked into the motel for five nights, requesting a quiet room at the end of the line. He came back to the car and drove the Impala down to a parking space right in front of the room so he wouldn't have to haul Dean far. He once again eased Dean off his lap, rousing his brother in the process.
"Sam?"
"Hey, it's okay. I just checked us into a motel for a few days. I'm gonna get you fixed up and Bobby's gotta guy coming with some meds."
Dean moaned and burrowed his head against the seat like he trying to go back to sleep.
Sam let him be for the time being. He placed his hand on Dean's back. "Be right back."
He shut the driver's side door and went to the trunk, collecting their duffels, the first aid kit and a few weapons for good measure. Then he unlocked the motel door and took a few minutes getting everything settled in the room and gave Bobby a quick call, letting him know their location before going back out to collect Dean. He opened the passenger's side door and eased Dean upward until he was sitting up. Dean's eyes clenched and unclenched, his face nearly translucent.
"Let's get you inside, kiddo," said Sam. Before he could give Den a chance to argue, he clasped one arm under his brother's knees and another across his back and hefted him out of the car cradle-style.
"Nghhhh, Sam. Stop it," Dean complained, trying to escape the hold Sam had on him.
"Shut up and go with it," said Sam. He knocked the passenger's door shut with his foot and carried Dean into the room, laying him out on the bed farthest from the door. He closed and then locked the motel door and then picked up the room's ice bucket, filling it with water.
"I'm gonna flush some more of that crap out of your eyes," said Sam as he sat down on Dean's bed. He pulled his brother to him and positioned him so Dean's head was hanging off the bed. Sam supported it with one hand and grabbed the bucket of water with the other, getting ready once again to pour. "Open your eyes, man."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "You suck."
"Come on, this'll help. Just do it. Don't be a wimp."
Dean grumbled and then blinked his eyes fully open with a wince. "There," he said, his red eyes brimming with tears.
Sam wasted no time and poured the water into Dean's eyes. Dean blinked and sputtered as the water did its job to flush out the pepper spray. Sam poured about half the water of the bucket before stopping to give Dean a break. "You good?"
Dean shut his eyes again and then blinked rapidly, the redness in his eyes clearing just the slightest. "Yeah."
"Here comes the rest," said Sam as he tilted the bucket over Dean's eyes again and poured the rest of the water over them. When all the water was gone, Sam settled Dean back on the bed, resting him comfortably against the pillows. He grabbed a towel and wiped Dean's face and hair where the water had soaked him through and then tossed the towel over the puddle he'd created on the floor.
"How do you feel?"
Dean opened his eyes and kept them open even though Sam could see it was a struggle for him to do so. "Better," he said, forcing a smile.
"Good. Let's get the rest of you patched up. Bobby's friend should be here soon with more supplies."
Dean's smile changed from forced to genuine. "You're just taking care of everything, man. Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet." Sam reached into the first aid kit. "This is all gonna hurt like a bitch. Especially without any painkillers."
"Hit me with your best shot, Sammy," answered Dean. "Speaking of which…"
"No can do, Dean. There's nothing here and besides, you don't need to be mixing that with the pain pills when they get here. That could send you downstairs in a matter of minutes."
"I already got pretty close there today, man."
"I know," said Sam as he pulled out a knife and cut Dean's T-shirt off of him. "But everything's okay now." He shut his mind off to the possibility as he pulled out some gauze wipes and alcohol to clean out the bullet wound. "Ready for this?"
Dean took a deep breath and nodded, letting his eyes close. "Just get it done."
Sam nodded and went to work. He poured the alcohol over the entry wound and Dean screamed, his body arching off the bed. "It's okay, it's okay," soothed Sam, stopping for a minute to rub the middle of Dean's belly in comfort, giving the sting of the antiseptic a minute to wear off. "Just breathe. Breathe Dean," he said, giving Dean's heaving stomach one last pat before running the gauze pads over the wound, mopping up blood and dirt. He used a tweezers and a small flashlight to examine the wound closer and check for stray pieces of T-shirt and other bits, probing as carefully as he could as to not cause Dean any more pain.
Dean gasped and broke out into a sweat, his skin flushing, his body shaking.
"Almost done," said Sam, taking one last look. When he was satisfied it was as clean as it was going to get, he placed a gauze pad over the wound and taped it in place against Dean's skin. "One down, one to go," he said, glancing up at Dean.
His brother was panting, his body slick and shiny with sweat, his face etched tight in pain. Sam stood up and wet a wash cloth from the bathroom. He returned to Dean's side and ran it over his brother's face and neck, trying to cool him down and soothe his pain.
"M'kay, Sammy," Dean murmured in a slur. "Keep going."
Sam patted Dean's chest and then rolled him on his side so he could take a look at the exit wound on his back. The wound was jagged and angry looking, bigger than the one on Dean's side. Sam went to work picking at the stray fibers and dirt he saw inside before pouring the alcohol over the wound.
"Ahhhh ha," Dean yelped. "Son of a bitch, Sam!"
"Sorry, sorry," said Sam as he mopped up the bloody mess. Then he smoothed a bandage over that side as well before rolling Dean back over. "You gonna make it?" he asked, taking in the fevered way Dean breathed, hearing the bitten off groans and moans that punctuated each of his breaths.
"Do I have a choice?" Dean grunted.
Sam glanced at Dean's mangled arm with a grimace, knowing it would be a bitch to set. Maybe they'd try and holdout for the painkillers to arrive before he attempted it. He glanced at the bruises forming over Dean's ribs. He tapped at them lightly causing Dean to groan and shrink away from his touch. "They broken?"
"No," muttered Dean breathlessly. "Just bruised to hell."
"What about your head? You concussed?" Sam asked as he ran a finger across the bruised cut above Dean's eye, feeling a lump underneath.
"Naw. Would've thrown up on you by now if I was."
"Jerk," kidded Sam as his eyes drifted to the salt-crusted cuts crisscrossing Dean's chest. "I don't think these cuts need stitching. Just gonna clean em' out a little."
"Goody," Dean deadpanned.
Sam dipped some more gauze in alcohol and began wiping away at the cuts, doing his best to get rid of the stinging salt and other dirt that had managed to get trapped in the wounds. Dean shivered as Sam worked, clearly reaching the end of his pain tolerance and desperately needing something to take the edge off. After a few tense minutes, Sam finished his ministrations and bandaged the deepest areas of the cuts while he let the shallow parts breathe. He set down the gauze and alcohol and eyed Dean's arm.
"We should really take you to the E.R. for that arm, man. Or a clinic."
"Yeah right," whispered Dean. "Along with my gsw. No can do, Sammy. You know that."
"It looks bad, Dean. They're might be a couple of bones effected. I don't wanna…"
"Just do it, Sam. If you mess it up, at least it's my left arm not my right. We don't got a lot of choices here. Besides, the longer it stays all jacked up, the better chance I have of turning into a Captain Hook."
Sam sighed, hating the look of agony in his brother's eyes, hating that he was going to put more there.
"Sammy," said Dean, his eyes wide and still red from the pepper spray. "Please, just do it. I just want to get this over with and get healed. Get back out there."
"Fine," Sam replied. "I'll do my best. If I mess it up, I don't wanna hear about it."
"I swear. Not a word."
Sam sat back on the bed next to Dean, grasping his brother's arm, trying to feel how the bones fit back together.
"Ohhhh," Dean yelped, mashing his head to the side against his pillow.
"Here," said Sam, grabbing a clean washcloth and putting it in Dean's mouth. "Bite down on this."
Dean grunted and bit down, nodding his head,
Sam went back to work, continuing to feel the bones in Dean's swollen arm. To his relief, he only felt one break and thought he might be able to snap it back into place fairly easily. Hopefully any infection that could develop would be taken care of by the antibiotics he hoped to have in his possession any minute.
"Okay, Dean, I've got it. You ready?"
Dean nodded without hesitation.
"Okay." Sam firmly grasping the bones, ignoring Dean's pained breaths. "One, two, three." He pulled and then pushed the bone with all his might, causing Dean to wail in agony. Sam was unrelenting and after a few anxious moments, he felt the bone snap back into their rightful place. He glanced up at Dean's face and saw it had gone snow white.
"Dean, you alright?"
Dean's face turned green and he gagged, spitting out the cloth onto his chest. "Gonna…" Dean couldn't finish. He struggled to sit up, moaning as he began to heave out bile and spit.
"Whoa, whoa," said Sam, swiftly easing him up and supporting him so he could puke off the side of the bed and not choke or injure himself further. "It's okay, you're okay, get it out, it's fine, it's fine," he whispered in a soothing loop, holding his brother in a bear hug while Dean's body continued to sputter. When Dean was finally finished hurling, he sagged forward and would've fallen off the bed if Sam wasn't there to support him. "It's over," he said, easing Dean back into a horizontal position. He grabbed a wet cloth and mopped up the sweat covering Dean's face and chest.
Dean could barely keep his eyes open, his body quivering against the onslaught of pain.
"Helps on the way, man," said Sam, praying that he was right. He rested his hand on Dean's chest and then grabbed a splint out of their first aid kit, securing it around Dean's broken arm. "That's it, kiddo. You did good." Sam removed Dean's blood and sweat-soaked jeans and then pulled the blankets up to cover his shaking brother. He climbed in bed next to him, resting his arm next to Dean's. "Anytime now. Anytime."
Dean took a couple of deep breaths and opened his eyes, trying to fight against the pain. "Sammy," he panted, his voice a broken whisper. "How am I gonna… I mean what am I gonna …without you… you know… down there… I mean, not down there, like perv stuff… but down there… in the pit?"
"Dean," Sam began.
Dean continued. "What if I… what if I can't…"
"You're not gonna have to find out, Dean," Sam interrupted. "I'm gonna make sure of it." He said it with such conviction that he not only believed it, but could tell from the easing of tension on Dean's face that his brother believed it as well.
There was a pounding on the door.
"Saved by the bell, man," said Sam, noting the look of relief on Dean's face.
"Hmmmm… Kelly Kapowski was hot."
"I always liked Jessie Spano myself."
"A little showgirl action, huh Sammy? I'm impressed."
"Shut up," said Sam before opening the door. A tall man in big glasses and overalls stood outside holding a paper bag.
"Marshall Tucker?" the man asked.
"Gordon Lightfoot?" Sam responded.
The man thrust the bag at Sam. "That's all I could get on such short notice. I'll come back tomorrow."
"Thanks."
"Anything for Bobby Singer. I owe him like six lives."
The man took off and Sam closed the door, locking it behind them once again. He tore open the bag and found a few vials of antibiotics and painkillers along with some syringes. He quickly popped a needle in the antibiotics and another in the painkillers and went back over to Dean.
"Ahhh, Dr. Feelgood," said Dean.
Sam dabbed the crook of Dean's uninjured arm with alcohol and injected him with the antibiotics followed by the painkillers. Then he sat back on the bed with his brother, sighing in relief. "Try and get some sleep. I'm here. You don't have to worry about a thing," he said, squeezing Dean's hand. "I'm gonna take care of everything."
Dean glanced up at Sam, his face calm and sure. Trusting. "I know you will, Sammy. Know you will." Then Dean's head sagged to the side in unconsciousness.
That's All Folks!