It's funny what you can find in folders entitled 'Old School Documents'...
"Come on. We're home." Sam said as he helped Dean out the car and swiftly kicked the door shut behind them, accidently sending too much air to the hefty cut on Dean's leg.
"Sam, you bitch!" Dean yelled as he wrapped his arm around Sam's neck tighter.
"What? Oh... Sorry." Sam said as they made their way to the door to the motel. Dean limped through the doorway, licking away the sweat almost on his lip, with Sam's help. Dean walked over to the chair next to the table with Sam's laptop and a stack of papers. He looked down at his thick engraving. It was now several long, streaks of deep crimson liquid spilling from a thick red line from the back of his knee to the top of his ankle on his left leg. Great, he'd dislocate his left shoulder and broke his left arm, and now his left leg. What next, left kidney?
It was a good thing Sam had already cut his pants, so the cut won't be covered. He quickly looked away from the stomach turning mess. He'd been around small cuts, but nothing this big and bloody. He can deal with someone's blood on his hands (literally) and stitching someone up, but he gets a bit dizzy when he's the one bleeding red. Correction, gushing.
"How are you?" Sam asked in a deep, concerned voice as he walked over to Dean with a pen knife, dental floss, a sewing needle, and a fifth of his favorite whiskey.
"The usual, you know, just hanging around with a twelve inch cut on my leg. Nothing much." Dean said sarcastically as he stole the whiskey from his brother's hands and took a long sip. "Aren't you too young for alcohol anyway?" He asked as he sat the glass bottle on the wooden table.
Sam sat in the wooden chair across from Dean and looked at him. "Dean, I'm 26."
"Oh." Dean said with a deep crease in his sweaty brow. When did Sam grow up? It seems like it was just yesterday when he was in the backseat playing with those stupid stiff green toy soldiers and making gunshot sounds. Now he's the soldier with a gun that makes real gunshot sounds.
"Yeah." Sam said as he walked to sit in front of Dean's leg. "Can you lif-"
"Son of a bi-" Dean said as Sam grabbed his ankle and only lifted it slightly from the carpet clad floor. He could only imagine how it would be to walk without Sam's help.
Sam nodded at Dean. "Ok, I'll lift your leg and put it on the table on the count of three."
"Fine, do it fast." Dean said as he held his breath and Sam grabbed the bottom of his ankle again.
"Ready?" Sam asked. "One... T-" Sam swung his leg over and on the table, landing with a small thump.
Dean took a big breathe and growled in pain. He won't–couldn't- cry in front of Sam. What kind of man would that make him?
"Feel free to cry." Teased Sam as he stuffed the end of the dental floss through the tiny hole of the sewing needle. He saw that his brother was in pain, so he had to keep his mind off it, at least just so he could stitch everything back together.
Dean sucked in another big breath. "Winchesters don't cry."
"What?" Sam called in shock. "We've cried plenty of times!"
"Well, that was family related or we lost someone, doesn't count." Dean spat out before he hissed in pain when Sam dug the sewing needle through the first part of the cut.
"You cried when Bela had the Impala towed." Sam shot back as he rammed the needle into the second part. This time Dean only twitched a little.
Dean twitched again as Sam finished half of the cut. "That counts as losing someone!"
"The Impala isn't a real person, Dean, so, no, it doesn't count." Sam realized if he made Dean angry, his mind would be off the pain and on the Impala.
Dean growled as Sam completed the last few stitches. "Sam, leave her alone."
"Ok." Sam said in preppy tone as he finished the tying the knot and patted Dean on his thigh and walked away to the bed. "Go get cleaned up."
Dean stood, using the table for leverage. "This conversation isn't over." With that, dean hoped to the bathroom, leaving Sam to snicker quietly.