Thing doesn't have a breed or a species that they could find in Dad's journal or from any other source. What it does have is scales, horns, and Sam by the throat, its claws digging in, his airway cut off. He's making a horrible, painful wheeze audible over the clang resounding in Dean's head from having his bell rung, a vicious backhand that had thrown him face first into the side of the car and sent his shotgun spiraling.

Dean staggers through the warehouse parking lot without a sense of direction, the toes of his boots catching in pockets of loose gravel and blood running into his eyes. He sticks a hand in front of him and connects with the cool metal of the car. He braces himself against the Impala a moment as he strains to locate the missing shotgun.

" – ean!" Sam manages to shout.

Gotta save Sammy. Dean swipes blood from his eyes. Sammy comes first. In a brief moment of clear vision he spots the gun, clumsily reaches for it with the hand steadying himself and takes a header into the gravel next to the right rear wheel. But he's got the gun, so there's that.

"Dean!"

"Workin' on it," Dean mumbles. He tightens the grip of his fingers around the barrel of the sawed-off and forces himself to his knees. He makes it there much easier than anticipated, uses the momentum to shove all the way to his feet, world sliding sideways. He's wobbly but upright, raises the gun and takes aim at the creature.

Beastie roars, shakes Sam like a rag doll, and takes the shotgun blast in the face from a range dangerously close to all parties involved.

Spots dance across Dean's vision, and the world slips askew once more, and Dean goes with it. Impressively, what remains of the creature collapses to the ground before he does.

Sam didn't see Dean hit the dirt but he heard it. He can see him now, can see the shape he's in, but like when the flight attendant reminds you to secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others, getting his breath back is priority one. It doesn't feel that way, staring at Dean's crumpled form just a few feet away, covered in dust and blood and somehow still clutching his damn shotgun.

The black lingering at the edges of Sam's vision recedes and Dean's twitching like he might be coming around, so Sam pulls himself to his hands and knees and quickly covers the space between them, dragging his tired body through a warm puddle of liquefied monster face and brains.

The combined smell of the pile in which he's kneeling and the sight of the split in the skin below Dean's hairline turns Sam's stomach. He's not sure how much blood is his brother's and how much is the creature's, and isn't sure there's ANY ratio he's comfortable with. Sam gingerly prods the punctures in his own neck while reaching for Dean's shoulder with his other hand.

"Dean, man, come on." His voice is harsh, a painful, barely audible rasp.

Dean's eyes open in stages, long slow blinks, and he rolls to his back with a groan, releasing the shotgun to fall with a clatter onto the sea of small rocks. "I get it?" is his first breathy inquiry.

Sam finds a dry spot on Dean's shoulder and gives it a gentle pat. "Uh, yeah, don't think it's possible to miss from that distance. Even with your head caved in. Thanks for not shooting me in the face, by the way." A clump of monster brain slips from Sam's hair, falls to the knee of his jeans with a wet smack.

Dean's eyes track the movement and he turns a delicate shade of green. "I'm gonna puke."

They're both covered head-to-toe with gore and blood, a good deal of it their own. Sam drags Dean upright and Dean shrugs off the help. They burn the carcass in the farthest corner of the lot and shake what they can from their clothes, gagging at the stench. Shotgun blasts aren't quiet, and even from the outskirts of town Sam can hear sirens. They quickly unroll a blue tarp over the bench seat before Dean will even consider driving back to the motel. Probably shouldn't be driving at all, but Sam's opinion is rarely appreciated in these instances.

Tucking the corners of the protective plastic over the edges of the leather, Sam studies his brother's movements. He's bright-eyed, sure, but seems alert enough. It wasn't a great sign for him to go down like he did, but if anyone can take a lickin' and keep on tickin', it's Dean. He's probably not concussed, but the left side of his head and face still appear alarmingly painted red with blood. Sam reaches into the backseat for a clean enough towel or a spare shirt. "Here." He holds out a balled-up motel hand towel.

Dean frowns, winces. "Yeah. Thanks." He swipes haphazardly at his head and tosses the towel to the backseat without a glance at it. He drops heavily behind the steering wheel. "All right, let's wash up, drink up, and rest up."

Sam's got the adrenaline pumping now, and Dean seems to be bouncing back from the knock to his noggin. It's been a rough night, and Sam figures a drink could do them both some good. Dean won't be babied, so it's Rock, Paper, Scissors for the first shower, with Sam making quick work of his predictable big brother.

Sam pauses on the threshold of the small bathroom, feeling a moment's guilt over leaving a bleary-eyed Dean slumped over on the edge of his plastic-y floral bedspread with a head injury of an unknown degree. Then he shifts his weight, and remnants of monster innards squelch inside his shoes. His stomach flops and he ducks quickly through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

Sam hurries washing up, as well as he can while still scrubbing the congealing blood from around his fingernails and the ghost of the neckline of his v-neck tee.

He shuts off the water and wraps a thin, grayish towel around his waist, wipes the mirror clean with his palm and studies the wounds circling his neck. It's a testament to Dean's own aches and pains that he hasn't inquired about Sam's. The claw marks are small and shallow, but the skin around each weeping circle is angry, red and raised, still stinging. He pulls on his jeans and rummages through the first aid kit for a tube of antiseptic.

A muted sound of shouts and gunfire comes from the other side of the door behind him and Sam pulls it open.

Dean seems to have forgotten he's covered in roughly a gallon of ick, has shucked his ruined jacket and dripping boots to a slimy pile at the side of his bed and stretched out atop the duvet. His eyes are glued to the tiny television perched atop the bureau. Even the dives have the cable movie channels these days, and Dean can't seem to NOT find things to watch during their downtime. He's double-fisting tall boys from the cooler, one popped open to drink and one still-full can held to the side of his head stained crimson.

Sam shakes his head and towels off his hair. "All yours, dude."

"Hmm?" Dean's eyes don't shift from the screen.

"Your turn."

"Yeah, in a sec."

Sam nods at the beer cans as he tosses the towel to his bed. "S'that help?"

"Doesn't hurt."

Sam sits cautiously on the edge of his bed, close enough to get his first look at Dean's head in good light but safely out of arm's reach. "Should probably stitch that, man."

Dean lets out a slow breath, doesn't respond.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Then we can go out for that beer."

That at least gets him speaking. "In a minute."

"Dude." Sam turns to the open bag next to him and pulls out a long-sleeved button down. "You're literally dripping monster goo."

"Die Hard's on."

"Seriously? How many times have you seen this movie, a thousand?"

"Irrelevant. This movie is badass, Sammy. Can't miss it. Not like those geek movies you're always yappin' about."

"Yeah, and you never let me watch the ones I'm always yapping about."

"Sorry, did the word 'geek' not explain why? Gimme a classic line, dude. A great movie needs a memorable one-liner." Dean shifts his weight, causing himself to wince. "What's the 'yippe-ki-ay' or 'get off my plane' of that dumbass hobbit movie?"

"You mean The Lord of the Rings?" Sam frowns, scrutinizing his brother. He'd stumbled over the word 'memorable' and has barely moved a muscle since Sam entered the room. He has no posture to speak of, sagging on top of the bed with hooded eyes, shadows beneath and swollen brow above. "Dunno." He fishes through the bag for a pair of clean socks. "Guess it would be 'my precious.'" One of those rare times he speaks without thinking.

Dean's eyes move to Sam as he stares a long moment. "THAT'S precious. You're adorable."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Come on, man, I'm wired. I don't want to sit here and watch TV."

"S'not TV. It's Die Hard."

"Dean. Will you at least shower, please? Your pal, Bruce Willis, there? That's what you look like."

Dean smirks. "That is hands-down the coolest thing you've ever said to me."

Sam shakes his head incredulously. "That wasn't a compliment."

"Grab a beer, Sammy."

"I'll be happy to. At a bar. This room reeks, man."

"I don't smell anything."

"I was trying to be nice. It's not the room, it's you."

"Well, fuck you, Sammy."

"That's harsh." Despite the fact Dean's retort was very nearly delivered as a single word. Sam is starting to reassess his initial diagnosis of 'probably not concussed.' He crosses his arms, switches tactics. "You know, I'm starting to think it's not that you don't want to get up, but you can't get up."

Dean sniffs, his tell, and confirms Sam's suspicions. "I can get up."

"Okay." Sam pulls on his Pumas, bracing himself with a hand on the bureau, blocking the television screen.

Dean makes a protesting sound. "I can get up."

"I believe you. Let's go."

"Sammy?"

"Hmm?"

"Gimme a bucket. I'm gonna puke."

"Yep." Sam bends to retrieves the dented metal waste can at his feet and drops it into his brother's arms, taking the beer cans and setting them aside. He sighs as Dean bends over the container. "Yeah, you have a concussion."

"Ugh. Shut up."

Sam glances at the TV, smirks, and lowers his voice. "'Come out to the coast, we'll get together, have a few laughs.'"

Dean gags, groans. "I knew you – " He brings a fist to his mouth. " – loved this movie."