Dare
It's not really a problem one-handed; Sam gets the key out of his jeans pocket and into the lock on the motel room door just fine, even using his left hand. His right is currently a little preoccupied with gripping Dean's wrist and keeping him from spilling entirely to the ground. The key makes it into the lock, finally, and then it takes a minute to get the damned thing to turn.
One minute becomes several. It's an old, sticky motel room with an old, sticky lock and Sam's tilted at an odd angle. He's nearly bent in half on his left side, supporting a considerable amount of his brother's weight. Because as stubborn an ass as he wants to be, Dean just wasn't going to make it from the car to the door by himself.
What kind of raggedy-assed motel has an actual KEY these days, anyway? It's becoming clear that this key must just be as much a stubborn bitch as his big brother, refusing to turn and grant them entrance to the room, and Sam is hanging on by the shredded remains of his very last nerve. Dean's certainly not being any help.
After a few frustrated moments, Sam leaves the wretched key sticking out of the lock and does a little close up push-and-pull action on the door to get it to rotate that last little millimeter, jabbing back and forth on the knob with both hands so viciously that Dean's arm tips from where it has been left precariously perched over his shoulders.
Dean hisses as he tries to compensate the shift, bringing his weight down on his left leg, but that's the one that's not working so well right now, and only ends up slipping from the limb's protest and falling more heavily against Sam. He jerks away like Sam's a hot stovetop burner and immediately starts to overbalance.
With reflexes rivaling Dean's own, Sam lets go of the doorknob to reach up and grab his arm again, dragging him swiftly upright once more.
"I got it," Dean mumbles. He's annoyed but doesn't pull away, just stares at the pock-marked concrete between his boots. It's the closest thing to a 'thanks' Sam's going to get, so he takes it with only the smallest frown and tugs on Dean's arm.
The key finally turns with an anticlimactic click. Sam twists the knob and nudges the door with the toe of his shoe, quickly moving both hands to brace his brother. The door creaks open a few inches and starts to fall back. Sam is already about as frustrated as he's going to let himself get tonight, so he plants his right foot and gives the door a shove that sends it straight into the wall to bounce back and he has to scoot inside quickly to keep it from slamming back into his face.
There's an amused snort from Dean as they cross the threshold, but that cuts quickly to a pained grunt as Sam's shoe catches in the strap of a duffel they've left sitting next to the door and he hops on one foot to keep from falling, dragging Dean into the room with him. He straightens and wrestles his brother's weight the rest of the way into the tiny, dark room.
He doesn't say a word, just unceremoniously deposits Dean onto the bed closest to the door – his, of course – and flips on the single small lamp meant to illuminate the entire room. A dim yellow-orange glow now filters through the dingy lampshade, throwing muddy shadows on the walls and Dean's pale face as he winces, stretching out his leg.
Sam pitches the motel and car keys onto the table and goes straight to the bathroom, pulls a few thin washcloths from the wire rack next to the mirror and dampens them in the sink before he even goes back to get his first good look at the leg. But he knows it ain't gonna be pretty.
Sam himself hasn't come away from the warehouse unscathed; there's a weeping scrape on his temple and what must be a grapefruit-sized bruise forming on his shoulder, courtesy of a crash-landing to a very unforgiving concrete floor. But Dean's the one who made yet another spectacular flight, hurtling through the air and hitting the not-so-sturdy wall in just the right water-damaged spot, a jutted and rusty broken piece of pipe gouging his leg on his ungraceful way down.
Sam knows he should probably take the time to think seriously about a tetanus shot for Dean. But then again, since they burned down the building, and with Dean being in the system as he is, a trip to the hospital is pretty much out of the question. Knowing this pisses Sam off to no end, because he's not quite sure yet just how much blood his brother has lost, not to mention what nerve or muscle damage might lie beneath.
"You gotta stop getting thrown into things, Dean," he calls over the water rushing from the tap. His tone is amazingly indifferent, but it's a plea and a command at the same time.
Across the room, Dean raises his eyebrows in silent agreement and leans back, bracing himself on his elbows. He winces as he rotates his foot, testing the limits the gash has put on his mobility. As if falling out of the car hadn't been clue enough.
Sam wrings out the cloths, glancing up at the mirror. His dark hair is matted to the cut on the left side of his forehead and it pulls uncomfortably when he squints at his reflection. But it's nothing he can't take care of himself later. He sighs, shakes off a few more drops of lukewarm water, and heads back out to Dean.
Because of the piss-poor lighting and heavy material of Dean's jeans, Sam can't see the cut very well from across the room. But he sees enough to know that this particular pair of jeans is headed for the dumpster out back. Dean won't necessarily mind the extra rip, but there's no way this amount blood is washing out. The blood that is seeping through and spotting the already questionable duvet cover. And Dean is just sitting there, looking tired and watching himself bleed all over Sam's bed. Awesome.
Sam's shoulders drop and he sighs again. "Lose the pants, Dean."
Den blinks at him. He grins and shakes his head. "Dude, you're twisted."
Sam is so beyond being patient he doesn't care when it sounds like he's whining. He doesn't care he probably looks like a six-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. He stomps his foot…but just a little. "Now. Come on."
Dean studies Sam's pursed lips and raised eyebrows, amused. "It's just a scratch, Sammy. Really, nobody needs to be strippin' down. I'll just wash it off." He nods towards the bathroom and pushes up from the bed. He wavers for all of half a second before his knees buckle and he slips back down.
Sam looks on, his face purposefully impassive as Dean struggles back into a sitting position on the bed, scooting up on his elbows. "I practically had to carry you into the room, Dean."
"I could've walked."
Sam glares as Dean makes another go at getting off of the bed, and raises an eyebrow as he falls back flat with a sigh. "You done yet?"
Dean lifts his head to the right and an impromptu staring contest ensues, like they're both all in for the last Oreo in the pack.
Dean finally rolls his eyes and heaves up into a sitting position, reaching for his laces. "No peeking," he grumbles, pulling off his boots with more than one wince. Sam doesn't even press his luck trying to help.
The ruined jeans are left in a crimson and denim pile at the foot of the bed. Sam steps forward, staying just out of Dean's reach as he gets his first good look at the bloody mess that used to be his brother's leg.
The gouge is clear down Dean's shin, starting just below the knee and traveling a good six or seven inches along the inside edge of the bone. Not deep enough to have Sam really freaking out, but deep enough for his jaw to drop at the amount of blood still running down Dean's leg. He stops and stares just long enough for Dean to roll his eyes again.
"Freakin' girl." He leans forward to rip the damp cloths out of Sam's lax hand and pats them all around the edges of the tear, mopping up the excess blood. He lets out little hisses each time the coarse material brushes the sensitive skin.
Sam lets Dean clean himself up, slowly bending into a crouch and sitting back on his heels to gawk. "Dean," he starts, shaking his head, "this is gonna need stitched up. Like, now."
Dean presses a particularly deep spot, eliciting a grunt, and Sam reaches towards him out of instinct. Dean jerks away from his hands. He holds the wadded cloths to the gash with one hand and shoos Sam away with the other. "Just go get the thing."
The 'thing,' the first aid kit, is in the trunk of the car. Sam silently goes out to get it, hearing a muttered "Drama queen."
When he comes back, Dean is bent over, grimacing as he peeks underneath the pink-spotted cloths. He glances up to see Sam standing in the open doorway holding the battered plastic case, looking not a little concerned. He straightens and the grimace is gone before Sam can blink, replaced with an expression of passive indifference. An expression that really pisses Sam off.
Sensing this, and going as always for the comedic cover-up, Dean cocks his head and looks up at Sam with a sideways grin. "I don't think I really need the stitches. Just throw a Band-Aid on it." And then he gets that LOOK. "You know, one of those, uh, Batman ones that you keep hidin' in the bottom of the case."
Sam's nostrils flare just slightly and his grip on the kit tightens as Dean sniggers. "I don't hide them – "
Dean's grin widens but doesn't reach his eyes. "Ah, you make it too easy, Sammy."
Sam huffs and stomps his way over to the beds. He sits across from Dean and starts rummaging through the contents of the kit, making a mental note to throw the Band-Aids away as soon as Dean's passed out.
He pulls out the things he's going to need: curved needle, thread…and looks up with a Serious Sam Face. "Doesn't look like we have any real pain killers left on hand." Translation: there's nothing in the kit to properly knock Dean out before Sam stitches up his leg.
Sam looks around the room, a sweeping arc in both directions, as if the bible in the bottom drawer of the nightstand or the little shampoo bottles by the sink are going to be of any help.
"There's a liquor store down the street," Dean says, holding the now nearly completely-red cloths to his leg. The laughter has already left his voice.
"Yeah?" Sam doesn't remember seeing any liquor store, but leave it to Dean to know at all times the shortest access route to alcohol.
"Next to the Laundromat. Something or Other's Liquor Emporium." Dean shrugs, looking tired. "Or something."
Sam takes the soaked-through washcloths from Dean's hands, goes back to the bathroom sink to wet them down again and run out some of the blood. He drags a towel from the bar and brings it and the cloths back to Dean.
Dean uses the towel to mop up the pink water running down his leg while Sam wordlessly collects the Impala's keys from the table and heads for the door. He knows that he needs to make this a quick trip, but really, really isn't looking forward to what's going to happen when he gets back. He can stitch to rival anyone's granny, but it's not exactly a talent he's proud of or happy about.
Sam hesitates, hanging onto the doorframe, half of his body already out of the door and on its way to the car. "Beam?"
"Nah, just grab me a coupla wine coolers." Dean doesn't even look up. "Get the pink ones."
"Ass."
"Twit."
By the time Sam gets back with the booze, Dean is stretched out on his back, singing. Loudly, badly, and Sam's pretty sure that he's just making it up as he goes. Something about a sister, which Sam can only assume is him. Whatever it is, he stops as soon as Sam shuts the door and cocks an eyebrow. Sam lifts the bag and Dean's head bobs once.
Dean knows the drill – Dean perfected the drill. His arm comes up and he waggles his fingers in Sam's general direction. Sam pulls away the brown paper bag and brings the pint of whiskey over to him.
Once his fingers wrap around the bulk of the bottle, Dean pulls himself up into a sitting position. It takes slightly more effort than the last time, but he manages okay. He uncaps the bottle and scoots back against the headboard, assuming the position. When Dean's leg moves from where it's been, Sam's not happy to see just how big the bloody spot on the duvet is.
Dean brings the bottle up and gulps a few large swallows, trying to hurry along the process as well as he can, which does nothing to put Sam's mind at ease. As much as he bitches about it, he really prefers it when Dean puts up a fight about things like this.
Sam swallows a few times and brings over the things from the other bed. He peels the cloths from the cut with a wince, but he's happy to see it isn't bleeding anymore. That doesn't last long. As soon as Sam starts pushing the opposite sides of the wound together, fresh blood starts to seep out.
Dean hisses as he continues poking around and Sam nudges the bottle in his hand. "Come on, Dean. I gotta get started on this."
Dean puts the energy into a truly spectacular huff/eye roll combination before bringing the bottle back to his lips. He's a little too quiet, and it's doing nothing but putting Sam ever more on edge.
Once he gets about halfway through the bottle, though, Sam's wishing for the quiet to come back. Lighter by the blood lost, the alcohol is kicking in quicker than usual. Now, Dean won't shut up.
"Ya know what I always wunnered if I could do, Sammy?" A sharp intake of air as Sam slips the needle under his skin. "Name all the pres'dents."
"You can't."
"Dude. I went to school, too."
Dean is so totally serious that Sam can't help but smile. "Yeah, sometimes."
"Washington."
"That's one." It's better than counting stitches.
"Bush."
Dean giggles a little at that one and Sam rolls his eyes. "I think maybe you skipped a couple."
Dean's head rolls lazily and his face is serious again. "Did I say I could do it in order?"
While he works, Sam uses the energy that's not going towards ignoring Dean's random and occasionally accurate name-dropping to start thinking real hard about that tetanus shot. He tries to remember how old Dean was when he brought his hand down on that nail and Dad had made him get one. He thinks he was nineteen, but when he asks Dean about it, he just grins and starts talking about some girl named Candy that he nailed when he was nineteen.
Sam shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. "She sounds like a porn star."
Dean stares wistfully at the ceiling, his fingers brushing the tabletop for the whiskey bottle Sam has moved out of his reach. "She could've been."
By the time he's done, Sam's pretty sure he's got more blood on his hands and shirt than Dean could possibly have left in his body. But Dean seems pretty well with it, just a little loopy and buzzy from the blood lost, combined with the half-fifth of whiskey. And he's not trying to name presidents anymore.
Sam wraps what's left of the clean gauze around Dean's leg and pats him on the knee, signaling that he's finished. He goes back to the first aid kit and grabs a bottle of pretty mild pain relievers, shaking a few tablets into his palm. He hesitates, puts two of them back and brings the remaining two pills back to Dean.
"Booze'n pills, Sammy?" Dean snorts and rolls his head away from Sam. "And you call yourself a doctor."
"I don't call myself a doctor."
Dean looks back with as serious an expression as he can muster under the circumstances. "Good, 'cause you'd make a lousy one."
"Will you please just take these?"
"Uh oh. Sammy's using his big boy voice." But Dean snatches the two pills out of Sam's outstretched hand, dry swallows them, and lets his head fall back.
It's almost three in the morning, and Sam would like nothing more than to spend the next six or seven hours dead to the world, but he knows that's not going to happen. He's too wired. And looking around the room, there's too much still to do.
He starts with the first aid kit, stuffing everything that's reusable back into the case without organizing like he usually would. He clears the bloody gauze and washcloths from the bedside table and reaches up to tilt the lampshade, giving Dean's side of the room a little less light.
Dean makes a 'don't go too far with that' sound as Sam recaps the bottle of Beam, putting it on the dresser next to the television.
He wads up the ruined pair of jeans and crams them into the trash can by the door along with all of the bloody washcloths, gauze, and towels. He ties up the bag and sets it next to the door to take to the dumpster in the morning.
It's when he's setting the bag down that Sam really sees just how gross his hands are. He still has more to clean up around the room, but he just can't let his hands look like this for a second longer. He glances at Dean, who appears to be out cold, limbs at all angles, and heads for the bathroom.
He nudges the door into a half-closed position. He ignores the 'cold' faucet completely and cranks the 'hot' around as far as it will go.
"Sammy."
Sam pauses in scrubbing his hands just long enough to quickly analyze the volume, tone, and pitch and Dean's voice; slurred but no more than when Sam had last heard him. Pain, but no panic. There's nothing to suggest that Dean is in a state of distress in the other room, just dopey from the booze'n pills.
"Sammy."
Sam glances up at the room's reflection in the mirror, inadvertently catching his own. He's forgotten about cleaning and patching up his own bloody face. From this angle he can't see any more than Dean's legs dangling off of the edge of the bed. God, and he's still gotta move Dean over to his own bed to get to those ruined covers. Steam fills the bathroom. "Yeah, Dean."
"Truth or Dare?"
"What?" Sam is trying to wash the last bits of his brother's blood from his hands, and is really not in the mood.
"Truth or Dare?"
Sam turns off the faucet and sighs, resting his palms on the sides of the sink, watching the pink water swirl its way down the drain. "Dean, I'm not playing Truth or Dare with you."
Dean grunts and pulls himself into a hunching seated position on the edge of the bed. "Why not?"
"Because we're not twelve-year-old girls."
Dean snorts and says in a sing-songy voice, "Sammy's got a temper."
Sammy's hands are hot and raw and tinged with pink and there are crimson stains around his fingernails. He's got a massive headache, his shoulder is really starting to kill, and Dean should really be out cold by now. Yes, Sammy's got a temper.
He wipes his hands on a towel, disgusted at the crusty red that just won't come off. The last clean hand towel in the room, he takes his time hanging it back on the rack. Makes sure there are equal parts of towel on both sides of the bar, that the ends match up perfectly, that there aren't any wrinkles.
There's a silence coming from the other room that isn't quite so silent. He knows that Dean is waiting.
Sam rubs at his eyes. He's a hell of a lot more tired than he wants to admit. It's been a long night, and it seems Dean's just gearing up to make it even longer. "In a minute, Dean."
He gently wipes at the cut at his temple with wet, wadded tissues – all they have left – and is relieved to see it really is nothing more than a scrape.
He plugs the bathtub and runs icy cold water out of the tap, leaving it to fill, and goes about finishing straightening up the main room. Though he has no intention of actually playing, his acquiescence to this completely retarded idea seems to have put Dean at ease. He has returned to his spread-eagled deadweight position, and is still on Sam's bed.
Sam practically has to throw Dean from his bed to the other, and then attempts to wrangle him into a comfortable position. He's not sure Dean can tell what's comfortable or not at the moment, but he tries anyway, and readjusts the lamp to send the sparse light to flicker in the other direction.
He rips the bloody covers off of his bed and wraps them up around themselves in an attempt to keep more blood from getting on his clothes and skin. The tub is half-filled with cold water, and Sam lowers the covers, pushing the poufs made by trapped air until they are completely submerged. He stays crouching by the tub for just a moment too long, wrists braced on the edge, watching as wispy trails of deep pink snake their way out from under the duvet. He snaps out of it when the icy water hits his fingertips and turns off the flow just before the tub overflows.
"SAM."
HOW Dean is not completely passed out yet is beyond Sam. He still has his blood-spotted clothes to get out of. Jeans are fine, but there are a few clearly distinguishable handprints wiped on his shirt. Just more crap to shove to the bottom of the dumpster. And he likes this shirt. He strips it off and drops it into the wastebasket.
This time Dean doesn't wait for a response. "Come on, man. Truth or Dare?"
Sam retrieves a clean V-neck tee from his bag and pulls it over his head with a huff. "Fine. Truth." His pick is always the same. There's not enough money in the world to coerce him into accepting a dare from Dean.
"Pussy."
"Dean."
"What? You wanted the truth."
Sam sits heavily on his coverless bed, silently vowing to punch Dean in the throat if the temperature drops below fifty during the night. "Can I go to sleep now, please?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's my turn."
Sam raises his eyebrows, genuinely intrigued. "You want a turn?" Dean has only ever suggested this game to get Sam to admit things that Dean already suspects.
"Truth or Dare."
"Fine. Truth."
"Did you put gas in the car?" Or, "Where's that twenty that was in my wallet." Or, "Did you just picture that girl naked?"
Dean is very adamant that he wants to take his turn. "Hell, yeah. I'm not a pussy."
Sam's smile is not a little patronizing. "No, you're not." He flops down onto his bed and releases a long, stressed breath. "Okay." And asks rather pointlessly, "Truth or Dare?"
"Dare." Dean would never pick anything else. If he had his way, the game would be called Dare or Double-Dare.
But Sam is tricky. He has always had his ways of getting around Dean's lifelong refusal to pick Truth. "Where do you think Dad is?"
The not-so-silent silence once again fills the room, and Sam holds his breath.
"What?"
Sam's all in. There's a better than even chance Dean won't remember any of this in the morning. And besides, he's not asking for the moon here. "Just…talk to me, Dean." He swallows. "I dare you."
The seconds tick by on his watch, discarded on the bedside table. When five minutes have passed, he wonders if Dean has developed the ability to will himself into unconsciousness.
But then, as sharp and clear as though nothing that has happened tonight has actually happened: "Get some sleep, Sam. It's late." Dean's hand comes out from the bundle of blankets and hits the switch on the bedside lamp.
And that's that.
Sam lies awake for a while after, feeling like a dirty rat and knowing that's exactly what he is. That he's abused his brother's vulnerable situation and made the night even worse than it already was. That Dean will remember every word that's been spoken but will either claim otherwise or just make sure it doesn't come up at all.
Just as he finally drifts off, Sam remembers about the Band-Aids. His limbs are dead weight at this point, and there's no way he's getting himself out of bed. He makes a mental note to throw them out in the morning.
He forgets.