It was well past midnight by the time Sam and Dean made it back to their motel room on the outskirts of town. The Impala's loud rumbling noise disturbed the aery quiet of the darkness as Dean pulled her into the designated parking spot right in front of their room's door. Despite the short distance that now lay between them and their semi-comfortable beds, Sam sighed wearily. They were both exhausted and covered in blood, mud and dirt. The case, which had turned out to be more than just a simple salt and burn, had battered them both from head to toe. Sam grunted when he moved his right arm to open the passenger door and his shoulder pinched with pain.
Stumbling after his brother into their stuffy room, Sam instantly sought out his bed and made a beeline for it, dirty clothes be damned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother rummage through one of their worn duffel bags.
"Don't get too comfortable," Dean said just as Sam started to recline against the pillows. "I want to take a look at your shoulder."
Groaning under his breath, Sam pulled himself back into a sitting position. He should have known that just passing out on the bed for twelve hours straight wasn't an option. Carefully, he shrugged out of his mud-caked jacket and clutched his arm to his chest when the pain spiked.
"The shirt needs to go too," Dean ordered as he tossed the first aid kit onto the mattress next to Sam.
"Yeah, alright," Sam sighed and reached for the hem of his crinkled cotton shirt. With a pained grunt, he started to awkwardly pull it up. The throbbing in his shoulder instantly intensified, stealing his breath.
Dean snorted tiredly. "You look like a three-year-old who's just learned how to undress himself. Here, let me."
Too worn-out to come up with a comeback, Sam allowed his brother to pull the shirt up and over his head. It still hurt, but not as much as it would have, had he tried to wriggle out of it himself.
As soon as Sam's upper body was bare, Dean whistled, sounding something akin to impressed. He sat down as well. "That's gonna bruise big time, man," he said, poking at the already forming contusion.
Sam hissed when his brother's fingers touched an especially tender spot and he tried to shift away, but Dean clamped a hand over his knee, stopping him from going anywhere. Sam huffed out a breath and gripped the sheets he was sitting on.
"Shoulder's not dislocated, so that's good," Dean continued his ministration. "But we should ice this. I'll get some."
Dean pushed back to his feet with a grunt—and almost went down again when his knees refused to lock.
Despite his weary body and mind, Sam's reflexes were as fast as always and his left arm shot out, wrapping around his brother's elbow. "Whoa. Dean."
"I'm good," Dean muttered softly.
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's default response. "Right. Sit back down before you fall down."
Reluctantly, Dean allowed Sam to tug him down onto the hard mattress again. With a weary exhale, he dropped his head in his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose. The dried blood that stuck to the left side of his face stood out starkly against his pale skin. Their Ghost of the Day had packed quite a punch.
With his injured limb tucked against his stomach, Sam reached past Dean and pulled the first aid kit into his lap. Reaching inside, he rummaged around until he felt the familiar shape of the Advil bottle. Pulling it out, he awkwardly unscrewed the lid one-handedly and shook out two pills.
"Here," he said, nudging his brother with his knee. "Take these."
After watching his brother throw back the pills and wash them down with a sip of tepid water, Sam scooter closer and gently turned Dean's head his way. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes."
Dean huffed out a breath, but obeyed without any further fuss.
The lighting inside their motel room wasn't ideal, but it was enough for Sam to check his brother's eyes. "It doesn't look like you have a concussion," he concluded when both pupils responded equally.
"Tell that to the marching band in my head…" Dean grumbled before pulling his chin free of Sam's grasp. He rubbed irritated at the dried blood on his temple and winced when his fingertips brushed over the clotted cut at his hairline.
Sam slapped his hand away. "Stop touching it. You already look like Carrie White."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, but dropped his hand. "I'll go get the ice."
Ready to reach for Dean a second time, Sam tensed as he watched his brother stand up. Slower, this time, and apparently without any trouble. Sam blew out a breath when Dean was up and walking toward their room's door without any staggering.
"Be bright back," Dean said before disappearing into the night again.
When Dean returned five minutes later with a bucket of ice, Sam was on the verge of falling asleep. He had somehow, miraculously, managed to change into a pair of sweatpants without jostling his bruised shoulder too much. He would have preferred a shower as well, but that would have to wait until the morning.
With heavy lidded eyes, he watched his brother wrap a handful of the ice cubes into a clean towel. "Put that on your shoulder," Dean said and handed the neatly folded cloth over to his brother.
"Thanks," Sam said around a yawn and pressed the towel against his hurting shoulder. The effect was instantaneous and he almost moaned in relief when the ice cooled the inflamed joint. "Get some for that hard head of yours as well," he said when Dean moved to dump out the excess ice.
"I'm fine."
"Dean." Sam gave his best impression of their father's firm and strict voice, making Dean stiffen in response. Sam hid a smirk. Nothing could get quite the reaction out of his brother as their father's commanding tone. And they both knew it.
Looking over his shoulder, Dean glared at his brother. "Bitch."
"Jerk," Sam countered with a lopsided smile. He grinned triumphantly as he watched Dean scoop some ice into a second towel before pressing it against the side of his head.
This wasn't the first time they'd gotten their asses kicked and it wouldn't be the last. But as long as they had each other to watch their backs, things would be okay.
The End