Wow. I'm really amazed by the response this story is getting. Well, keep reveiwing, and I'll keep on updating!
"Just tie me up, will you? It's not like it'll be a new experience for either of us."
Sam looked disgusted as he twisted the bed sheets around to form a rope.
Dean sighed. "Upstairs brain, dude, seriously. I don't want to hurt you when you do this."
"You wouldn't have to worry about it if we just went to a hospital," Sam argued as he began wrapping the makeshift restraints around his brother's wrists and ankles, tying him securely to the recently stripped motel bed, "besides, our first aid kit was in the car, which we no longer have. How am I supposed to pull a bullet out of your shoulder now?"
"Use the knife. Just work it out. We've done it before."
Sam nodded nervously and grabbed the knife. "I should probably clean it up first, right?" he asked, smiling a little.
"Yeah," Dean nodded, "that would be nice. Thanks."
Sammy headed into the room's tiny bathroom and ran some water over the weapon, scrubbing it fiercely. Sighing loudly, he walked back into the main room, drying the knife on his shirt, unsure of how clean the motel's towels really were.
"You sure you want me to do this?" he asked, sitting by his brother on the bed.
"Just hurry up before I change my mind."
"You'll be conscious the whole time."
"I realize that, Sam, now-"
"There's no way I can numb-"
"Just pull the damn bullet out!"
"Fine," Sam conceded, leaning closer to inspect the wound, "you're lucky, you know? It didn't go too far in. This won't take long. Just bite this. Wouldn't want you to ruin those pearly whites." He stuck a soggy motel washcloth in his brother's mouth. Dean clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tight, waiting for the inevitable pain.
As carefully as he could, Sam eased the knife into his brother's shoulder, watching the older man pale and begin to struggle against the bonds that held him to the bed.
He dug deeper into Dean's flesh with the knife, working around the bullet, under it. Finally, he got a decent hold on it. Slowly, Sam brought the knife and the bullet out of the hole in his brother's shoulder.
"Got it," he muttered, though Dean didn't hear him. He had passed out.
Dean slammed the door behind him as he entered the house. It wasn't fair. Somehow, both of his captives had gotten free and escaped, despite his best efforts to stop them. Worse yet, he had practically shot himself while trying to end his miserable little brother's worthless life.
His shoulder throbbed dully, blood trickling down his arm under his leather jacket. He hated them both.
Still fuming, Dean threw the gun down on the sitting room floor as he made his way back to the kitchen, where he overturned the large wooden table with one smooth motion. He should have used the crossbow. Or maybe grabbed a machete. Hell, he had been close enough to them. Could have swiped it right through that flimsy fence and finished them both.
Or just Sammy. To kill the other one would mean certain death, and that was bad.
Gingerly, he slid his jacket off his right arm. He pulled up his shirt sleeve, revealing a neat little hole in his shoulder. Dean grimaced with pain. One way or another, he would have his revenge. Sammy would pay the ultimate price.
Sudden pain flared in Dean's arm, radiating from the bullet hole in his shoulder. He screamed and staggered back towards the door to the hall. That freak was doing something to him, the other him, and he could feel it. Maybe trying to extract the bullet.
Pain ripped down his arm, making his head spin. Dean collapsed on the kitchen floor among a jumble of old beer cans and take-out containers, his wound bleeding profusely.