Hi, running a bit late getting this posted, but here it is. :) Hope it's ok, I'm pretty tired and not thinking too well, so it may be a bit rougher than usual.

No. 30: NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?

prompt options: Wound Reveal, Ignoring an Injury, Internal Organ Injury

Setting: tag to 15.04 Atomic Monsters

Everything was fine until they got home.

To be accurate, of course, absolutely nothing was fine and Dean wanted to kill someone — Chuck in particular — and everything was one great big pile of steaming not fine with a can't possibly get worse as the cherry on top.

And then it did get worse.

Dean was ready to hit the shower and wash away all memories of the crapfest of a day. Not that anything could wash memories away. If only it was that simple. They'd dumped their gear on a table, then Dean had led the way down the hall, stopping off in the kitchen. He wanted a shower, but he needed a beer first.

Grabbing one out of the fridge, he popped the top, then stared blankly at the wall as he drained it in a few swallows. He set the bottle down, considered grabbing a second one, and then glanced over his shoulder. To his surprise, Sam was hovering just inside the kitchen entryway.

He looked as tired as Dean felt.

"Beer?" Dean offered.

"No."

"Looks like you could one."

It actually looked like Sam could use something a helluva lot stronger. It had been a terrible day. Maybe a few shots would take the edge off. But, then again, the way Sam was standing there - almost wavering - had Dean rethinking his offer of alcohol. He took a step closer; just in case. A second later, he wished he'd taken a few more steps closer.

Sam made a soft sound, like he'd been trying to say something, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went down like a ton of bricks.

"Damn it!"

The empty bottle in his hand shattered on the counter as he rushed to his brother's side.

"Sam?"

He hit his knees, fingers fumbling for a pulse. He found it and sucked in a deep breath. A second later, Sam shifted a little and the panic crushing Dean's chest eased enough that he could breathe.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" Sam struggled to get his eyes open. Blinking hard, he tilted his head and met Dean's gaze. "What happened?"

"You tell me. I asked you if you wanted a beer and you just went over." Dean shook his head, heart pounding in his ears. "If you didn't want one, you could've just said so. Didn't have to be so damn dramatic."

"I did say I didn't want one," Sam mumbled, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. "Got a headache."

Dean frowned. There had to be more to it than just a headache. Looking his brother up and down, he asked, "What else?"

"What?"

"What else? Did you get hurt somewhere?"

"No." Sam started to push himself up.

"You usually don't pass out from a headache, Sam," Dean said, putting a hand behind Sam's back to steady him. "What's going on?"

"Just tired." He was pale, a light sheen of sweat on his skin and he was still fighting to keep his eyes open.

Dean narrowed his eyes. It wasn't like it was a secret that Sam hadn't been sleeping. Or eating. Passing out cold seemed extreme, though. Dean's mind ran through the events of the past day. No injuries sustained that he could remember. They'd barely been out of each other's sight.

Was it just exhaustion?

And then he watched Sam trying to get to his feet obviously favoring his left side and it hit him like a lightning bolt.

The gunshot wound.

"Let me see your shoulder," Dean said, holding him down with a hand on his other shoulder.

"It's fine."

"You keep saying fine, but I'm honestly not sure you know what that word means," Dean said, ignoring the protests and managing to sneak a peek before Sam's annoyance reached a level where he started fighting back.

The wound looked the same as it had every other time Dean had looked at it. It didn't seem to be getting better, but it wasn't getting worse.

"I said it's fine." Sam tugged his shirt back into place.

"It's not healing."

Sam shrugged, pulling himself up with a hand on the edge of the table.

"Sam, we can't just ignore it." Steadying him as he rose, Dean added, "We need to…"

Need to what?

Need to go to the doctor? Get it assessed by a medical professional? Yeah, that would work out well. No doubt emergency rooms everywhere knew exactly how to treat a wound caused by a bullet that was nothing more than a burst of "multidimensional energy" or whatever nonsense Chuck had spouted back in the graveyard.

"There's nothing we can do about it. It's not getting worse, so ignoring it is all I've got," Sam said, pulling away. "I'm ok."

"You're not ok, but, sure, let's go with that," Dean muttered.

Sam didn't reply, just started walking out of the kitchen.

As they walked, Sam peeled his coat off and let it drop to the ground. Dean didn't bother to pick it up. He was too tired to care and, clearly, so was Sam. Reaching Sam's room, Dean lingered at the door.

"You want anything to eat?" He said it just to fill the silence. The truth was, Sam didn't want anything to eat and neither did he.

Sam didn't even bother to answer. He just slumped down on the edge of his bed and started taking his boots off.

"I'll get you some water."

Turning away, Dean moved back toward the kitchen. He had intended to take a shower, but it didn't seem very important now. He took his own coat off as he walked and allowed it to drop right next to Sam's on his way by. Once in the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and dug around until he found some painkillers.

Sam was flat on his back on the far side of the bed, right arm over his eyes.

"Meds, then sleep," Dean said, nudging the mattress with his knee.

It took a few seconds of continued encouragement before Sam stirred. He'd been a lot closer to sleep than Dean had realized. But he took the pills and a few sips of water before collapsing back against the pillow with a mumbled thanks.

Dean left the glass of water on the bedside table then returned to the kitchen.

He got another beer and started cleaning up the broken bottle pieces.

For a few minutes, he was able to blank his mind. Not think about anything other than picking up broken pieces of glass. Broken pieces of glass. Broken pieces just like their lives. Just like everything around them.

Just like them.

Wonderful. So much for not thinking about anything.

Mood fouling, he finished off the second bottle of beer and then reached for the hard stuff. The stuff that would actually make his brain empty.

He cleaned the kitchen that didn't even need to be cleaned and got drunk in half the time it usually took. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbled around the kitchen, trying to remember what he'd been trying to forget.

"Huh. Couldn't be important," he said aloud, banging his hip against the table as he tried to walk toward the door.

Steadying himself with a hand on the table, he took another long drink. The floor wavered, or he did. Either way, getting to the door took him multiple tries. His third attempt landed him on the floor. He had to sit there for a while before he remembered how to stand up.

Shoulder to the wall, he walked forward without direction. He'd forgotten the bottle on the kitchen floor, but wasn't going back for it now. He was tired. Suddenly very tired. Should probably go to bed. He was tired and drunk and walking had been a stupid idea, especially since he'd left the bottle behind. Because walking required a low level of brain function and the more he walked the more that brain function tried to push past the alcohol induced oblivion.

The alcohol was winning; just barely.

He wasn't paying attention to where he was going, but that was fine because he always wound up where he was supposed to be.

One of the small bedside lamps was still on as he wavered his way across the room to the bed. It gave him a target to aim for and he made it without falling on his face on the floor. Instead, he fell on his face on the bed, managing to even get his head on the pillow.

Groaning, he shifted until he could breathe. He wasn't comfortable, but he didn't care enough to bother moving. His head was swimming and he just needed to be still.

The bed shifted slightly next to him in a cautious way that told him Sam was well aware he was completely plastered and rocking the boat would be a bad idea. After a moment, he settled again. Dean listened to Sam's breathing for any sign of distress, but there was none. Relaxing a little, he hoped they'd both sleep.

Not that they ever had much luck.

Lately, it was always the same routine.

He would pass out for a few hours, wake up with a pounding headache and the sight of a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. He would wander to the kitchen, eyes shaded from the bright lights. Sam would be on his third cup of coffee, eyes locked on his computer screen.

After a strenuous hunt, when they were both physically worn out, sometimes it was easier to sleep. He had hoped this hunt would have been uncomplicated and give them both a jolt back to normalcy. It hadn't, though. He wasn't sure, but there was a nagging voice warning him the hunt may have made things worse.

Despite the alcohol haze, he remembered their conversation on the way home.

They'd talked about how much they'd lost. The reasons they clung to in order to keep going. He'd tried to focus on the positives, but Sam hadn't been able to see anything positive. Focused on the ones they'd lost, he'd said he didn't feel free. That he couldn't breathe.

Maybe I'll feel better in the morning, Sam had said.

And what if you don't?

I don't know.

Even now, Dean's guts gave a sick twist as worry swept over him at the memory.

He'd been worried about his brother for a long time now. Forever, it seemed. But ever since they'd gotten back to the bunker after...after Rowena, he'd been even more worried. Getting home should have made things better, but - like the hunt - it hadn't. It hadn't made things better and it hadn't helped things get back to normal.

If there even was a normal for them. Considering he'd just collapsed onto his brother's bed, he was pretty sure normal didn't apply to them at all.

It had been an accident the first time it had happened. One night during the Michael fiasco, Dean had collapsed - drunk - on the side of Sam's bed and fallen asleep. He complained about not having a pillow the next morning and the next time he collapsed - drunk - on Sam's bed, his head hit a pillow. The pillow had never been removed and he'd been collapsing here off and on ever since.

Usually, he was drunk. Occasionally, he wasn't.

Since normal didn't apply to them, if they needed to be close to each other like this to keep them sane, then this was what they were going to do. Dean had never cared what anyone else thought about...well, anything.

Not that there was anyone around to care, but if they did?

"Screw 'em," he mumbled.

"What?" Sam shifted.

"Nothing. Go t'sleep."

Sam didn't respond and silence fell over them like a blanket. The quiet was good. Peaceful. Dean could concentrate on his brother's breathing. Feel him safely settled within reach.

There wasn't a lot Dean could do to protect his brother from whatever was ahead of them, but damned if he wouldn't try.

can't believe tomorrow's the last day! :( it's been a huge challenge to do this, but it's been a lot of fun, too. It will be nice not to have the pressure of having to post each day, but I will also miss it. :)

tomorrow's theme/prompts: No. 31: TODAY'S SPECIAL - TORTURE, Experiment, Whipped, Left for Dead