Rule 14: Never go hunting while drunk

"Dean, are you sure you'll be okay?" Sam asked for the seventh time, irritating his sibling.

"I'm fine, Sammy," the older hunter growled, slurring his words slightly.

"I can do this on my own," the younger sibling suggested.

"No way!" Dean exclaimed loudly, "Knowing you, you'd probably get into… into trouble and need me to bail you out."

Sam frowned, watching the road winding ahead of them nervously.

"Like always," Dean added with a smug grin.

The younger sibling decided to let that one go. Dean wouldn't remember saying it in the morning anyway. If they made it to morning.

"I really wish you'd stayed at the motel," Sam muttered as Dean pulled the Impala into the cemetery, nearly scraping the right side of the vehicle against the wrought-iron gate as he did so.

"Oh come on, Sam! I only had a couple of beers, I'm fine," Dean insisted as the Impala bumped over something, probably a gravestone.

The elder Winchester put on the brakes and pulled the key from the ignition.

"Let's go roast this ghost," he said and then laughed at the rhyme.

Sam rolled his eyes and climbed out of the vehicle, "Let's just get this over with before you get us killed."

Walking to the back of the car, Dean unlocked the trunk but before he could reach inside, Sam had already grabbed the shotguns.

"You grab the salt and gas," he told Dean.

The older man pouted, "I need a gun."

Sam smiled, "Not until you've sobered up."

"I am sober," Dean insisted and grabbed a gun from his brother.

"Fine," Sam sighed, "Just point it at the ground so you don't shoot yourself by accident."

"I know how to hold a gun, Sam," Dean snapped, "I'm not stup-"

BANG!

The loud blast startled both Winchesters, both men freezing for a split second before the younger of the two reacted.

Sam's face transformed into a mask of pain and he let out a strangled cry, lifting his left foot from the ground, blood dripping from the injured appendage.

Dean's face turned white as he stared down at the damage he'd inflicted. His brother's boot was torn to shreds, blood, gunpowder and salt residue coating what remained.

"Sam!" he shouted, reaching out to steady his sibling, "Sammy! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The younger hunter narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.

"We'll go to the hospital," Dean told his brother, almost yelling, trying not to panic.

Even though the shotguns had been filled with rock salt and not buckshot, they could still seriously injure the living if fired at close range.

Dean, rapidly sobering, wrapped one arm around his brother's shoulders and helped Sam hobble back to the Impala, flung open the passenger's side door and eased his sibling into the seat as gently as possible.

Bending down, the older Winchester carefully picked up his brother's ankle and brought Sam's foot up to rest on the dashboard in an attempt to keep the limb above his heart.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean murmured as he closed the door, grabbed the guns, can of gas and salt, dumped them all back into the trunk and hurried to the front of the vehicle.

Dropping down into the driver's seat, Dean turned the key in the Impala's ignition so quickly he nearly stalled the engine.

Glancing at his brother, he didn't like how pale and quiet his brother was. He could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of blood falling onto the mat on the floor.

"It'll be okay, Sammy," Dean said, "We'll get you fixed up."

The eldest Winchester pulled a U-turn and sped out of the cemetery, promising that he would never, ever go hunting after drinking again.

Author's Note:

Prompt comes from AnitaRez and LeeMarieJack who both had the same idea.

Thanks to StyxxsOmega, angelslaugh, elliereynolds777, mckydstarlight, and reannablue for reviewing.

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