—-
Chapter Three
—-
When I re-entered the house Dean was nowhere to be found, but sounds coming from the kitchen suggested his location. Sam was seated where I'd left him, eyes reflecting the pain he was in even as he regarded me steadily. I looked back, trying to silently reassure him that I was going to help them. He spoke then, but his words surprised me. "You're bleeding." he said softly, reaching his uninjured hand out to take my torn up palm. I stared at him in shock, then suddenly laughed, surprising him in turn. "So are you." I replied. He smiled briefly in response, then closed his eyes as another wave of pain came over him.
I dropped the bag by Sam's feet, even as Dean re-entered the room with one of my metal mixing bowls, some more towels, and a dusty bottle of whiskey he'd pulled from the recesses of a cupboard - my Dad had been a whiskey lover, I was not.
"She's hurt." Sam commented, bringing Dean's attention around to me. I shrugged, bemused by this man who was clearly in a world of pain from a gunshot wound but who was worrying about my boo-boos.
"I'm fine," I told Dean, "just clumsy." He regarded me steadily, then responded, "We'll fix you up after we get Sammy taken care of." He started pulling items out of the medical kit, while Sam looked on wearily. Clearly this was not the first time one of them had been injured. When Dean had everything prepped, he looked over to me. "Can you wash your hands, and then be ready to pass me things when I ask for them?" I nodded, hastening to do as he asked. The water and soap stung dreadfully, but I made sure to wash thoroughly so I wouldn't pass any bacteria along. I returned to the room to see Dean holding the bottle of whiskey and reaching for the towel that Sam still had pressed to his shoulder. He hesitated, clearly loath to cause his brother more pain, but Sam just nodded and through clenched teeth said, "Do it." Dean straightened, face stoic, and poured the whiskey onto the wound, pressing Sam back against the couch as he involuntarily writhed against the pain. He repeated the action, and I could not fathom how Sam managed to not cry out…I can only imagine how badly it hurt.
"Gotta remove the bullet." Dean's voice was gravelly. He was trying to appear unaffected by his brother's pain, but it was obvious how much he felt it. Sam nodded, and Dean began the torturous field surgery. I'm not sure exactly when, but at some point Sam passed out, to which Dean gave a great sigh of relief and then proceeded slightly more aggressively. He asked that I keep Sam upright, so I climbed on the couch next to him and gently held him up, head resting against my collarbone. I made the mistake of looking down to see Dean's progress, but the blood and mess made me quickly look away, swallowing down my nausea. "Y'ok?" he questioned, even as he continued to probe for the bullet. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
After what seemed like forever I heard a clinking sound, and realized that Dean had managed to extract the bullet and had tossed it in the metal bowl. He poured more whiskey over the wound, then took a swig himself before proceeding to expertly thread a needle and sew his brother's flesh in neat stitches. Do this frequently, do you? I wondered, then jumped slightly as he laughed softly. Apparently I had said my thoughts aloud. My face flamed in embarrassment, but he didn't look away from his task. "Too frequently, unfortunately," he replied sadly. Finally sitting back, he eyed his handiwork critically, then carefully bandaged the wound. Glancing briefly at me, he then put a hand to Sam's face, patting gently. "Sam." he said, finally getting a response from his brother, "Let's lay you down, hmm?" I quickly moved out of the way, helping to lift and move Sam's legs onto the couch as Dean carefully slid him down to horizontal. He didn't really fit with his long limbs, but it would do for now.
I expected him to be out again instantly, but he whispered, "Dean." and the two of them held a silent conversation before Sam's eyes slid closed. Dean didn't move from where he sat, hand on Sam's chest, until he felt his breathing even out and knew he was asleep. Only then did he look up at me. I had retreated to perch on the arm of the overstuffed chair nearby, silently observing the interplay between brothers. I was an only child, and so I wasn't sure, but it seemed like these brothers were closer and more in tune with one another than any other siblings I had ever encountered. It made me slightly wistful, knowing I had nothing like that in my own life.
"Let me see where you got hurt." I opened my mouth to protest, but his gaze was firm, showing he would accept no arguments. I held out my palms, and he dressed them quickly and efficiently with antiseptic and gauze. "Where else?" he queried.
"My knees are barely scraped through my jeans," I said, brushing off the concern, "Didn't even rip the fabric."
"And your feet?" His mention of my feet made them suddenly throb, and I realized belatedly that I had actually torn them quite nicely running barefoot across the street, only made worse by my fall. He pushed gently until I was seated fully in the chair, then crouched down and proceeded to tend to each foot, the gentle hands an antithesis to the brisk almost clinical air. When he was finished, he sat back tiredly on the floor and scooted back against the sofa, reaching out to snag the bottle of whiskey and downing the remaining few inches in a single gulp. He closed his eyes and for a second allowed himself to relax, melting into the couch and dropping his head gently back to rest on his brother's leg. Sam stirred, but a hand reached up to his arm settled him immediately. I sat in silence, feeling the adrenaline seep out of my body and the exhaustion take its place.
Dean turned his head without lifting it to regard me solemnly. "I'm guessing you have questions." I looked back at him from the chair, saw the weariness that he was trying to keep at bay, and shook my head slowly.
"I do, but they can wait. There's blankets in the hall closet - " He was moving again before I could try to get up, and back a few minutes later, throwing a blanket at me then tenderly tucking one over Sam. He resumed his seat on the floor, pulling one over himself, and leaned his head back once more. I curled up with the blanket, which happened to be a favorite, and succumbed to the pull of sleep.