Damage Control - 1x15 The Benders
The hike back to town is long, and dawn is already breaking when they finally reach the Impala parked near the police station.
Sam notices that Dean doesn’t even debate riding shotgun this time. While they’ve both been knocked around pretty badly in the last 48 hours, Sam’s had some time to recover, and Dean’s clearly taken the brunt of the damage. His gait had been a little unsteady walking back, and dried blood is covering the entire right side of his face. He’s not using his left arm, now cradled protectively in his lap, and there’s a ragged hole in his shirt that flags an injury underneath.
“What is that?” Sam asks, reaching over to check. “Stab wound?”
Dean bats the intruding hand away. “Will you focus on driving?! It’s just a burn. Hot poker.”
Sam flinches in sympathy. “Ouch. Deep? Think you need a hospital?”
“No. No hospital. I’m still a wanted man, remember?” He peels the flap of his shirt back and squints underneath, grimacing. “No. Nurse Winchester will have to do.”
Sam frowns, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of treating a burn wound with nothing but tweezers and whiskey at his disposal. “What about your shoulder? It’s not dislocated is it?”
“No.” Dean tentatively rolls the injured limb and stops with a grunt. “Just bruised, I guess. Fucker slammed me into a door post.”
“Concussion?” Walking beside Dean, Sam had seen him gingerly touch the back of his head.
“Frying pan. No worries. I’ve got a thick skull. You?”
“Got over it.”
This is how they do it: brave banter after trauma, to cover up the hurt. It’s a tried-and-true method. A manly shorthand that keeps them functioning until they’re somewhere they don’t have to - in this case, another faceless motel Sam checks them into while Dean - looking too garish - waits in the car.
Once inside their room, painted in depressing shades of brown but at least clean and spacy, Dean disappears into the bathroom. Water splashes, Sam hears some muffled cursing, and when Dean reemerges, his face is clean and he’s holding a wad of toilet paper to the cut on his forehead. He’s shed his worker shirt, but he’s still wearing his t-shirt.
“Couldn’t get it off. Damn thing’s stuck to the wound.”
“I’ll help you. Sit down.” Sam points to one of the beds where he’s already laid out what they’ll need: tweezers, antiseptic, bandages. On the nightstand, next to a bowl with warm water, a whiskey bottle is waiting with its cap unscrewed.
“Medicate,” Sam says, tossing his seated brother a pill bottle.
Face brooding, Dean swallows a couple of Vicodin with the aid of Jack Daniels. Normally, Sam would lecture his brother on mixing alcohol with opiates, but they both know that, although the wound isn’t that big, this is going to hurt like hell and, without the benefit of a local anesthetic, booze and pills is all they have. While Dean works on his blood alcohol level, Sam searches the small kitchen counter and gets lucky: He finds a pair of scissors that he uses to cut Dean’s t-shirt off him, leaving only a small patch behind where the fabric has adhered to the wound. He soaks it with warm water, and Dean curses.
“Sonovabitch!”
“Sorry.”
Dean grunts and takes another swig from the bottle. They both know there’s much more swearing ahead.
The whiskey is a good quarter empty by the time Sam has managed to peel the cotton patch off Dean’s wound. The burn looks ugly - a mix of oozing blisters and charred, peeling flesh. It’s a partial thickness burn at least and will leave a nasty scar. There are still a few shreds of fabric embedded in the whole mess and, slightly nauseous, Sam reaches for the tweezers.
“Hold on,” he says warningly. “This’ll hurt like hell.”
He’s not wrong. In the next few minutes, Dean turns into a sweating, cussing mess, doing his best to hold still while Sam meticulously debrides his wound. At some point, they use Dean’s belt for him to bite on. And if Sam’s hands shake a little by the time they’re done, Dean is too focused on control-breathing and blinking through tears to notice.
“Okay. Okay, okay.” Sam shucks the tweezers aside and straightens, exhaling deeply. He pats Dean’s leg. “That’s it. You’re good.”
“Sonofa–...” Panting, Dean looks down at his shoulder, lips forming a disgusted rectangle, teeth bared. “That mother–” Shakily, he wipes at his brow with his good arm, smearing blood over his face. The cut on his brow is oozing again, and all the flop sweat isn’t helping.
“Gimme that.” Sam takes the whiskey from his brother and takes a swig of his own. Then he points from the bottle to Dean’s wound. “You ready?”
Dean eyes him warily, then closes his eyes for a moment and takes a fortifying breath, nodding. “Go ahead.”
Without delay, Sam tips the bottle over and douses Dean’s wound.
“Hunghhh…! The veins on Dean’s neck stand out as he bites back the pain. Sam winces in sympathy.
But at least the worst is over now. Sam bandages the wound with non-adherent gauze he finds buried deep in their medical field kit (he’s going to restock and expands its contents, Sam promises himself), then moves on to close the cut on Dean’s forehead with butterfly stitches. The Vicodin and the whiskey have mellowed Dean enough to just sit through it all in exhausted silence, propped up against the headboard, grimacing sluggishly now and then. He doesn’t even protest when Sam wrangles his arm into a sling. It’ll do both the burn and his bum shoulder good, although Sam has little hope that Dean will put up with it for more than a day.
“You good?” Sam asks, stepping back to watch his handiwork.
“Freakin’ fantastic.” Dean toasts to him with the near-empty bottle of Jack.
“Get some sleep, then.”
Sam swipes the bandage wrappers and used gauze up with his hands and goes to discard them in the trash. He’s tired and sore. It’s been a shocking two days that have taught them that, in some cases, humans were worse than monsters. But they’ve come out the other side alive and largely intact. Dean would heal up, albeit with an unwanted souvenir etched into his skin. He’d come looking for Sam and not given up until he’d found him. Had risked his skin - literally - to get him out. It’s a comforting feeling. One that trumps all the ugliness of this latest hunt. That it ended with Sam having to patch up his big brother wasn’t exactly fun, but it’s leaving Sam feeling somehow content.
They’ve got each other’s backs. And for the first time since Dean picked him up at Stanford Sam thinks that maybe he’s not just staying with Dean to find their father. Or to revenge Jess. There’s something else there. A feeling of companionship. Of family. Maybe, if he’s honest, he’s missed his brother more than he’d liked to admit.
“Huh.”
Marveling, Sam opens the freezer and grabs a bottle of beer that he’s definitely earned. Behind him, he hears Dean softly beginning to snore.
Damage Control Masterlist
Read the entire Damage Control series on AO3 here:
6 notes
·
View notes