A happy birthday wish to the lovely si_star_x who is celebrating her birthday this weekend and is my redoubtable friend and ally in our quest to find new and imaginative ways to whump Dean.
She wanted some hurty Dean for her birthday, so here it is hunny, a Dean well whumped ...
NOTHING ELSE MATTERS
Word Count: Approx 1,400
Disclaimer: I Don't own them, I just borrow them occasionally for fun and frolics.
Dean's in bad straights; Sam resorts to imaginative measures to help him.
"Keep the pressure on it bro'," Sam gasped, glancing across at his brother slumped in the passenger side, holding Sam's screwed up overshirt pressed against the bleeding wound in his side. Sam's frightened eyes flicked between the road and Dean's pallid face, his deathly grey skin glistening with a sheen of sweat.
Catching Dean's eyelids drooping, Sam spoke up; "Dean, man; stay with me here, you gotta stay awake, you gotta keep the pressure on to stop the bleeding."
Dean's alertness began to drift, his hand slipping weakly into his lap as he mumbled something unintelligible into his heaving chest.
Still trying gamely to keep his eyes on the road in an effort to avoid adding car smash injuries to his brother's already damaged body, Sam reached across and slapped Dean's thigh, "wake up, dude!" Dean's head twitched upwards and he flinched, eyes flickering open; "hur's…" he slurred, obediently pressing his hand against his belly, covering the bleeding wound , seemingly unaware that the shirt he had been holding was, by now, laying crumpled in his footwell. Without the shirt, Sam's heart sank as he could see the growing blood stain seeping down through the denim of Dean's jeans and, by degrees, spreading over his thigh.
Sam floored the accelerator; they were still a good ten minutes away from the motel assuming Sam broke the speed limit the whole way, and Dean was becoming less and less lucid. Sam had to keep him alert, if only just to maintain the pressure on his wound.
"Dean;" Sam snapped, "stay with me bro', you gotta keep the pressure on it." In the absence of the overshirt Sam fumbled clumsily behind him, finding a stray towel tossed in the back of the car after their last wet-weather hunt.
Dean's head nodded onto his chest again; Sam noticed a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.
He had to get Dean back to the motel as soon as possible and do something about the bleeding. Nothing else mattered.
... Nothing else mattered ...
Sam had an idea. He scraped a palm across his face, licking sandpaper dry lips, and began to sing quietly.
'so close no matter how far'
'couldn't be much more from the heart'
'always trusting who we are'
'and nothing else …'
"s'forever..." barely a whisper.
Sam turned, "what's that dude?"
"Forever trustin' wh-who we are, y'moron."
"Oh, right," Sam gave a sly smile, "you wanna remind me how it goes? I don't think I can remember all the second verse."
Dean sighed, wincing as the swell of his chest tugged on his wound; "can' believe we're related …"
Sam grinned, "well put me right then, jerk!"
Dean squirmed in the seat, and gripped the heavily bloodstained towel against his wound as he began to sing; the words hoarsely strained, barely audible.
'I never … opened mysel' this … way,'
'Life is ours … w-we live it our way,'
'all … these wor's I d-don' jus' say,'
Sam smiled as he heard Dean's voice gradually strengthen as he began to lose himself in the song,
'an' nothin' … else matters.'
Dean looked at Sam, a glimmer of defiance sparkling from under the drooping eyelids; "s'how it goes."
"that's good bro', what about the next one?"
Dean took a deep breath, mopping his forehead with his wrist.
'yeah, t-trust I seek … an' I find in you,'
'Every d-day for … us s-something new,'
Sam joined in; 'open mind for a different view,'
As the impala rolled into the motel's parking lot, both brothers were finishing the song with a flourish; '… and nothing else matters …'
Sam leapt out of the Impala, and ran round to the passenger side, leaning into the door and scooping his brother out of the seat, half carrying the shivering, grey-faced figure, half walking him across to the room, decanting him on one of the beds. Sam cringed as Dean let out a gasping cry of pain at the movement.
"I need you to keep still, dude."
Sam sat on the bed, gripping Dean tightly under the arms, holding his shivering body as he leaned bonelessly against Sam's chest, and lifted his T shirt to examine the bullet wound a little way above his hip bone..
Letting out a pained hiss, Dean bucked as Sam's trembling fingers gently palpitated the wound, wiping the bloodstained skin in order to get a clearer picture of the damage.
Sam peered over Dean's shoulder to look directly into the pain-glazed green eyes which gazed up at him from under drooping lashes, "you know what I need to do, don't you?"
Dean nodded, biting a bloodless lip; "jus' do it," he whispered.
Sam gently tipped Dean forward, patting his cold, clammy back before slowly slipping the blood soiled shirt over his head.
Dean's vision swam as Sam picked up the sterilised tongs, and offered Dean the screwed up shirt, "bite on this," he coaxed.
Taking in a shaky breath, Dean bit down on the damp material, gagging at the bitter tang of his own sweat and blood.
Coiling a long arm across Dean's chest to hold him still, Sam began to gently probe the wound, grimacing as Dean recoiled under the violation, biting back tears as he tried to ignore Dean's muffled moans.
"Keep still, I can feel it;" Sam barked as Dean writhed and arched, clawing weakly at the bedclothes as he felt the tongs probing around the bullet.
Sam gritted his teeth and pulled sharply, cringing as the Dean's moan rose to a sharp cry.
"Got it!" Sam gave a sigh of relief as he held the small bloody object in front of Dean's closed eyes.
The eyes flickered open, dislodging clinging tears as Dean felt Sam pressing an alcohol soaked pad of gauze on the bleeding wound. Spitting out the T shirt, he swallowed back his nausea as he relaxed under his brother's confident touch.
"Friggin' mutton fists," he croaked, sounding more lucid than he had at any time since the shot was fired.
Sam smiled, "stop bein' such a baby!"
Dean flinched, hissing through clenched teeth as Sam once again, gently explored the wound with his fingertips before pressing another alcohol soaked pad back against his side.
"Not a baby," came a petulant grunt through a pained grimace.
"Sure you're not!" Sam smiled.
Dean licked tacky lips and glared defiantly. "I c'n take anything you do."
"Good," Sam produced a surgical needle; "stitches, then!"
Dean sighed and sunk back against the rock hard wall of his brother's chest; "ah crap."
Sam stood at the end of the bed and watched his brother sleep.
The stitches had been a trial; it had taken every ounce of Dean's fragile resistance to endure them, but they had done their job. The bleeding had stopped, Dean was stable; a little flush of pink had even worked it's way back across his cheeks.
The episode would leave a scar, sure; but that wouldn't bother Dean, it would just be something else to impress the girls with.
He would wake up grumpy in the morning and give Sam abuse for getting the words to the song wrong, for making the stitches too large or too small or too crooked, probably just for being Sam.
But Sam didn't care. Dean would recover; Sam would get his brother back in all his noisy and obnoxious glory.
Nothing else matters.