Patching Things Up

Patching Things Up

Word Count: 1408

Rated - PG

Post Shadow coda thing

Spoilers for Shadow

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They didn't say anything as they put the warehouse behind them. As soon as Dean slowed down, Sam turned in the seat and dug around in the back, pulling out the mini first aid kit that they kept back there. Any serious patching up was going to have to wait until they could stop, but he could at least pull out some gauze to press against the gouges on his cheek.

Handing some over to Dean for the cuts on his forehead, he folded the gauze and pressed it to the claw marks. He could feel the blood soaking through, warm on his fingers. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He'd thought they were so close, only to have it be a trap. And once again, Dad was gone, and they were on their own..

When Dean finally spoke, it was tentative, a sound unlike his normal brash self. "Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah, Dean. I'm fine. Just wish this was over, you know?"

"I know. Just wanted to tell you that you did good back there. That flare really worked, and, well, you just did good."

Sam opened his eyes and looked over at his brother. "Thanks, Dean." Dean nodded jerkily, his eyes still focused on the dark road ahead of them. "We should find a hotel after we get some miles, don't you think? We both need to get cleaned up before we get pulled over."

Dean nodded again, steering the car with sharp, precise movements. "I want to get out of Chicago first. I don't want to be any where near here when those things put themselves back together."

Nodding, Sam let his eyes fall shut again. He couldn't believe that months of struggle and fighting, and after all that, they'd gotten what? Five minutes? Maybe ten? Before Dad had driven off in his truck, and they'd taken off in a different direction. God only knew when they'd meet up again.

"It won't be long, Sammy."

"What?" Sam's head jerked up. He hadn't said anything out loud, he knew he hadn't.

"It won't be long till we stop. You're right - we need to find someplace to clean off some of this blood. If the cops pull us over, we're fucked."

"Oh. Right." Sam sighed. At least Dean wasn't reading his mind now - that would be just too scary to contemplate, because there were thoughts in there he never wanted Dean to know about. Ever.

As late as it was, there wasn't much traffic, and they got to Route 55 relatively quickly. Dean pulled off at the first rest stop, and the two of them stumbled into the bathroom.

The splash of cold water on his face made Sam hiss in reaction. A hand came down on his shoulder, and when Sam stood up in reaction, Dean pulled back, a wet paper towel in his hand. "Let me - " he said, waving it at Sam.

Sam nodded and leaned back against the sink, letting Dean gently wipe away the blood on his neck and face. As the towels got stained with blood, he didn't throw them away, instead tucking them into a plastic bag to carry out with them. Sam nodded - if Meg had associates following them, their blood would make a powerful talisman in tracking them.

They couldn't afford to stop for long, certainly not long enough to do a thorough patching job, but they could at least make sure that they'd stopped bleeding. A quick change of clothes, bandages taped over the worst of the gouges, and they were back on the road.

When they finally got to Springfield, Sam reached over and laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, startling him out of the daze he was driving in. "We need to stop, Dean. We need to rest, and do a better job of patching up."

Without saying anything, Dean pulled into the first motel they saw, and for a long moment they both just sat in the car. Then Dean slapped his hands on the wheel and blew out a hard breath. Sam could almost see the fake smile being summoned up and plastered on Dean's face, and he went in to see if they could get a room.

The smile fell off as he came back out, and Sam stiffened up, hoping that there wasn't a problem. "Everything okay, Dean?"

"Yeah. Just... tired, you know?"

Sam nodded, and the two of them headed to the room, carrying the duffel of clothes, another of weapons, and the full first aid kit from the trunk. The motel was one of the better ones, but neither of them were in any shape to really notice. Instead, Dean locked up, spreading salt in front of the door and window, while Sam silently got out several magnesium flares and scattered them around the room so that they were always within reach of one.

When he finished, he turned to face Dean, who was pulling out a fifth of whiskey and stitching supplies. "You're first, Sammy."

Sam groaned, but didn't argue. They just headed to the bathroom, where Dean poured several shots for Sam to drink. Sam didn't hesitate, just tossing it back and taking a second to savor the burn before Dean encouraged him to lean forward over the sink so that he could pour some of the whiskey over the cuts in his cheek.

Hissing, Sam resisted the urge to punch Dean or the wall, instead letting the alcohol sizzle, feeling like it would strip the skin right off. It was still burning when Dean guided him down to sit down on the toilet.

He closed his eyes and bit his lip as the needle slid through. Dean whispered soft soothing words as he stitched, nonsense syllables that Sam could remember from injuries when he was little.

The familiar soothed him, letting him fall into a daze where he could barely feel, barely hear. When Dean finished, he shook Sam slightly, bringing him back from the zone he had retreated to.

His cheek felt tight where the stitches pulled, but it wasn't more than a nagging ache instead of the burning pain from earlier. Shaking off the last of the lethargy from the spell he'd fallen under, he stood up and stretched.

"Your turn."

Dean's cuts weren't as deep or as wide, requiring only a good cleaning and butterfly strips to hold them closed. When he'd finished cleaning them up, he stood up, ignoring the way his knees creaked from kneeling on the hard bathroom floor.

Turning his back on Dean, Sam started cleaning up the kit, putting things back in their various pockets and noting which supplies would have to be replaced. When Dean's hand fell on his shoulder, he flinched.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He wasn't, really, but he wasn't going to get into it. He knew that Dean had been right in sending Dad away, but there was part of him that was really angry and hurt that he'd been willing to leave.

Dean didn't say anything, just squeezing Sam's shoulder and going out into the main room. Once everything had been cleaned up, Sam followed him out. Dean was lying down on top of the paisley bedspread, one arm up over his face.

The bandage was glaringly white against Dean's tan, and Sam stopped dead, weaving on his feet. The realization of how close it had been, that the three of them could have been shredded into little pieces across the cheap hotel room, sunk in suddenly.

Sam stumbled across the floor to Dean's bed, practically falling onto it, only just managing to sit down on the edge. Dean didn't say anything, just reaching out and putting a hand on Sam's knee.

Sam sat there for a long time, fighting back the tears that threatened. Losing his father would have been... hard, but to some extent something that Sam had been preparing for most of his life. He knew that his dad wasn't infallible, wasn't immortal.

Losing Dean, on the other hand, would have been unbearable. Even if Sam survived it, he wouldn't have known what to do. He knew that his feelings towards his brother were twisted up, weren't normal, but right now he didn't care.

He had to at least try.

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes, looking up at him. "Hmm?"

"I'm sorry, Dean." And before Dean could respond, Sam leaned forward and kissed him.