(no subject)

[hopeitsworthit]

[ooc: After This]


Dean does a combination of turning the handle and kicking the door in order to get the door open and him and Sammy through it.

He kicks the door closed behind him and slumps Sammy onto the bed. "God you're heavy, Sam."

Cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey, Dean doesn't bother getting glasses, he just takes a swig from the bottle.

He tries to move his wrist and winces. "Ahh, fuck."

Comments

[gavemea_45]

Sam manages to sit back up, propping himself up with one hand, and reaches the other out. "Hand it over, dude."

[hopeitsworthit]

He does so, wincing as his head starts to throb. He puts a hand to the side of his head and it comes back wet.

"Shit. Those demons did a number on us."

[gavemea_45]

"That's 'cause there were a shitload of 'em," Sam says, feeling pain stab up through his abdomen and drinking through it. "Thanks, by the way."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Fuck yeah there were."

He thinks the thanks is for the whiskey. "No problem. Just don't hog it."

He takes the bottle back and takes another swig.

[gavemea_45]

"Yeah, the last thing I wanna do is drink until I pass out and never wake up again."

He lets it drop, for now.

[hopeitsworthit]

He passes it over. "How's your back?"

[gavemea_45]

He shrugs, and pretends not to wince. "Eh. I've had worse."

[hopeitsworthit]

"You really need to work on your lying, Sammy." He stands, painfully, and walks over to look. "Let me see."

[gavemea_45]

"You planning on giving me lessons?"

Sam leans forward slightly over his legs anyway, and grits his teeth.

"And besides, I have had worse."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Best to learn from the master," he says absent-mindedly, paying attention to the gash down Sammy's back.

"This doesn't look good Sam. Don't move."

He stand and looks around. He fishes through their things and pulls out a small empty tupperware container and goes into the bathroom.

He returns a moment later with a towel and a small bowl of hot water.

He sits and, using his good hand, begins to wipe the blood from the wound on Sammy's back.

[gavemea_45]

"Might as well," Sam says, shrugging as well as he can.

"How bad is it?"

[hopeitsworthit]

He gently dabs the warm towel around the wound on Sammy's back, wiping away the dried and not-yet-dry blood away.

"It won't need stitches, but it's gonna be sore for awhile." He wipes some more blood away and says, "Hand me the whiskey."

[gavemea_45]

"Well, that's a plus." He hands the bottle over.

[hopeitsworthit]

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch though."

And without warning Dean pours some of the whiskey onto Sammy's cut.

[gavemea_45]

It does.

It really, really does.

[hopeitsworthit]

"You okay?"

He presses the towel back to the wound again.

[gavemea_45]

Sam winces again, this time less obviously. "Yeah, I will be."

[hopeitsworthit]

He rings the towel out and then starts dabbing at his own head wound. He winces slightly.

"You should probably grab a shower. You could use it."

[gavemea_45]

"Yeah, probably."

Hey, cool, the whiskey's working. Sort of. But his ribs don't hurt as acutely at the moment, and hopefully won't until he's out of the shower. And not, y'know, moving.

"Hey," he says, as he catches sight of Dean's right wrist, "you gonna go see someone about that?"

[hopeitsworthit]

He holds his wrist in front of him and examines it. "Naw, I'll just wrap it."

"And yeah, you should shower. You smell."

[gavemea_45]

"Yeah, and you're a rosebush."

He eyes Dean. "You sure?"

[hopeitsworthit]

He sniffs himself. "I smell damn good. I smell like victory."

"Yeah. I can just wrap it up, it'll be fine. Now go take your shower so I can take mine."

[gavemea_45]

"You smell like smelly victory."

He shrugs. "Whatever you say, Dean."

A moment later he disappears into the bathroom, and a few seconds later the water turns on. There's nothing like washing demon goop away.