Dean Winchester was not having a good day.
No, this definitely ranked on his list of bad days somewhere in the high one-hundreds.
Now that might seem like it was a pretty good day, with so many other worse days before it on the list. But when one takes into account the fact that the first eighty-five or so involve the death or near-death of someone he loved, it puts a different perspective on things.
Although no one had died today. And if he and Sam were lucky, then no one would even come close to it.
At this precise moment Dean was kinda of wishing he was close enough to death to be unconscious, but he doubted he'd get that wish. As if he ever got his wishes granted.
Well, he did get wishes granted on occasion, but they were always the ones he made in haste that he regretted two seconds later because they put everything on the bullet train to Hell. Or they sent him into a dream world where everything he thought he wanted he got, only to have it twisted around into nothing that he wanted.
Sam hit another bump in the road, jostling Dean who was stretched out uncomfortably on his stomach in the back seat and startling a high-pitched groan that was definitely NOT a whimper, dammit, out of the man. He wished he could be on his back or at least on his side, but no, that would certainly hurt a helluva lot more right now.
“Sorry,” Sam apologized.
“You should be,” Dean mumbled into the seat of his beloved car. “You shot me, you bastard.”
Sam gave an aggrieved sigh. “And I said I was sorry for that too. I was aiming for the vampire. I assumed she was going to finish you off! How was I supposed to know she would move at the last second, Dean?”
“At least I got her in the end,” Sam added. Then a moment later tried to cover a snort of laugher with a cough.
Dean lifted his head and glared at the back of his brother's head.
“You assumed she would stay there? At least you got her in the end?” His eyes narrowed as he growled, “Just keep driving, Chuckles.” He put his head back down. “I want me some painkillers.”
He thought for a moment, then added, “And pie. As soon as you drop me off you go right back out and find me some pie.” His stomach growled at the thought of food and reminded Dean that he hadn't eaten since yesterday.
“And a burger,” he added. “And fries. And a beer.”
Sam snorted. Leave it to his brother to be hungry when most people would be nauseated by the very thought of food from the shock of being shot. The painkillers must be kicking in, though, if he thought he was going to be able to have a beer any time soon. Or any of the rest of that food actually.
Jello and powdered eggs with watery reconstituted orange juice were pretty much his menu plan for the next day or so at least, Sam would guess.
“Yeah,” Sam said dryly. “Okay. I'll just pop on over to that all night bakery and then swing by the Red Robin afterwards.”
Dean's eyes had drifted shut but they popped open as he licked his lips. “Damn,” he said softly. Now he wanted Red Robin.
Of course there wasn't even a decent diner in this town so the odds of their being a Red Robin among the fifteen or so buildings was pretty unlikely.
There was, however, a hospital, and for that Dean was grateful. They wouldn't have any good burgers, fries, beer, or pie, but they'd have lots of nice painkillers and, hopefully, some hot nurses.
He gave out a sigh and closed his eyes again. He'd take what he could get.
And when they left this collections of houses along the highway that didn't deserve to be called a town behind, they were heading straight for the nearest city with a Red Robin.
As Dean was rolled down the hall on the gurney, somewhat pleased by the refreshing change in view that meant he was watching the squares on the floor rush past instead of the ceiling tiles, he wondered how a place so small had such a big hospital.
There couldn't be enough people in town to staff this place let alone to patronize it.
Maybe it was supernatural. He should tell Sam to investigate it.
The gurney stopped and a gentle hand on his back distracted him.
“Okay, Mr. Way. We're going to move you now.”
Dean grunted, curious as to the name that Sammy had picked out. He'd have to ask later. Right before he returned the favor and shot his little pain in the ass brother.
He snorted as he was lifted and transferred to the examination table. That statement was now no longer just a saying, he realized. Lovely.
A doctor came in and Dean forced his eyes open to take a look at the man.
“What do we have-” The doctor stopped cold at the sight of Dean, but recovered quickly. “Okay then. Let's get ready to remove the, uh . . .”
“Bolt,” Dean growled softly.
The doctor blinked and looked at him.
“It's a crossbow bolt,” Dean clarified. "Like an arrow? Only 'bolt' is the technical term for it."
“Ah. The bolt then. Let's get it out and see what damage it did.”
Dean craned his neck a little to get another look at the carbon-alloy shaft in question that was sticking straight out of the left cheek of his ass. Damn Sammy.
That vamp chick hadn't been that short either. What the hell had he been aiming at? Of course, to Gigantor everyone was a midget, so maybe that was it.
A cool breeze swept over Dean's ass as his pants and boxers were cut away and he turned his burning face into the thin mattress of the exam bed.
He was so going to kill Sam for this.
He loved those jeans. And he loved his ass even more.
It better not scar, that was all he had to say about it. And if there was nerve damage there would be hell to pay with Sam Winchester's name at the top of the bill in huge fucking letters.
“I'm injecting a local anesthetic to help with the pain while I examine this and then we'll get you ready for surgery to remove the, uh, bolt.”
A tiny prick of a needle entering the skin close to the arrow made him wince, but he bit back any verbal commentary on that and just held still. He didn't want to make this any more difficult than it had to be. And he definitely didn't want to make this take longer.
A thoughtful hum had him looking over his shoulder again to see the doctor staring at his ass—okay at the bolt but it was kind of hard to miss his ass at that range—with magnifying goggles on and Dean had to look away again.
This was so not cool on so many levels. Why couldn't the doctor have been a hot woman? Why did the fates hate him so that he not only got shot in the ass by his brother, but that it ended up with a balding, middle aged, pudgy man staring at his ass?
Dean closed his eyes and began humming Metallica under his breath as he mentally plotted the many and varied ways he was going to exact his revenge.
An hour and forty-five minutes after bringing him in, Sam was allowed in to see Dean.
Who was laying on his stomach spooning jello into his mouth and muttering to himself.
He glanced up at Sam's entrance and glared with enough animosity that Sam stopped cold and had to mentally order himself to not back out of the room and run for his life.
As if it would do any good anyway.
Dean might not be able to chase him right now, but his brother was a damn good hunter and what he hunted he found.
Sam didn't want to die.
He cleared his throat and entered the room, reminding himself that he wasn't going to die. He was Dean's little brother and Dean loved him.
“I'm gonna kill you,” Dean said, drawing the words out slightly.
Okay so Sam was going to die.
Well, no need to drag it out anyway.
He sat in the chair next to the bed and Dean watched him the whole time like a big cat just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and rip out the throat of the poor hapless deer. And the fact that he looked just a little unfocused only made it all the more scary.
“I'm really sorry, Dean,” Sam said quietly.
“No you're not,” Dean countered and took another spoonful of jello. It took a few tries to get it in his mouth, his nose and cheeks and even his eye all getting first shot at taking in the wiggly dessert, and Sam frowned until he recalled the doctor saying Dean had morphine in his system from the removal surgery. Well that explained that. Dean was high as a freakin' kite.
“But you will be,” Dean added through his jello, spoon pointing—or, well, wobbling—at Sam. He swallowed. “Ohhh, you will be.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
He wasn't going to die.
Death would be too kind a fate for him.
But he would wish he was dead.
Laundry for the next, oh, forever.
Washing and waxing the Impala—on an at least weekly basis.
Never driving again.
All weapons maintenance for the foreseeable future.
Mullet rock until his ears bled.
Never again choosing the restaurant. Ever.
And those were the easy things Sam could think of.
It had been a favored and affectionate nickname for most of his life, but Sam knew that he was now officially Dean's 'bitch' and it had nothing to do with brotherly love and everything to do with sanctioned slavery.
He might as well have the word tattooed on his forehead.
And Sam wasn't even going to protest it.
For a little while anyway. He more than sort of deserved it, even if it had been an accident.
“They're keeping you here?” Sam asked, looking around. He figured it would be a quick in and out sort of thing with a laundry list of do's and don't's and a prescription for painkillers.
“Wanna keep me overnight to watch for infection. Dirty woods,” Dean spat. “And the morphine.” Then Dean grinned, though it had a dangerous glint to it. “I liiike morphine.”
Sam sighed. And the torture began now.
Dean finished the jello and tossed it on the tray next to his bed. He missed and it fell to the ground, but Dean just dropped his head to his pillow, one arm hanging off the bed.
“Not even any hot nurses here,” he grumbled and turned his head the other way. “Stupid old nurses that prob'ly think you're hot. You can have 'em, Sammy.”
Sam quietly rose and turned off the light, then returned to the seat and settled in for a very long night.
The younger Winchester jumped at the unexpected noise.
“You owe me new jeans.”
Sam sighed and let his head fall back.
Yup. Middle of his forehead: B-I-T-C-H.
Sam didn't bother turning on the AC for the ride back to the motel even though the day was a little warm already.
The chill emanating from the back seat didn't need competition or help.
They arrived and Sam meekly and silently opened the back door and assisted his brother in getting out of the car, then backed up without protest as Dean jerked his hand free with a glare and waddled his way towards the door.
Sam sighed and reached into the foot well, grabbing the piece of foam shaped like a toilet seat that Dean had been given along with his painkillers and instructions on what he could and could not do.
The cushion was to allow him to sit up, but Dean had given it and the nurse holding it a curled lip and a look of disgust and waddled away mumbling about how real men didn't need foam donuts. Especially not damn pink ones.
Sam looked at the foam cushion and then glanced at the car.
Yeah, it was going to be a long summer.
Especially since they were stuck here for the duration because Dean couldn't sit on his ass for eight hours a day while they drove, let alone go running around after supernatural beasties.
They'd been benched and it was all Sam's fault.
This is for my dearest, darlingest, most wonderful beta, Phoebe. Her first (of undoubtedly many) payments for putting up with my insanity on The Artisan.
It has nothing on her whump stories, but I have been taking notes and will hopefully be able to improve under her inspired tutelage.
Thanks, honey! Hope you enjoy! :D