Filled: Better On Our Own 1/2si_star_xApril 26 2011, 14:16:26 UTC
The ice pack has been slowly melting for the last two hours, and now under the warming liquid, the throb is pulling back through the numbness. Sam has his arm held up to his chest, hand resting weakly against his shoulder and good arm serving not only hold the sloppy icepack against his wrist, but also to keep the limb in position.
Dean’s asleep, has been for an hour, and Sam can get away with the expression he is currently showing. His lips are tight, face pinched and teeth in the process of biting down on the inside flesh of his cheek. He has a metallic taste in his mouth from where he has drawn blood, and his arm just hurts. He knows the x-ray came back clear, and he was sent back to the motel with an ace bandage and prescription for ibuprofen, but he was almost positive that this was worse than a sprain.
He had fallen hard, his wrist jarring beneath his body as it took the brunt of the fall. He hadn’t heard the familiar snap of bone or pop of ligaments, but the fire that seared up to his elbow told him that there was some damage beneath the muscle. He hadn’t been able to stop the yelp from eliciting, so Dean was on his case instantly, offering him a hand up and then watching with concerned eyes as Sam poked and self-diagnosed.
They had decided that a hospital was probably the best option, just a quick x-ray and cast if the situation called for it. They were passing by anyway, perhaps if it had been out of their way they wouldn’t have bothered.
But the x-ray came back clear, and now here they are; Dean asleep and Sam propped up against the headboard, willing unconsciousness to just take him under. The lights are off in the motel room, but Sam is fairly sure that he can see the skin darkening beneath the stark white bandage. As he grits his teeth to shift position and compares his two wrists alongside each other, the injured one has clearly became swollen, the bones of his wrist hidden beneath puffy flesh. As the icepack loses all usefulness, the wrist begins to feel hot as he gingerly spreads his fingers across the joint, trying to feel for any deformity. He knows the nurse had assured him - and Dean - that it was no more than a bad sprain, but there was just something telling him that this was worse. He has laughed off sprains before, winced for a week or two whenever he came to pull on his shoes or button his shirts, but this was different. He could barely move his fingers without pain lancing through his wrist.
He had already taken some indiscernible pain meds from their first aid kit, and although it had helped to relieve the intense stab of pain every time the rise and fall of his chest jolted his arm, it wasn’t doing enough. Not enough to let him think clearly or sleep.
He needs another ice pack, and even though he knows he is supposed to ice it intermittently as opposed to for two hours straight, he’s just about ready to stand in the bathroom and let his arm sink underneath the cold tap for a while.
Dean’s still asleep, lips parted, breathing slow and steady, and Sam is momentarily irritated that his brother gets to sleep whilst he is hurting. He considers clearing his throat or calling Dean’s name, but then again, what good would it do?
He knows Dean would just tell him to quit whining, it’s only a sprain after all.
But how can it be a sprain when it hurts so much?
He reaches back for the discarded ice pack. It’s completely viscous now; blue liquid sloshing around inside the thick plastic packet, but it’s still cool. His wrist is starting to heat up to the point of being uncomfortable, and at least the remnants of the cooling sensation allow him a moment’s reprieve.
He pushes the coolness against his wrist, gasps as his clumsy movement causes a bolt of white to sear through his arm from shoulder to fingertips.
“Crap!” He curses, manages to keep his voice low.
Apparently it wasn’t low enough, however, because Dean’s mattress is squeaking, and the form of his brother is slowly rising to a sitting position.
“Sam?” The voice is rough and scratchy but then a grunt clears the throat and it is normal again. “You still awake?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What are you doing?” Dean is twisting, his legs finding their way off the mattress and onto the carpeted floor. “Arm bothering you?”
Re: Filled: Better On Our Own 2/2si_star_xApril 26 2011, 14:16:57 UTC
“No, it’s OK, I just…” Sam sighs softly, dejectedly drops the ice pack down onto his lap. “Do we have another ice pack?”
Dean yawns. “Don’t think so. You can’t sleep?”
Sam shakes his head, feels like a kid for still being awake and fawning over a sprained wrist.
“Want a lullaby? I can dig out some Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
Sam just shakes his head again; lips pulling into a slight smile, because trust Dean to suggest such a ridiculous method of inducing sleep.
Dean apparently catches the pain lines as well as the smile, flicks on the light, and exposes Sam with his messy hair and arm clutched close to his chest. He steps forward, reaches towards the arm without any prior arrangement. Sam winces as his big brother’s hands start tugging away the clean white bandages and expose the bruises and swelling.
“Must be a bad sprain.” Dean raises an eyebrow, “If we hadn’t already got an x-ray, I would be positive that you broke this.”
“Feels like.”
“Want to go back? Sue for them messing up?”
“It’s probably just a sprain.” Sam chuckles, “I don’t know, perhaps my pain barrier is slipping.”
“We’ll find somewhere the next town over.” Dean nods, pulls the bandage back over Sam’s wrist and then bends down, fumbles through the med kit. “The beers are probably still cold in the cooler. You want a couple?”
Re: Filled: Better On Our Own 2/2si_star_xApril 26 2011, 16:53:35 UTC
I'm glad you liked it! I'm a sucker for broken bones of any kind, so of course when I was looking for a prompt to fill, I found this one and had to have it!
Re: Filled: Better On Our Own 2/2si_star_xApril 28 2011, 07:10:55 UTC
I know! *Hangs head in shame* We know our places though, short stuff. You bring the smooching and I'll bring the "ow, Dean, we can't... I'm still in pain..." *g* I love you too, especially for saying I win. \o/!
Dean’s asleep, has been for an hour, and Sam can get away with the expression he is currently showing. His lips are tight, face pinched and teeth in the process of biting down on the inside flesh of his cheek. He has a metallic taste in his mouth from where he has drawn blood, and his arm just hurts. He knows the x-ray came back clear, and he was sent back to the motel with an ace bandage and prescription for ibuprofen, but he was almost positive that this was worse than a sprain.
He had fallen hard, his wrist jarring beneath his body as it took the brunt of the fall. He hadn’t heard the familiar snap of bone or pop of ligaments, but the fire that seared up to his elbow told him that there was some damage beneath the muscle. He hadn’t been able to stop the yelp from eliciting, so Dean was on his case instantly, offering him a hand up and then watching with concerned eyes as Sam poked and self-diagnosed.
They had decided that a hospital was probably the best option, just a quick x-ray and cast if the situation called for it. They were passing by anyway, perhaps if it had been out of their way they wouldn’t have bothered.
But the x-ray came back clear, and now here they are; Dean asleep and Sam propped up against the headboard, willing unconsciousness to just take him under. The lights are off in the motel room, but Sam is fairly sure that he can see the skin darkening beneath the stark white bandage. As he grits his teeth to shift position and compares his two wrists alongside each other, the injured one has clearly became swollen, the bones of his wrist hidden beneath puffy flesh. As the icepack loses all usefulness, the wrist begins to feel hot as he gingerly spreads his fingers across the joint, trying to feel for any deformity. He knows the nurse had assured him - and Dean - that it was no more than a bad sprain, but there was just something telling him that this was worse. He has laughed off sprains before, winced for a week or two whenever he came to pull on his shoes or button his shirts, but this was different. He could barely move his fingers without pain lancing through his wrist.
He had already taken some indiscernible pain meds from their first aid kit, and although it had helped to relieve the intense stab of pain every time the rise and fall of his chest jolted his arm, it wasn’t doing enough. Not enough to let him think clearly or sleep.
He needs another ice pack, and even though he knows he is supposed to ice it intermittently as opposed to for two hours straight, he’s just about ready to stand in the bathroom and let his arm sink underneath the cold tap for a while.
Dean’s still asleep, lips parted, breathing slow and steady, and Sam is momentarily irritated that his brother gets to sleep whilst he is hurting. He considers clearing his throat or calling Dean’s name, but then again, what good would it do?
He knows Dean would just tell him to quit whining, it’s only a sprain after all.
But how can it be a sprain when it hurts so much?
He reaches back for the discarded ice pack. It’s completely viscous now; blue liquid sloshing around inside the thick plastic packet, but it’s still cool. His wrist is starting to heat up to the point of being uncomfortable, and at least the remnants of the cooling sensation allow him a moment’s reprieve.
He pushes the coolness against his wrist, gasps as his clumsy movement causes a bolt of white to sear through his arm from shoulder to fingertips.
“Crap!” He curses, manages to keep his voice low.
Apparently it wasn’t low enough, however, because Dean’s mattress is squeaking, and the form of his brother is slowly rising to a sitting position.
“Sam?” The voice is rough and scratchy but then a grunt clears the throat and it is normal again. “You still awake?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What are you doing?” Dean is twisting, his legs finding their way off the mattress and onto the carpeted floor. “Arm bothering you?”
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Dean yawns. “Don’t think so. You can’t sleep?”
Sam shakes his head, feels like a kid for still being awake and fawning over a sprained wrist.
“Want a lullaby? I can dig out some Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
Sam just shakes his head again; lips pulling into a slight smile, because trust Dean to suggest such a ridiculous method of inducing sleep.
Dean apparently catches the pain lines as well as the smile, flicks on the light, and exposes Sam with his messy hair and arm clutched close to his chest. He steps forward, reaches towards the arm without any prior arrangement. Sam winces as his big brother’s hands start tugging away the clean white bandages and expose the bruises and swelling.
“Must be a bad sprain.” Dean raises an eyebrow, “If we hadn’t already got an x-ray, I would be positive that you broke this.”
“Feels like.”
“Want to go back? Sue for them messing up?”
“It’s probably just a sprain.” Sam chuckles, “I don’t know, perhaps my pain barrier is slipping.”
“We’ll find somewhere the next town over.” Dean nods, pulls the bandage back over Sam’s wrist and then bends down, fumbles through the med kit. “The beers are probably still cold in the cooler. You want a couple?”
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Thanks for writing this!
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Simple, but true: I loved this =)
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Trust Dean to find the answer to everything in a bottle of beer.
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