And This Constant Forward Motion is Their Home: Part 2
Dean catches wind of a vampire nest on their way down south, the first day they are on the road. Which means he gets a call from The Roadhouse tipping them off that these aren't the kind of vampires that play nice with others. They fight about it but Sam gives in and they end up backtracking thirty miles to the nest.
Dean takes out two of the vampires before they wake up and Sam only gets to one in time. Sam sees the woman-the last of them- coming at Dean before Dean does, and he yells but he's not sure if his brother even hears him. Dean jumps back from the woman, who's crouched down, fangs bared, ready to attack, and just barely avoids losin' his insides all over the floor. Sam's machete makes a wide arc as he pulls it around from his last kill. He hears Dean swear strong and low under his breath before he hears her body fall to the floor, the head a separate thunk.
Sam looks up in time to see Dean fall to his knees, holding his stomach, one hand searching for the ground to brace his fall.
"Dean." Sam pushes his brother back up, tries to get him to uncurl so he can see how goddamn bad it is, and Dean's hands come away red as he straightens up as far as he can. "Dean, Shit. Shit."
Sam's stomach burns, suddenly, and he's glad he's still got his sweatshirt on and that Dean is just a little bit distracted, because he knows without looking down what it is. He can feel the warmth of blood seep through his shirt, and prays that Dean won't see.
Dean groans and coughs, sucking in a couple of shallow breaths. "Ah, fuck, Sammy. Careful now. It ain't that bad, just hurts like a bitch. Stitches would be good, though. Probably real good, uh, soon." Dean laughs a little, licks his bottom lip and keeps his eyes up like he does when he's hurting real bad.
"We gotta stop the bleeding first, Dean." Sam clenches his teeth tight and puts Dean's arm around his shoulder, hoisting them both up. White spots burst in his vision at the shot of pain that goes up his spine. "Alright, Dean. To the car. I gotta get the kit."
He gets Dean situated in the back seat with an old t shirt pressed up against the wound and bunches the bottom of his own sweatshirt in his hand so he can press down while he's driving. Sam's really fucking grateful that he doesn't pass out on the road.
Getting Dean into the motel room proves to be of more difficulty than Sam expects. When he gets out of the car, his legs nearly give out on him and that scares the shit out of him for a second before he remembers that of course he's weak. Blood loss, not spine damage, dumbass.
"Sam- it's stopped bleeding. I, uh, I'm thinkin' about seven, eight stitches."
"Yeah, sure Dean."
Dean gets fourteen stitches in his stomach, laying out diagonal across the bed while Sam crouches over him. The damn thing is long, but it's just shallow enough that Dean isn't in any real trouble. Sam knows his will be the same.
Sam's shaking and sweating so bad by the time he ties off Dean's last stitch that all he can think about is getting into the bathroom to clean himself up, and maybe knock back a couple of Vicodin before he starts on his own stitches. Dean hasn't noticed anything yet and Sam's pretty sure by the look of his brother's exhausted face that he's not going to.
"Alright, Dean. I'm gonna take a shower man. I- uh, I think I still have some of that vampire in my hair. You good?"
Dean nods, not making any move to get up from the flowered comforter. "I'm good. Wash behind your ears, too, Sammy."
"Here," Sam says. "Eat these." He throws a half empty package of peanut butter crackers at Dean's head and shuts the bathroom door behind him.
As soon as the door is closed, Sam's quick exhales turns to a pathetic whimper, his hand shaking as he pulls it away from his stomach. It's not bleeding much anymore but it hurts like a motherfucker, and he's pretty sure there is nothing worse than stitching yourself up. Except maybe letting your brother know that you're more of a freak than originally noted.
He turns on the shower, leaving it to run, and splashes some water on his face and hands. The water turns pink as it goes down the drain.
His skin pulls at his stomach when he lifts his arms, and he nearly reopens himself trying to take his shirt off. So instead he cuts it right down the middle with the medical scissors in their first aid kit. It's ruined anyway.
He should have known there was no way to keep this secret from his brother. Their motel room is barely the size of a goddamn television box, for chrissake. It was a dumbass move, coming in here, making it seem more like even more of a dirty secret by trying to hide it.
Sam nearly tears the first six stitches he has in right back out again when Dean bursts right through the unlocked door.
"Hey-Sammy, I gotta piss-"
Sam closes his eyes and feels his whole body flush, drops the needle and lets it hang. He knows Dean is looking, his eyes focusing directly on the perfectly replicated gash on Sam's stomach. "Dean-" Dean's not stupid. He'll figure it out. Sam didn't get hit back there. He wasn't hurt until after all of the vampires were dead.
Dean's eyes widen and he looks down at his own stitches, at the curve of the wound, pulled up slightly more on the left side than the right, and then looks back at Sam.
Dean is quiet. Sam opens his eyes and wishes that one of them would yell.
He expects Dean to go apeshit. He expects the mirror to get broken, maybe one of them to get socked in the jaw. He expects Dean to yell at him about secrets and expects Dean to want so bad to say something about how Sam is turning into someone, into some thing, that he can't save.
But he doesn't.
Sam's heart is pounding so hard, so fucking loud in his chest that he's not sure it's ever going to be quiet again.
Dean's jaw ticks for a second and he stares at the spot just above Sam's shoulder when he tells Sam to sit on the toilet. Sam does so without considering anything else, because stone cold quiet Dean is a whole helluva lot scarier than screaming Dean.
Dean picks up the needle still caught in Sam's stomach and finishes the stitches. Fourteen stitches, exactly.
--
My mother loved to tell me stories of when she was a hairdresser. And I loved to hear them. Whatever she told me, though, she always kept the names out of it.
She was talented, even in her younger years, and her business was popular. All sorts of women came to her. And when they did, they talked. The gumbo-ya-ya was always fresh from where my mother was standing. She knew everything about everyone, and she was good at using that. These women asked her for advice everyday. Advice about marriage, about affairs they were having, or affairs they thought their husbands were having. About skin problems, sleep problems, cooking problems, legal problems. These women told my mother everything. And they asked her for help on countless occasions.
Most believe that this is how my mother started selling her charms and her spells and her gris-gris bags for profit. They are not wrong.
--
Dean comes out of the shower with a wicked look in his eyes. Sam's been sleeping, woke up somewhere in the middle of Dean's shower feeling gritty and greasy and he's been pretty sure the whole morning that something unnatural is growing on his teeth, and his stomach is throbbing. But when Dean opens the door he makes no effort to move. He's thinking that playing dead might just be the best way to get out of this one.
But he has no luck there.
"Sam, get up," Dean says, glancing sideways as he pulls on his pants.
Sam rolls over and before he can see what he's doing, Dean's grabbed Sam's hand palm up and is pulling his switchblade across it in one smooth line. Sam gasps and snarls at his brother, blood blooming from the thicker-than-necessary line across his palm.
"What the hell Dean?"
But Dean's not paying attention to Sam's mouth. He's got his eyes on his own hand, which is dripping blood the same as Sam's. Sam sits up and puts his feet on the floor, the sheet pooling across his hips. He fists his burning hand in the sheet in hopes of stemming the blood flow.
"Goddamnit, Sam! Why didn't you say anything to me, you stupid son of a bitch?"
Sam doesn't answer, and within seconds Dean deflates. He lets out a breath and sits down beside Sam heavily, staring at his bleeding hand.
"Did you happen to take a look at your stomach today?" Sam looks over to Dean and then straightens up, stares down at the wound. The scab is nearly healed. It's- the stitches can come out. Sam swallows hard and looks over at Dean, who is smoothing his hand over his stomach. His stitches are already out.
He stares at Dean and waits for him to say something. Dean shrugs and smiles a little. "It ain't all bad, I guess," He says, staring at his hand, which is starting to close even as he watches it, and then, so is Sam's. He can actually feel the skin knitting together.
Sam shudders and curls his hand into a fist.
"We'll figure it out, Sam. We will." Dean says, getting up and walking into the bathroom. He comes back out with scissors. "Lay back, man. I'm gonna take out your stitches."
--
They pack up that day and hit the road again. They've already been delayed longer than necessary.
The humidity creeps in slowly, like it does every time he drives down to this side of the states. Dean shrugs his leather jacket off one sleeve at a time, keeping the wheel steady with his knee, and tosses it in the back. It's three a.m. in the middle of July in Louisiana, and a damn hot summer night. He's already starting to sweat.
Sam won't go to sleep, and Dean watches him, illuminated by streetlights, as he fights to keep his eyes open.
They drive right into a storm, and Dean thinks they'll pass through it, sure, no problem, in about twenty minutes. But Sam watches the lightning brighten up the nighttime skeletons of the city and says "Stop here," before they've even made it halfway through to the other side. Dean can barely see the light of the motel's vacancy sign through the gray sheets of rain, but he pulls in and throws a credit card at the teenager at the desk. They fight with the sky to get into the door of their janky twenty-four hour motel room.
The room they get has a big brown spot in the ceiling above the bed. The mattress is soaked. Dean sighs and gears up for a night of being kicked mercilessly by Sam.
Dean rolls onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling, listening to Sam shucking off his jeans and climbing into bed next to him. He rolls around the salt crystals left on his fingertips, looks over at his brother's shadow, and wonders if rock salt is enough to keep Sam safe. If he's enough to keep Sam safe.
Maybe he should bless the water coming out of the ceiling. Make it useful. But you can't bless a goddamn leaky pipe.
--
The tone of the voice mail rings hollow in his ears for the third time in two days.
"Dad, please."
--