Dean's hunched over on a chair, with Sam on the bed and his hand resting on Dean's knee. Sam's got an upturned palm to reveal a big cut that follows his lifeline, trailing across his arm until it ends just below the inside of his elbow. The light bulb's on its last hour, glowing low and faint, setting everything into soft shadows. It could almost look like Sam took a permanent marker to himself, like that time he was nine and Dean had spent half the afternoon scrubbing him clean.
On Dean's other knee he's balancing gauze, scissors, and other things needed to patch Sam up. The bleeding's mostly stopped by now, but Sam keeps hissing and flexing his fingers when Dean sweeps down too hard with the saline wipe. When Dean looks up during those moments, Sam's face looks all of twelve again with the way it's scrunched up and sullen. Dean's not going to chide Sam for how reckless he was with the Wendigo, the evidence speaks for itself. Not the first time Sam's gotten himself into a scrape. Won't be the last.
Dean's fingers catches on the flakes of dried blood on the inside of Sam's arm. The skin looks so pale in contrast; his vein an adjacent line next to the cut.
As Sam twitches, fresh blood seeps out.
"If you keep still, I'll give you a lollipop as a reward," Dean says. He watches as Sam takes a swig from the whisky bottle, the clink of teeth against the glass, followed by the slosh of backwash. Dean's stopped being mad at tasting Sam's spit in his bottles ages ago. It's the same as everything else they share: food, clothes, soap -- blood.
Sam scoffs, but it's lazy and comes out as sharp air through his nose, blowing through the short hairs on Dean's temple. "Think that stopped working on me the same time I stopped believing in Santa."
"How 'bout this then." Dean throws away the used wipes into the trash-can by the bed. "If you keep still, I'll give you a blowjob."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2014-06-09 12:39 am (UTC)On Dean's other knee he's balancing gauze, scissors, and other things needed to patch Sam up. The bleeding's mostly stopped by now, but Sam keeps hissing and flexing his fingers when Dean sweeps down too hard with the saline wipe. When Dean looks up during those moments, Sam's face looks all of twelve again with the way it's scrunched up and sullen. Dean's not going to chide Sam for how reckless he was with the Wendigo, the evidence speaks for itself. Not the first time Sam's gotten himself into a scrape. Won't be the last.
Dean's fingers catches on the flakes of dried blood on the inside of Sam's arm. The skin looks so pale in contrast; his vein an adjacent line next to the cut.
As Sam twitches, fresh blood seeps out.
"If you keep still, I'll give you a lollipop as a reward," Dean says. He watches as Sam takes a swig from the whisky bottle, the clink of teeth against the glass, followed by the slosh of backwash. Dean's stopped being mad at tasting Sam's spit in his bottles ages ago. It's the same as everything else they share: food, clothes, soap -- blood.
Sam scoffs, but it's lazy and comes out as sharp air through his nose, blowing through the short hairs on Dean's temple. "Think that stopped working on me the same time I stopped believing in Santa."
"How 'bout this then." Dean throws away the used wipes into the trash-can by the bed. "If you keep still, I'll give you a blowjob."