Damage Control - 4x09 I Know What You Did Last Summer
It’s a fifteen foot drop from the church window, and although they both cushion the impact with a shoulder roll, it’s a hard fall. With a crunch, Dean’s left shoulder pops out of joint when he hits the ground, stained glass raining down around him. The pain is excruciating. Chased by a demon or not, Dean sinks back onto his knees and bites back a scream. Vision briefly blackening, he clutches his arm to his chest, instinctively immobilizing it.
Jesus fucking Christ, that hurts.
Dimly, he’s aware of Sam struggling to his feet next to him.
“Come on, Dean, get up! We gotta run! Come on!”
Familiar hands haul him to his feet. Dean cries out in pain, but, the world fading in and out around him, he somehow finds his feet and stumbles alongside his brother. Every step jars his injured shoulder, ligaments and nerves shrieking in agony. Dean wants to stop and collapse and vomit onto the pavement, but he can’t because - Alastair. He will be on them any second now and kill them both, or, worse, drag Dean back to Hell, and he cannot do this a second time.
He wants to turn around and look if the demon’s following them. All he wants to do is flee.
Sam swims into focus, wriggling the fingers of his outstretched palm at him. His left jacket sleeve is glistening with blood. He’s hurt. Between the pain, the fear and the sudden worry about Sam, Dean’s brain nearly fritzes out.
“Dean! Give me the damn keys!” Sam is shouting now, grabbing Dean by the jacket, shoving his hand into the pocket where Dean always keeps the keys to the Impala. They jingle when Sam pulls them out and the familiar sound grounds Dean a little. When Sam yanks the passenger door open and shoves Dean inside, he’s able to help and get into the seat and pull his feet inside without passing out from the pain.
Sam slams the door shut and, looking over his shoulder, hastily rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. While he does, Dean dares to look back at the church. Stained glass shards litter the ground like confetti, glittering in the sun. There’s a gaping hole where the window used to be. In it, Alastair stands, holding up the demon knife. He’s not following them - thank fuck. At least not for now. Of course, he can smoke out of his host and fly at them through the vents of the Impala any second if he wants to. But he doesn’t want to. Otherwise he wouldn’t just be standing there, their only weapon against his kind now in his hands, and although he’s too far away to read his expression, Dean can feel his scorching, sulfuric stare on him as Sam fires up the Impala and steps on the gas. Tires skidding, they take off with a sudden jerk that rocks through Dean’s dislocated shoulder and makes him see stars.
“Dean, you with me, man?” Sam shouts at him from the driver’s seat, over the thunder of the V8 engine.
Dean blinks. His eyes are watering from the pain. “Yah.”
“What is it? Your shoulder?” Sam casts scrutinous glances at him while he pushes the Chevy through traffic.
“Yah.” Dean’s answers come in short, monosyllabic bursts. He can’t help it. Even speaking fucking hurts.
Sam frowns. “Dislocated?”
“Hang on a few more minutes, okay?”
Dean tries to slow his too-fast breathing. He has a high pain threshold, and it’s not the first time he’s dislocated his shoulder, but it never gets any easier. It’s the kind of injury that will throw any hunter - even a seasoned one - for a loop, and he knows the pain won’t truly lessen until his bones are back where they belong.
Sam knows this, too. When he finally pulls over, just beyond leaving the town’s city limits, Dean hopes for two things: that they’ve put enough distance between themselves and Alistair, and that Sam will be able to pop his shoulder back in so he can think again.
When they stop and Sam twists in the seat to help Dean, Dean remembers Sam’s own injury. His left sleeve is soaked with blood nearly down to his wrist now.
“What’s- ah - what’s with your arm?” Dean manages to ask.
Sam rotates the injured limb, casting a quick look at the ragged tear in his jacket. He hisses when he probes the wound underneath, and his fingers come back bloody, but he simply wipes them off on his jacket and swings his focus back to Dean. “Think I cut it on the glass when we jumped. Doesn’t hurt all that much. Just needs stitches. You, on the other hand…” He carefully runs his hands along the disfigured lump that is now Dean’s shoulder, and Dean clenches his teeth, hissing. “… are swollen all to hell. I don’t think I can pop it back in like this. You’ll have to ice it before I can do anything. And take some pain meds because this may need more than one try. And I gotta sew up my arm first.”
“… or we could go to an ER.”
“Can’t,” Dean says, although he’d give the world for a hefty dose of morphine right now. “We’ve got to find Anna. Ruby - you got any idea where she’d take her? Jesus…!” Every nerve in his shoulder is on fire. He swallows against a wave of nausea.
Wordlessly, Sam leans across him to open the glove compartment. He pulls out an orange pill bottle and pops the lid open.
“I don’t know where Ruby is. She’ll let us know as soon as she and Anna are safe. Here.” He drops two pills into Dean’s good hand. “Take these. They should kick in quickly.”
Dean’s past the point of asking Sam what medication exactly it is that he’s dry-swallowing now, or where Sam got it. As long as it takes the edge off and makes him functional again, he’ll take anything. Sam makes him chase the pills with water from a bottle that he pulls from the icebox in the backseat. The water helps a little. So does the thought of not being in agony for much longer - at least until Sam can attempt to reduce his shoulder. Fun.
Moving as little as possible, Dean wrestles the bandana out of his back pocket that he keeps folded there. His arm responds with a sickening throb. He can feel his heartbeat in his humerus. “Son of a-...” He has to hold his breath for a second to maintain control. “Here.” He drops the bandana in Sam’s lap. “At least tie this around your arm. You’re bleeding on the leather.”
It’s meant as a joke; an automatism Dean can’t suppress when circumstances are dire and he needs to hold it together, reaching for comic relief, mostly for Sam. His brother knows the drill, but, for once, he doesn’t engage. Sam just grabs the bandana and wraps it around his upper arm, tying it with his teeth. Not for the first time in recent weeks, Dean has the nagging feeling that Sam has changed. He seems … tougher. Hardened. More intense.
“You good?” Dean asks, his gaze nervously flicking back and forth between his brother and the rearview mirror, as if he could see Alastair there in case the demon decided to pursue them. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine.
“Yeah,” Sam replies, reaching for the keys still in the ignition. “You?”
“Fantastic. Just get us to that damn motel.”
“I’ll go as fast as and as carefully as I can.”
The Impala rumbles to life and, gently, Sam pulls it back from the curb onto the road. Once they’re riding straight, he speeds up, staying just within the speed limit.
In the passenger seat, Dean holds on to his arm and for dear life as he’s being jostled by the movement of the car. It’s a good thing that he hasn’t eaten all day. Dizziness is starting to spread in his head, and since he hasn’t lost any blood it has to be the meds. Normally, Dean hates the cottony feeling of opioids. He prefers to stay sharp, his thinking unmuzzled. Right here, right now, however, he can’t wait for the numbness to take over. Pain, he can deal with, even severe pain. But the fear that arrived with Alastair still has its claws in him. Memories tear at his very skin. Flashbacks assail him in bloody red. Breathing through the pain and the licking tongues of panic, Dean waits for relief to arrive.
The Damage Control Series Masterlist
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