@demonfed: “i don’t feel good.”
the last of the blood has been scrubbed away, the wound examined and deemed unworthy of stitches, but dean still has a damp washcloth pressed to sam’s forehead, anticipating more blood by the night’s end. there is a fine dribble across the motel sheets, though among the myriad of other stains, they hardly seem out of place - but at their departure dean will strip the bed regardless, then execute a handful of detailed sweeps around the room, removing any indication of their presence - the same motions he has made since childhood. these moments, however, are rarer these days: sam curled so closely to him like when he was young, tormented by a nightmare or nursing a wound or simply struck by insomnia, but it isn’t difficult for dean to remember, to offer the comfort sam needs.
the sound of sam’s head connecting with the wall echoes in his mind, and dean gives a sharp nod, then says, “i bet,” with a full-bodied sympathy that too often he forgets he’s capable of. sam’s curls tickle his fingers and dean thinks, haircuts, soon, before returning his mind to more immediate concerns: there are sigils to be drawn, salt to be scattered across the doors and windows... ritual and expectation, instinct to abide. “you should’ve waited for me, dumbass. now, i’m gonna go to the car, get the rest of our stuff - you need anything before i get to work?”
