The Ducati Monster

Sam is there the moment Dean opens the door, almost as if he already knew what happened. Or maybe he'd been watching out the window while Dean stashed the evidence and hobbled his way up the front steps. Sneaky bastard.

"I told you you shouldn't have stolen that bike," are the first words out of Sam's mouth, accompanied with the kind of prissy expression Dean just really can't handle right now.

"Okay, first, I didn't steal it," Dean snaps back, because he is not going to let his snot-nosed little brother get away that kind of self-righteous smack talk, even if all he wants to do is collapse on his bed and moan until the fire eating his arm disappears. "I won it, fair and square. Okay, maybe not that fair but… And second, it's not my fault they're doing construction over on Sixth and that bike can't turn corners for shit."

Sam snorts and vanishes into the bathroom, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "I told you that when you first stole it" but Dean doesn't answer this time because if Sam's not around then Dean can get to the whole collapsing-and-moaning thing in peace.

But Sam's back a moment later and he's wielding bandages, a towel, a syringe, and a pair of tweezers, and Dean thinks he's probably not going to have any peace for a while.

"What are you going to tell Dad?" Sam asks as he fills up a bowl with warm water and shoves Dean towards a chair at the kitchen table.

"Um, how about nothing?" Dean eyes the tweezers and syringe with distaste. "He won't be back for another week."

"This won't heal in a week, Dean." Sam's voice is somewhere between gentle and exasperated as he inspects Dean's forearm. "God, the one day you go without a jacket."

"It's hot out." Dean knows he's pouting, but his arm really hurts and he seriously doesn't like the look of that syringe and the motorcycle was supposed to be a cool toy that impressed girls, not some stupid useless can't-turn-corners-and-instead-throws-you-ten-feet-across-asphalt piece of crap, so he doesn't care. "If Dad hadn't taken the Impala—"

"Then I'd still be doing my math homework and you wouldn't be sitting here with enough gravel in your arm to make a playground." Sam hops up on the table, spreads the towel across his lap, then pulls Dean's arm on top of it.

Dean feels briefly guilty that Sam thinks gravel equals a playground— surely he's taken the kid to play somewhere nice at least once? Somewhere with sand and like, plastic slides or something?— and that at thirteen Sam has practically Hospital-level skill in first aid, but then Sam fucking jabs him with the tweezers and all thoughts of guilt or sympathy flee.

"I did not jab you," Sam says with an eye roll when Dean repeats some of that out loud, intermixed with a great deal of cursing that would earn him a whack on the back of his head if Dad were around. "I am the epitome of gentleness and care. And this gravel's got to come out, man, so suck it up." The tweezers jab again, and Dean growls. Sam flashes him a smile that's way too fucking chipper before attacking him again.

"You could at least have given me some painkillers first," Dean grumbles. "Or some whiskey." He pouts on purpose this time, trying to look as pathetic as possible, because Sam seems way too cheerful about this, and if the places were reversed you can bet Dean wouldn't be goddamn laughing at Sam for having the misfortune to part with his motorcycle at a rather high speed and spend several long seconds in intimate contact with the ground. Actually, he'd probably be screaming his fucking head off at Sam for even going near a motorcycle, but still. He'd be nice and shit, afterwards.

"Dean, this isn't even that bad." Sam sighs and great, now Dean's back to feeling guilty because that's not a sound most thirteen-year-olds should know how to make. But if Sam thinks sounding all old and world-weary is going to win him this one, he is so wrong.

"It hurts." Dean goes for broke, throwing in the pity-me eyes and jutting lip that always earn him an extra slice of pie in the diners, an extra roll of quarters from the old ladies in the laundromat, and A's on all the homework assignments he doesn't even bother to write his name on.

"Oh, and the puncture wound you got last month, that felt so wonderful?" Sam definitely does not melt like everyone else Dean has ever tried that expression on. If anything, his voice gets hard and the little nips of the tweezer acquire an extra sharpness that stings like hell. "And the busted wrist, a few months before that? Jesus, Dean, you take a knife to the ribs and you don't tell anyone for three hours, but you get one spot of road rash and suddenly you're a five-year-old with an owie?"

Dean glances up at Sam and, okay, so maybe his little brother isn't so nonchalant about this after all. He looks away again just as quickly, not sure anymore if what he's feeling is guilt or embarrassment or what. He shrugs.

"Those are hunting injuries," he says, as if that's enough of an explanation, hoping like hell Sam will accept it as enough of an explanation. "This isn't."

"No," Sam replies, and Dean can't help but looking back to catch a glimpse of that grin that suddenly doesn't seem so obnoxious anymore. "This is just you being an idiot."

And okay, maybe Sam is back to laughing at him, and the syringe hurts a lot worse than the tweezers did, and Sam calls him a pussy and Dean invents several new swearwords to respond, but Sam's hands are nothing but gentle as they secure bandages to his arm, and Sam brings him a Coke with three painkillers— it's not whiskey, but hey,— and Sam lets him have the remote and doesn't even complain that much about the channel Dean settles on.

Sam goes to put the first aid supplies away and get his homework, but he's back for Dean can even think up an excuse for needing him. He settles next to Dean on the couch, knocking his legs aside but being very careful of his bandaged arm, and Dean thinks maybe he has found a bit of that peace after all.