Well… idk. Maybe this is a mix of h/c and 'humor' and WTF? I have no idea. I wanted to make it serious, but I think it came out a bit… not?

I own nothing and I'm sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes. If you find any, please let me know, because I wrote this on my sugar high and yeah… *shakes head*


"Morphine me." Dean's voice was like crunching gravel, deep and crackly around the edges, begging for something to make it normal again. He reached out with both of his hands - blood and dirt behind his fingernails, stuck in the lines of his knuckles – trying to grab at something, but there was nothing there.

Just Sam.

Just his brother, sitting by his right thigh, dipping the soft mattress with his weight, making him fall into the hole a little, but get stopped just in time by Sam's right side.

His eyes were opened wide but his gaze was unfocused; a little to the left, a little to the right, a little up and a whole lotta down, which Sam didn't like and yelled: "Eyes up here, man!" every time Dean's eyes lingered on his own hip for too long, because then his brother started gagging and sucking in air through a straw, or so it sounded.

He will not have his brother puke all over himself. Not yet anyway.


Dean's lips formed a weird looking smile - something between a grin and a grimace and a ''m gonna puke in .1 seconds' - every once and a while, but especially whenever Sam tugged on the needle to get it out of his brother's skin.

Sweat was glistering on Dean's pale cheeks, forehead, running down in little drops by his ears… his hair soaking wet plastered to his head. Maybe that was still from the rain that was tickling the rooftop of the motel, maybe from all that sweating he had going on.

Sam just hoped pneumonia will not show its ugly face, because dealing with Dean like this sucks ass, but dealing with Dean hurt and sick… no, just no way, because in times like those, there's not enough pie in the world to keep that man silent.


He looked at his brother, calm hands stilling on Dean's hipbone, the needle thin and hot, held firmly between his fingers, not slipping in the blood at all.

Not at all, because he was a damn well trained professional, stitched himself, his Dad and his brother up enough times to know how to do this with his eyes closed and his right hand in a cast.

Dean's blood was scorching hot on his hands and he knew that the feeling will haunt his dreams for a few nights to come.

But that was just life.

That was their life.


"Dean, hey look at me."

He had to say that, because his brother's eyes were chasing invisible birds all over the room again and he knew they'll stop at the deep wound on his hip soon enough and he really, really will not have his brother puke all over himself. Not before the stitches will be under white gauze, safe and healing.

Then Dean can puke all he wants.


Dean rolled his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, smacked his cracked lips, opened his eyes and whispered: "Sam…" once his eyes settled on his brother's face and glared.

Eyes so unfocused, Sam thought Dean had pieces of glass stuck in them; they were shiny, tears hidden in their corners… tears or sweat or rain, he couldn't be sure, but whatever it was, it made Dean's eyes shine like crystal and unfocused.

He watched, gripping the needle as hard as he could between his bloody fingers, begging it to ground him here and now and not let his mind drift to what happened an hour ago, because he can't go there and think about those... claws almost ripping his brother to shreds.

But being her and now wasn't any better, because here and now meant watching how pain distorted Dean's face; crinkles by his eyes, mouth a thin line, teeth biting the inside of his cheek, skin pale and glistering, his neck; veins standing out like there was a tree branch stuck in them, his chest; raising up and down so fast, Sam had to whisper a really slow: "Bbbbbreeeeeatheeeee." just to try and slow it down, his arms; fingers clenching and unclenching, hands raising up trying to grab hold of something and sometimes succeeding in pulling at Sam's forearm, but mostly just ripping the bed sheet to pieces.

He watched how pain wanted to rule over his brother so damn much, but Dean wasn't letting it. Not by a long shot, because that's not who his brother was. Pain was an ugly bitch, she was, but Dean was a son of a bitch. Nothing could touch him.

"Dean," he swallowed, "we don't have any. 'm sorry, man."

Those were the hardest words he had to say to his brother in the last few… okay, months, but he won't touch the other stuff with a ten foot pole.

Dean pouted with a drop of sweat sparkling above his upper lip and dropped his head back on the pillow, loosing himself into that comfort for a few silent seconds, before he whined: "Gimme…"

Sam chuckled: "You are so wasted, man."

It wasn't the pain talking, Sam knew… it was the Whiskey mixed with beer and maybe, perhaps some other liquor that he doesn't know the origin off. It was in Dean's flask so it's probably Whiskey or so. Maybe it was holy water, but it smelled more… alcoholic.

"Duuuuude, 'm in p-paaain."

It was slurred and spluttered; some spit actually landing on Sam's shirt and he wanted to wipe it off, before he remembered that his hands were covered in blood, holding Dean's hot skin and a needle and yeah…

"You're too drunk to feel… you're too drunk to even be talking, man. How are you not passed out yet?"

Dean opened his mouth.

Sam waited patiently for something to come out of it; something like 'because I can hold my liquor, not like some' or 'because 'm just so awesome' or 'shut up bitch', but Dean just sucked in a deep breath, gripped Sam's bicep a little harder and that was that.

"Uh, okay, here," Sam found the almost empty bottle of Whiskey, the label almost invisible under all that sticky redness and placed it into his brother's trembling hands; and man, were they trembling, he was surprised that the bottle didn't slip from Dean's grasp.

He had to support the bottom when Dean took a sip, tipping the Whiskey so that his brother was able to drown down what was left in the bottle. When he sucked the last drop into his mouth, Sam thought that his brother would lick the bottle if he could.

"Ahhhh…" Dean smacked his lips together and let his head fall back to the pillow, "the swee-etest of drugs."

"Can you just pass out now?"

"Can you just s-shut up now and go b-aack to w'rk? 'm bleeeeeding heeeereeeee…"

Dean laughed and hissed.

Sam sighed.

Dean was getting way too accustomed to Whiskey. It wasn't even knocking him out anymore; his system was probably so used to it that even drinking a whole bottle would do nothing to him.

This was gonna have to go down the hard way.

There was pain and there was Pain and Sam knew that he'll never finish stitching his brother up if Dean'll keep on being like this. Just drunk, because apparently just drunk really meant just drunk and not 'can't feel pain no more, Sammy' like it was supposed to.

Alcohol was supposed to numb, damn it. But alcohol just made his brother drunk and probably not even full on drunk, but just slightly drunk ready to go play some pool.

Sam sighed.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

He couldn't stand anymore of the groans, whimpers, half breaths, moans and hidden sobs coming from his brother whenever the needle tugged on the skin or the thread burned too hot through the flesh.

He couldn't stand it.

It was torture. Watching his brother hurt. Watching his brother trying to be stealthy in hiding it, but failing so spectacularly, Sam wanted to dissolve into hysteric laughter.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

"Say good night, Dean."


He punched Dean in the face, not cracking anything, not intending to break any bones or leave bruises.

Just to put his damn brother out of his misery, because the wound was burning hot, bleeding all over his pale, wet skin, getting almost black at the edges with blood already drying. The claw that nearly took away half of his brother's side was huge, sharp like a knife and in that moment he was already seeing Dean's insides spilling out and onto the floor and... and no, he will not think about it.

Just… needle in and out, do it fast, do it right and do it with care.

He snorted when he looked up at his brother.

Dean wanted Morphine, he got it. The cheap kind and if he'll have any comment on that when he'll wake up… Sam'll go get some pie to shut him up.

Apple pie maybe. Or cake, just to be an ass.

The End.