ON THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT
WOW: kit. Everyone's having a 'happy new year' except the boys, it seems.
A story in three individual drabbles because my poor overworked muse is suffering from a severe case of verbal diarrhoea!
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I would have a very happy new year if I did ...
"Keep still Dean."
Sam gently closed another suture.
Outside, faint strains of singing drifted through the room's paper-thin walls as a crowd of new year revellers passed by.
"How many more?" Dean peered over the icepack pressed against his bruised cheek.
Sam studied the wound; "two, maybe three?"
Dean nodded, sighing bitterly.
Reaching into his trusty first-aid kit, Sam felt his sprained ankle stiffening as he swabbed Dean's shoulder with antiseptic.
Working silently and patiently, he felt Dean's every flinch, heard every groan.
He bit his lip as a distant chorus of laughter rang around them and tried to ignore it.