Dean Winchester probably knew more about the density of gravestones than any human, living or dead. His knowledge was hard earned through up close and personal experience gathered over many years in close proximity of them.

Very close proximity.

 For example, the one he was currently sailing toward; he actually had enough few seconds of clarity before his head  struck it to notice it was the really old granite found in truly vintage cemetery’s that just seemed to get harder with age, and when it did break, it left really sharp edges. Like the one that sliced through his scalp and made his skull vibrate like a bell.

After that he lost interest……………..

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

“Dean…Dean, dude, c’mon…work with me here…open your eyes…”

The voice was vaguely familiar, he was sure if he concentrated enough he’d be able to identify the speaker but his head seemed to have gone offline and from his best guess, the tire iron that had been rammed through it was probably the reason…

“There ya go…that’s it…open those eyes…we need to get you out of here…your head’s bleeding like crazy…you’ve been out for like 5 minutes…”  several someones swam before his eyes as he felt his lids part slightly. They all looked similar and he finally managed to focus enough to see long hair.

“S’m?” he rasped.

“Yeah, Dean, it’s me. Thank God! Let’s get you up-“

 Something was moving him insistently, pushing and pulling and he wished he could get off this fucking boat ‘cause he was pretty sure Sam was about to have his shoes puked on.

“soptouchnme-“ he managed to get out before- and yeah, there it went-

“Shit!” Sam yelped, and Dean felt himself rolled roughly to the side as he vomited everything he’d even just looked at, let alone eaten, over the past seven years.

 Every cough and gag was like a bomb going off in his head and his efforts to clutch his skull in his hands and hold it together were less than successful. All the moaning and groaning wasn’t helping and he wished whoever was doing it would stop, before realizing those sounds were coming from him. Not helping were Sam’s murmurs of sympathy and the hand gripping his shoulder.

After a few more minutes of general hell he finally quit gagging, but the pain in his head continued to spike up and down with every breath.

“You have so got a concussion; the pupil in your right eye is totally blown. I think you might need to go to a hospital-“

“No!” Dean blinked rapidly, trying to get all the Sam’s to settle down to maybe just two or three that didn’t spin around and wobble. “Backthe’tel, b’yokay...”  He fumbled one hand away from his head and managed to find Sam’s arm and clutch it like a lifeline.

“Be okay?” Sam exclaimed. “You can’t even talk right!”

“No h’spl! hepm’yup-“

Even brain damaged, Dean knew the verbal bitchsigh when he heard it, but felt Sam’s hands help him sit up slowly, pausing to allow Dean to adjust to the change in attitude.  Nausea rolled through him again and he pitched forward slightly to spit and gag a little more. The pain was incredible and he was helpless to stop the hot tears that rolled down his face.

“God-“ He swiped roughly where he thought his face was and pulled his legs under himself to try to stand.

“Wait, hold on,” one of Sam’s arms slid around Dean’s waist and the other pulled Deans arm over Sam’s shoulder. “Okay, one, two, three-“ On three Sam grunted and his grip on Dean tightened as he raised them both to their feet. Sam stood anyway. Dean’s knees buckled and all that held him upright was Sam’s death grip on him.  They swayed there for a moment until Dean finally felt steady enough to try to take a step.

From there it was slow going, but gradually, stumbling step by step, they made their way to the Impala. The blood pouring down Dean’s face had slowed to a sluggish drool by the time they made it to the car, but he still looked like a reject from Chainsaw Massacre. Dean’s steps had gained more control as they moved along. Sam eased him into the passenger side.

“I gotta go get our stuff,” Sam told him, helping Dean move his feet into the footwell. “I’ll be right back.” He left the door open in case Dean got sick again and to let the cool night breeze flow over him unobstructed.  Dean lay back against the seat with his hands tangled in his hair, making small sounds of pain…

“C’mon, Dean, just a little bit further and you can lay down.”

Dean felt himself being pulled again, gently. “Dude….just sa’down-“ he objected.

Sam’s frowning concern presented itself. “Dean, that was half an hour ago, we’re at the motel now.”

Dean blinked and looked around, sure enough, there was the erratically blinking sign announcing they were welcome at The Come Again Motel. At least that’s what it would have said if the “again” part of the sign actually lit up, and the missing word probably made the name more spot on.  Even the glance he gave the nasty thing sent ice picks dancing through his head. He covered his eyes and groaned, his fingers sticky with half dried blood.

 Sam helped him turn and rise from the car, gripping his belt and one arm to help him stay upright. Dean threw a hand against the car as the whole parking lot swayed and rolled like a wave in a heavy sea. That thought brought the boat thing back to mind and he lurched forward, dry heaving, as Sam fought to keep him from pitching face first to the ground, which in all honesty sounded pretty fucking good right then.

“I gotcha,” Sam grated, holding him steady. “I still think you need a hospital.”

“Jus’ gimme a min’t,” Dean gasped.  He swallowed convulsively, spitting, almost hitting his own boots. “I‘an do it.” He closed his eyes and pulled in a couple of deep breaths, groping for his center. Slowly he straightened enough to start walking and together they made their hesitant way to their door.

Sam looked around as they moved drunkenly toward their room, hoping no one saw them ‘cause right now and called the cops after one look at Dean, face and clothes liberally streaked and splattered with blood. He had to lean Dean against the wall and hold him in place with his own body when they finally reached their room to keep Dean from sliding off the sidewalk onto the ground like he was melting, while Sam dug for their key. Too late, he realized he should have opened the damned door first and then gone back for Dean.  Luckily Dean was clutching Sam’s jacket with both hands and anchoring himself well enough he managed to stay in place, eyes tightly closed, head hanging, still making those soft sounds of pain as he exhaled.

 The key finally clicked and Sam shoved the door open, gathering Dean back up and hauling him inside. Kicking the door closed behind him, Sam pulled Dean toward the nearest bed and sat him down on it. Sam removed his own jacket and put his gun on the table, flicking on the low light from the bedside table lamp before he started helping Dean off with his blood streaked jacket.

Dean moaned and turned away from even that soft light, his head coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder as Sam carefully removed his jacket.  Tossing it aside, Sam shifted a little and holding Dean’s head steady between his hands, moved to sit next to him.

“Can you look at me for a second, Dean? Just for a second. Open your eyes.” Sam coaxed, helping Dean support his head.

Dean tried to keep his eyes open, but the sight of even the two – thank God, only two now- Sams was still too hard to look at for long, and they wouldn’t stay in one place. “Woah,” Dean said, reaching out to grab the shoulders of the Sam that was on his right. “Dude-b’still.”

Sam snorted, noting that Dean’s eyes were still uneven but not as bad as he had first thought. “Dean, do you know where we are?”

“S’tn onabed.”

“No, what town we’re in,” Sam replied patiently.

Dean stared at him blankly, grimacing, one hand against this head. “Hell’f I know- din’ know when we got’ere.”  He blinked rapidly for a few seconds. “’S Wensdy,” He offered, fairly certain about that, aware in a vague sort of way what Sam was trying to do. All he wanted to do was clean this blood off, eat 50 aspirin and lie down.

 Sam pursed his lips. “Close enough,” he finally agreed, knowing any attempt to seek medical assistance would be met with violent resistance. “Let me grab some ibuprofen and let’s try to get this blood off you.”

The gift of pain killers was gratefully received along with a few shaky sips of water and a brief interlude to make sure they weren’t coming back up, then Sam set about getting Deans filthy, bloody clothes off.

Dean was surprisingly cooperative, but considering every movement made his head ring and caused Sam to instantly multiply into 7 before returning to the now acceptable 2, one of which was beginning to fade, the less he struggled, the better. By the time Dean’s boots were removed and his shirts, the top shirt could be washed, but Sam had cut the t-shirt off with quick slices, it was crap shirt and Dean simply couldn’t hold his arms up long enough to get it off, Dean was slightly more coherent but still tight with pain.

“Wanna shower,” he demanded once he was sitting bare-chested on the bed, scratching the drying blood from his scalp. He started to stand, making it about halfway before sinking back down as his knees failed him.

Sam put his hands out to stop him from falling forward and gave him a once over. There was a nasty laceration near his hairline where his skull had impacted the headstone but it was too bloody, bruised and hair matted to tell how bad it really was, plus a few lesser ones on his face, all to blood smeared to effectively assess. “I don’t think you can stand that long,“ Sam said, frowning. “But we need to clean you up, maybe I could run a bath and wash your hair like that.”

Dean shook his head without thinking and –wow- BIG mistake. “I can stand.”  MY GOD his head hurt. He pressed his hand to his scalp again. “I do’ feel s’good...”

Sam jumped forward as Dean suddenly melted back onto the bed. “Dean!” Dean was blinking though and conscious.

“Lemme lay here fr’sec. Then sh’er …” His eyes fluttered closed.

Sam shook his head and set about unbuckling Dean’s belt and tugging the jeans off. After some grunting effort and some lackluster swearing form Dean, he managed to get Dean lying correctly in the bed and pulled a sheet over him.  He went to the bathroom and filled the ice bucket with warm water, tossing a couple of threadbare washcloths into and throwing one of the hand towels over his shoulder before returning to the bed. He set the bucket on the bedside table and grabbed a chair from the tacky dinette set and dragged it to the bedside. Taking a seat he wrung out a cloth and carefully began to wash the blood from Dean’s face. His hair would have to wait but this way Sam could at least take care of the cuts.

After a few moments Dean’s eyes flickered and he rolled them toward Sam, the corner of his mouth tugging up ever so slightly. “Feels good,” he murmured. “Thanks…” this time his eyes stayed closed. 

Sam watched him for a moment, then set his watch alarm for 2 hours and went back to work.

Dean could shower in the morning.


The End