Longhorn

Chapter 07 | Lumberjack

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Y/N

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They round Rebecca's house and spot the Impala parked on the street a few hundred feet away. You can see the way Dean's shoulders slump in relief, Your entire body almost drags, glad to see the car and a source of rest.

Your body is exhausted. The adrenaline has worn off and your side starts to emanate a burning, sharp pain into your ribs. You can feel your energy draining, sucked out of your body from the loss of blood. Dean's makeshift bandage did wonders, but it's definitely not stitches.

Dean starts walking toward the car, the usual pep in his step gone due to supporting most of your weight.

A dark, black car pulls up and parks next to the Impala. The only visible tell is the white strip across the side of the car, indicating what it is. "Shit," Dean hisses, pushing you back. He turns around, only to see another police car parked a few yards away. "Fuck, this way, this way."

He starts leading you - dragging you, really, at this point - toward a fence farther away from Rebecca's home.

Sam kisses his teeth under his breath and stops. "You go. I'll hold them off."

You freeze, forcing Dean to stop. "What? No, Sam, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Seriously," Dean whispers, like the cops can hear him from yards away and through their doors and windows. "They'll catch you, Sam."

"Look, they can't hold me. Just go, keep out of sight. Stitch her up in the motel room. Meet me at Rebecca's." Dean grumbles, but starts walking away. "Dean," Sam says, stopping his brother in his tracks. "Stay out of the sewers. I mean it."

Dean rolls his eyes and helps you brace yourself on the fence before he hops over. "I get it, Sammy." He helps you over, careful to put you down on the other side.

You hear the distant yell of the cops and glance back to see Sam's hands raised in the air.

It's a quick walk to the motel room. Luckily Dean had it booked under one of his hundreds of aliases so the cops have yet to go searching for it. You're sat in the old, faded red chair in the corner while he rifles through his back, trying to find the stitching kit.

You're breathing heavily, head leaned back and eyes squeezed shut. "I got it," he mutters, making his way over to you. "Okay," he starts. His soft tone makes your eyes open. "I'm going to have to take off the bandage, and probably cut your shirt."

"That's fine," you groan, peering down at him. "Just - give me your whiskey, Dean."

He smiles a little and reaches back to the table, handing you the whole bottle. You take a long, burning swig and immediately cough, wiping the dribble from your lower lip. "Get to work, lumberjack."

Dean simply nods, cutting the bloodstained sheet off with the knife he kept under his pillow. Your shirt is next, with him cutting it just at the edge of your bra and ripping the lower half off.

The stitching hurts, but not as much as the whiskey used to sterilize the wound. You actually cry when the brown liquid touches the cut, and your back curls. Dean had to hold your writhing body against the chair to make sure it was actually cleaned.

"I know," he whispers as he pushes the suture needle through the first part of your skin. "I know, princess, I'm so sorry."

You just lay your head back and sob, letting him finish what he's doing.

It takes a total of twenty-five stitches and thirty minutes before he's done. He actually has to pick you up and move you to the bed, and you barely even touch the sheets before you're out cold. You feel a faint touch of lips pressed against your forehead before your vision goes totally black.