A Flick and A Thought ~Sabriel

Chapter 5 - Ain't No Place Like Home

Sam laid in bed, grateful that Dean hadn't come upstairs... at least not yet anyway.

He sighed and looked at his hip, where a big gash of red sat, open and untreated.

Sam was not shocked when he found this. In fact, he already knew it was there. He had just rather not have had Gabriel, Lucifer, and Castiel to do more than they already had- which had been plenty according to him.

He gathered the motivation to clean the wound, getting up and creeping towards the bathroom to collect the needed supplies. He wet a dark washcloth, not wanting to stain any of the white ones they had- which would only add to any currently existing suspicion.

He huddled everything he needed close to his chest so he would not drop anything as he made his way back to his room. Once inside said room he closed the door quietly and carefully. He walked over to the bed, loosening his arm's hold on the supplies as they fell onto the bed.

He settled on the bed and began gently pressing the washcloth to his skin, attempting not to make any noise to avoid alerting Dean.
Hm, I remember thinking something like that recently...

 He brushed off the thought and continued rubbing and cleansing the wound.

After what was left of the blood was cleaned up, Sam began to notice how substantial the cut actually was. Upon even further inspection, he noticed it was fairly deep as well.

Nasty thing, aren't you? How'd you even...?

He remembered receiving blows pretty much all over his body, but never once in the hip; the explanation escaped him. Perhaps his spike in adrenaline was to blame.
Who knows, who cares.

He managed to clean himself up with only a few whimpers of pain leaving his mouth. He struggled to lift from the bed, all the while electric-like waves surged through his veins.

He winced slightly but continued striding toward the bathroom despite it.

Replacing everything as designated, he sharply nodded to himself in accomplishment, sparing a quick glance in the mirror before walking out, causing him to double-take.

Dean was so close to seeing this... thing, my face has morphed into.

Jesus, I barely recognize myself beneath the swelling.

He continued studying his face harshly in the mirror, taking time to identify all of the cuts and bruises that lay upon it. There was, of course, his eye; all swollen and beginning to bruise. Then there was a rather large gash lengthening over his lip, faintly reminding him of a lip ring. There were a few other slightly major looking cuts on his face, as well as plenty of bruises. Nonetheless, they seemed clean enough so Sam did not bother worrying.

It could be worse if it wasn't for them.

Sam's mind wandered.

Would I have died? 

Bled out on the sidewalk? Biding my time, alone, while the ants decided where to start?

A shiver ran up his spine, as he padded is cheek with his slightly tremoring palm for comfort.

He abruptly stood motionless as he hesitantly ghosted his fingers over the rest of the carnage.

There was almost no pain.

With a body so fragile a simple pat on the back could end him, his face, despite appearing just as bad, felt adjacent to almost normal.

In the years he'd lived, and the majority of said years he had hunted, the absolute craftsmanship required that had so quickly aided his wounds was rare and incredibly old-school, especially for people so young and seemingly, normal.