Count the Headlights on the Highway
3
Vivian awoke to a big hand shaking her thigh. She gasped, not remembering at first how she got in the black Impala with the Winchester brothers.
“We’re at the hotel.” Dean looked haggard and grumpy. She reached up to rub her eye and winced. The cut muscle in her arm was no longer in shock. It felt tight- pulled thin. “Let’s go patch you up.”
She kept her lame arm close to her body, maneuvering her way out of the car. She couldn’t seem to even open the back door to get her belongings. “I got it,” Sam offered, smiling.
Her lack of sleep made his nice gesture almost overwhelming. She grabbed the cuff of his coat. “Thanks, really.”
“Not a problem,” he laughed.
Dean unlocked the door, helping her through the frame. More than just her arm, her entire body felt brittle. It was almost nauseating.
“That’s cute,” she remarked of the porn paused on the dinky, rabbit-eared t.v. “I try,” Dean laughed, unbothered. He calmly clicked it off. “Sit,” he hooked his thumb toward the unmade bed, obviously his.
Sam walked in, closing the door with his foot. He placed all of Vivian’s things on a wide-set dresser carefully. He kicked off his shoes and dove under the covers of the other queen bed. “I’m friggin’ exhausted,” he yawned.
Dean had been walking around the room, gathering things. He approached Vivian with a pack of needles, floss, and a fifth of Everclear. She planted her bare feet under her ass as he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He tried to tear her sleeve off to keep it out of the way. “Damn,” he squinted his eyes, straining himself to pull harder.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she huffed, pulling the torn, bloody thing over her head and threw it against the wall. Sitting in just her black bra and jeans, she threw him a, ‘really,’ look.
Dean cocked a brow. “That works.”
His hands were hot as they untied the make-shift bandage covering the gash. “My God, he got you good.” He sat back, pulling a needle from the pack, holding it above his lighter until it glowed. He threaded the floss through the eye and set it aside.
Vivian set her jaw as he took a pull from the bottle of grain alcohol. He put the lip to her mouth. She took a greedy gulp. “More?” She shook her head. She didn’t need her blood any thinner in this situation. Dean took his wallet from his back pocket and placed it in her mouth. “Hold your breath and bite down.”
He tilted the bottle over the wound, bathing it. Vivian threw her head back, eyes watering. The pain was ridiculous. Every atom in her body was screaming. She was groaning through the wallet as quietly as she could manage, trying not to wake Sam.
Dean took a hand towel from his lap and pressed it against her arm. She leaned forward, laying her forehead on his shoulder. He peeled it off and picked up his needle and floss. He began lacing up the length of the cut together. Vivian kept her face pressed into the crook of his neck. The thick tug of the floss was always followed by the bite of menthol; the little punctures felt slathered in IcyHot from the spearmint flavoring.
For forty-five minutes they sat there; him stitching, her bitching. Finally, he tore the excess floss off with his teeth, knotting the end. Vivian rose her head with great care, too tired to open her eyes all the way. “Are we done?”
Dean nodded silently, gingerly running a thumb his handiwork: the five inch ridge of puckered skin and stitches. She unfolded her legs and slid off the bed, ruffled through her bag and pulled out a giant t-shirt. With her back to Dean, she removed her bra, pulled the shirt on and wiggled out of her jeans.
Vivian popped her back, yawning. She cupped Dean’s face and pressed her lips to his forehead.
“You’re welcome,” he smiled sleepily. The crawled into the stiff bed together, falling asleep instantly, back-to-back.
“We’re at the hotel.” Dean looked haggard and grumpy. She reached up to rub her eye and winced. The cut muscle in her arm was no longer in shock. It felt tight- pulled thin. “Let’s go patch you up.”
She kept her lame arm close to her body, maneuvering her way out of the car. She couldn’t seem to even open the back door to get her belongings. “I got it,” Sam offered, smiling.
Her lack of sleep made his nice gesture almost overwhelming. She grabbed the cuff of his coat. “Thanks, really.”
“Not a problem,” he laughed.
Dean unlocked the door, helping her through the frame. More than just her arm, her entire body felt brittle. It was almost nauseating.
“That’s cute,” she remarked of the porn paused on the dinky, rabbit-eared t.v. “I try,” Dean laughed, unbothered. He calmly clicked it off. “Sit,” he hooked his thumb toward the unmade bed, obviously his.
Sam walked in, closing the door with his foot. He placed all of Vivian’s things on a wide-set dresser carefully. He kicked off his shoes and dove under the covers of the other queen bed. “I’m friggin’ exhausted,” he yawned.
Dean had been walking around the room, gathering things. He approached Vivian with a pack of needles, floss, and a fifth of Everclear. She planted her bare feet under her ass as he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He tried to tear her sleeve off to keep it out of the way. “Damn,” he squinted his eyes, straining himself to pull harder.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she huffed, pulling the torn, bloody thing over her head and threw it against the wall. Sitting in just her black bra and jeans, she threw him a, ‘really,’ look.
Dean cocked a brow. “That works.”
His hands were hot as they untied the make-shift bandage covering the gash. “My God, he got you good.” He sat back, pulling a needle from the pack, holding it above his lighter until it glowed. He threaded the floss through the eye and set it aside.
Vivian set her jaw as he took a pull from the bottle of grain alcohol. He put the lip to her mouth. She took a greedy gulp. “More?” She shook her head. She didn’t need her blood any thinner in this situation. Dean took his wallet from his back pocket and placed it in her mouth. “Hold your breath and bite down.”
He tilted the bottle over the wound, bathing it. Vivian threw her head back, eyes watering. The pain was ridiculous. Every atom in her body was screaming. She was groaning through the wallet as quietly as she could manage, trying not to wake Sam.
Dean took a hand towel from his lap and pressed it against her arm. She leaned forward, laying her forehead on his shoulder. He peeled it off and picked up his needle and floss. He began lacing up the length of the cut together. Vivian kept her face pressed into the crook of his neck. The thick tug of the floss was always followed by the bite of menthol; the little punctures felt slathered in IcyHot from the spearmint flavoring.
For forty-five minutes they sat there; him stitching, her bitching. Finally, he tore the excess floss off with his teeth, knotting the end. Vivian rose her head with great care, too tired to open her eyes all the way. “Are we done?”
Dean nodded silently, gingerly running a thumb his handiwork: the five inch ridge of puckered skin and stitches. She unfolded her legs and slid off the bed, ruffled through her bag and pulled out a giant t-shirt. With her back to Dean, she removed her bra, pulled the shirt on and wiggled out of her jeans.
Vivian popped her back, yawning. She cupped Dean’s face and pressed her lips to his forehead.
“You’re welcome,” he smiled sleepily. The crawled into the stiff bed together, falling asleep instantly, back-to-back.