"sammy, i swear, how does this keep happening?" dean is looming over sam, who is sat on the closed lid of the toilet. his brow is furrowed in concentration as he dabs away the stream of blood down his little brother's cupid's bow and chin.
"i don't know." sam says, nasally as he pinches his nose shut with a tissue between his fingers, head tipped back. "they just keep happening. sorry."
sam is lying. sam knows full well how he got this nose bleed.
there was a 40 minute window between dean leaving to get groceries (groceries is a loose term, its mostly chips, cereal and tinned spaghetti hoops), and dean coming back with said groceries in hand. sam spent the better part of those 40 minutes banging his face into the motel bathroom wall. the bathroom, because the tile is harder than the drywall with the ugly wallpaper in the main room and will do a better job.
when he finally felt his nose grow runny and his philtrum wet, he turned to the mirror and grinned a bloody, gory, proud grin to himself. success.
he could already anticipate dean's reaction.
"awh, sammy, what happened?" he'd drop the groceries where he stood and rush to him, he's certain. "c'mere, lemme take care of it."
and take care of it dean does. always.
sam can't help it. he likes the attention.
"maybe we should..." dean begins, but cuts himself off with a huff, frowning. maybe they should what? take sam to a doctor? they can't afford an appointment, let alone a friggin' brain scan. dean simply hopes there's not something seriously wrong, continuing to dab gently at his little brother's face.
something is seriously wrong, but not at all what dean thinks.
