Highway to Hell

2. Burns

"Freaking vampires."

I couldn't see Dean's face, but his shoulders were tense beneath his leather jacket. His stance was wide as he loomed in front of me, machete at his side.

Sam dropped down into a crouch beside me, hazel eyes big with worry. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Pushing myself off the floor, I gave a silent nod, not trusting myself to speak. My arm was beginning to throb from the deep cuts that ran up my forearm. I would have pressed on the wounds, but shards of glass were still embedded within my skin.

"C'mon," Dean rumbled as he sheathed his machete. "Let's patch you up."

Afraid of what I'd find, I didn't meet my brother's eyes. I quietly followed him to the nearby dining room table after he'd given Sam instructions to grab the first aid kit from the trunk.

Dad's face kept flashing through my mind. His inhuman eyes. His glistening teeth. The snarl that still lifted the fine hairs on my neck and arms.

The careless rat-tat-tapping of a one-of-a-kind driftwood chair being unceremoniously dragged along the wooden floor drew my thoughts back to the present. Dean flipped the chair around and settled it in front of me. "Sit," he instructed.

It was a tone I knew well. I sat automatically, not even considering putting up a fight. Another chair was dragged over. Dean settled into it beside me.

Calloused hands took my arm, lifting it carefully. Dean examined the bleeding lacerations with a clinical eye. "Gonna need stitches."

"Yeah," I muttered. I'd already guessed as much from the brief glances I'd gotten.

Sam returned, a small canvas bag originally meant to be a carry-on handbag hanging from one hand. "Here," he said, passing it to Dean.

Dean set it on the table and unzipped the top before diving in. Plastic crinkled and click-clacked inside as he rummaged. Then he emerged with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Unscrewing the top, he held it out to me.

I grimaced before gripping the neck and lifting it to my mouth, I tried not to inhale too much of the strong smell. Closing my eyes, I drank down three mouthfuls before I was sputtering and coughing from the taste. I slammed the bottle back onto the tabletop.

Dean had a bottle of peroxide ready, and before I could do more than swear at him, he'd poured a good amount over my arm. I grit my teeth, tears springing to my eyes as I squinted a glare at him. "Toughen up, Princess," Dean replied as he pulled out a pair of tweezers.

"A little warning would've been nice," I shot back.

Dean glanced at me through the corner of his eye before pouring more peroxide over the tweezers. "Arm out," he ordered as he turned to face me.

Gritting my teeth again, I extended my arm. It was still oozing blood.

Dean took hold of it and leaned down, peering intently at each deep furrow in my flesh. After a moment, he used the tweezers to grip the first small shard of glass and pull it out in a single smooth motion.

It hurt. My shoulders tensed as the next one came out. Then the next. I had to look away.

Sam was leaning against the doorway, eyes fixed down the hall beyond. Guarding us, I realized.

"Pretty crappy party," Dean said, pulling my attention back to him.

Despite the tension, my shoulders still fell. "Yeah."

"Still. You got a car. A lame car, but wheels are wheels." Dean slid another bit of glass off the blade of his tweezers and down onto the small linen napkin he'd spread out on the table to hold all the glass.