Fic: The Line
In answer to the prompt "Field Transfusion" by eschatologies at the 4th Hoodie Time H/C Comment fic meme!
1,200 words, gen, Dean whump.
By Dean's fourteen birthday, John had already been hospitalized seven times and suffered lesser hunting injuries more times than he could count. The boys were safer among the hunters than as ignorant civilians, of course, but John firmly believed in planning ahead. Before Dean's first hunt, he'd gotten his son a complete physical, his first in ten years, including blood typing. Some school sports form provided a decent excuse, with questions about exertion, contact sports and trauma built right in.
John scowled at the blood test results when they came back. B negative, both rare and completely incompatible with his own A positive. The next week, Sam had been typed, too--exactly the same as Dean. A field transfusion kit quickly joined the Impala's medical equipment. The kit was never used, and Dean threw away the cracking, yellowed tubing and replaced it with a new kit after Sam rejoined the hunt.
A few months after that, they found their father.
"You boys are beat to Hell," Dad had observed, just before he pulled out. Daevas had claws sharper than those of any animal they'd ever seen, and Sam was sure Dad was right. Still, he'd had worse. Dad headed west, while Dean drove north up I-94. The little lakes along the Wisconsin state line would provide a decent place to disappear for a few days, until Meg's allies had moved on.
A few minutes in, Dean stopped the car and shoved Sam into the driver's seat. "Tired, man," he muttered.
Still stinging from their father's sudden appearance and equally sudden departure, Sam accepted the keys without a word, and drove out on Rt 83 until he found a motel with a drunken desk clerk who took cash and provided a room at the rear with no questions asked. Sam drove around to the room and shook Dean, who'd somehow managed to fall asleep. Rather than waking, Dean slumped deeper against the door.
Fuck. Not asleep, unconscious. And Sam didn't dare put them on the grid with a hospital visit, not now.
"Dean." he demanded, low and urgent. "Talk to me. Where are you hurt?"
Dean's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't rouse.
Fuck again. Sam threw open the door of their room, then pulled Dean into a fireman's carry and laid him down in the bathtub, which appeared to be the cleanest part of the room. It might aggravate his injuries, but Dean had been walking around earlier. One last trip to fetch the first aid kit and lay down the world's fastest salt lines, then he could try to figure out what was wrong with Dean.
A few quick strokes with the shears, and Dean's clothing fell off. Beyond the obvious wounds on his face, there were two long slashes on his torso and one deep in the muscle of his upper arm. His t-shirt was soaked with blood, and blood still flowed freely from two of them. Sam slapped a rapid pressure dressing on the arm injury, then turned his attention to the cut on Dean's chest, also leaking. Luckily, it seemed a rib had stopped the claw, and there was no sign the chest wall had been pierced. Quickly Sam disinfected, stitched the muscle, stitched skin, and finished with a sterile dressing. Then, Sam unwrapped the arm and treated it as well: disinfect, stitch muscle, stitch skin. The third wound, on his abdomen was almost five inches long, but it was bleeding only sluggishly. It had penetrated the full thickness of the skin in places, but the abdominal muscle was intact, so Sam just glued it shut.
Through all this, Dean had remained unconscious, but he stirred or muttered now and then. Sam talked nonstop, about medical grade superglue, the ugly pink and orange tile on the bathroom, what an ass Dad was for showing himself and then vanishing all over again, and why Dean couldn't possibly have mentioned that he needed help before he all but exsanguinated.
With the basic treatment done, Sam assessed his brother again. His pulse was steady but too fast, and a check of the pulse points revealed a very good reason he wasn't waking--his pressure was too low. Dean's lips and eyelids were too pale, and his skin tone was middling shocky. He'd live, most likely, if nothing happened to send him further downhill, and if he could rouse far enough to drink something, but, best case scenario, he'd be off his feet for a week and off his game for a month.
Putting away the suture kit, and making a note to restock on sterile dressings, Sam's eyes fell on the transfusion kit. "If there was ever a time for it..." he thought.
The kit lacked a proper anticoagulant-lined storage bag, and a direct transfusion was tricky logistically. For one thing, there wasn't nearly enough space in the bathroom to lay two Winchesters flat side by side. For another, the safe rate at which donated blood can enter the human body is a great deal slower than the rate at which a donor can give it. First, Sam moved his brother to the nearest bed and propped up his feet. Then, he dashed back outside to the vending machine, made sure the room was secure, and finally, he took a moment to clean and dress his own injuries.
The basic principle was simple enough, and over a century old. Sam made one last check of the salt lines and sat down on the edge of Dean's bed. The needle slid cleanly into Dean's right hand, his best vein, and easy to stick even with Dean on the brink of hypovolemic shock. A second needle slid into his own left hand, and he climbed into the bed beside Dean, putting his feet on the other pillow. One last pulse check for both of them, and Sam opened the valve.
Three hours, Sam decided. That should be a pint and a bit, at the rate the blood was flowing. Without raising his head, he turned off the light. The TV remote was in reach, but Sam found himself enjoying the silence. Slowly he sipped at his water bottle.
Two and a half hours later, Dean woke. Through years of habit, he assessed the situation before opening his eyes. Pain, not new. Secure tightness suggested he'd been properly bandaged. Motel sheets, Sam's sleep breathing, probably dark outside. Still, something seemed out of place. Why was Sam's breathing so close?
Dean's eyes opened, and he took in the tubing. Carefully he raised his head. The room spun, but he stayed conscious. He grabbed Sam's water bottle before it could spill and helped himself to the rest of it. Without moving from the pillows, Dean shut the valve, yanked out his line, and rolled over to sleep.
1,200 words, gen, Dean whump.
By Dean's fourteen birthday, John had already been hospitalized seven times and suffered lesser hunting injuries more times than he could count. The boys were safer among the hunters than as ignorant civilians, of course, but John firmly believed in planning ahead. Before Dean's first hunt, he'd gotten his son a complete physical, his first in ten years, including blood typing. Some school sports form provided a decent excuse, with questions about exertion, contact sports and trauma built right in.
John scowled at the blood test results when they came back. B negative, both rare and completely incompatible with his own A positive. The next week, Sam had been typed, too--exactly the same as Dean. A field transfusion kit quickly joined the Impala's medical equipment. The kit was never used, and Dean threw away the cracking, yellowed tubing and replaced it with a new kit after Sam rejoined the hunt.
A few months after that, they found their father.
"You boys are beat to Hell," Dad had observed, just before he pulled out. Daevas had claws sharper than those of any animal they'd ever seen, and Sam was sure Dad was right. Still, he'd had worse. Dad headed west, while Dean drove north up I-94. The little lakes along the Wisconsin state line would provide a decent place to disappear for a few days, until Meg's allies had moved on.
A few minutes in, Dean stopped the car and shoved Sam into the driver's seat. "Tired, man," he muttered.
Still stinging from their father's sudden appearance and equally sudden departure, Sam accepted the keys without a word, and drove out on Rt 83 until he found a motel with a drunken desk clerk who took cash and provided a room at the rear with no questions asked. Sam drove around to the room and shook Dean, who'd somehow managed to fall asleep. Rather than waking, Dean slumped deeper against the door.
Fuck. Not asleep, unconscious. And Sam didn't dare put them on the grid with a hospital visit, not now.
"Dean." he demanded, low and urgent. "Talk to me. Where are you hurt?"
Dean's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't rouse.
Fuck again. Sam threw open the door of their room, then pulled Dean into a fireman's carry and laid him down in the bathtub, which appeared to be the cleanest part of the room. It might aggravate his injuries, but Dean had been walking around earlier. One last trip to fetch the first aid kit and lay down the world's fastest salt lines, then he could try to figure out what was wrong with Dean.
A few quick strokes with the shears, and Dean's clothing fell off. Beyond the obvious wounds on his face, there were two long slashes on his torso and one deep in the muscle of his upper arm. His t-shirt was soaked with blood, and blood still flowed freely from two of them. Sam slapped a rapid pressure dressing on the arm injury, then turned his attention to the cut on Dean's chest, also leaking. Luckily, it seemed a rib had stopped the claw, and there was no sign the chest wall had been pierced. Quickly Sam disinfected, stitched the muscle, stitched skin, and finished with a sterile dressing. Then, Sam unwrapped the arm and treated it as well: disinfect, stitch muscle, stitch skin. The third wound, on his abdomen was almost five inches long, but it was bleeding only sluggishly. It had penetrated the full thickness of the skin in places, but the abdominal muscle was intact, so Sam just glued it shut.
Through all this, Dean had remained unconscious, but he stirred or muttered now and then. Sam talked nonstop, about medical grade superglue, the ugly pink and orange tile on the bathroom, what an ass Dad was for showing himself and then vanishing all over again, and why Dean couldn't possibly have mentioned that he needed help before he all but exsanguinated.
With the basic treatment done, Sam assessed his brother again. His pulse was steady but too fast, and a check of the pulse points revealed a very good reason he wasn't waking--his pressure was too low. Dean's lips and eyelids were too pale, and his skin tone was middling shocky. He'd live, most likely, if nothing happened to send him further downhill, and if he could rouse far enough to drink something, but, best case scenario, he'd be off his feet for a week and off his game for a month.
Putting away the suture kit, and making a note to restock on sterile dressings, Sam's eyes fell on the transfusion kit. "If there was ever a time for it..." he thought.
The kit lacked a proper anticoagulant-lined storage bag, and a direct transfusion was tricky logistically. For one thing, there wasn't nearly enough space in the bathroom to lay two Winchesters flat side by side. For another, the safe rate at which donated blood can enter the human body is a great deal slower than the rate at which a donor can give it. First, Sam moved his brother to the nearest bed and propped up his feet. Then, he dashed back outside to the vending machine, made sure the room was secure, and finally, he took a moment to clean and dress his own injuries.
The basic principle was simple enough, and over a century old. Sam made one last check of the salt lines and sat down on the edge of Dean's bed. The needle slid cleanly into Dean's right hand, his best vein, and easy to stick even with Dean on the brink of hypovolemic shock. A second needle slid into his own left hand, and he climbed into the bed beside Dean, putting his feet on the other pillow. One last pulse check for both of them, and Sam opened the valve.
Three hours, Sam decided. That should be a pint and a bit, at the rate the blood was flowing. Without raising his head, he turned off the light. The TV remote was in reach, but Sam found himself enjoying the silence. Slowly he sipped at his water bottle.
Two and a half hours later, Dean woke. Through years of habit, he assessed the situation before opening his eyes. Pain, not new. Secure tightness suggested he'd been properly bandaged. Motel sheets, Sam's sleep breathing, probably dark outside. Still, something seemed out of place. Why was Sam's breathing so close?
Dean's eyes opened, and he took in the tubing. Carefully he raised his head. The room spun, but he stayed conscious. He grabbed Sam's water bottle before it could spill and helped himself to the rest of it. Without moving from the pillows, Dean shut the valve, yanked out his line, and rolled over to sleep.