Dean limps into the motel room. Sam closes the door, locks it behind them.
Dean sits, heavy, on the end of his bed. His clothes are torn and bloody. Sam heads for the bathroom, emerges with the first aid kit, a bowl of water, and a washcloth. Grabs the whiskey bottle before he sinks to his knees in front of Dean.
"That was stupid." Sam cleans the blood and dirt from Dean's skin so he can see the extent of his wounds. "Taking risks like that."
"Bastard was going for your throat," Dean says. "I was just doing my job."
Sam sighs as he peels the tattered shirt from Dean's body. "Not if it gets you killed."
"Still alive, ain't I?" Dean grimaces as whiskey pours over the deep gashes on his forearm. "Son of a bitch. What a fucking waste." He snatches the bottle, brings it to his lips and gulps. "Besides, you think that's gonna be what kills me? You know better than that, Sammy."
Sam shuts his mouth and gets on with the job. He knows better than to argue with his brother.
When the wounds are clean, Sam wraps Dean's wounds. There's no point in stitching them. Still, Dean's as white as a sheet.
"You should be dead," Sam says.
"I know," Dean acknowledges. "But I'm not. Silver lining, Sammy."
Dean's a better hunter, now, it's true. If only it hadn't come with such a high price.
"When a job goes sideways like that," Dean says. "I can protect you. I'm faster, now, stronger—"
"Yeah, and right now, you look like a stick of chalk." Sam gets to his feet, opens the cooler.
He throws the object he retrieves across the room. Dean catches it.
"Keep 'em coming," Dean says, as his fangs descend. He rips into the corner of the bag and sucks noisily.
He finishes one, catches the next. There's blood on his lips. He's new, hasn't figured out how to feed without making a mess, yet.