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Summary
The third time, the charm.
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His broken fingers were a twilight shade, crimson and indigo, grimed with dirt and bearing the distinct impression of a boot print. Sam handled him like a precious thing made of sand and held together with wishes, wiping the skin clean and fitting the splints in place, wrapping the two fingers separately and then together.
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Sam went outside, promising Dean chocolate bars and those Doritos that were the color of homemade napalm, but he loitered before hitting the vending machine, wanting to skip past the part of the night where Dean was hurt and embarrassed and miserable in defeat, and get to the opiate-softened, sugar-sweetened version of his brother that always repaired Sam after moments of extreme duress. -
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