mamapranayama (mamapranayama) wrote,

SPN Fic: Dr. Badass Is In

Title: Dr. Badass is In
Author: Mamapranayama
Beta: borgmama1of5
Rating: Teen
Genre: Gen
Category: humor, hurt/comfort
Word Count: ~5600
Summary: Ash may be a genius, but there are some things he just cannot do.
Set season 2 after 'No Exit'. Featuring hurt/drugged!Sam, hurt/protective!Dean, out-of-his-element!Ash, with a special appearance by Ellen.

A/N: Big shout out to my beta, borgmama1of5, who edited this fic and turned it from a sloppy mess into a readable story- she's awesome beyond words. Thanks so much for the help and input b-mama!!!



Dr. Badass is In

 “Ash!” Her increasingly frustrated voice called out while the pounding hit him full-tilt in the brain and tore into his unconsciousness. He groaned and rolled over, throwing a pillow over his head, hoping the noise would go away and let him get back to dreaming about that girl from the Sweet Cherry Pie video- oh the things he wanted to do to that juicy ……

“Dammit, Ash!” Her piercing voice echoed, getting louder and more pissed with every second he lingered. “Get your lazy ass outta bed right now or you can kiss your free room and board good-bye!”

He grabbed the pillow from his face and threw it at the door petulantly with a growl, but he knew if he didn’t obey soon there would be hell to pay and possibly, bloodshed.

He chanced a glance at his clock and swore. It was only 10 am … What the hell could be so important to wake him up this early?

The knocking stopped finally, but he knew she hadn’t gone away … He could still feel her fuming presence on the other side of the door.

“Fine … I’m getting up,” he mumbled, then threw his legs over the side of the bed and hefted himself out of bed. Coming to a tentative stand, he stretched his arms and yawned loudly, feeling his joints pop as he loosened up stiff muscles. The knocking at the door started again, almost matching tempo with the sledgehammer beating away at his brains- he really shouldn’t have invited tequila to the party last night he mused grimly, as the room wobbled and spun for a moment.

“C’mon, Ash, I ain’t getting any younger out here,” she nagged through the door. “And I don’t give a Flying Dutchman  how hung-over you are, just get out here already.”

He shuffled bleary-eyed across the room, and stumbled over an empty beer bottle lying on the floor which sent him careening towards the door. He barely caught himself before his face met the hard wood. He heard an exasperated sigh through the door jamb and he could almost hear the flaring of her nostrils as he fumbled with the lock and then the door knob.

Before he could pull at the door, it was pushed open, revealing one irritable and crabby-faced bar owner. Her eyes widened as soon as she laid eyes on him and he suddenly flushed, realizing the mistake he had just made.

“Oh for God’s sake, Ash …” She turned away from him, shielding her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you that clothing is not an option around here?”

“Whoops …” He laughed nervously, this day was so not turning out well  -- and it had just started. “My bad … Hold on … got my pants around here somewhere.”

He quickly dug through a pile of clothes heaped near his feet and found a pair of jeans to slip on, unmindful of whether they were clean or not. All the while Ellen kept her eyes averted and grumbled something under her breath about lazy slobs and no-good sonsofbitches that did nothing but trash her place and run around naked.

“You decent yet?” she asked, irritability in her voice mounting.

Ash zipped up his fly then whipped a hand through his hair to comb out some of the tangles. “Yup … pretty as a picture now.” He grinned, but it faded when Ellen turned her eyes back on him and they narrowed into thin slits.

“It’s Wednesday, Ash.”

“Wednesday? Already?” Ash scratched his head. “Damn, I did not see that coming ... ”

“Well, duh…Yeah it’s Wednesday, “ she shot back. “You’re a frigging genius, but you can’t even remember what cotton-pickin’ day it is?”

“Well …” He didn’t really have a good answer for her and could only shrug, thoroughly abashed and chastised. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was piss Ellen off and he hated himself for the reproachful glare she sent his way. “Sorry?”

Ellen had done so much for him ever since he stumbled into the bar with only the clothes on his back and a homemade laptop to his name, that he never wanted to disappoint her, especially now.

Ever since Jo had set off hunting, Ellen had been more than a little grumpier than usual. Ash sleeping in on the one day a week when she took the two hour drive out to the Sam’s Club in Grand Island for the bar’s supplies hadn’t brightened her disposition any -- especially since Ash had come to realize that her Wednesday trips were her one chance each week to get some time away from the Roadhouse and the constant barrage of problems that came with running a hub for hunters across the country.

 She’s always claimed that she didn’t trust any distributors to deliver to the bar, not with the sort of clientele that frequented the place. But Ash observed more than people gave him credit for. Ellen almost always came back from her ‘supply runs’ with her hair looking freshly blown out or her nails neatly buffed and manicured. She’d never admit it out loud, but there was a woman underneath that rock-hard exterior and even she needed a little escape sometimes.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses anyway, okay? I’m late enough taking off as it is. Just finish getting dressed and get to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, touching his finger tips to his brow and giving her a mock salute. She sighed, rolled her eyes, but didn’t say any more, leaving him to get ready but shutting the door behind her with a little more force than was necessary.

Five minutes later, Ash was dressed in his favorite t-shirt from Ozzfest a few years back, had brushed the remaining tangles out of his hair, and was contemplating a shave but decided to forget it and go with the rugged, stubbly look instead.

 Chicks dig a man with a little facial hair anyway. Makes him look dangerous.

“That’s right,” he pointed to his reflection. “You’re one handsome dude.”

 When he was done admiring himself, he joined Ellen in the main bar before she could get any bitchier at him. She picked up her keys and marched straight for him.

“Okay … you know the drill, right?”

Ash splayed out his hands and projected confidence. “Pshtduh … of course I do.”

She folded her arms across her chest, eying him with a lot less trust in his ability not to screw things up while she was gone than he had in himself, and gave him the same speech she did each week . “Just remember -- no one comes in before we open. Shotgun’s under the bar next to the beer taps and extra shells are in the drawer above it. And under absolutely no circumstances are you to drink anything besides soda or water while I’m gone, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah … I know.”

“Think you can handle it?”

“Damn, Ellen you’re only gonna be gone a few hours. It’s not like I’m gonna set the place on fire.”

Her eyes narrowed into even thinner slits.

“… Which I won’t,” he assured her.

“Alright then …” She moved towards the door. “I should be back by three, but don’t hesitate to call me if there’s trouble, hear?”

“Will you just go already -- I got this. I’ll be fine … trust me, nothin’s gonna happen.”


Boredom took hold almost as soon as Ash heard the start of Ellen’s truck, its wheels scraping against the gravel as she pulled onto the paved highway.

 He sighed heavily.

There really wasn’t much that he was tasked to do right then except guard the place until he could open the doors to the public at 3 p.m., and there typically weren’t more than one or maybe two customers that came through the doors of this remote saloon on a Wednesday afternoon.  It wasn’t until sunset that the Roadhouse’s typical customers came by for drinks, jobs, and information. Then he’d be busy. Until then however, he’d have to occupy himself some other way.

“Well …” he said to himself out loud and slapped his hands together “Guess it’s Warcraft time.”

One hour, four quests, and sixteen dead enemies later saw Ash’s Night Elf hunter nearing level 68.

 “Ha! You may be big, Grismalack, but you’re as dumb as a bag of hammers,” he laughed with glee as Bob (he really needed to figure out a cooler name for his avatar) snuck up from behind with his two-handed battle axe and cut down the mage. “Boo yah ... Eat this shit!”

 Okay … maybe in the real world he wasn’t much of a hero, and it was true that he was much better suited to working in front of a computer screen than behind a gun, but in this world of fantasy, he was a warrior of unmatched skill and he reveled in his imaginary power.

 He spied a warlock coming out from some bushes and was about to strike again to win the battle quest against the Mage guild when a sudden banging on the front door sent him jumping out of his seat and slammed him back into reality.

“Shit …” he breathed. His heart beat a staccato rhythm as he turned to see a man’s silhouette standing outside the shaded window in the door.

 “We’re closed,” he yelled in annoyance.

The figure banged forcefully on the door again, causing Ash to drop from his barstool and start for the shotgun. He may not be as much of an expert at handling real weapons as he was at virtual ones, but Jo and Ellen had taught him enough to defend the place, and it wasn’t too hard to fill someone with buckshot if he needed to.


Even though Ash recognized the voice, he wasn’t about to take any chances. He grabbed the shotgun and the flask of holy water before he cautiously approached the door.

“Ellen, you in there? ...   C’mon open up! It’s me!”

“Dean?” Ash called back, as he approached the entrance and raised the window blind, to reveal the pale and pinched face of Dean Winchester. Ash sighed in relief that he wouldn’t need the shotgun.

“Ash? That you?” Dean’s voice sounded strained and out of breath as he leaned into the window with a cupped hand and peered inside.

“Well it ain’t the Dalai Lama.” Ash replied, setting the shotgun against the wall, unlocking the door and letting it swing open. Ash figured that Ellen wouldn’t mind if he let Dean in before opening time seeing as how just one look at the Winchester orphans sent her maternal instincts into overdrive. But just to be on the safe side, Ash unscrewed the bottle of holy water and dashed what he thought would be only a fine spray of it onto the hunter. However, he misjudged his ability to splash only a small amount and ended up nearly emptying the bottle into Dean’s face.

“Pwssspt ... ” Dean spat out the water that landed in his mouth. “What the hell, man?!” he barked. Angry, but obviously not a demon.

“Whoops … sorry. Just making sure you’re not … ya know … a minion of the devil or nothing.” Ash replied quickly to forestall violence.

“I’m not possessed, moron,” Dean shot back, wiping his face with his shirt. That’s when Ash noticed the bandana Dean had tied around his right hand, his fat, swollen fingers peeking out like sausage links. Dark red splotches of blood covered the front of his shirt.

“Dude…you okay? What happened?”

“Wednesday happened, that’s what. We found a nest of vamps and tried to surprise them while they were asleep. Turns out they were vampires with guns ….Who’d have thunk?” Dean explained succinctly without elaborating any further, cradling his injured hand.  “Where’s Ellen? We need her help.”

“She’s on a supply run.  It’s just me right now.”

“Crap,” Dean mumbled. “Fine … I guess you’ll have to do.”

Ash pulled a hurt face, then suddenly realized something was a missing --  Winchesters traveled in pairs and Dean’s other half was nowhere in sight. “Where’s Sam?”

“In the car -- c’mon, help me get him in here,” Dean ordered as if he was a drill sergeant and Ash was a grunt in his platoon. For a split second Ash thought about snapping a ‘sir, yes sir!’ but decided that breathing was a habit he wasn’t ready to give up just yet, so he kept his mouth firmly shut and followed obediently.

 By the time Ash had caught up with Dean’s hurried strides, the backseat door was open. Ash looked over Dean’s shoulder and his stomach somersaulted.

He didn’t so well with blood.

It was everywhere.

Ash felt nauseated.

“Oh … Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus H. Christ on a stick …” He muttered, bile filling his mouth and completely ignoring that if Pastor Mike were to hear this blasphemy, Ash wouldn’t be handling any of the rattlers in church come Sunday morning.

“Sam … Sam … c’mon man, we’re here. You think you can help us get you out?”

Sam was twisted up on his left side, his body filling up the entire back seat in a very uncomfortable position given his size. From his right back pocket down the back of his thigh, his blue jeans looked like a red Rorschach test gone horribly wrong.

 Ash instinctively stepped back, his head feeling like a hot air balloon about to take off.

Sam remained limp for a moment then groaned before lifting his head.  Glassy eyes tried to focus on his brother. “Hey, Dean … d’n worry … can get m’self out. Don’ like it back here an’way.” Sam tried to reassure his brother. However, his slurred words weren’t terribly convincing.

“What the hell happened?” Ash asked weakly.

“What’s it look like?” Dean snarled. “Damn vamps shot him in the ass. Now help me get him out.”

Ash hesitated … He really didn’t like all that blood. “Damn … shouldn’t you take him to a hospital or something?”

Dean whirled. “It’s not that bad and we’d rather not have to explain to the police how he got shot. I can’t exactly patch Sam up myself,” Dean lifted his bandaged hand, “and the Roadhouse was the closest place I could think of.  So … are you gonna help me or what?”

Ash was still reluctant to approach.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dean asked looking him up and down. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Ash shook his head faintly, close to hyperventilating. “Sorry … it’s just all that blood … it’s so … bloody …” Was it just him or was the air suddenly getting hotter and thinner? He didn’t think he’d ever be able to purge this image from his brain.

Dean rolled his eye. “Jeez, man. Suck it up … It’s not like you were the one that was shot and it’s not as bad as it looks. We just need to get him inside, get the bullet out and sew him up, okay?”

Yeah … suck it up you chicken … it’s just blood … just a person’s life-force dripping all over the place …

 He nodded, fighting the urge to either pass out or upchuck on his shoes by taking a tentative step forward.

“You grab one arm and I’ll get his other,” Dean instructed, and between the two of them they managed to pull Sam out of the backseat, both of them grunting under the strain until they had the taller man on his feet with his arms draped over their shoulders.

“Hey … it’s Ash …” Sam turned his head, his eyes not quite focused. “Hi, Ash.” Despite the bullet currently lodged in his butt, Sam didn’t seem to be feeling any pain as they half dragged-half carried him towards the Roadhouse door.

“What’s up with him?” Ash asked, sweat starting to drip down his face. Damn … Sam was heavy.

“Gave him a little Percocet for the ride over here. He’s still pretty loopy.”

Sam snorted and giggled. “Loopy … that’s a funny word … loooopy.” Sam stretched out the word and grinned. “Kinda feels good rolling off the tongue, ya know?”

Ash raised his eyebrows. “I think you might have given him a bit much.”

“You kidding me? He had half a tab …” Dean defended himself. “Sammy here has the remarkable power to get drunk off one beer and stoned on Tylenol. Don’t ya, Sam?”

Sam ignored Dean’s question, studying Ash and, more closely, his hair.

“Did I ever tell you how much I dig your hair, dude … I mean … c’mon … even Billy-Ray and MacGyver combined couldn’t pull off a mullet as glorious as yours,” Sam babbled, words tripping over his tongue.

Ash was pleased that even in his doped-up state Sam noticed the care and attention Ash gave his hair. “Thanks, man … it’s a labor of love really.  Been growing it out like this since I was ten.”

“Really? Me too. Dean says I need to cut it … but … I like my hair …” Sam nearly whined before his knees buckled and shifted his full weight onto Dean and Ash before he could right himself again. “Whoa …” He laughed. “Sorry … got a little dizzy.”

“Alright, Sam, you and Ash can discuss forming the ‘bad hair club for men’ later. Let’s just get you inside, huh?”

“’Kay, Dean … you’re the boss … always the boss … bossy- boss … Mr. Bossy-pants.”

Dean scowled, but then ignored Sam’s ranting and overly pouty face. It seemed to take forever to haul Sam into the building, and once they did Dean started to head them straight for the only surface in the bar tall enough and long enough to handle Sam’s gigantic frame: the pool table.

Ash suddenly stopped their forward momentum. “Hold up, Ellen will kill me if we get blood on the pool table … hold on.” Dean huffed in irritation, and then groaned as Sam’s full weight fell on him when Ash ducked out from under Sam’s arm and ran for the back storage room. Ash grabbed a plastic red and white checked tablecloth and went straight to the pool table, trying hard not to feel intimidated by Dean’s red and frustrated face as he spread the sheet of plastic out.

“You done yet?” Dean grumbled at Ash, dragging Sam to the table. “Jeez … you’d think you were setting the Thanksgiving table or something.”

Sam sniggered as he let Dean help him onto the table into a prone position, his bloody rear facing up. “Guess that makes me the turkey … gotta carve me up.”

“Yeah … let’s see how funny you think being a turkey is when we’re digging that bullet out of your keister, bitch,” Dean retorted, reaching his good hand up to ruffle Sam’s hair before turning to Ash again. “You know where Ellen keeps her med kit? “

“Yeah, it’s in her office.”

Ellen’s office was tucked off to the right of the storeroom, and Ash grabbed the old tackle-box turned med-kit tucked inside a cabinet He started back toward the wounded Winchesters, then stopped and turned back. He really had to call Ellen. Dean wouldn’t be able to pull out the projectile lodged in Sam’s derrière with his hand looking like a deformed kielbasa, and there was no way in hell Ash was capable of such make-shift surgery. Ellen needed to come back and do it.

He dialed the phone on her desk and waited impatiently for her to answer, but the call went straight to her voicemail: Hey, this is Ellen…I can’t be bothered right now, so leave a message.

“Shit … Ellen … got a little problem,” He babbled. “The Winchesters are here … so hurry back, okay?”

He slammed the phone down in frustration- she must have forgotten to turn her damn cell on or to recharge it; either that or she didn’t want to be pestered and actually did trust Ash not to mess things up while she was out. He liked the latter explanation better, but that still left him in a pickle.

He let a string of some more choice words flow from his mouth as he left the office and hurried back to Dean who had to be wondering what was taking him so long.

Damn impatient bastard.

“What happened? You fall in a well on the way back, Timmy?” Dean glared as Ash dropped the kit onto the pool table next to Sam’s feet.  Dean pulled a chair to sit beside his brother while Sam rested his head on his arms and appeared to be sleeping.

Ash tried to brush off the snide remark, knowing that Dean was anxious to get Sam patched up and he had to be in a great deal of pain himself, given the way he was holding his hand against his chest. “I tried to call Ellen. She wasn’t answering, but hopefully she’ll get the message I left her and double-time it back here so she can fix you two up.”

Dean shook his head. “We don’t have time to wait, Ash. Sam’s had that thing jammed in his backside for hours already … It needs to come out right away before infection sets in.”

“But look at your hand, Dean. Can you do that left-handed?”

Dean shook his head. Even though he was a considerably better at masking his pain than most men, he looked to be on the edge of passing out. “I may be a crack shot with either hand, but when it comes to field surgery … you’re gonna have to do this.”

Ash gulped.

Oh no … oh no. No, no …. hell no!

Ash flashbacked to seventh grade science and the first cut he attempted on that damned frog dissection … a poke of the scalpel into the flaccid skin, a little spurt of fluid, and the next thing he knew he was on the floor, the teacher waving a fan over his face while all the other kids stood around him snickering. That little incident earned him a nickname that stuck with him until graduation: Ashen Ash.

“Whoa … dude … I don’t … ” He stammered and shook his head.” I don’t do well with … blood … and guts and stuff like that. You want me to hack into the CIA or track a demon down for ya … yeah, that I can do, but this …”  It was bad enough looking at the blood soaking through Sam’s jeans, but now Dean wants him to get close up and personal with all that gore? No way. Seventh grade was not going to repeat itself. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean pushed himself off the chair to get in Ash’s face, and he suddenly felt like an antelope on Animal Planet that innocently sauntered up to a watering hole only to be pounced upon by a lion. “Sam’s bleeding all over the place and you’re the only one here with two working hands.”

Ash tried to speak but only a squeak come out as Dean grabbed Ash’s tee-shirt with his good hand, eyes blazing. “You are doing this, got it?”

Ash could only nod anxiously, praying that acquiescing would keep the fist wrapped in his shirt from smashing his face. “Okay…okay…but you gotta walk me through this, man…I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Dean let him go. “Sorry,” He apologized. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what to do, alright?”

“Hey …” A sleepy voice called out from the pool table, causing both Ash and Dean to turn their heads. “When you two are done making out can one of you please get this bullet out of my butt…it’s really starting to hurt.”


“Alright … you ready for this?”

“No.” Ash shook his head, his eyes darting between the pulpy red hole in Sam’s bare ass and the scalpel shaking in his latex-gloved hand.

“Ash …” Dean warned him.

“I know … I know … just give me second to connect with my inner chi, alright? It’s not like I’ve ever had to stick anything in another guy’s rear before … Not that I ever wanted to or nothing- I’m totally not into that,”  Ash babbled nervously, his heart thumping wilder in his chest than John Bonham on a drum set.

 “Don’ feel bad, Ash … ‘smy first time too,” dopey Sam snickered. Dean had given him the other half of the Percocet and he was feeling no pain again. “Just be gentle.” He tee–heed, a sound which was ten kinds of wrong coming from such a deep voice.

“Okay. Listen up, Ash,” Dean leaned in close, ignoring Sam’s giggling fit. “First thing you gotta do is make a little cut on the side of the hole and get it big enough so you can get the forceps in, alright?”

Ash swallowed, a bead of sweat dripping into his eyes.

Dean put his good hand on Ash’s shoulder. “Good. Now go on … you can do it.”

Ash held his breath, slowly bringing the scalpel down and touching the blade of the instrument against Sam’s flesh. He gulped as Sam jumped at the poke.

Sam squirmed. “That tickles …”

“Shut up and don’t move, Sammy,” Dean ordered.

“There you go being Mr. big-poopy-bossy-pants again …” Sam pouted.

Dean rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Ash … just cut already.”

“Right … right … here we go …” Ash blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Cutting in … cutting the sk-“ The room tilted and Ash’s knees started to buckle.

“Whoa. Whoa!” Dean’s arm stopped his fall and he spun Ash around to face him. “Hey … Ash … No doing that passing out crap, not now, got it? C’mon … You know chicks don’t go for the guy that faints at the sight of a little blood ... they go for the badass, right? And badasses aren’t afraid of blood … You are a badass, aren’t you?”

Dean’s words cut through the haze of anxiousness and dizziness invading his mind.

Badass … yeah … I’m a badass, not ‘Ashen Ash ’…  I can do this …

Ash’s feet planted firmly on the floor again and the strength in his legs returned.

I can do this.

Less shakily this time, Ash pressed the scalpel into Sam’s skin and even though the sensation of the knife cutting into flesh made him cringe and want to hurl, he held it in until the hole was wide enough for the extra-large tweezers Dean was holding out.

“There you go, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dean praised him, handing off the forceps. “Now all ya gotta do is dig the bullet out.”

“Right, piece of cake …” Ash agreed half-heartedly, bracing himself for going into the raw meat-looking mess. Sam groaned at the probe searching for the embedded projectile, and Ash had to resist the urge to groan along with him. He had to go in deeper and found that he needed to grasp the other side of Sam’s buttock in order to get a little leverage.

 When he did finally get a hold of the bullet, it took several tries to get it out as it kept slipping out of the forceps’ grasp.

Sam let out one last, deep throated ‘Owwww’ as Ash finally pulled the bullet out with a sickening sucking noise. But then he held the damn thing up with a great heave of relief and grinned, plopping it into the little cup sitting next to Sam’s leg.

“Damn, that thing was a pain in the tookus,” Ash laughed at his own joke.

Sam giggled as well, apparently not bothered by the pain anymore. “That’s funny … you’re a riot, Ash.”

 “Yeah, I know, right?” Ash agreed, but then Sam reached out, grabbed his hand, and patted it affectionately.

 “Thanks for fixing my ass … I love you, man,” Sam mumbled sleepily.

“Ooookay …” Ash extracted his hand, his face hot and red. “That was awkward.”

 The display of man-love was a little bit much for Ash after he had just had his had his hands all over the other dude’s butt cheeks, even if it was out of medical necessity and Sam didn’t have a clue what he was saying or doing right then.

He turned to Dean for help, but he just shook his head, a little grin curling up the corner of his lips.


Sam was out cold by the time Dean had finished instructing Ash how to disinfect and then sew his little brother’s ass back together. Finally Ash applied a bandage and draped a blanket over Sam, to let him sleep off the painkillers, despite the fact that his feet dangled over the edge of the pool table.  Ash couldn’t blame him for falling asleep there -- that pool table made a mighty fine and comfy bed when need be.

With Sam out of the way, Ash was feeling very self-satisfied at his accomplishment, so he offered to look at Dean’s hand.

Dean balked at first, claiming he could take care of it himself, but Ash insisted, and gingerly unwrapped the bandana that had served as Dean’s make-shift bandage. Ash cringed when he got his first good look at the fingers which were almost purple, they were so swollen.

“It’s not as bad as it looks -- I think only two fingers are broken.  Just hurts like a sonofabitch.”

“I bet.”

“You gotta find something small enough to splint ‘em with and then just tape ‘em up real good.”

“Bet that’s what these are here for.” Ash held up a couple popsicle sticks that had been in the med kit. “I prob’ly should clean your brother’s blood off your hand first, though.”

Dean hissed when Ash wiped in between Dean’s pinky and ring finger, but otherwise remained stoic. Ash was pretty sure he’d be crying like a baby if he had been in either Dean or Sam’s shoes today.

Sticks, adhesive tape, gauze, and more tape, then a tightly-wrapped ace bandage over the entire hand finished the job.

Dean inspected Ash’s handiwork. Maybe it didn’t look professional, but Dean seemed pleased with it and grinned. “Thanks for fixing us up. Nice work … Dr. Badass.”

“Dr. Badass?” Ash beamed. “I kinda like the sound of that …”


Ash helped Dean steer a still glassy-eyed Sam to the back seat of their car about an hour later, and waved good-bye as they drove off to wherever it was they would end up that night. Ash didn’t ask and Dean didn’t offer that information.

However, he knew that they’d be back whenever another situation required Ash’s expert services.

Once they had disappeared over the horizon, Ash went back inside to clean up the mess that had been made by the brothers’ whirlwind visit. He mopped the floor, cleared off the pool table (sighing in relief to see that none of Sam’s blood had gotten on the green felt,) and then packed up the med-kit and returned it to Ellen’s office.

Aftermath taken care of, Ash realized that even though the bar had technically been open for the last hour, not a soul other than Sam and Dean had stopped by.

Ash was bored again.

Suddenly inspiration struck and he darted out the rear exit, stopping at the shed where Ellen kept scraps of everything, including a couple of pieces of lumber that had been tossed out.


“Ash?” Ellen called out as he pounded the last nail into his door. He heard the sound of the front door slamming, and he poked his head around the corner to see Ellen hurrying across the room to him.

“I got your message just as I was leaving the warehouse and I tried to get back as fast as I could…What happened? Are Sam and Dean okay?” She asked, out of breath, her face a mask of concern.

“Hey, it’s okay. Sam and Dean are alright. “Ash held up his hands to calm her. “Turns out it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” he assured her confidently, noticing the fresh highlights in her hair. “Everything go okay with the ‘supply run’?” he winked.

“Yeah…” Ellen replied slowly, narrowing her eyes at him and unconsciously running a hand through her hair. “I pulled the truck around to the back, come and help me get everything inside, will ya?”

“Sure thing.”

Ellen started down the hall that led to the back exit but stopped in her tracks when something caught her attention.

 “Ash …” She started, a scowl growing on her face as she pointed at his bedroom door. “What the hell is that?”

Ash grinned and stood back to admire the new sign he had created for his room. On it he had painted the words  Dr. Badass is, while a smaller block of wood dangled from a piece of twine beneath it. The word in emblazoned on one side, out on the other. Currently he had the sign turned to read Dr. Badass is in.

 “I know,” Ash smiled proudly. “It’s awesome, ain’t it?”

The End


Tags: dean, humor, hurt/comfort, sam, supernatural

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