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It wasn't the first time, not by a long shot, but waking up in a dumpster really wasn't Dean’s favorite way to start the day.
“Jesus, fuck,” he gritted, quickly freeing his arm from the body bag he was halfway out of, and pressing it against the open wound in his chest. They couldn't even be bothered to dump him all the way out of the body bag? Dicks.
Dean struggled to unzip the rest of the bag one-handed, crawling out of it like a caterpillar on a bender. He stopped to breathe once he escaped, laying back against the trash bags. Dizzy and disoriented, with a hole in his chest; this was not one of Dean’s finer mornings.
Going unconscious had probably saved him back there, convincing the Authority fucks that he was gonna bleed out, but Christ, he really was gonna bleed out at this rate.
“Focus,” Dean muttered, trying to keep it together. “Gotta...gotta get Roman.”
Trying to keep pressure on the wound was hard enough, trying to keep from yelling out in pain even harder, but trying to check his pockets while his body was in shock? A fucking nightmare.
“Ha,” Dean laughed, painfully, finding his phone still tucked away in his jacket. “Amateurs.”
He nearly dropped the thing while coaxing it from his pocket and just barely had a grip on it.
“Fuck,” he whispered, as his thumb smeared blood across the screen when he tried to unlock it. He held down the stupid voice command button instead, thanking God he’d been too incompetent to disable it.
“Call...call Roman,” he coughed, his hands shaking. Dean slumped into the trash bags when he heard the dial tone, thanking his lucky stars.
“Ambrose, where the hell are you? Baby girl’s worried, says you didn't come home last night—”
“I'm down Rome,” Dean croaked out. Whatever adrenaline or miracle that had kept him going was quickly running out, and he could feel his body trying to go numb. Shit.
“Dean,” Roman said, with obvious concern in his voice. Dean heard the creak of a door, assuming Roman had snuck out to continue their conversation in private. “Where are you?”
“Dumpster,” Dean answered, not bothering to gloss it when it came to Roman. “Dunno where. Authority picked me up sometime before dawn and I got a chest shot for a party favor.”
Dean heard Roman’s sharp inhale over the line. Rome was the master of keeping that cool exterior going, but nothing upset him more that having his friends and family hurt.
“Any clue at all where you are? Think Dean, I’ll have Seth try to find your cell’s location but it’ll take a while…”
Dean took a moment to observe the dumpster that was his intended grave. They’d left part of the side door cracked, and Dean reached out to try to nudge it further, jostling the garbage around him. One of the bags tore slightly, revealing a crumpled up paper placemat featuring a cartoon leprechaun wearing a sombrero covered in shamrocks.
“I think...I think I'm at Carlos O’Connor’s,” Dean said, squinting at the logo. He paused to listen to the surrounding noises he could hear through the side door. “Yeah...I can hear their shitty cover band practicing. God I hate Irish-Mex pubs—”
“Later, Ambrose,” Roman cut in, “I’m leaving now. Seth’s gonna track your phone anyway in case you’re not at O’Connors, so don't hang up.”
“Mmkay,” Dean replied, curling up in the dumpster as best he could, trying to keep pressure on the bullet hole while fighting away the blackness he felt creeping into his head. “Don't...don't tell ‘Nee, Rome. She don't need to know yet.”
“I am absolutely telling Renee, Dean,” Roman growled, earning a whine from Dean. “I'm getting you patched up and then I'm telling her. We can't let the Authority get away with hurting family.”
“She don't need to go outta her way because her hitman fuckin’ sucks,” Dean choked out. The combination of having a hole through his flesh and thinking about how he’d fucked up had him all teary. Goddamn it. He laid the phone on the bag next to his head, and wiped at his eyes with his now free hand. Don’t pass out don’t pass out—
“You’re her fuckin’ husband, Dean. If Renee wants to wage war I say she has every fuckin’ right,” Roman declared, in a voice that left no room for argument. “What happened?” he continued, changing the subject. “You’re reckless, not sloppy. How’d they get the drop on you?”
“There were three guys waiting when I went to set up shop. Armed and waiting. The motherfucker himself showed up to give me a speech on “making an example” or whatever. Held me steady while Trips gave me a lead piercing. Bagged and tagged me before sunrise, I think. Was out for a lot of it.”
“Fucking Hunter,” Roman bit. “I'll kill him myself.”
“Pick me up first, please,” Dean tried to joke, focusing on anything but the blood soaking his shirt through. “I think m’gonna black out again Rome.”
“No hey, stay with me, my ETA is five minutes, tops. Gonna get you outta there, get you to the doc.”
“Don't tell ‘Nee, please,” Dean pleaded again, barely staying awake.
“No, Dean, I have to—”
“M’not worth it,” Dean mumbled. “Please.”
“Yeah, if you were worth it they woulda dumped your ass out behind Caesar’s Palace,” Roman joked, getting Dean to laugh weakly.
“Thanks Rome,” Dean said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “God I'm so tired. More blood outta me than in at this point.”
“Keep awake,” Roman reminded, “Almost there.”
“If you get pulled over for speeding right now I'm gonna be pissed.”
“I'll take that risk.”
Dean didn't bother to respond, his entire concentration being spent on staying conscious. So much so that he didn't hear the car pull up or the footsteps approaching.
“Jesus Christ Uce,” Roman sighed, finding Dean among the trash in the filthy dumpster behind Carlos O’Connor’s.
“Dressed pretty nice for a garbageman,” was all Dean said, eyeing Roman’s tailored suit.
“Wasn't planning on a rescue. Now you’re gonna get blood all over it.”
“Bill me for the dry cleaning,” Dean countered, before promptly passing out.
After dumpster diving to save Dean’s ass, Roman sent him the bill without hesitation.