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Swinging his machete smoothly in a semi circle, Dean waited for the satisfying squish and thump as the blade took the vampire’s head clean off. It bounced off the ground once after it landed and then lay still, jaw open in a silent scream, dead eyes wide open, staring into nothing.
He had no time to admire his work because the noises from the other room demanded his immediate attention. There was a shuffling and grunting, a pained groan and as he rounded the corner it was just in time to see his brother swinging his own machete at his opponent.
Looking off balance, Sam was swinging his machete with everything he had. From a gash above his eyebrow blood was running into his eyes. Maybe that was what was putting him off balance.
Knowing he would have to help him to prevent a disaster, Dean lifted his own machete back over his shoulder and hurried closer.
“Duck!” he shouted as he started to swing and no matter how out of sorts Sam might be, reacting to his calls was muscle memory. As he dropped to the ground, the vampire, whose neck was only hanging by a thread, swung his head around in an almost comical motion, eyes bloodshot and bulging out of his skull. His lips drew up in a snarl, fangs extending with lightning speed.
A moment later his head was rolling over the floor, now completely severed and the headless body slumped to the ground.
Taking no time to look at the dead monster Dean dropped to his knees next to Sam. The machete clattered to the ground as he used both hands to gently cup his head, stopping it from swaying.
Eyes half mast clearly stated that his brother was having a nasty concussion from the blow that had split his skin above the eyebrow.
“Look at me,” Dean said, his deep voice raspy with concern. “C’mon, show me those eyes - yeah, that’s it.”
“Vampire,” Sam panted, eyes searching around for it.
“You killed it,” Dean replied. Okay, technically HE had killed it, but his brother had done at least three quarters of the job. “We’re good, you killed it, alright?”
His thumb stroked across his cheekbone, once, then again.
“Oth’rs?” Sam slurred.
“We killed ‘em all,” Dean replied reassuringly as his fingers prodded around his brother’s skull to check for fractures. Satisfied when he found nothing, he grabbed his brother’s shoulder and arm and pulled him upright. He slung his arm around his shoulders and added his own to Sam’s back for support.
“Let’s spring this popsicle stand, what do you say?” Dean asked in a gentle tone that was only reserved for Sam as he began leading him out of the old, abandoned warehouse.
Back at their car he cleaned Sam’s wound and attached some butterflies to it. Then Dean settled him in the shotgun seat and began the trip back to their motel. Once again they had escaped a dangerous situation more or less unscathed and left the area behind a lot safer.