Character(s): Dean (Sam & other main cast members mentioned)
Rating: T for language
Word Count/Status: 6,400. Complete. (A scad of parts, but don't let that scare you. They're really short.)
Warnings: Spoilers for S1-S7.
Hey, I've never been afraid to bleed for a good cause, and Sam isn't either. So when Sam saw a notice in the paper about a critical shortage of blood, heck, why not do it again? A needle-stick sure beats the heck out of getting shot, stabbed, clawed or munched as a way to leak a pint of vital body fluid.
We even got plates of barbeque out of it. I admit, we were just about flat-broke that day and we were pushing the limit on our last set of cards, so the free food might have swayed me to go donate more than my love of my fellow man did. It's not pretty, but there it is. You let your gut growl for two days and see what kind of rationalizations you come up with.
Doesn't really matter what my motives were, anyhow. The blood bank benefited all the same. I'm chock-full of clean, healthy O negative; so I'm anybody's donor. Ok, that didn't come out right, sounds kind of sleazy.
Sam's AB negative, that's the rarest type. Something like one person out of a hundred-fifty or half a million or something, I don't know. He could tell you. Anyway, it's rare. The blood bank people are always glad to see me coming, but they flip out like Sam's a friggin' rock star when they type him.
I'm not going to waste time here with every little detail of the process; it's not some occult ceremony or anything. We lied our heads off on all the questions that don't matter and told the truth on the ones that do. Got our fingers stuck and found out neither of us is anemic. Hey, not much chance of that with my cheeseburger intake, but with Mr. Rabbit-chow, I wouldn't have been surprised.
It was a slow afternoon, so me and Sam stretched out on those recliner things and got stuck at about the same time. He bled out a pint faster than I did. Guess I've learned how to hang onto my juice better after all these years, but anyway, he was up and out and in the line for food before I got my bag more than half-filled.
So I had nothing to do but lay on my back and squeeze one of those foam balls and try not to think about squeezing anything else as that cute little bloodmobile ghoul did whatever she was doing, bustling back and forth in that bus. I don't know how old you have to be to draw blood, but she looked young enough to still be proud of her high school diploma. So, neither of us was serious but we were flirting like crazy anyway. Not much else to do in there, once you read the scary hepatitis and AIDS posters.
She rocked my bag and gave me a look that probably meant my macho points were dropping fast. Then she hopped up on the edge of the opposite recliner thing and flashed me some thigh as she crossed her legs.
Along in our random conversation, she brought up Sam's blood type and how rare it was, blah blah blah.
I made some joke about Sam being just like Dad, since they were both AB negative, and Mom was an A positive, something about that being truth in advertising for her or a stamp of approval or some stupid crap. That I got marked down as an easy-going kind of guy, being a universal donor and all. I don't remember exactly, so it was probably totally lame.
It'll take getting my brains splattered all over a wall for me to forget what she said, though.
"Oh? Are you adopted? Or, like, a step-child?" She leaned forward, and got that tone in her voice women do when they're telling some schmuck they've just met more than they ought to. "I'm both, so I understand what it's like."
I probably gave her a really weird look, because she blinked and turned pink.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm way more discreet and tactful than this normally, I swear. But you're so easy to talk to that I guess I forgot where we are and all. I'm sorry. That was TMI and intrusive and forget I asked, ok?"
I could have just nodded or shrugged or told her, hey, no problem, already forgotten. But no, I couldn't keep my big trap shut. I had to give her a panty-melting smile and say, "It's ok. I'm curious now, though. How come you think I'm adopted or a step-kid? I know me and Sam don't look that much alike, but there's a family resemblance if you knew our parents."
"Oh, it's not that at all. I have cousins who are twins but you wouldn't think they should even know each other, to look at them. It's your blood types."
She uncrossed her legs and clenched them together instead, her hands clasped in her lap. She was nervous. That should have tipped me off right there. "You said your dad is AB and your mom's A?"
"You're sure about that?"
"Positive," I told her.
"And you're certain you're not adopted or something?"
"Sweetheart, I'm not certain about much, but I'm damn sure I know who my parents are."
She got that 'oh, shit' look on her face and leaned forward. "Dean, I'm sorry. It's scientifically impossible for parents with those blood types to have a child with type O."
I laughed. "Then the science is wrong."
She came over and put a hand on my shoulder, all big-eyed sympathy and maybe a little pity. I hate that, unless it's gonna get me laid, and this was so not one of those times.
"Blood typing's been around since the twenties," she informed me like I was a sad little moron. "The scientists are certain about this inheritance stuff."
"Until the 1500's, scientists were certain the sun went around the earth, too. The science is wrong," I said, probably more like snapped, judging from how she drew back and crimped her lips.
I hauled up my blood bag. "This thing's about full. Unhook me, I'm done."
She didn't argue. She didn't really look at me either as she unplugged me from the bag like her hands were moving without her brain getting involved. "Dean, I'm so sorry. I really crossed the line here. I'm no doctor or anything, so hey, what do I know, right?"
Her hands shook a little as she taped a cotton ball over the hole and folded my arm up like I couldn't do that for myself. I got it then. She was afraid her loose mouth would get her fired if I bitched about this little uncomfortable conversation.
"No sorry necessary. Forget about it, ok? I already have."
I sat up and swung my legs off the chair right as she said "Wait!"
I barely heard her, because my hearing went on mute and the world was going gray-scale fast. I think I said "Crap!" but I'm not sure the word actually made it out of my mouth.
Obviously, I came to again. I'm not going to bother with that part because it was friggin' humiliating and Sam didn't let me live it down any time soon anyway. I don't hold that against him. I'd still be giving him heat if he'd been the one to faint like a wuss.
It's just damned embarrassing, you know? Plenty of times I've bled till my boots were full and kept right on kicking ass. I fainted because I hadn't eaten since the day before so that missing pint crashed my blood sugar and shut off the lights before my liver got the memo. That's what they told me, so it's official and you can shut it.
When the bloodmobile girls stopped clucking over me and the over-dramatic sympathetic brother act got boring for Sam, I grabbed a plate of barbeque and firmly forgot the entire little drama.