His body was exhausted, but his mind was whirling around far too much to actually sleep. He probably dozed a bit here and there, his wrist aching and protesting every small movement. The knock on the window came as no surprise, Sage likely had a lull in her shift and was giving him a heads up. Knowing she wouldn't come upstairs and that nobody wanted for them to be found here, he painfully peeled himself off the mattress and made the trek downstairs. He couldn't quite tell if Don Juan was asleep or not, and he didn't want to disturb him if he was, so he tried to move as slowly and quietly as possible.

It was a short, fifteen-minute berating, in which she hissed every manner of abuse at him, including popping his wrist back into alignment before the pain potion had really set in. It earned her a louder-than-he-meant-to, "For fuck's sake Sage!" In which her only response was a maniacal grin and a look that clearly said he ought to know better. She cleaned him up, wrapped his wrist and left him with everything he would need to get him by next time she couldn't get to him quickly. He paid her a generous sum and this time she didn't fight him on it, departing for her next disaster.

Dean caught a glimpse of himself in the downstairs mirror and he looked no worse for the wear, no more bleeding or bruising, just dark circles under his eyes and an admirable length to his stubble. Unsure of what to do with himself at this hour and no sleep on the horizon, he poured himself a drink, leaning heavily on the sidebar with his good hand as he stretched out the stiffness in his limbs, testing the muscles slowly. After a moment, he grabbed his glass and another, and the bottle of whiskey, and made his way back upstairs. He could sit and drink and think if nothing else.