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“Take his pulse, Sam.” John Winchester’s voice is the first thing that Dean’s aware of when he starts to fade back into consciousness. Part of Dean immediately tries to snap to attention, but he just can’t manage it. Because the second thing he notices is the overwhelming pain in his chest and abdomen; pain that makes Dean wonder if he’s even got any flesh left. Flashes of the hunt come back to him in bits and pieces.
Wisconsin. Wendigo. Shit.
It’s not even the fact that he got shredded that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that he knows John is going to blame Sam for it, since Dean had been pulling Sam out of the way when it happened. He just hopes that he’s conscious enough to protect Sam when John starts in on him.
“Dad-“ he hears Sam start to protest, and Dean braces himself. At eighteen, he’s borne witness to more than enough of John’s commands, and what happens when they aren’t followed.
“I said take his pulse, Sam!” John yells. Is he using Dean’s injuries as a lesson? Something turns sour in Dean’s stomach.
He feels Sam reach out and hesitantly take his pulse. Sam is barely brushing his skin, and Dean wonders if he can even feel anything. “It’s weak, Dad.” Sam’s fingers are shaking, and Dean can hear his breathing turn panicked. Dean fights like hell to come back to his body, but there’s nothing. No fluttering of his eyes, no twitch of his fingers, no moan of pain. Nothing beyond the searing torment engulfing his body.
Dean hears John’s heavy footsteps approach, then calloused fingers are jabbing into his neck to confirm Sam’s assessment. John says nothing for a moment, and the footsteps retreat.
“Dad?” Sam asks. His tone if pure terror, as if he’s afraid John is going to walk off and leave him with a dying Dean to teach him a lesson.
Dean’s not sure he isn’t, until he hears John bark at Sam that he’s getting supplies from his bag. “Please be okay, Dean,” Sam whispers in the moments when John’s back is turned. Dean can hear him choking back tears, and his heart shatters. He tries again to move, hell, to even scream – but he manages nothing.
Hang on, Sammy. We’ll be okay.
Stomping, angry footsteps approach once more. “Here. We need to close these wounds fast, so you’re going to have to help.”
Still barely conscious, Dean is wracked by a wave of emotion. Sam has never had to stitch him up before. It’s one of the few things Dean has been able to shield him from in this life.
“Okay,” Sam acquiesces, barely audible.
“Keep an eye on his pulse,” John instructs, as if this isn’t his son lying gravely injured in front of him. As if it’s just another day for him, just another lesson for his youngest.
One of them pours alcohol over the wounds to sterilize them, and every nerve in Dean’s body is on fire. He surges out of the darkness that’s been trapping him into an agonizing consciousness, eyes fluttering open. The light feels like an icepick to his head, but Dean grits his teeth and focuses instead on the panicked hazel eyes hovering over him.
Sam is fourteen now, all wide eyes and shaggy hair. He’s not the clueless kid he once was, and Dean hates it. Hates that Sam knows what a wendigo is and how to kill it and how to field dress the inevitable injuries. Hates the way that Sam is staring down at him, looking even younger than he is.
“Dean?” Sam asks. The kid looks haunted, and Dean tries to force his grimace into a soft smile.
“I said stitch, Sam!” John commands. Their father doesn’t react to Dean regaining consciousness, doesn’t hesitate before plunging his needle into the torn flesh. Dean wonders for a moment if this is what dying feels like.
Then Sam, hands shaking so hard he nearly drops the needle, starts his stitching. Dean bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood, because he can’t make this harder for Sammy than it has to be. He can’t add yet another image to the ones he knows pop up in Sam’s nightmares. Nightmares that John chooses to pretend don’t exist.
So Dean lays there, flayed open like a butchered animal, trying to focus on breathing. Wishing he wasn’t conscious but knowing he needs to be a buffer between his father and brother.
“Stop. Shaking.” John’s voice is low and dangerous, as if Sam has any control over the reaction he’s having.
He’s a kid, Dean wants to say, but even if he could physically form the words, he would never. Because this fucked-up picture right here is all the family he has. All the family he will ever have. And he can’t risk losing what they do have.
Sam takes a deep breath and rallies, steadying his hands enough to stitch a straight line. It’s one of a few times lately where Dean has seen glimpses of the man Sam will become; the man he’s already becoming, far too early. Losing himself in thought and agony, Dean starts to drift into unconsciousness again.
Sam immediately notices his eyes slipping closed and calls his name. John glances up at his oldest before turning to Sam. “He’s going to need a field transfusion.”
Sam keeps stitching with his right hand. Without blinking, he hands his left arm out to John. Dean’s blood turns to ice.
“Don’t… you… dare,” Dean manages. Getting each word out takes as much energy as climbing a mountain, but it has to be said. He locks eyes with his father, trying to look menacing even as he’s clinging to consciousness.
John says nothing and sets things up, transfusing his own blood into his eldest’s veins. Sam finishes his stitching but doesn’t move an inch, kneeling by Dean’s head. He looks afraid to reach out and touch him, as if he hadn’t just helped piece his brother back together.
Oh, Sammy, Dean thinks. This kid has seen way too much already.