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“Sammy!”
Dean. No matter how often Sam had insisted that “Sammy is a chubby 12 year old. It’s Sam.” Dean had always reverted back to the childhood nickname when he was worried about him. It had been a habit he never managed to break out of, had never really wanted to. It was always his job to ‘protect Sammy’ while his father was gone, (which was often). That yell meant that his big brother was here, was going to handle everything because that was what he did, that was his job.
Tension floods out of Sam like a dam breaking because Dean was here and that meant he was safe, Dean would protect him just like he always did. After a few stressful days of not knowing what to trust, everything felt like it was going to be okay. The mud sticking to his shoes made it hard to turn around and the pain in his arm and shoulder blurred his vision as he sought out his brother's form but as soon as he spotted it, Sam felt like nothing could go wrong.
“Dean!” he called back, stumbling through the mud in his direction, clutching his arm that was definitely dislocated. The pain barely registers against the pure relief flowing over him at the sight of his brother. He is so focused on just getting within arms reach of his brother that he doesn’t notice the panic that crosses Dean’s face, doesn’t register the shout of “Sammy! Watch out-” until Jake is plunging a knife into his back and all he can feel is white, hot, blinding pain over every crevice of his being, embedding itself into his bones. Jake pulls out the knife and Sam is falling -
Until he isn’t because Dean is there, fisting a hand in his coat to hold him upright. That becomes harder with Sam leaning his full weight against him so he brings the both of them to their knees, one hand coming to cup the back of Sam’s neck in that way that has always spelled safety, warmth, protection, here - that has Sam leaning into the touch. Another hand curls around his back to where he was stabbed, a steady faucet of blood leaking from the wound, dripping down his back and soaking into his clothes. Dean puts his hand to the wound, to check the bleeding or put pressure on it Sam doesn’t know, but he hisses through his teeth at the sparks of pain that shoot out from the wound like electricity and make his arms twitch.
Dean makes a noise above him like he’s the one who has been stabbed, low and pained. Then, he starts talking. Fast and reassuring words spoken right next to Sam’s ear as Dean pulls him up to look at him.
“Hey, hey Sam look at me, it’s not that bad. It’s not even that bad, alright?” Sam feels his eyes start to droop, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The metallic taste of blood lingers. “Sammy? Sam! We’re gonna patch you up and you’ll be good as new alright? I’m gonna take care of you, that’s my job. I got you, alright?” Dean keeps talking but Sam can’t bring himself to listen. Dean’s got me. He’ll take care of me, just like always. So, Sam trusts his brother and he lets go.
Seeing Sam fall to his knees had Dean’s heart freezing in his chest. Seeing his little brother, his Sammy, with his face clenched in pain and a knife embedded in his back ignites a fire in Dean’s veins. He drops to his knees in front of his brother while Bobby chases the fucker who stabbed Sam. Fingers come up to clutch the lapels of Sam’s jackets, holding him up as Sam’s head bobs and his eyes flutter.
“Hey, hey, lemme take a look at you, alright?” Dean pulls his brother closer, sneaking a hand around his back to the wound. Blood soaks into the jacket and onto Dean’s hand as he pulls away, staring at his little brother’s blood on his hand. Thoughts fly through his head at lightning speed about how if he’d been quicker, knew more, been better -
Sam begins to lean forward into him more in a way that shoots panic through Dean.
“Sammy. Hey. Hey! Sam look at me, it’s not that bad. It’s not even that bad, alright?” Sam’s eyes start to close and somewhere in his mind, Dean knows that time is running out. “Sammy? Sam! We’re gonna patch you up and you’ll be good as new alright? I’m gonna take care of you, that’s my job. I got you, alright? Gotta take care of my pain in the ass little brother. I always will.” Sam’s weight comes to rest against his chest and whatever had been keeping Dean together breaks.
“No, no no no no no-” Dean mumbles, keeping a desperate hold on Sam. His hands shift from the back of his head to his neck, fluttering back and forth in his restlessness. “Oh god, oh god.” Tears spring into Dean’s eyes as he tries to keep them at bay, rocking the two of them back and forth. It's no use. Sam Winchester is dead.