The blood loss is turning his stomach, making him dizzy, screwing with his head.
"You should have dodged." John speaks simply, barely taking any care as he pushes his Son into the bathroom. "Sit down while I sort this mess out."
Dean nods and curls into himself as he takes a hesitant perch on the edge of the bathtub. He had messed up. Messed himself up. Messed everything up.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to play out. Their Dad should have been in bed already, barking at Sam to reacquaint himself with the med kid whilst Dean held himself together in the bathroom until those huge hands poked, prodded and got the job done.
Instead John's hands are calloused and harsh, the drill sergeant who isn't supposed to pull stints in the medical field. If only he'd shown more interest, let Sam know how he really felt about him going to Palo Alto alone... Perhaps then he would still be here.
"Move your hands."
Dean grimaces as he attempts to pry his bloody fingers from the torn and throbbing flesh, biting heavily on his lip to prevent the moan of pain from being elicited.
Sam had learnt how to stitch shit together when he was only twelve years old. Dean had made him practice on the button of a shirt first, but after a quick tug and nod of satisfaction, Dean was confident enough to extend his forearm and place the gash in the hands of his little brother. He did a fairly crappy job and Dean had to pull three of the stitches a little tighter, but it was better than having his Dad do it. John was matter-of-fact and to the point. He bound skin together so tightly and quickly that there were no words exchanged except the grunts of pain.
Sammy was deliberate, slow, careful. His long fingers caused goosebumps to raise wherever he touched, and it was nice. He mumbled quiet apologies as he pulled each stitch and always waited for Dean to tell him to go on.
But now, Sammy is gone. Sam is gone, Dean screwed up on a hunt and there is only one person able to reach the wound well enough to bind it all together.
"C'mon, Dean. Move your hands before I move them for you."
The needle burns, sears and scorches as it is passed through the tender flesh just below his ribs. It hurts just as it always hurts, but he has to be strong here. He can't let his resolve falter.
"You need to get your head back in the game."
Dean feels his Dad pat the gauze as he tapes it down at the ends, stifles a wince at the contact.
"My head is in the game, Dad." Words spoken so softly that neither father nor son were foolish enough to believe it.
At this point, if Sam were here, he would have shuffled Dean to bed, passed him a couple of painkillers and attempted some kind of apology for being the cause of the injury, even though it was nearly always deserved.
Instead he was standing within too-close proximity to his father, words boiling that he really would rather not spew.
"I'm going to bed now." Dean spoke, stepping forward to pass the older guy. Anything to avoid the confrontation.
A hand on his shoulder stopped the movement and a greying head shakes moments later.
"You screwed up tonight."
He knows that without being told. He wasn't agile enough to cover the ground both he and Sam would have shared.
"Sorry." Dean's muted apology wasn't heartfelt, it was merely said to replace the words he wanted to use. That it was his fault Sam had gone. That they hadn't done enough to keep their family together.
"This is how it's going to be from now on." His Dad continues, speedily forgetting Dean's injuries to talk shop. "We need to start talking tactics. I thought you might have had it in you to cover your brother's spots without it being mapped out, but clearly not."
Fuck, that stung.
"Clearly not." He repeated grimly, a weak shrug of the shoulders.
"Sam had a choice to make, Dean, and he left us behind."
He really didn't want this conversation.
"We need to focus on this, Dean. We're a team."
Sam was his true partner. The only one he could honestly and openly rely on. He just hadn't realised it until now.
"We need Sam." Dean shook his head, words that couldn't possibly have escaped without the dizziness. "I'm going to call him."
He heard his Dad sigh, but there was no retaliation as he stepped out of the bathroom and tugged on his jacket before taking off.
That was the first night he tried to call Sam, and for that night and seven more, he left messages that came close to begging him to come home.