gratuitous gore. sorry.
The doctor is elbow-deep in his stomach. This wouldn't be such a problem if the morphine wasn't wearing off.
Sam. Sam. Look at me.
His thoughts are scattered. It's like the splatter art he did once in elementary school. No patterns. No discernable sense to anything except the pain in his middle.
Blood-splatter.
He can cope with death and loss and digging a bullet out of his own gut, but this?
He can't cope with this.
Sam. It's okay. Look at me.
Dean's hands are on his shoulders. No - one hand is on his face, thumb digging into his jaw. He forces his eyes open and is half-surprised to feel tears spill out.
Good. Eyes open. Keep 'em that way.
He can hear another voice now, authoritative. He can't make out the words, but it reminds him of his father. It makes him feel inadequate. Maybe it's his own fault he's hurting so bad.
No, damn it, I'm not leaving the room. I said no.
Green eyes turn back to him. He could drown in them now, but instead they keep him grounded, despite their desperate expression.
It's okay, Sammy. I gotcha.
Then the last ounce of painkiller is stripped away. He sobs convulsively, because you know, it couldn't possibly get worse than this. Dean's hand tightens on his.