Just before dawn, Sam set the last stitch.
Straightening, he looked down at his unconscious brother, tired eyes tracing the patchwork criss-crossing Dean's torso.
Eighty-four stitches. Not a Winchester record, but close.
"Fool," he muttered, tossing the needle onto the bedside table. "Damned fool."
Eyes dark with exhaustion, he pulled a blanket over his patient, then cleaned up the bloody cloths littering the floor around the bed.
That done, he briefly considered a drink, but decided against it. He needed to stay awake.
Sam dropped heavily into the chair next to the bed and waited for Dean to wake up.