There's blood everywhere, Sam knew that for sure.
He could feel Dean's arm around his shoulders, along with his own limp, numb ones hanging across his brothers back.
His body is the type of numb you feel when you've just hit the first drop in a roller coaster.
Or… Or maybe the first time you experience sleep paralysis.
Sam's an eery type of aware.
He can't feel much, but at the same time, if he were to get pinched right now, he'd be able to make out the tingle.
It, well, feels like he's bleeding to death.
…That's because he is. And he knows he is.
It's a feeling no one should be used to, but Sam's been hurt too many times and Dean's always been there to pick him back up.
And this time… Dean isn't just taking him back to the bunker.
He's barely aware of the sound of sirens, the noise processing in his mind only when he stops focusing on the words Dean's saying to him.
He tells him he'll be all right, get patched up and get back to hunting soon.
Sam's not so sure about that.
His lower abdomen is stinging in way too many places to be anywhere close to safe, and he can feel the the blood seeping from the wound on his right hand when he really forces himself to think about it.
He does this half to access the situation, half to gauge if he should even be holding onto any amount of hope at this point.
He hears his heart thudding in his ears, the organ in his chest lurching slowly in a feeble attempt to pump blood to all the places that it's lacking.
Which, at the moment, is everywhere.
Every lurch of his heart sends more blood pouring from the sliced veins in his torso and hand, causing him to nod off for a few seconds at a time.
Sam knows he's dying, but he's got Dean here to help him cross over.
Dean.
He's still telling him to focus, telling him to stay with him.
Even in this life or death situation, all Sam can manage to focus on is not ruining his brothers jacket with his blood.
And the fact that he let the damn monster get away.
"What happened? How long ago did this happen? Sir, I need you to be exact. What did this to him?"
There were different hands on him now, definitely not his brothers.
He's staring down at the gravel street below him, desperately trying to stand.
It's hopeless.
He's slipping, falling, dangling off the edge.
His eyes open for the briefest moment when he finally hears his brother's voice again.
"I-I… A few minutes ago. He got jumped. Some guy stabbed him and took his wallet."
Hah. More like sliced up by a fucking werewolf.
"Christ, j-just take him. I'll get there as soon as I can."
"You don't want to ride with him in the ambulance?"
Ambulance? Huh, that's new. Sure explains all the needles being shoved into his veins.
"You'll need your room in there to fix him."
That was to be expected.
Some lame excuse to go and finish the job. It was probably to make sure there weren't any more questions asked until he could come up with a better lie, too.
It was pretty standard for every time the two of them had a rare run in with doctors.
Doctors were just a slippery slope to the police, after all.
Dean's voice was shaking, and Sam couldn't help picturing that puppy-dog look of complete failure on his face.
Sam remembers it from the first time he died.
He sees it a lot before he falls asleep.
He sees it before he loses consciousness, too.
The first thing he hears is the steady sound of his heartbeat.
He can tell it's his, the steady beeps from the machine to his right match up with the other drumming sounds he can hear and feel echoing from his chest.
His eyes are the next thing he becomes aware of, slowly fluttering open in immediate regret.
The lights are too bright.
Well, at least he can see.
He wiggles his fingers next, then his toes.
Oh, goodie.
Not paralysed.
We might as well rejoice.
"Well, well, well…"
Not deaf, either, from the sounds of the voice to his left.
It's smooth, eerily calming.
"I was wondering if I'd ever get to know your eye color, Mr. Winston."
Winston? Dean really has lost his creative touch.
The next words that come out of his mouth were said slowly, as if he was writing them down.
"Stunningly hazel."
He can hear the sound of a pen scribbling on a piece of paper, signaling that he did, in fact, write that down.
His paperwork must be incredibly empty other than the basics, considering he 'got his wallet stolen,' as Dean had said earlier.
They were wanted criminals, after all.
He wonders if he's ever been to this hospital before.
Probably not, since he'd most likely remember a doctor like this.
Speaking of the doctor, he soon leans right over him, a wide smile pushing his cheeks upwards.
His smile was chesire, eyes some of the bluest he'd ever seen. Tan, sandy blond hair. Just a little bit of stubble dusting his chin, a small skin tag right under his left eye.
He looks pretty normal, other than the smile that was currently blinding Sam.
"W-What are you doing?" He croaked out, his voice much raspier than he'd expected.
He probably hadn't had anything to drink in awhile, other than what fluid is being drained into his left arm.
"Making sure you're not, y'know, dying or anything. It's kind of my job." The words were accompanied by a small chuckle, the sound musical and honestly a little comforting.
"Where's Dean?" Sam asked next, attempting to shift his body.
It resulted in a groan and a shock of pain up his spine.
"Woah, woah. Bad idea, kiddo. Try not to move."
"Kinda figured that out already." Sam's voice was gruff, sounding much unlike himself.
"Ooo, pretty and sassy."
Sam chose to ignore that comment.
Soon enough the man is pressing a button on his hospital bed, eliciting another small beep before there's a tightening around his arm.
It takes him a moment to realize it's just a blood pressure cuff.
"Where's Dean?" He asked again, slowly turning his head to look over at the man, doctor, whatever he was.
"You just missed him. He left about an hour ago. I told him he needed to go home, take a goddamn shower. Eat a decent meal. He hasn't really left since he got here. Boy, he'll sure be pissed at me for convincing him to leave. I'm good at getting people to do things, though. And he needed it. That man smelled like last years fruitcake." He was smiling, going through the actions of taking Sam's blood pressure like it was nothing.
He must've been a doctor for a long time, having been so accustomed to such actions.
He didn't really look like some old, experienced doctor, though. He was actually pretty young. Early thirties, maybe.
"Staring is impolite, Sam." The doctor spoke up, probably scribbling down Sam's BP on his clipboard.
He hadn't realized how long he'd been staring at the guy.
"Sorry." Sam found himself muttering, looking back up at the bright lights above him.
It was quiet in the room for a few moment, the only sounds the ones of the man's pen and the steady beeps of the heart rate monitor next to him.
"I'm sure you have questions." He finally spoke again, stuffing his pen into the pocket of his scrubs.
"How long have you been a doctor?"
"I… Really? Are you serious? Not 'how long have I been asleep' or 'am I going to die?'"
Sam looked back over at man, shrugging with a small wince, though he tried to act as if it was nothing.
"Well, for starters, I'm not a doctor. I'm your nurse. Get it right. And my name is Nick, since I'm sure your curious little ass was wondering."