Warnings: nothing here but a few bad words, some talk of blood, and some tears.

Emergency Contact

It's bad this time, Dean knows that. He just isn't sure how bad. Hospital bad? Definitely. Death and dying bad? Yet to be determined. All he knows is that his blood is slipping through his fingers, his dad's five or six hours north of him, and Sam's three states to the west, living his own life.

Dean's on his own.

The leather seat's slick with his blood and Dean has to fight to keep from sliding all over the place. He's not sure if he's even keeping the car on the road. He's only aware of the steady flow of blood draining from his wounds and the metaphorical clock ticking on his life. His torso is in bad shape, ripped up by a seriously pissed off wendigo. Dean thinks there was something wrong with it. It seemed more vicious than the average wendigo, a bit like a dog with rabies. Now that Dean's thinking about it, he's not even sure how he got away alive or in worse shape than he's currently in.

But of course, judging by the amount of blood he's losing and by the way his vision's tunneling, the damn thing may have succeeded in killing him after all.

He makes it to the hospital parking lot by some act of God but that's as far as he gets. The Impala door opens under his half-unconscious weight, and he tumbles onto the pavement. He doesn't even feel it when he hits the ground.

He wakes up at some point. It kind of reminds him of that time he tried shrooms when he was seventeen. Everything's too bright and distorted, sounds are too loud and don't make sense. Then there's a white hot, all-encompassing pain that blossoms and explodes in his chest, and he's pulled back under.

The second time Dean wakes up, it's to the familiar scent of a hospital and cotton mouth.

"Dean?"

He'd know that voice anywhere. Sammy.

"Hey, you awake?"

With Herculean effort, Dean opens his eyes into slits and glances over. It's baby brother alright, looking absolutely awful with three-day scruff and bloodshot eyes.

"Wa'chu doin' here?" Dean slurs

Sam stands and disappears into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a small cup of water. He steps on the button below the bed to sit Dean up and hands the cup over, knowing that Dean would want to at least try to drink it himself. He does, slowly, and with shaky hands.

"Thanks," Dean says, voice clearer but still rough.

"No problem."

Dean stares and Sam shifts awkwardly.

"You uh, you were out for a while. Something got you good," Sam swallows down lingering fear, "A lot of stitches, surgery to fix some internal injuries. You'll probably be out of commission for a bit." Sam pauses, "What were you hunting?"

Dean frowns, shifting through drugs and pain to get to the memories. "Wendigo. Mean sonuvabitch. Thing was on roids or somethin'."

Sam breathes out slowly through his nose, "Dad?"

Dean shrugs as best he can with his wrapped up chest, "Up north, lookin' into a ghoul problem."

Sam tries not to let the fury show on his face but Dean's his brother, and he always knows how Sam's feeling and what he's thinking. Or he used to. Stanford has put a year between them and that's not counting the rough year or two before that.

"C'mon, Sam…" Dean says with an exhausted voice.

Sam's jaw ticks, "No, you know what? This is exactly why I left. You…you were damn near dead," Sam's breathing hitches and his eyes immediately fill, "They couldn't get a hold of dad. They called me and they said they didn't think you were gonna make it, and that I should get here as soon as I could. I was hours away. I didn't think I was going to make it in time and the last time we saw each other…"

Tears are streaming down Sam's face completely uninhibited and he doesn't even care because. He missed his brother and he almost lost him without being able to tell him that. He almost didn't get to tell his brother anything ever again.

"I just couldn't handle it, ok?" Sam finishes as he tightens his lips, willing the tears to stop.

Dean's eyes are looking suspiciously bright and wet too, and he clears his throat before he says, "Yeah. Ok."

Sam nods and sits back down in the chair, shoulders slumped with emotional exhaustion. A few moments pass in silence before a tired version of Dean's trademark smirk crosses his face, "You were worried about me."

Sam half-heartedly glares and says, "Jerk."

"Bitch." The retort is instantaneous and as natural as breathing.

Sam relaxes letting the familiar banter soothe his lingering fear.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean says, "Thanks. For coming."

When Sam smiles, the silent always is clear.