This has been sitting on my desktop for ages, waiting for me to brush it up. So here it is! Please review, then head to my website where I will review your reviews. And the boys aren't mine.
Sam gave a little huff of pain when the needle bit into his hand, stinging the flesh, as Dean stitched up his palm. Dean didn't say anything, just glanced at his face with searching eyes, then returned his attention to his work. It wasn't much of anything really, Sam told himself, trying to ignore the discomfort, and he'd had worse. A few quick stitches and it would just be a memory with a scar.
Sam still remembered how he got his first scar, even though it had long since faded to near-invisibility. He was ten, and his dad had dragged him off into the woods to hunt a black dog. Said it would be a bonding experience, as though all fathers and sons bonded over the corpse of a hell-spawned beast. Never mind that Sam would rather have bonded over fishing, maybe over a long road-trip to an amusement park. But that wasn't the life the Winchesters led. Dean had tagged along, ostensibly because he was bored, but Sam caught his intense gaze several times, and knew that Dean was there to watch his back. Just like always.
They had stalked silently through the woods, not speaking, communicating only with hand gestures and pointed looks. It wasn't a hard trail to follow, and despite his best efforts to the contrary, Sam couldn't help but get caught up in the thrill of the chase. He watched his dad and his brother intently, mimicking their postures, their moves, their statures.
So caught up with mirroring John and Dean, Sam never saw it coming. The black dog came out of nowhere to knock Sam to the ground, and for a split second he saw nothing but teeth and fur and wild, raging eyes. He felt a vague sense of fear, a pang of adrenaline that started in his crotch and raced upward toward his stomach, but there was no panic. Dean and Dad were close. Nothing could happen to him. And then his father grabbed the beast up, seizing it by the scruff of the neck, and flung it away, whirling to nail it with a shotgun blast before it even hit the ground.
Sam sat up, brushed dirt from his hands. He didn't even realize that he had been hurt, not until his brother noticed the blood on his shirt. Dean gently lifted the t-shirt, his concern betrayed by the look in his eyes, and smoothed away some of the blood with his hand. John shoved Dean out of the way, sending him sprawling, and knelt at Sam's side. Though he was cursing and berating Sam in his gruff voice, John's hands were gentle as he pressed his palm against the wound.
Sam watched with detached interest as his own blood, hot and bright, slicked his father's hands. Young as he was, he had seen enough blood in his life to not be bothered by the sight.
Sam opened his mouth to protest when John stooped and lifted him into his arms, carrying him like a young, sleepy child, but his voice wouldn't come. Instead, he surrendered and leaned back into his father's chest, a strange contentment bubbling away in his heart, as he was carried back to the Impala. It seemed that the sight of his blood had jarred something in his father, something that felt almost like love, and fear, and even regret.
John set him gently in the rear of the Impala, careful of jostling his son, and grabbed the tackle box from the trunk. He lifted the top, revealing neat little rows of compartments, each full of medical supplies: thread, needles, ointments, bandages, gauze, like a tiny traveling emergency room.
Dean stood watch outside the car, scanning the woods with his glock at the ready, while John hovered over Sam, a needle in his hand and an apology on his face. A few quick stitches (Dean dubbed it popping Sam's cherry, which earned him a smack from John), and that was that. Sam stared down at the railroad track of black thread, mouth puckering as he studied the neat pattern, the ordered march of stitches, each one a little bite in his skin.
The springs in the Impala's seat squealed as Dean flopped to a seat next to Sam, all gangly arms and legs. "Look on the bright side, Sammy. Girls dig scars." He inspected the stitched wound, sucking in his cheeks. "Oh, yeah, that one'll be a chick magnet." Sam couldn't help but giggle and swatted at his brother, which initiated a full-on wrestling match that only ended when John threatened to drive back home with them both in the trunk.
Sam's mind snapped back to reality when he realized Dean was speaking. "Come on, tiger. Let's go get some food and pick up some broads. Can use your bandage as a magnet, broads dig the quiet, injured type."
Sam couldn't stop a smile as he shrugged into his coat. No matter how much time goes by, some things never change.