Dean.
Was there ever anything but Dean?
Sam didn't think so. Not that he could think about or remember right now. All he saw was Dean. All he heard was Dean. All he felt was Dean.
All he knew was Dean.
"Sammy - God, Sammy. What'd you do? Let me see. C'mon, let me see your hand. Okay, okay. It's not so bad, it's not so bad. We can take care of this. Let's get you out of here and take care of this outside. C'mon, can you stand up? Sammy? You with me? Can you stand up?"
Wherever they were, it was bright. Too bright. Fire burned through Sam's brains, crackling behind his eyeballs, cratering his skull bones. Where were they? Why were they here? Where were they going?
"That's it, Sam. C'mon. C'mon, we can do this."
Sam felt Dean's arm around his back, felt Dean's hand on his wrist, keeping his arm secure around Dean's shoulders. Then they were standing, then they were walking, then they were walking up a flight of stairs and Sam's eyes watered and his knees ached and lightning kept rupturing his brain and he felt so hot he thought he might just puke all over Dean's shoulder that was holding him up.
"That's it, Sam. That's it. Three more. Okay. Two more. C'mon. C'mon, Sammy. That's it. One more. One more stair. C'mon, Sammy. Keep those long legs moving. C'mon."
All Sam heard was Dean. He heard the tremor in Dean's voice that meant something really bad was going on, so bad that Dean couldn't hide how scared he was about it.
"M'okay." Sam said. Tried to say. Thought he said. He wanted to reassure Dean. If he was what Dean was so worried about, he wanted to reassure him. "Dean - m'okay."
And really - other than the cluster bombs going off in this head like fire crackers, the rest of Sam felt fine. Numb maybe, but overall fine. Compared to what he was trying not to remember about what hell felt like, the rest of him was damn near perfect.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know you are, Sammy. I know you're okay. That's good. We can work with that. C'mon. Here we go. Here's the door. Here we go, outside."
Sam felt Dean let go of his arm over Dean's shoulder and he thought he'd slide to the floor or the ground or whatever they were standing on but Dean's hand was back again in a second and they were walking again, walking forward, walking out of the brain-extruding light and heat, walking into darkness and coolness and fresh air and Dean's shoulder stopped looking so much like a good place to heave lunch.
The ground - or whatever they were walking on - felt spongy. Felt wobbly. Felt like it was tilting and swaying and spinning like a plate on a stick in a carnival act. And Sam would've gone around and down and around again if not for Dean keeping him standing and keeping him moving and keeping him him.
"Okay, okay. Here we go, Sammy. Here we go. A nice tree we can set you down under. Here we go. I've got you. Just collapse here. Here we go."
Dean repeating himself was never a good thing. Like the tremors in his voice that meant that whatever this was, it was bad, Dean repeating himself meant he was trying to keep himself calm and focused and on point.
Sam felt Dean lower him to the ground - or whatever they were standing on - and he felt Dean's grip tremor too, like his voice tremored, like keeping Sam from just crashing down was too much for him, or almost too much for him, and he was doing his best to just hold on.
Then Sam was down, on the ground - or whatever - and Dean was crouched in front of him and the wobbly world stilled for a moment.
"Thanks." Sam said. Tried to say. Thought he said. He must've said it though because Dean looked up from whatever he was looking down at.
"Don't thank me yet. I still gotta put stitches in this hand. That's not gonna be cute."
Hand? Sam looked down, followed down from Dean's sour expression, down his arm to his hand that was holding one of Sam's hands. But he couldn't see what Dean was talking about.
Apparently, Dean couldn't see either.
"Dammit - it's too dark. I can't see a damn thing. I'll have to get - dammit."
Sam wasn't sure why Dean put such emphasis on that last dammit, and he didn't have much time to think about it before Dean was rifling Sam's pockets.
"Where's the keys? Hunh? You got the keys to the car you were driving? I need to turn on the headlights to see your hand. Sam, where's the keys?"
But then he apparently found them because he backed off and stood up and almost as soon as Sam was wondering why Dean didn't turn on the Impala's lights and if he'd be able to stay upright on his own, a blast of bright light erupted into his skull, blinding him and gagging him and making him reach out, desperately, trying to find Dean, needing Dean to keep the world from smashing around him like a sour egg.
Dean.
There was only Dean.
But Dean wasn't there. Sam could hear him, he was near enough for Sam to hear him cursing and muttering and shouting, 'If I can't open the trunk, I'll go in through the back seat. I need the first aid kit…' but he wasn't there, with Sam.
"Dean? Please. Dean?"
"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here. I'll be right there. I just need…"
And then his words were gone in a muffle and Sam couldn't see him in the blistering light, and the world started tilting and whirling and he needed Dean or he was going to just whirl right off into hell and nothingness and agony and -
And then Dean was there.
"All right. Let's have another look. Let's see that hand."
He crouched in front of Sam again and sometimes he blocked the light from scalding Sam's eyes out of their sockets and sometimes he didn't and each time he didn't the pain was as excruciating and as nauseating as the first time and Sam tried to bring his hands up to block his eyes only he couldn't move one of his hands and then Dean was yelling at him.
"Dammit, Sammy. STOP! I need to stitch this hand. Stop moving!"
And Sam tried. He tried to stop moving but the light hurt, and his head hurt, and Dean yelling at him hurt, and now his hand hurt and he was so freaking tired of hurting and he just wanted the light to stop scraping at his eyes and making him sick and making it impossible to look at Dean.
And he needed to look at Dean.
Because all there was was Dean.
He needed to see Dean and he tried to bring his hands up again.
"SAM – DAMMIT!" Dean shouted, then growled. "That's it. I've had it."
He moved and turned and started to uncrouch and just as Sam was finding the words to ask Dean not to go - he wouldn't move - he'd do anything - just as Sam was going to say all that and anything more, Dean crouched again and tugged Sam's arm hard against his side and trapped it with his own arm.
"STAY. STILL."
Sam gulped back anything and everything he'd been about to say. With Dean turned, the killing light was blocked and he could see Dean.
All he could see was Dean.
He could feel Dean doing something to his hand. Tiny pinches in his skin. Stitches? Why was Dean stitching his hand? It didn't feel torn open. It didn't feel like it needed stitches. It felt okay. His head felt eight kinds of splitting apart, but not his hand.
But his head, his head was misery and his brains were slop and if he could just get his head to stop hurting, he could start to function again. He could figure out what Dean was doing.
All he knew was Dean.
"Dean?"
"Just a few more, Sammy. Just a few more stitches. I'm almost done. Just hold on."
And still Dean's voice tremored, though maybe not as bad as before.
"Dean?"
"Hold on, Sammy. Hold on. Let me do this. Just let me do this. All right? You're gonna be fine. Just let me do this."
So Sam was quiet. He held on, onto Dean, seeing him, feeling him, knowing he was there, right there in front of him.
In the muted light, Sam could see Dean. He could see his back, his shoulder. That shoulder that he nearly almost hurled on just a little while before. It was a good thing he hadn't, because he needed that shoulder now. He was close enough, he leaned forward just a few inches and rested his head on Dean's shoulder.
He felt Dean laugh.
Was there ever anything but Dean?
Sam didn't think so.
The End.