A/N: Soncnicaaaa! Happy birthday, fabulous. A month later. Hehe. Oops. Enkidu07, Miyo86, NewspaperTaxis, PADavis and sidjack and I wrote you things. Or are writing you things. Thinngngngs. Because we love you.

There's so much blood. There's so much blood that for a minute Dean thinks he might actually shit himself. Because that much blood on the outside of Sam? How much can be left on the inside? But then he's on his knees, pulling at Sam's clothes and squinting into all the scrapes, and he sees that they're just that - scrapes.

"Hey," he says as Sam starts to come around in his arms, his torso suspended awkwardly off the ground by Dean's fist in his shirtfront. Sam coughs, brows pinching in with the cough and then staying pinched. "Hey, you with me?"

Sam licks his lips, makes that groan Dean knows all too well, the "I accept that this is reality but it's so much worse than I had hoped" groan. Dean pats his unwounded shoulder and waits for Sam to take his own weight so Dean can let go of his shirt.

"That was quite the little stunt you pulled there," he says as Sam plants his hands on the pale blue carpet and blinks experimentally. "You want to get yourself killed, there are easier ways."

"Got the job done," Sam rasps out, then clears his throat and tries again. He rolls onto his hands and knees and stops to rest for a second. "Your ass is in one piece."

"Yeah, well yours is leaking." Dean spots his brother with a hand hovering just under his bloody chest. "That came out wrong."

Sam's twisted halfway around to peer at his butt. He looks at Dean for a second, and man is his face pale, all slicked over with sweat and smeared with bright red blood that's leaking down from somewhere in his hairline. Then he gets the joke and sighs out a groan, hangs his head.

"Not so quick on the uptake tonight." Dean plants his palm on Sam's solar plexus when his limbs go shaky, thinks of the way the wounds gushed when Sam was pinned against the wall. "I'm lookin' around here and I see two pints of the good stuff, at least. Let's get some Gatorade in you, huh?"

Sam nods, and a drop of blood falls to the carpet with a faint tap.

"Come on, let's blow this joint." Dean gets to his feet and tugs Sam up with him, slowly, his fingers slippery but careful. Sam hisses and teeters like bridge in high wind, then shivers so hard his teeth clack.

"D-Dean," he breathes, relaxing as the chill passes, getting heavier against his brother. Dean's face bumps his neck as they walk and his skin is clammy, shocky.

"What?"

"I'm all wet."

Dean's arm slips up Sam's back just a little, just to where he's cut open, and Sam gasps, flinching away.

"Hey, c'mere." Dean grabs a belt loop and ducks back up into Sam's armpit. "You okay?"

Sam's forehead bunches up and he frowns down at Dean, so close Dean has to lean back a little to see him in focus. They're all the way to the back door, all they have to do is walk out and they're in the driveway and the Impala and sailing away.

"Did I pee?"

Dean keeps his face perfectly composed. He pats his brother's belly through the damp T-shirt, then pulls out his phone and sets it to video mode. Raising it to his brother, he asks, "Say that again?"

But in the morning, Sam, all bandaged up with his mad scientist hair and his six-pack of Gatorade, pulls out a home movie of Dean doing karaoke, and the dream is dead in its cradle.