Dean's dripping blood all over the floor and for some godforsaken reason Sam's worrying about the carpet and he thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that maybe it's so he won't have to worry about his brother.
His brother, who may very well be bleeding out in his arms with not a damn thing he can do to stop it.
He doesn't realize that he's crying until he hears himself choke on an, "I'm so sorry," and he wants to stop, wants to make himself shut the fuck up because he knows that's what Dean would be telling him to do if he were conscious, but he isn't, so Sam can't stop, just keeps repeating it over and over like some kind of goddamn mantra. "I'm so sorry, big brother. Jesus Christ, I'm so fucking sorry."
He puts Dean down on the bed and swears that this time will be different, that this time it's not just a shell, it's still his brother, but something about the way that the color is draining out of Dean's cheeks makes him think he's about a quarter of an inch from being wrong and that's just too fucking close for comfort.
He's going through the motions, not sure he even finds all of the lacerations, but stitching up the ones that he can see and wrapping them tight to keep as much pressure on them as he can. He's muttering something new now - "You're okay, you're gonna be fine" - more for himself than for Dean, but it's not really sticking.
Maybe because he can barely find a pulse.
Just when he's about to fucking lose it, Dean draws in a deep, shuddering breath and his eyes, ever so slowly, flutter open.
"Dean!" Sam exclaims, taking his hand and squeezing so hard he's afraid he'll break bones. Doesn't matter, though. Not right now. "Oh, god, Dean, I thou-"
"Shhh," Dean protests weakly, a soft smile - the kind only ever reserved for Sam - turning up the corner of his lips. "Love you, baby boy."
His eyes close again and Sam holds his breath. Waiting.
Scratch that barely. Now there's no pulse at all.