So, some more Hurt!Sam for you all. Makes my life a little happier, and Sam's life a little shittier. This one, once again, takes place around 5.03, and although it isn't exactly a death!fic, it contains a bit of death. Mentions of suicide and all that fun stuff, so be warned.

Really, it's meant as more of a look into the delicate thing that is Sam's psyche. And just because I love him, I had to put him in a dangerous and compromising situation in order to do that. Whatever.

Also, just so you know, all my medical information came from the internet. I didn't get it from Wikipedia or anything like that but I still can't guarantee it's accuracy; I'm in high school, I don't know about any of this shit.

I'm not sure how original this idea is. It seemed like an obvious one to me, but I hadn't been able to find any when I wanted to read something like this, so I figured I'd write it sometime, and then I hit my post limit on tumblr and I had nothing else to do.

So here we are.

I don't own Supernatural in any way, shape, or temperature. Rated T for sensitive material.

Enjoy.

Dean likes to be able to say that he is generally prepared for most situations.

He's a hunter; being unprepared for even just one out of hundreds of possible scenarios spells out a slow, painful death. He isn't always expecting to be woken in the middle of the night, but he's prepared for that to happen. He wasn't prepared for the apocalypse, and now Lucifer is walking the earth. What does that tell you?

Really, though, he's usually prepared. And ordinarily, it would have been one of the stranger things about the situation when he wasn't prepared for Cas to show up in his room at 4 am. Ordinarily.

And maybe that's still true. It's just hardly what he was thinking about.

The angel was covered in blood. Drenched in it, soaked to the skin, almost like he had bathed in it. Dean hardly registered his brain telling his limbs to move; he just found himself standing, grabbing Cas, frantically checking him for injuries. The way he would have done for Sam (but Sam doesn't matter).

Finding, to his relief, that Castiel was unharmed, he backed up, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. "Cas, what the hell? Did you kill something?"

He said 'something' because he wasn't completely sure that a human body could hold that much blood.

"Dean, I was just with your brother." His heart skipped a beat, and he was slightly ashamed that he started to wonder if perhaps that was blood from some demon that Cas had caught his brother drinking.

After a moment passed, and Cas still didn't elaborate, Dean prompted, "And?"

"And he put a bullet through his skull."

A terribly long second passed, while Dean went through all the five stages of grief at the same time. "Excuse me?"

"H-he's dead, Dean. He called me to say goodbye. All he would say was that he was testing a theory. I had trouble locating him; I was too late. He wanted me to send you his regards."

Dean subtly pinched himself, just to make sure he was awake. He was devastated to find that he was. The news hadn't seemed to have set in yet. He didn't really feel it; all he felt was...numb. And angry. And horrified. And guilty. And a thousand other things. But he didn't feel that terrible, agonizing, incapacitating pain that he knew from experience losing his brother would bring him.

He suddenly felt nauseous. That blood all over Cas, that was Sam's. The blood that was now staining his jeans, it was his little brother's.

"Where is he?"

"Do you want me to take you there?"

Dean hesitated for a moment. Did he really want to see his brother's...corpse? That's all it was. Just an empty shell. Did he really want to see that?

"Y...yes." He needed to.

Castiel touched his forehead, and for the second time that morning, Dean was unprepared for what he found.

He wasn't necessarily prepared for what he expected. He expected to see puddles of blood that still wasn't quite cold, the insides of Sammy's head no longer quite on the inside, and a too-pale body with a gunshot wound in its temple.

Dean wasn't completely wrong. There was puddles of blood all over the room. Brain matter and skull fragments painted a huge part of one of the walls. Sam was leaning against one of the beds, a revolver covered in smudged red fingerprints hanging limply from his right hand.

Sam turned slightly, looking listlessly at the pair as they stepped into the motel room. His eyes were glassy. He had a nasty scar on his temple, right where Dean imagined it'd be. But it was just a scar.

"Hey, Cas. Dean." He lifted the gun into his lap, and just stared at it. "I thought he'd be lying. You'd think he'd lie. I mean, he is the devil." Sam laughed humorlessly. "Wasn't, though. Wish he was."

"I-I don't understand. Dean, when I was here before, I swear he was-"

"Dead. Yeah, I guess I was..." He snorted. "Was. That's the problem, innit?"

Dean knelt by his side. "Sammy? What happened?"

"Didn't 'e tell you?" He gave Cas an oddly critical look, as if he was disappointed. "I was just testin' a theory."

"Why? What were you doing? Why did you...do this?"

Sam grinned unnervingly at him. His teeth were coated in blood. "Devil made me do it." He broke off into a coughing fit, and spat something onto the comforter. It looked like a tooth. "I'm a l'il nau-" Sam stopped again, a deep, wet cough wracking his frame. He gagged, dry-heaved once, and then turned away from Dean and started to vomit.

"Uh, Dean..."

This time, Dean did expect what he saw, just because he knew that nothing ever went well for the Winchesters. Sam had just thrown up a dangerously large puddle of blood.

All that Dean heard the doctors say was something about an 'adult male with hematemesis' whatever the hell that meant. They'd rushed him onto a stretcher and down a hallway before either Dean or Cas had time to react, and then they were being pushed into seats in the waiting room and some nurse was asking them questions about it for the next half hour.

When they were finally left alone, Dean glanced over at Cas. "D'you think he's alright?"

Cas didn't look at him at first. "I doubt it." But now he turned. "But this is Sam we're talking about, Dean. When has he ever been 'alright'?" He used those heinous air quotes again, but Dean didn't find it funny this time.

"Guess so."

They didn't speak again.

After what felt to Dean like decades, a young doctor walked out into the waiting room and called, "Family of Sam Masters?"

"Yes?" Both stood up. "We're his brothers."

"Alright, then. I'm Dr. Coleman, I was assigned to your brother's case. He was admitted with hematemesis, which is just the medical way of saying that he had copious amounts of blood in his vomit. We ran a blood work and took an X-ray. We found he has a gastric ulcer, which, according to the tox screen we ran, was most likely caused by overdosing on painkillers, namely aspirin. He mixed a few, which is always dangerous. It's small enough that it wouldn't have been a problem, except that aspirin doubles as a blood thinner. He's getting a blood transfusion now. It won't require surgical treatment, but I'll prescribe tetracycline with metronidazole and proton-pump inhibitors. Those should be taken for 10 to 14 days."

Dean nodded his understanding. "Can we see him now?"

"Sure. I'll take you to his room, but just so you know, he's a little out of it."

That turned out to be the understatement of the century. Sam wasn't unconscious or anything, but he was listless and unresponsive. Dean brushed his hair out of his face and for half a second, Sam grabbed his hand. Then he was gone again.

Four hours later, Dean had received Sam's prescription and checked him out of the hospital. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but Dean was sure that the best care Sam could possibly receive was his own in that situation. He was probably right, too.

They settled him into a hotel, and Cas disappeared the way he always does. Comfortable in the knowledge that no one, not even Sam, was watching, Dean carefully tucked Sam into one of the beds. Sam looked so much more innocent when he was asleep. It was easy to pretend that the past years hadn't even happened; that they didn't have about a thousand bridges to rebuild if they wanted to close the freakin' Grand Canyon that was slowly growing wider between them.

He'd probably never tell him, but Dean would be damned if he didn't know it. He had missed Sam.

The nightmares started a few hours later. At first it was almost unnoticeable. His hands balled into fists and his forehead wrinkled as his brow furrowed.

Dean glanced over at him, and did a double-take. Sam looked...pained. A barely audible whimper escaped his lips. Dean had seen this far too many times.

"Aw, no, Sammy..."

That's when the screaming started.

Dean did his best to calm him down, but he could scarcely remain in the same room once his own name was thrown in the mix.

"Sam!" He gave him a harsh shake. "Snap the hell out of it!" Sam quieted for a moment, but then grew even louder. "Damn it, Sammy." Dean pulled him into a sitting position. "Wake. The. Fuck. Up." With each word, he shook Sam slightly harder.

His eyes slid open. "De..."

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here. You okay?"

"'m fine...do I have to leave again? 're you gonna make me..." He coughed weakly. "...leave?"

His heart broke for the kid. "Nah, Sammy. You're staying right here."

"Th...thank you."

"You don't needa thank me. I'm just doing the sensible thing."

"J-jerk."

"Bitch."

So, what did you think? I think I like it...huh. We'll see. Review! I'll give you all cupcakes or something. Or pie! Unless Dean eats all the pie in the continental US, which is very possible, I'm afraid. And I'm not shipping that shit in from England. Or anywhere, I mean, that's a pain in the ass, just go get a damn cookie.

Thank you all for taking the time to read my crappy little brainchilds. You're all beautiful and stuff.

auf wiedersehen, sweetheart