Until Next Time
Afterward, when he's had enough time for the painkillers to start to wear off and put his story together, Dean will claim not to have even felt it. The wampus taking him to the ground, maybe, but not the beast's razor sharp claws raking his side. He didn't feel it, and that's why he didn't tell Sam.
Sam will want to call bullshit, but he shouldn't be surprised. Because, really, that's just Dean.
His mistake – as always – is jumping in immediately with the concern and questions. With mild panic as he shoves the creature's carcass off of his lethargically moving brother, and frantically searching hands as he drags Dean upright under a steady stream of inquiries.
"Shit, you okay, Dean? You in one piece? Did it get you?"
Dean grunts and pushes him away as soon as he's on his feet, desperate to find a spot out of Sam's reach and worry. That same spot he's called home since Dad died.
Sam knows if he'd given his brother some space and just shut the hell up, just let the jackass walk a few shaky circles in the clearing and allowed a few moments for the adrenaline to fade, for Dean to get cozy with the pain he was in, he might've gotten a little more disclosure. A little more honesty. A hitched breath, a noticeable trip, a dammit, Sammy, the sonuvabitch mighta tagged me. Maybe he'd have even skipped the hike back to the car, hit the dirt right then and there and made the entire process that much easier.
Because Dean's heavy, but remarkably compliant while unconscious.
While Sam rolls the creature's body into a ditch and covers it with loose branches, Dean just brushes the dirt from his jacket and rolls his neck and impatiently points the way back to where they left the Impala.
He pitches forward when his boot catches on a stick a good fifty yards out from the car, and when Dean straightens Sam finally notices his brother's pale, sweaty complexion and, in a wash of moonlight, spots the blood glistening on the ground between his feet.
Dammit, Dean.
His brother launches a complaint in the form of a wordless noise when Sam grabs his arm and whirls him around, but it's too easy to manhandle the martyr into a position that allows Sam access to the deep gashes below his ribs.
"Huh," Dean comments drunkenly, seemingly surprised by the damage, but it's grown increasingly difficult to properly gauge his sincerity over the past few weeks. Particularly with regards to his own wellbeing. He hisses when his frustrated brother jams a wadded handkerchief against the injured spot at his side, but Sam won't let him pull away again.
"Yeah." Sam shakes his head, swipes the back of a bloodied hand against his forehead and propels his big brother in the direction of the car. "Huh. So, hospital?" But he doesn't even know why he bothers suggesting it.
Dean snorts in response, but when he speaks his voice is tight, finally acknowledging the pain. "Come on, Sam, I've cut myself worse shaving." Then his eyes roll up and he hits the deck by the Impala's right rear wheel.
If Sam wasn't sickened by the sight of all that blood, he may have been impressed by exactly how far the jackass made it before he dropped.
It's somehow even worse that it initially looked – as it so irritatingly often is – but Sam thinks they can skip the proposed hospital run. Which is good for both of them, because neither is itching to be anywhere near another hospital so soon. But he desires even less to be cooped up alone with his brother in the aftermath of what he's predicting to be a stitch count in the mid to upper fifties, so Sam splits the difference.
He empties an entire roll of gauze around Dean's middle and makes good time for Nebraska.
Dean's still testing the waters of a world without Dad, one in which he clearly feels he no longer belongs or fits, and he's not exactly been making the case that he cares to try to do so again.
He'd run into the woods after the wampus with his brother shouting at him to wait, and he'd tackled that thing, when Sam had an open shot from across the clearing.
He's hunting like…like Sam's never seen him hunt before. Recklessly. Dangerously.
And if some giant, mythical wildcat gets close enough to take him back out of this world, Dean just might let it.
Not on my watch, Sam vows, hands clasped under his chin and right leg jumping as he waits for the jerk to wake.
When he does, Dean's sluggish and loopy with drugs – decent ones, too, because it doesn't seem like the Harvelles are half-assers – which still somehow manages to be both amusing and disconcerting. His gaze is as bright as the room is dim, and he's making half-lidded eye contact with things in the room that can't return the gesture. "Where're we?"
Sam has to lean in to hear. "We're gonna stay with Ellen for a few days. Just 'til you're feeling better."
Dean takes it like a drug-hazed champ, just nods vaguely and licks his dry lips, maybe calls Sam bossy in a husky, broken voice.
Sam takes the remark as encouragement. He grips his brother's arm tightly enough to leave one more bruise. "You gotta stop doing this, man. You get me?"
But the problem with decent drugs is they ensure decent sleep, and Dean's already drifting off again.
"You gotta stop doin' this," Sam repeats softly. Because there will be a next time, and he can only hope it goes differently.
But the problem with Dean is, he's as predictable as he is stubborn, and Sam knows it won't.