"Dean!"
Sam's voice shattered the shroud of ignorance that Dean had curled around himself; an additional form of protection to match the arms that were tightly binding his stomach. He was hunched over, fingers clawing into the leather of his jacket, hands whitening under the force.
Sam was too bent at the waist, successfully managing to haul himself to a standing position, his towering stature ever prominent as Dean lay curled on the floor.
Looming overhead, he had one arm pressing a wad of fabric that used to be his over-shirt against the still-bleeding wound across his stomach. The blood was thick and fast, and it seeped into the plaid blue, turning it almost purple.
He couldn't feel the sharp lances of pain, but the blood loss was causing inevitable light-headedness and a woozy sensation. It threw the flashlight's beam off target and caused the light to shake as it hit Dean's legs. Sam pushed it up further, revealing his brother sprawled out and writhing in pain, dust surrounding him and covering his face and hair in a chalky residue.
"Think I've done somethin'", Dean breathed out, fingers flexing a little before resuming their clutch, "Inside. It burns. Think I'm dying, Sammy."
Dean looked up, caught sight of Sam's bloody stomach and gasped - a nasty combination of concern and his own agony. The action tore him apart and seared with no sight of cauterisation.
"Curse." Sam headed straight to the point, bending over to try and rifle through the rubble with the bloody fabric caught between his stomach and the waistband of his jeans.
"Gotta be a hex bag around here somewhere," His fingers were slippery and red, sticky congealed blood causing his grasp on the flashlight to fall on the wrong side of tenuous.
"Bitches," Dean muttered, referring to the women who they had traced to this house, and who had evidently blown the place apart with them inside, hex bags and all. He held an expression of distain for a moment before he was dragged under by the heat again, slashing and stabbing and hurting.
"Sam," He hissed through tightly grinding teeth, "I don't know what's going on, but..."
Agony gripped him with bony fingers, yanking him forward and causing him to bend at the waist. His denim-glad legs scratched through dust and rubble as he curled and he let out a low and feral growl. An intense shooting sensation lanced through his physically unmarred body and he bit down hard - on his lip, on his tongue - drawing blood wherever his teeth made contact.
Sam was quick to react. Promptly shining the light at Dean, he winced as he saw the older Winchester flinch and recoil from the beam. He pulled it back sharply, the fast movement causing the bloodied shirt to drop to the floor and become embroiled in a coating of dust and tiny fragments of brick. "Crap," he hissed, and Dean looked up.
An arm uncurled tentatively from around his waist and Dean began to skim the ground with his free hand, legs still twisting as an indication of the pain that still kicked him every time he moved; breathing included.
"Crazy..." he mumbled, fingers curling around a stone before tossing it aside, "mother fudging," another rock, another toss, "bitches."
Then a smile, a chuckle cut short as it forced another gasp up through Dean's throat.
"Bingo."