Dean told his brother the wound was superficial. There could only be one mother hen and that was his job.
The bleeding had been heavy and the pain almost unbearable, almost. The whiskey helped.
After all, he'd had worse.
He did die; that must be worse.
He couldn't drive. He could barely sit up.
And besides the occasional grunt, his speech was lacking too.
He just needed to lie down….
And what's with the white dots?
When he awoke, he was staring into his brother's eyes.
What was that look on his face?
He wasn't in pain any more but he couldn't speak.
He tried to reach for his throat but the pressure from his
brother's hand stopped him.
His brain caught up when he heard Sam's voice.:
"You're in the hospital. You've lost a lot of blood.
Next time, don't be such a martyr!"
Did Sam know who he was talking to?