It's an awkward place to stitch, the claw marks running around and down the outside of his right calf. His jeans are bloody, muddied and shredded, bits of material ground into the deepest of the cuts.
He pulls what's left of his jeans off, shivering on the edge of the bed in his boxers.
'Mild shock' he thinks. He hears Sam moving around the room, getting things ready.
A practical, flat "Lay down, Dean," and he's on his left side facing the wall.
Rough towels under his bare skin as wounds are cleaned, pain flaring brightness that catches in his chest, rolling an already queasy stomach. He bites hard into the pillow, hands fisted in puffy material.
An annoying buzz in his head as sound edges back in. His left knee is bent; leg running along Sam's thigh. His right leg is lying over Sam's lap. Methodical and precise, his brother's dark head is bent over his task.
He jerks, hissing, but there are no gentle touches in silent apology."
"Hold still, Dean."
Stuttering breath, but he quiets. Sam finishes, wraps the wound. He slides off the bed and away.
A nudge and he opens his eyes to meds and water. A pillow tucked under his leg for swelling and a blanket, but he's colder now, the only warmth where he was touching Sam gone.