Hi, here's another chapter of this. This one is longer and it's Sam and Dean and John. John is a craptastic father and I put some of that in here. Hopefully this one captures the angst in all its glory.

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Supernatural. If I did, everyone would get a supportive hug every once and a while.

Disclaimer #2: Still not a medical expert.

Enjoy!

B is For Blood

There was a shit ton of blood in this hunting deal. It seemed that every time Dean turned around, someone was bleeding. Always. Of course, the amount of blood differed. There were always scratches, of course there were, but then there were severe cuts- claw tracks, knife wounds, gunshot wounds, near amputations. All of that.

Dean and Sam were now busily nursing some minor wounds from their latest hunt and as Dean watched his brother wash a deep cut on his arm under the sink, he was suddenly reminded of the first time he had realized the dangers of this job, and the first time he had been introduced to the severity of blood loss.

It was Dean and Sam's first hunt with their dad. Well, more appropriately, Dean's first hunt. He was sixteen. He was a man. (At least he thought so.) Sam was only twelve. They had a lead on some spirit in the Great Lakes area and had finally located the bones. But this was one hell of a spirit. Once it knew that they were going after the grave, trouble was sure to follow.

It was late. Very late. But Dean was not in the least sleepy. He was excited, seated in the front seat with a shotgun in his lap. He wanted to kill this thing. However, Sam was not so excited. He was lounging in the backseat of the car, his head lolling limply on his shoulder. His eyes were closed under his mop of brown hair. Their dad pulled the car over to the side of the road.

"Sammy!" he snapped. Sam jolted awake and blinked around him. John Winchester tossed his son a gun. "Stay in the car and stay awake. Understand?"

"Dad-"

"Understand?" His tone brooked no room for argument. Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Come on, Dean. Let's get this son of a bitch."

Dean climbed out of the car, grinning through the window at his little brother. Sam only rolled his eyes.

Dean and Dad climbed through the thick forest, searching for the abandoned lake house where they knew the bones were buried. They had been trudging for a half mile or so when they heard the snap of a twig right behind them. Both swiveled, guns cocked and at the ready, but they didn't see anything. Another snap. Dean fidgeted nervously, eyes roving about him.

"Where is it, Dad?" he hissed.

"Shut up, Dean," was the only response. There was a tense and terrible silence all around them, then the spirit, dripping wet with blood running freely down its fingers, appeared a hundred yards away. Dean and his dad both prepared to shoot, but the spirit disappeared. Dean looked about him wildly.

"Where'd it go?" he asked. He looked towards his dad, who seemed puzzled, deep frown lines appearing on his face.

"I don't know."

Suddenly, from someplace near the road, there was a smash of broken glass, a gunshot, and a brief scream that was cut short. Identical looks of alarm crossed father and son's features.

"Sammy!"

Dean began to dash forwards, back to the car, but stopped when he realized that his dad wasn't following him. He was looking behind him, in the direction of the house.

"Dad!" Dean called. "Come on, we've got to get to Sammy- something's happened!"

"You go, son." He tossed Dean an early version of a cell phone. "Here, take this and call 911 if you need help."

Dean stared at his dad, disbelieving.

"Dad, what? You have to come. Sam-"

"It's trying to draw us off," John interrupted. "It wants us to go back. I'll stop this thing- you get back to Sam. Take care of him, Dean."

His father ran off. Dean watched him for a moment, dumbstruck, but then turned around, his heart filling with fear for his brother.

He got to the road in less than five minutes and when he saw the car, he swore. The windshield was smashed and broken, and, as he got closer, some of the side mirrors were spattered with blood. Dean slowed, fearing what he would see. He took a deep breath, then rounded the car. He gasped.

"Sammy!"

Sam was hunched forward in the front seat, his head resting limply on his shoulder, his eyes covered by his brown hair, which was sticky and wet with something dark. A gun was cradled in his left arm and his right arm was hanging limply by his side. Dean couldn't see much in the dark, but he ran forward anyway, searching his brother's throat with his fingers. The pale skin was sticky and Dean's fingers shook like leaves, but, after a moment or so, he found his brother's pulse. Sam was alive.

"Oh, God, Sammy. Thank God. Don't you leave me. Thank God."

Dean, filled with a strange mix of relief and fear, searched his jacket pocket for his flashlight, then switched it on. A sickening sense of dread crept into his heart. There was blood everywhere. In Sam's hair, on his lips and cheeks, dripping from his mouth and nose and ears. It wasn't bright red either, like in the movies. Some of it was, but most was dark and thick. The smell was terrible. Dean had never imagined blood smelled like this. It was sickly sweet, and it made Dean feel nauseated and unsettled. Dean blinked, and tried to compose himself, looking to see if Sam was injured anywhere else. There were cuts on his palms and arms- strangely clean cuts, as if given to the boy in a systemic manner. There were also cuts on his thighs, but not too deep, and a few from broken glass on his shoulders. The rest of Sam was covered in bloodstains, but not bleeding.

Dean took a breath. He could fix this, he could, but it was terrifying. He laid his and Sam's guns on the road (within reach, in case anything happened), and gently maneuvered himself into the car, so that he could reach for Sam. He wrapped his arms around his brother's chest and began to lift him out of the seat. Sam made a sudden, weak whimper and his brow twitched. Dean stopped moving him.

"Sam?" he called gently. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyelids fluttered open and he groaned. He tried to pull away from Dean weakly.

"Hey, hey, stop, Sam, it's me. It's Dean."

Sam groaned again.

"'urts," he managed weakly.

Dean's heart jumped a bit, but he shoved the feelings away for later.

"I know, buddy, but I've got to take you out of the car. It'll be all right." He tried to move Sam, but his brother struggled feebly.

"St'p," he slurred. "'ean, stop. My. . . my 'ead."

Sam sounded so distressed that Dean stopped moving him, deciding it was best to let him stay in the seat. Sam's breath came in terrible little pants- each one hurt Dean more than anything. Dean, his fingers still shaking, pulled out the phone his dad had tossed him and dialed 911. A woman with a sweet and comforting voice answered the call.

"Hello, this is 911. What is your emergency?"

"H-hi," Dean stammered, silently hating how much his voice was shaking. "Hi, I need help. My brother needs help. There was a car accident."

"All right. What is your location?"

Dean told her that he was on the highway, and that they were in a sort of wrecked up Impala.

"All right, help is on the way. What is your name?"

"Dean," the sixteen year old choked out. "Dean Winchester."

"Good, Dean. I'm going to keep you on the line with me, all right?"

"Okay."

"Good. Now, Dean, is your brother conscious?"

Dean looked over at Sam and gently called his name. Sam whimpered in response.

"Yeah, yeah, he's conscious."

"You said your brother is bleeding, Dean?"

"Yeah, there's blood everywhere. He's bleeding from everywhere. And he keeps complaining about his head."

"Dean, is there a first aid kit in your car?"

"Yes."

"I need you to get it. You have to slow your brother's bleeding. I've sent help to you, but they're still fifteen minutes away."

"Okay, I'll get the first aid kit."

Dean listened to the woman and dressed all of Sam's minor cuts with gauze and bandages, only stopping to comfort his brother when he whimpered or moaned. He watched, nervous, as Sam grew paler and paler, as his breath grew weaker and weaker. As sirens began to wail in the distance, he ended the call with the 911 dispatcher and brushed some of the hair away from Sam's head comfortingly.

"Hang in there, Sammy. It'll be all right. You're safe. Everything's gonna be okay." He realized he was only babbling, repeating comforting nonsense over and over, but it was the best he could do. And Sam seemed to respond well to the words, forcing his eyes open and blinking at Dean. He even tried for a crooked smile.

The paramedics ran up to the car, pulling Dean from the front seat. Dean stood to the side of the car, wrapped in a shock blanket, watching as the crew shouted to others medical words he didn't understand, yelling for equipment that he had never heard of. He hated being separated from the one person he needed most- the person he cared about more than anything. Dean watched as the paramedics secured Sam's neck with a brace and lifted him out of the car. He watched his brother struggle as they lifted him from the seat and laid him on a gurney. They put an oxygen mask on his face to help him breathe, then lifted the gurney into the ambulance. Dean rushed to follow and the paramedics helped him inside. They drove in a rush to the hospital, Dean's eyes on Sam's bloodied face, and, as the drive grew longer, Dean clutched Sam's fingers tightly in his own.

Everything turned out to be all right in the end. Sam had suffered severe blood loss and had one hell of a concussion and had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. Dean was loath to leave him.

Their dad had killed the spirit and had come to the hospital as soon as he was able. He told his eldest son he did well, then watched Sam, white as a sheet, sleep softly in the hospital bed.

Dean also became quite the expert at lying. Sam was injured in a hit and run, he told the police, and he didn't remember what the car looked like. Their dad wasn't at the car because he had run off into the woods, searching for help. Sam had been badly injured because he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, unlike everyone else. The police and doctors accepted every word and two days after the spirit attacked him, Sam was released from the hospital.

Sam looked up from the sink, where he was wrapping a bandage over his arm. He frowned. Dean was holding a bandage in between his fingers, completely unaware of anything around him. Sam cleared his throat and Dean jumped.

"You okay?" Sam asked, an eyebrow raised in concern.

Dean nodded.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Dean said with a shrug.

"Really? Cause it looked like something to me."

Dean sighed.

"Do you remember my first hunt?"

Sam raised both his eyebrows this time.

"The one where I almost died?"

Dean nodded and Sam frowned at him.

"Yeah, I remember. Why were you thinking about that?"

"I realized I never told you something about that," Dean said. "Did you know that for weeks after that I had nightmares about it? I still do, sometimes, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Aw, Dean, that's so sweet," Sam said in a teasing tone. "You being concerned and everything."

Dean threw his brother a dirty look.

"My nightmares weren't about you, smart ass."

"Yeah, what were they about?"

"That car. Windshield smashed to pieces, bumper all bent up." Dean shuddered. "Oh, poor baby. That's the stuff of nightmares, right there."

That Impala is beautiful, though. Reviews are always welcome.