Yeah, yeah, same drill: Don't own a thing or want to be supper. Thanks for the names, people. I've already incorporated a few.

Don't Wanna Be Dinner 3

Dean stared at the ragged mess of torn flesh that was his brother's chest and couldn't form a coherent thought. He couldn't fix this. How the hell could he fix this? Sam needed medical attention fast, but they were out in the middle of a no man's land swamp at least three miles inside a freakin cave system and even if he could drag Sam out of there, the kid would bleed out long before they hit the surface. Dean had to fix him, right here, right now.

Hell.

John Winchester never won any awards for father of the year, but he'd damned well taught his sons how to make do in a crisis. Determine what you're dealing with first.

Dean's natural instinct was to apply pressure to the wound, stop the bleeding, but there was so much damage and his hands were filthy.

Determine what you're dealing with first. "Okay, Sammy. I'm gonna take care of this." With that Dean became a whirl of action. He shifted Sam's head gently off his knee, pleased to note the kid's weary gaze was at least tracking him. He dashed over to their pack, knowing exactly what was in there he could use-holy water, big-ass-bladed knife, smaller stiletto knife, small first aid kit that had the curved needles, but not near enough surgical thread for this mess nor enough gauze bandages-dammit. Dean mentally went through what else they had on them as he carried the pack over—boots, boot laces, socks, they both wore belts, both had lighters—he snagged his flashlight off the floor, grabbed Sam's as well, dumped the load next to Sam and kept looking around the cave—he had his flask of whiskey of course, car keys, amulet, amulet string—his gaze landed on the hiker's fancy backpack. Thank you.

Dean ran across the cave, crunching bones beneath his feet, nearly slipped on something slimy that he didn't even want to stab a guess at what it was, grabbed the hiking pack and hauled it back through the disorder. Settling near Sam, he went through the pack, all the pockets. The outside was coated in dirt, but everything inside had remained exactly as the hiker had left it. Dean rummaged through it quickly, finding changes of clothes, clean socks, another flashlight, trail mix, old and hardened power bars, jerky, a mess kit, toilet paper, rain slicker, biodegradable soap, a few cans of pop-lid soups, girlie magazines—well, okay, everyone communes with nature in their own way—treated matches, Swiss army knife, and jackpot . . . a small fishing tackle with plenty of fishing line.

He flipped on the hiker's flashlight, surprised it still worked and set all three flashlights in the bone pile around Sam's head and shoulders, each angled to give him the best advantage of their light to work with.

Determine what you're dealing with first. Dean took a calming breath. He'd gathered the items quickly, but Sam was still bleeding and Dean couldn't see what was the worst of the problems. Sam's eyes remained on him and Dean smiled, proud that the kid was still hanging on, still fighting. "Okay, I'm gonna clean you up first, see what's going on." He used a little of the holy water and biodegradable soap to lather up his hands, wiping them dry on one of the hiker's shorts, then poured whiskey over his hands for good measure. Pushing Sam's torn T-shirt to either side, Dean used a clean shirt to begin mopping up the blood. It was bright red, thank God it was bright red. A brown tinge would have meant internal organs opened, damage he had no hope of dealing with. Dean pressed down on the wounds, trying to pinpoint where the most blood came from by forcing it.

Sam wrenched upward, or at least would have if he'd had the strength. He made it about half an inch off the ground before flopping back. His neck muscles strained around a raspy moan. "Deaaan."

"I know it hurts." Dean kept working, wiping away the pooling blood from ragged puckering skin. "I gotta find where the bleeder is. Gotta stop that." He kept up a running commentary of what he was doing. Sam squeezed his eyes tight. A lone tear spilled out, made a trail down the dirty skin, into the brown hair and he nodded, mouth clenched into a firm line that made everything inside of Dean want to run howling over to that damn swampzard's body and kick it over and over.

Instead, he looked away from his brother's face, couldn't concentrate around the pain he saw there and focused on the job at hand, just the job at hand. "I found it." He breathed. "I found it, Sammy. There's a hole . . ." Suddenly his voice gave out. He swallowed past the lump. "There's a hole . . . a little nick way down deep in one of these punture wounds from the monster's teeth . . ." Once he mopped the blood around it, he could see what was causing the flow easily, see the tiny tiny miniscule hole clearly around the ripped flesh. How was Sam even still alive? He needed a surgeon.

Despair washed over Dean. He didn't have the skill for this. He couldn't pour the blood Sam had already lost back into his brother. Most wounds are just holes—holes made by bullets, holes made from knives, holes from teeth—different weapons, but they all do the same thing, Dean. His dad's voice droned in his head. They make holes. Find a way to patch up the hole.

"Okay. Okay." He dropped the blood-soaked shirt on Sam's stomach, pulled out the lighter and needle. "I'm going to patch up this hole. It's just a small one. No worse than digging a bullet out, right?" He sterilized the needle, had a hell of a time threading the surgical thread with shaking slippery hands. Sam's eyes finally closed, his head settling farther into the bone pile, but Dean could feel each rise and fall of his chest with his fingers buried in Sam's shoulder, pushing and pulling the needle through the soft fleshy insides.

"Kay, kay, I think I got it." Dean wiped the inside of his elbow, the only relatively clean part of his arm, across his sweaty forehead. He let himself shift back for a moment before pressing another of the camper's shirts against his handiwork, soaking up blood, lifted the shirt away and held his breath as he watched to see if more pooled there.

His laugh echoed around the cave. "It's good, Sammy. It's holding. I think we did it." Now all he had to do was stop the rest of the bleeding, stitch up Sam's chest and wrist and hope to the highest heavens that the blood loss wasn't already taking his brother from him.

Then of course there was the chance of infection and who knew what bacteria that purple people eater had embedded in its fingernails. Or venom. Or . . . Dean gritted his teeth. He really needed the voice in his brain to shut the friggin hell up.

He wasn't done yet.

Unfolding the last clean shirt, Dean pressed it down along the wound that spanned from Sam's shoulder to flat stomach to soak up as much of the blood as he could. Gasping in a floundering breath, Sam jerked fully awake, arms slapping at the air.

"Easy there. Sam, stop."

Sam tried to shift away, but Dean held him put easily. Too easily, which scared the crap out of him.

"Ow, ow! Dean, stop. Please, sto . . . ooo . . . op."

Dean eased up the cloth, noting with satisfaction that most of the bleeding had stopped. "Hey, it's okay. I know it hurts like a mother, but I gotta do this."

"No, no, you don't. You really don't." Sam's chest was rising too high, too fast. His face was screwed up tight, making those half-circle wrinkles in his forehead. "I'm fine. It's okay. Dean."

"Sure you are, Sammy." Dean's heart was breaking, all the tiny pieces dropping to the pit of his hollow stomach.

Watch for shock. Keep him warm. Keep him clean. Replace any fluids. Gee, thanks, dad. They were well beyond shock. And how could he replace all that fluid? This was hopeless. Not hopeless. This was Sammy. His brother had to live, because . . . he just had to. This was not hopeless. Replace the fluids.

"Okay, I'm leaving your chest alone for now. We'll do this easy. I need you to drink something. Think you can do that?"

Sam's gaze was wary. And why wouldn't it be? It's not like Dean hadn't ever jammed a dislocated shoulder back into place before Sam was ready or shoved unwanted pills down his throat, holding his mouth and nose to force him to swallow. Finally Sam nodded.

"I'm going to lift you up a bit. Ready?"

This time Sam's nod came faster. Dean lifted his brother's head, tensed at the way a sudden lance of pain swept across the young features. He placed the holy water near the kid's lips.

Sam glanced up at him, confusion lowering his brows. "I'm . . . I'm not a demon." His eyes darted around the cave. "Wh-where are we? Wha's happening?"

Crap. Dean felt his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "I know you're not a demon. It's the water that's important. I need you to drink this water, as much as you can."

"Okay." Sam's eyes slid closed.

"Whoa, nuh-uh brother. Not until you drink something." Dean patted his sibling's cheek until the young hunter came around again.

"What?" Sam's nose scrunched. "It stinks. Where are we?"

Sighing, Dean pressed the bottle to Sam's lips, unwilling to play twenty questions. "Just drink. That's not a suggestion."

Sam complied, though his throat muscles worked sluggishly. Dean watched, ready to start massaging Sam's neck and force his muscles to pull down the liquid. "Just a little more. Come on, buddy. That's it."

Sam got several swallows down before the water just started dribbling down his chin. Dean looked at him. His brother was completely passed out. The water wasn't nearly enough, not filled with the protein Sam needed to replace the significant blood loss.

He shook his head, frustration and worry rising to overtake his emotions. He forcibly put a clamp on his fears. Too much to do. Gotta take care of Sammy.

Wrist next. Not much he could do about the punctures there. The teeth had missed the veins. That was something. Wrapping the hiker's sock around Sam's wrist, Dean slid the second sock over Sam's hand like a mitten to hold the other sock in place. Simple, but it worked.

Next he went to work on Sam's chest. Holding the jagged flesh together, Dean worked quickly, using the fishing line to stitch his younger sibling back together. He never once looked at Sam's face, shut out the whimpering moans as best he could to get this done in efficient detachment before Sam woke up again.

When he was finished, he took the flask and braced, knowing this would probably rouse Sam. But it needed to be done and Sam needed to wake up and take more water anyway. He tipped the flask.

Sam roared back to life, arching upward, then crashing back down, hands grabbing for his chest.

"No, Sam!" Dean grabbed the flailing arms. "You'll undo all my hard work. Stop, stop! Stitches, Sam. Stop."

He must have gotten through to him because Sam suddenly stilled, his hands locked onto Dean's arms, his gaze slipping onto the sock on his hand, the circle of red bleeding through. Dark eyebrows rose. "Wh-what's with the sock puppet?"

His own eyebrows rising, Dean merely shrugged.

Sam sagged back, would have fallen if Dean hadn't had him. "Oh, man. You didn't put lipstick on me again?"

"No, Sam."

"I don't feel so good."

"I know. But you'll feel better real soon. I promise. I need you to drink something." This time Dean opened up one of the pop-lid soups. Tomato. He brought it to Sam's lips, tilting it. After one swallow, Sam wrenched his head away, grimacing.

"No, Sammy. You have to drink all of it."

"It's gross. You drink it."

"We don't have a lot of options here." Dean squeezed Sam's arm, wishing he could as easily squeeze some coherency into his brother. At least he was awake and talking. That had to be a good sign, right? "Look, you've lost a lot of blood. So drink up."

Sam stared at him, forehead furrowed. Dean swore he could see the wheels in Sam's muddled brain trying to gain momentum. Not getting there, he looked to Dean for help. Even in his confused state, Sam's instincts ran to trust in Dean. Dean nodded encouragingly and nearly cried when Sam leaned forward and allowed him to hold the soup for him. Though he struggled with it, taking shallow and slow sips, Sam finished it off and the relief Dean felt over one stupid can of soup astonished him.

Keep him warm. Keep him clean.

"Okay, Sammy. I'm gonna put bandages on this."

"Kay."

No complaints? He opened one of the bandages, held it across Sam's chest.

Sam stared down at it. "My stomach hurts."

"Yeah, I know." Dean taped the first bandage down, opened another one. "Whoa, whoa." Sam slipped out of his grasp, slumped over to his side. Grabbing a flashlight, Dean lifted Sam's eyelids. The pupils were too large. "Dammit, Sam."

Dean exhaled slowly. "All right. It's all right. You . . . you just rest. I'll take care of everything."

Unstrapping the sleeping bag from the back pack frame, Dean unrolled it. He'd been in enough hospitals to know how to roll someone over on his side and then back the other way to get clean sheets under him. He used the same method to get the clean inside of the unzipped sleeping bag under Sam. Settling himself behind his brother, back against the pile of bones, Dean pulled Sam against his chest, close where he could keep constant vigil on Sam's breathing and heartbeat to wait out the night.

He turned off two of the flashlights to conserve batteries and just held onto Sam, waking him every thirty minutes or so to get him to drink water or soup. He even attempted to soften up the power bars in chicken noodle broth, but Sam only choked those back up.

Between spaces of waking Sam, Dean pulled out his cell phone, played a few games, took several pictures of the swamp lizard for Bobby to document and pass around to other hunters. Eventually boredom had him picking up the hiker's skin magazine. He was fully absorbed in Miss January's riveting dreams of making it big on Broadway when he heard the crunch of bones underfoot, the whicker of a steamy exhalation.

His gaze flicked up where a large silhouette shuffled through the entranceway. A second creature. You are frickin kidding me.

TBC