Chapter Four
Dean helps Sam walk over to the bed and then helps him take a seat on the edge. Dean doesn't miss the tense lines of pain on his brother's face as he does it. He hates seeing his brother in pain. He wishes he could take it away, take it on himself rather than watch him suffer. But that's not a choice, and so he takes a breath and prepares himself to cause his brother even more pain stitching him up.
"Just take it easy," Dean says. "I'm going to get the first aid kit."
When Dean returns to Sam's side and kneels down in front of him. Sam's eyes are scrunched shut and he's panting in pain. Dean wonders for a second if maybe they should make a trip to the ER. And then, like he can read his thoughts, Sam says, "No hospital. You do it."
Dean scrubs a hand over his face and then stands. "All right. Well, first things first, we need to get you out of that shirt so I can see your back."
Sam tries to work the buttons of his shirt but his injured wrist is making it hard. Dean kneels back down and brushes Sam's hands away from buttons. Sam swats at his hands.
"I can do it," Sam says defiantly.
"And I'm sure you can, but let me. I'd rather not sit here and watch you wince your way through it."
Sam rolls his eyes, but lets his hands drop. "This is so humiliating."
Dean chuckles as he goes about undoing Sam's shirt. "This isn't exactly my idea of a good time either, bro."
Once the shirt is undone, he slips it off his shoulders, exposing his damaged back. He stands and goes to the other side of the bed, taking the first aid kit with him. Dean curses under his breath when he sees how bad it looks. The edges of the slices are red and jagged and angry. It was no wonder Sam was panting in pain.
"Okay," Dean says, running a hand through his hair. "I suppose we need to move you so you're lying down."
Dean sees Sam's shoulders tense and then he nods. "Just give a minute."
"Take as long as you need."
After a few moments, Sam begins to move. Dean watches anxiously as Sam stands and then turns to the bed, lowering himself slowly to the mattress. Dean winces as he watches the gashes give and take with every move.
Sam grabs the pillow and pulls it under his head, closing his eyes. "So much better," he says.
"Yeah well, I hate to break it to you, but I still need to clean those cuts and stitch you up, so enjoy the comfort while you can."
Sam groans but doesn't say anything else.
Dean walks over and grabs the bottle of whiskey from the table and then gets a towel from the bathroom. He sits down on the edge of the bed and opens the bottle. "Do you need something to bite down on?" Dean asks him before he starts.
Sam shakes his head. "Just do it already."
Dean holds the towel beside the first gash and pours the whiskey over it. Sam's body goes rigid with pain and he turns his face into the pillow to stifle his cries.
He repeats the process on each gash, dabbing the excess off when he's done. Moving as fast as he can, he prepares the needle and thread. With practiced hands, he begins stitching the largest of the wounds, tugging it closed. He has done this so many times in his life, but it never gets easier.
He doesn't have to see Sam's face to know that he's probably a bit teary eyed from the pain.
What he doesn't expect is for Sam to speak. "I'm sorry," he says.
"What?" Dean's brows pinch together in confusion. "Why are you apologizing?"
"I … There is something that I haven't told you."
Dean hearts skips a beat. This can't be good. In fact, he knows from experience that anytime Sam keeps something from him it tends to end badly.
Dean pushes the needle through the skin again, trying to prepare himself for whatever is about to come. "Go on," he says.
"You were right before," Sam says. "About me sleeping … or more like not."
He feels a wave of relief. This he could handle. He already knew that Sam was having nightmares, and he already had an idea what they were about. Sam was a vocal sleeper at times and more than once he had cried out Jess's name in his sleep.
"Nightmares?" Dean asks as he ties a knot in the last stitch.
"Yeah," Sam says, "They've been keeping me awake at night and when I do sleep, it's barely enough. It slowed me down today. I made some stupid mistakes because I was tired. You could've gotten hurt."
Dean's holds his hand over Sam's shoulder, like he wants to lay it there it comfort him, but he stops himself. It would only be awkward and they just didn't do that kind of thing.
"Look, Sammy, you don't need to worry about me. What happened back there wasn't your fault. And Jess, that wasn't your fault either. There was no way you could have known what was going to happen."
The muscles of Sam's back go tight. "Yeah, I guess you're right. There was no way I could have known."
"Good, now let me see that arm of yours."
Sam groans but then takes his arm out from under the pillow and flops it onto the bed beside him. Dean takes the damaged limb gingerly in his grasp and carefully feels along the bone. He pushes here and there, testing the movement. Sam seems to handle it fairly well so he knows it isn't broken, but it could probably use some ice and maybe a wrapping.
"I'll be right back, Sammy," Dean says. He grabs a plastic baggie and goes down to get some ice.
When he gets back, Sam is asleep. Dean can't figure how, given the pain, but he isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He grabs a towel and wraps the baggie of ice. Gently, he places it on Sam's wrist.
Sam's exposure to the venom worries Dean and he grabs his phone from his coat pocket.
He quickly dials Bobby and waits while it rings for him to answer.
"So, how did it go?" Bobby asks by way of greeting.
"The brass worked like a charm, but Sammy got pretty banged up. He got a healthy dose of venom among other things."
"Well, shit. Is he all right? He's still breathing ain't he?" Bobby asks.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I think he's sleeping it off, but I didn't know if you knew anymore about it."
"Sorry, boy, but not really. I think sleep is probably the best thing. If he ain't dead yet, then he's probably gonna be fine."
"Somehow that's not that reassuring," Dean says. "Hey, I wanted to ask you something else, too. Did Sam mention anything to you about his nightmares?"
"He's having nightmares?" Bobby asks and Dean can hear the concern in his voice.
"Yeah, but I guess you don't know anything more than me."
"Sorry, I can't be much more help. Wish I was," Bobby says, "Try to keep an eye on him, and call me if something changes. I'm going to check the books, see if there's anything else on that venom."
"Thanks, Bobby."
Hanging up the phone, Dean walks over to the bed beside Sam's and takes a seat. He toes off his boots and rests his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He watches Sam sleep, watches his brow tighten and relax in either pain or a nightmare or maybe both.
After a moment, Sam brows pinch together and then his breathing changes and Dean knows that he's having another nightmare.
Unable to let him suffer, Dean stands and walks the few steps to Sam's bed. He sits down on the edge and after a second of hesitation, places a hand on Sam's head, brushing the hair from his eyes.
"Time to wake up, Sam," he says.
Sam murmuring turns to speaking and he shouts Jess's name. Dena sighs, and then begins to gently nudge Sam's shoulder. "Come on, wake up."
Sam starts, pushing himself up on the bed only to fall back a moment later in pain. "Son of a bitch that hurts."
"You were dreaming about Jess again."
Sam nods and looks away. "Same dream, of her on the ceiling, of the fire." Sam lowers his voice. "I can still smell it sometimes when I wake up."
Dean doesn't need Sam to explain to the smell. Burning bodies were a smell all their own, one that you were unlikely to forget and Dean can understand why it haunts him.
Dean stands and moves back to the other bed, taking a seat. Part of him wants to press the issue of the nightmares more, try to get to the bottom of them, but once he looks at Sam's face he stops himself. He looks pale and tired and the last thing he needs is his big brother interrogating him some more.
Sam pushes himself up on one elbow and quirks a brow. "Did I dream it or where you petting me earlier?"
Dean swallowed. "I wasn't petting you."
Sam smiles, shaking his head. "You're such a bitch."
"Shut up. You're the bitch."
"Whatever you say, Jerk."
AN:Please let me know what you think, good or bad. Thank you for reading, Snarks.