Disclaimer: Supernatural, the Winchesters, and any other characters and/or places which may appear do not belong to me.

Whumptober 2020, Day #10 (yes I know I'm still a day behind)

Prompt(s): Blood loss; trail of blood

Author's Note: Set during early to mid season 14, before Jack is dying, but after 14x04: Mint Condition. I feel like the hunters just slowly ebbed out of the Bunker in season 14 (thank Chuck) but I wanted a little story to explain it and also get the last few stragglers out lmao. This story hurt me so fucking much to write. It would mean a hell of a lot if you all reviewed and let me know what ya'll thought of it.

Today's Whumpee: Dean Winchester

Dean dragged himself out of the Impala, shaky with pain and blood loss. He'd gone out alone on a hunt. It had seemed like it'd be pretty easy. A lone werewolf that had killed two people. But this werewolf had been different.

Dean had been sure he could handle it on his own; Sammy was exhausted from constant research and taking care of the people from Apocalypse World. Most of them had moved out of the Bunker by now, something Dean was immensely grateful for. It wasn't that he didn't like them, it was just that he didn't like them being in his home. He'd gotten the feeling that Sam was starting to feel that way too. Only Maggie and two others remained, but they were hunting nearly all the time, finding their footing, so Dean and Sam were happy to have the Bunker back to themselves for the most part.

Dean had found Sam asleep in the library that morning, so when Dean headed out for the hunt, he merely smiled fondly at his little brother and left a note, saying where he'd gone.

He knew Sam had woken up when he received a text after about an hour on the road that simply read, "Be careful." Dean had sent back a thumbs up emoji.

One werewolf was something he could easily take care of himself. He'd once taken out a whole nest of vamps before on his own. Although to be fair, he'd had the Mark of Cain and a bloodlust back then.

But when he'd started engaging with the wolf, he'd immediately noticed something different. Dean could… sense it, in a way. This was one of the creatures that Michael had experimented with when he'd been possessing Dean. Dean could sense the grace. The cursed grace that had once been flowing through his own veins. The acidic, rancid grace that had made him feel unclean, filthy. And the wolf… well… Dean supposed that that explained the curious look of recognition on the wolf's face when he'd first seen Dean. But then, when the wolf realized that Dean was no longer Michael, he had snarled and leapt at the elder Winchester with renewed hatred and savage snarls.

Dean had been completely unprepared for this possibilty, meaning that he also had no idea that the wolf would be impervious to silver. The only reason Dean escaped alive was because he'd been able to get to the trunk and grab one of their machetes before hacking the monster's head off. But not without sustaining many deep cuts across his chest, sides, back, and arms.

Thank god the hunt hadn't been very far away. Only a couple of hours. Dean's first thought, of course, had been to call Sam, but his phone had been cracked by one of the wolf's claws. And, of fucking course, him and Sam had taken all their spare phones out of the Impala to charge the day before. He'd had no reason to think he'd need one so they were all still sitting on one of the cabinets at home.

So he drove home, blaring music as loud as he could bear. The beat made his head hurt even more but at least it kept him conscious. The drive home was a blur.

When he finally parked in front of the Bunker — he'd have Sam put the car in the garage later — he nearly fell out of the driver's seat and basically dragged himself across the hard ground. He was able to push himself up enough, tears brimming his eyes from the painful burning across his entire body, to reach the Bunker door and open it. Pulling the heavy metal door open tugged at the scratches on his arm, but he bit down on his lip to bite down his scream, only letting out a muttered whimper. He'd been through pain, so many times, too many to count, but no matter how numb you feel inside, getting sliced up by a werewolf still hurt like hell.

"S'mmy," he muttered. He pulled himself to the staircase and nudged the door closed with his foot. "Sammy!" he called a little louder.

"Dean, is that you?" He sighed with relief as he heard his little brother's voice.

"Need a little help, brother," he muttered. Barely a second later he saw a blurry figure by his side. He instantly knew it was Sam.

"Oh my god, Dean," Sam's voice was shaking. "What the fuck happened?"

"'ll expl'n lat'r," Dean muttered. "Think we could get me off the floor now?" His vision was still blurry; he could feel blood slowly dripping from the wounds all over his body, and his mind was clouded with pain.

"C'mon, I got you." A second later, he felt Sam's arms wrap around him and haul him to his feet. "You gotta help me out a little bit, Dee," Sam muttered. "I don't think me dropping you down the stairs would feel very great."

Dean groaned. "Yeah, probably not." Dean summoned the tiny little essence of strength he had left and managed to get his feet under him. His eyes were closed as Sam helped him down the stairs, but when they reached the bottom, his knees buckled again.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean muttered, choking back a sob. The pain was getting to be near unbearable now.

"It's okay, it's okay, I've got you."

Dean could still hear how his brother's voice was laced with worry and stress, and he felt bad for worrying his brother so much. But with an apology on his lips, another wave of pain hit him, and the last thing Dean felt before the blackness, were Sam's arms carrying him to the infirmary.

"No, please don't," Dean pled. "Please, please, not the box." He couldn't believe he was begging. He never begged, certainly not for himself. Part of him was ashamed of begging, but the other part couldn't care less. He was scared, he'd admit it. The box was so painful. It was terrifying. It hurt him, destroyed him from the inside out.

Michael just smiled at him in the mirror. "I have something even… better… in mind," the archangel said with a devilish smile.

If Dean had been in control of his body, he was sure he'd be shaking. The next thing he knew, he was enveloped in cold darkness. He couldn't see anything, not even his own hands. He felt like he couldn't breathe, like he couldn't even scream. It was almost like he was in the emptiness of space, but somehow, someway… this was worse.

"Let me out! Let me out! Please! Please, let me out. Let me out."

Dean shot up in the infirmary bed but then instantly regretted it as his body screamed at him from all the numerous cuts. Tears were filling his eyes as he instantly sought Sam. His little brother was beside him, a cloth in hand, stained red from the blood Sam had been cleaning away .

"Dean! Dean, hey, stay with me, man." Sam's hands were suddenly grasping his shoulders.

Dean blinked away the hot tears, just for more to replace them. His vision was still blurry with pain, the nightmare filling his head. His own screams playing over and over again in his head, as if they were on some sickening loop.

"S-Sammy?" Dean whispered.

"Breathe, Dean, just breathe for me, brother." Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Dean into him. "You're good, you're okay. You're safe. You're home in the Bunker."

Dean took a few shaky breaths, each one getting slightly deeper and calmer. His head was against Sam's chest, and when he blinked his eyes open, free of tears this time, he became aware that there was someone else in the room. Probably someone Sam had asked to help him with his brother's injuries.

He instantly stiffened and Sam sensed it, because Dean felt his brother shift and jerk his head towards the door, hissing something in a commanding tone. The person instantly scuttled out of the room like a beetle, closing the door behind them.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said, wrapping his arms around his brother tighter. "It's just you and me now, you're okay. We're both okay. It's just us."

After a few minutes, after regaining his breath, Dean pulled away. His vision was clearer now and he looked at Sam. His brother's eyes were filled with concern.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him "Don't you think I should be the one to ask? You're the one who dragged yourself across the doorframe and started bleeding out all over the stairs, and then passed out in my arms."

"Sorry 'bout that," Dean mumbled. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Didn't mean to scare me? Dee, you came home looking like… like I don't know, a hellhound had gotten you again. Then you passed out, I had to carry you in here, and I only just started stitching one of the thirty fucking slices in your skin you have all over."

Sam's voice had risen, but when he saw Dean wince, he lowered it again.

"Why didn't you call me? What happened? I thought it was just a wolf you were hunting. Or was it a pack?"

Dean shook his head. "Phone cracked," he muttered. He leaned back against some pillows, his eyes closed and jaw clenched in pain. "It was just the wolf, but — but it was one of Michael's. One of his… experiments."

"You mean… so it was stronger than just a normal wolf?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "Big-time. Silver didn't even phase it. While I was trying to shoot it, that's when it got most of it's work done on me. I finally managed to get one of our machetes and slice the thing's head off. But by that time…"

Sam nodded. "Okay, okay, well, we'll figure that out then," Sam said. "Later though. I need to start stitching you up. Looks like this one started bleeding again," he said, pointing at one on Dean's forearm.

Dean nodded again and swallowed. Sam's face swam before him as he brother started threading the needle through his skin.

"Who was that helping you?" Dean mumbled, closing his eyes again, wincing with every tug of the needle.

"Maggie," Sam said. "Didn't mean for her to be here when you woke up. Only to help me get you fixed up. But then…" he trailed off.

"I woke up," Dean finished for him.

"Yeah," Sam said. Dean blinked at his brother. His lips were pressed together tightly as he nimbly threaded the needle and thread back and forth, weaving his brother's skin back together. Dean could see how much Sam hated doing this. He could see it, because he knew how many times that face had appeared on his own features. Neither of them liked fixing each other up. It wasn't that they minded; it was just that they hated seeing the other hurt.

"You know, I don't particularly enjoy having people here either," he said softly.

Dean didn't say anything as Sam continued.

"When you were… gone… I needed something to distract me from what could be happening to you. The Apocalypse-verse people were an easy distraction. Something to deal with when I hit a dead end on research or leads on Michael. I supposed my eagerness to help them out made them think they were welcome to stay. Which they were… until you got back. Now it's just awkward, but I haven't really had the guts to just tell them to leave."

Dean shook his head. "I don't want you having to do that, Sam. You know these people, trained them. They're important to you."

Sam shook his own head, stitching the second to last cut together. "Yeah, but this is our home. You and me, Cas, Jack. Our home. And it's wrong of me to let them continue to stay, especially when I see what it does to you."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

Sam cut the thread, then re-threaded the needle for the final time. He gestured to Dean to hold out his arm before continuing. "I mean, that I see the way you act around them. You have your guard up all the time, and that's because you don't know them. Which I understand. I mean, that's how I was at first. But I don't want you to feel like you have to keep your guard up. Not when we're in our home. The only place that's ever been truly ours, except for the car that is."

Dean smiled fondly. Sam always laughed at Dean's love for the Impala, but Dean knew how much she meant to Sam. He'd noticed plenty of times where Sam would sleep better in the car than he would his own bed. He'd notice Sam coming in from the garage some mornings, early enough to tell Dean that his brother had been sleeping out there. Dean didn't blame him. She was one hell of a car. She'd kept them safe for nearly their whole lives. She was their home.

But so was the Bunker.

Sam finished the final stitch. "Alright, now here." Sam stood up, dropping the last bit of remaining thread and the needle onto the side table, before scooping up a couple of white tablets.

"Take these," Sam said, holding them out. Dean palmed them and then took the glass of water Sam was also holding out. He swallowed the pills down before draining the glass.

"You look like a mummy," Sam said a few minutes later when he'd finished covering nearly all the cuts on Dean with gauze.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well, don't let anyone else think that, they might try to come decapitate me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Stay in here or your room?"

"My room," Dean replied easily. He let Sam pull him to his feet, holding him steady as he swayed on his feet.

"Take it easy, take it easy," Sam muttered.

Dean nodded after a moment, signaling that he was alright to try and make his way down the halls and to his room and the beloved memory foam mattress.

When Dean finally sat down on his bed, Sam watched him like a hawk.

"I'm alright, Sammy," Dean said softly.

"You lost a lot of blood, Dean. I'm just making sure you're as okay as you say are."

"I am," Dean assured him. He reached out and grabbed his brother's wrist. "I'm alright. I got back here to the Bunker, you patched me up, I'll be right as rain in a few days or so." As he said that, however, a gentle wave of pain flooded his body. The cuts were still burning slightly, something that wouldn't go away for a couple of days at least. He couldn't help but wince.

"Yeah, right," Sam said with a minute frown. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. He gingerly pulled back the bedcovers and laid down. Sam continued to watch him.

Dean laughed lightly with his eyes closed. "Don't just stand there like a creep," he muttered. "Pictures are over there." He gestured with a thumb to a place on his other side, towards the dresser.

It was a common theme with both of them. When something happened, they liked to look at the the few pictures of their family they had. It wasn't many, but they were small pieces of their life they'd been lucky enough to keep safe.

Dean sensed Sam going over and taking the small pile of photos in his hand, and a second later, the other side of the bed sinking slightly.

Sam's presence couldn't ease the pain from the cuts all over his body, but it did help him relax. Just knowing his brother was there, always at his side. He fell asleep fairly soon after that. And if he had to bet, Sam did too.