What the fuck was that? That was the first thought that came to Dean's mind as he regained consciousness for the second time that night.
His senses returned swiftly this time, the adrenaline rush of the fight having driven out the effects of the night's prodigious binge. Before he opened his eyes, he could tell he was still outside, laying in grass. A wet chill had settled over his whole body. Rain? Or dew...already? How long have I been out?
The weight of the creature on him was gone. The fuck...was I seeing things? Taking a cautious peek through barely-open eyelids, he saw that the sky was still black. So, not out so long after all. Maybe it rained. Turning his head a fraction, he tried to get his bearings, staying still just in case playing dead was the safer move for the moment. When he didn't see anything—or anyone—nearby, he made an effort to sit up.
And put his hand on what felt like his own guts. Ohshitohshitshitshitfuckitshit. He didn't feel any pain, but he figured that was the shock. He'd been shot, stabbed and clawed enough times in the last forty years, he knew what his body did when serious shit went down. It's bad, then. The thought came to him, oddly detached after the sudden panic of realizing he really was injured. Guess I didn't make that up after all. Fuck, I hate being right.
Think, dammit. Dean tried to regulate his breathing, keep his heart beating more slowly, to reduce blood flow out of his damn body. Don't rush. Take stock. He could move his head, he knew. And his hands, so that was good. He wasn't feeling the pain yet, so maybe he could fashion some kind of bandage...but how could he wrap it around himself, if he couldn't sit up?
Use what's to hand. Shirt's already around your back. Job's halfway done. Shivering, he shrugged his right arm, then his left, out of the flannel button-down, working the shirt down towards his middle.
Hesitantly, he felt for the edges of the wound, which was astonishingly smaller than he'd thought when he first touched it. Okay, maybe I was panicking a bit. Take your time. Go slow. Dean ran a hand around the hole in his tee shirt, which amazingly was not sticking to the wound at all. Well, that's a mercy. He wrapped the front flaps of his shirt over each other, followed by the sleeves. Gingerly he folded one sleeve under the other, to make a half knot, gradually pulling the ends one at a time, to tighten the makeshift bandage enough to hold himself together, but that wouldn't put too much strain or torsion on the wound. Wouldn't do me any good if I made the damn thing worse trying to fix it.
Once the knot was tied, Dean took a shallow, careful breath. The "bandage" held, and it didn't put too much pressure on his stomach. Well, that could have been worse, he thought.
And immediately regretted it.
The swish of the grass betrayed at least one pair of feet headed directly towards him.