Written for Whumptober Day 24: Fight, flight, or freeze (blood covered hands, catatonic, "I don't want to do this anymore"). Posting a day early since I have work tomorrow. This is somehow my first tag to Mystery Spot despite it being one of my favorite episodes. It's also the fifty-fifth episode of the show, hence the title, because I think things like that are fun. I hope you enjoy!
Still own nothing.
Sam is halfway through stitching up Dean's shoulder when he realizes it's pointless. His fingers are wet with his brother's blood and as he scrutinizes his work, he realizes his stitches are more uneven than usual. The gash will probably scar, leaving Dean with a thick white line across his freckled skin. Or, it would scar, if Dean would live long enough for the skin to heal. Maybe uneven stitches don't really matter then, since Dean will probably be dead in a matter of hours and Sam won't be able to do anything about it, just like he hasn't been able to do anything the last fifty-four times.
Sure, he protected Dean from the mugger with the knife two towns over when he decided maybe Broward County itself was the problem before hightailing it back to the motel. But that had just been a warning, really, of what would happen if they stayed gone. For however stupid it sounds, it's probably safer in Broward County, where Sam knows more of the variables and can normally get Dean past the morning in one piece.
Getting him past the morning means no shaving, brushing teeth, or showering, and that's just the tip of the iceberg for the day ahead. He's got over fifty variables to keep track of now, things to steer clear of if he wants Dean alive and by his side for just a few minutes longer. He doesn't want to find out how many more variables exist in this seemingly endless time loop.
"Sam?" Dean asks, probably noticing that Sam's hands have stilled. Dean's stripped down to his t-shirt, the sleeve cut almost to the neck so Sam can work. The black material is shiny from the blood that's soaked in. The yellow bedsheets where Dean shucked his jacket and overshirt are splattered with it. Again, not that it'll matter in a few hours.
Sam's hands begin shaking as he threads the next stitch. His hands will be clean when Asia starts playing, who cares how messy they get now?
Dean shifts in his chair, the old plastic creaking as he turns to look at Sam more properly. "Sammy?"
The sunlight coming in from the window glints off the reddened needle. Helplessness and anger and frustration churn in his gut. He should be able to figure this out. There has to be some clue, somewhere, to stop Dean from dying. He can't keep letting him down like this. "I don't want to do this anymore," Sam says quietly, voice thick with emotion. He rests his wrists on the edge of the table, careful not to touch anything as he tries to stop the shaking.
Even now, Dean's counting on him to stitch him up, and he can't do it.
His hair is in his face, but Dean still manages to catch his eye. "You'll figure somethin' out, Sammy, I got faith." And of course, Dean would know that Sam wasn't talking about the stitches.
"And until then?" Sam raises his head, searching his brother's eyes for an answer Dean doesn't have. "I can't keep you alive on faith, Dean."
Dean shrugs with his good shoulder. "Maybe not. But you can still put Humpty Dumpty back together again, which counts for something."
In the long run, it doesn't, not really. But now, it does. He can fix Dean up for however long he's got left, and Sam can use the remaining time to try to find a way out of this. Because he will find a way out of this, come hell or high water. Dean's not dying on his watch again.
"C'mon, Dr. Frankenstein, chicks dig scars." Dean edges closer and smiles, tip of his tongue between his teeth. To anyone else he's look perfectly at ease, but Sam can see the weight of worry behind his eyes.
Sam doesn't smile back, but he likes to think that some of the tremors in his hands lessen in severity. He threads the needle and leans in. He's got work to do.