December 1998
It came to him in ragged tatters, his father's voice from miles away.
Only later did the emotions in it register: the fear, the relief, the almost hysteria. Right then, it was simply random sound; washing over him while his little brother's blood seeped through his fingers.
"It's okay... he'll be okay, it's okay... Dean... it's okay, you did good... he'll be okay..."
A mantra, a prayer, or maybe it was begging, as the flashes from the approaching ambulance danced over them, shimmering Christmas lights for his battered family.
"... okay... Dean? It's okay..."