The first thing he was aware of was a loud screeching noise jolting him out of his haze and Sam found himself pausing, his brain desperately searching his memory to work out what he was hearing.

"Sammy look out!" Dean's voice; he was able to recognise that. "Sammy!" This time it was intertwined with the screeching and he froze again, he knew that it had to mean something, it was just a matter of figuring out what…

His vision blurred as he felt himself being thrown backwards, colliding hard against something and crying out in pain as heat pummelled through the inside of his arm.

"Sam?"

"Huh? What? I'm awake…" He blinked quickly a few times, seeing Dean crouched down in front of him.

"His arms bleeding pretty bad."

Sam looked down at the arm that Dean was tentatively holding onto, there was a deep claw mark along the outside of it; "wow, do you think that hurts?"

"You can't feel it?"

"Not really."

"He okay?" The confusion grew as John came into view, the worry far less evident on his face than was on Dean's. Suddenly anger seemed to flare in the pit of his stomach, John should be worried, he should show that he cared; he should actually be a father.

"I'm fine," he was still lucid enough to realise that he shouldn't argue, even though he wanted to. He felt Dean lifting him up by his uninjured arm and he struggled to his feet, the world spinning around him. "Are we going back to the motel now?"

Dean laughed, cutting himself off abruptly at a reproachful look from John, "yeah we're going back to the motel."

Sam winced through the pain as he was helped into the car, his cut scraping across the seat. He looked at the arm, confused for a moment about how he had hurt it, "what happened?"

"You went hunting," John got into the driving seat, his voice cold, "and you let the monster escape…"

"Dad!" Dean's voice was strained, obviously desperate to avoid another argument.

"Hey! I'm a fucking good hunter."

"…Sam?"

"What did you just say to me?"

"I said that I'm a fucking good hunter. I'm just as good as Dean! Why is it always him who gets the praise when the monster dies and me who gets blamed when it survives?"

"Because," John's hands were shaking on the steering wheel as he pulled away, obviously having trouble keeping calm, "Dean has never stood still and waited for one to attack him! So don't tell me that you're a good hunter! And don't swear at me again!"

"Dad, let's just get back to the motel. He's obviously sick; he's not up to arguing."

John hissed outwardly through his teeth but set off driving anyway; "fine, but I'm not the one who's stitching him up."