Sam was sixteen. To be exact, it was his sixteenth birthday. Yeah. Happy birthday, Sam. How's almost bleeding out for a gift?

The edges of his vision had been black for the past hour, and he was sure that Dean's voice was the only thing keeping him conscious.

"Stay with me, Sammy," he heard his brother repeat for at least the twentieth time in sixty seconds.

Sam couldn't speak, but forced his eyes to open into slits so that Dean would know he was still awake. Alive. He felt a tear on his cheek and wondered if it was Dean's or his own.

Then there were rough lips against his forehead for a fraction of a second – Dean's, he was sure – and he was being carefully but quickly lifted onto a stretcher.

Dean took his hand, clinging to it almost desperately. "I'm not gonna leave you, Sammy. But you can't leave me, either, okay? I need you, man."

Sam was so focused on Dean speaking that he couldn't be bothered to notice the loud, persistent sirens of the ambulance that he was swiftly being carried toward. The sound of Dean's voice was Sam's world at that moment (always) and the only thing that he could make himself hold on to.

Until he heard one of the EMT men say, "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't ride with him. You'll have to follow us to the hospital."

Sam snorted weakly. This would be a colorful conversation.

As Sam had predetermined, a few choice words were exchanged before Dean was climbing into the back of the ambulance beside him, fingers still twined with his, a reassuring, calming thumb gently rubbing circles into the back of his wrist.

Sam somehow mustered up the strength to mouth to Dean, "Keep talking."

Dean nodded, brushing Sam's hair out of his eyes like there was no other process on earth that could possibly require more intense care. "I, uh... I already called dad and Bobby. They'll be at the hospital waiting for us." Dean paused and drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

Sam attempted to squeeze his hand, encouraging him to keep going.

So Dean did. Complying to Sam without Sam ever even having to speak. Because Dean knew. Like always. "Do you... Do you wanna know what happened?" Dean asked, leaning in a little closer.

"Yeah." The last thing that Sam remembered was that damn demon throwing him against a wall with so much force that it knocked him unconscious. When he'd woken up, he was in Dean's arms, and his entire body was set alight with this dull, thrumming fire that burned from the inside out and was just pleading to pull him back under. But he wouldn't let it. Couldn't. Because Dean pleading for him to stay, god dammit, Sammy, stay, was stronger than the wall of numbing flames lapping at the innermost layer of his skin.

Dean grasped Sam's hand impossibly tighter. "You sure? It might be a little hard to hear. It was... pretty brutal." Dean's voice threatened to break, and he looked down, fighting to compose himself.

Sam understood, now. Dean couldn't handle talking about it, really, he had just asked because he felt like Sam deserved to know. "It's okay," came Sam's silent reassurance. He would've liked to back that statement with a little more conviction, enough to honestly let Dean know that he could wait, but his vocal cords still refused to produce any sound whatsoever.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, a pained, hitching sound stuck low in his throat. "I should've been more careful. Should've made sure I didn't leave you alone. Not even for a second. Should've been protecting you."

Sam lifted the hand that wasn't being blanketed by Dean's – When had they gotten an IV in there? – and soothingly stroked the inside of Dean's arm, from his wrist to the crease of his elbow and then back down again. "Shhh."

It wasn't until then that Sam acknowledged another presence in the back of the ambulance; another EMT worker, female this time. She was seated by his head, only noticed by Sam when she began attaching all sorts of monitors to his body.

He raised an eyebrow, more reflexively than intentionally. She was cute. Small. Brown hair clipped back out of her eyes, pretty, full lips, painted a pale shade of pink. Not that he was really picky enough to have a type, but if Dean seemed to hook up with similarly mannered girls once in a while, they were reminiscent of her. Dean, however, could not possibly have been less interested. His eyes didn't even flicker to her. Not once. He never took them off of Sam. They were so full of emotion that it made Sam's heart ache, and all he wanted to do was take the undeserved guilt away from Dean and throw it over himself like a cloak so that it would be one less burden that his brother was forced to bear. It was then that he realized how overly-emotional Dean was allowing himself to be. It wouldn't have been quite as odd, had the girl not been present. But Dean wasn't putting on his man-of-steel facade the way that he always did around others, especially company of the cute, female persuasion.

Sam could feel himself slipping again, with Dean not talking and all, and he heard the woman mutter something about his vitals finally stabilizing, so he decided it was okay to let go. His last conscious thought was that Dean was fucking beautiful when he cried.