He knows something's wrong when Sam's eyebrows knit in confusion, a suppressed moan of pain on his lips.
Sam? You okay?
No. Obviously not.
Doctor- he can't remember the doctor's name. suddenly it's not important – doc, what the hell's going on with the morphine? Thought you said you gave him enough.
The doctor's voice is cool, firm. It reminds dean of his father. It comforts him. I've administered as much as I can without risking serious complications. There's nothing else I can give him.
It was only a matter of time before something went wrong, so why not now? They'd been pushing their luck ever since they started searching Galveston for the up-and-coming coven. All it took was one mistake, one goddamn misstep on Dean's part. He looked back at Sam and saw him doubled over, shirt dark and wet with blood.
And Sam always turned into a three year old when he was hurt, too. The puppy eyes would come out and all dean could do was mumble apologies and fight to keep his voice even while his brother shivered and bled out In the backseat.
And the only reason he's not doing a half-assed patch up job in a motel bathtub is because Pastor Jim knows a guy who knows a guy who's willing to operate on a kid who's allergic to most anaesthetics.
But back to the present-
S'okay, Sammy. I gotcha.
Sam gives this awful, choking sob, the first real noise he's made through any of this, and his body twists on the table. The doctor's exclaimed expletives go unheard. Dean is too busy tripping over himself in order to get closer to his brother.
It's okay. It's just a little longer. He shoots a look at the doctor for reassurance, but the doc's too busy handling stitches and clamps and what looks disturbingly like sausage but he knows it's Sam's insides.
In the doctor's hands. Intestines.
He almost throws up, then, but his brother's gripping the sides of the exam table so hard his knuckles are turning white, and somehow Dean pulls it together and cards his fingers through Sam's hair.
They both calm down, a little. But only for a second. Then the doctor does something with his hand and Sam actually whimpers. It's a sound he hasn't heard in years, and it's physically painful for Dean to hear it.
Sam. You just gotta trust me, okay? Breathe.
Sam's eyes slide open again. The tears are gone. They're now glassy, unfocused. Years of cleaning up after hunting messes makes the word shock fly around his head.
Sam. Sam! Front and center, man.
He misses the days when his brother didn't know enough to be afraid of the dark.