Sammy? Can you hear me?
His hand is pressed up against his shirt. Somehow he's become tangled in his own skin, and every inch of him hurts. The center of the pain is near one of his hips, crawling up in a line of ice to his ribs.
He tries to orient himself (mistake, mistake, his body cries) and sees black leather.
Impala.
S'okay, got you fixed up. Gonna have a hell of a time getting the bloodstains out of my jacket.
Dean tries to negate the pained silence by filling it with meaningless banter, even if the discussion is a little one-sided. He tries to talk, but finds his mouth dry.
You don't have to talk, it's okay. You're gonna be alright. Jesus, though- thirty stitches.
He knows Dean counted every single one.
Back at home (or another sketchy motel room, they're one and the same to him now) and suddenly his good side is pressed against the bathroom sink. Something sour fills his mouth and he gags, the carefully counted stitches pulling.
I know it hurts, just try to breathe, it'll be okay in a second-
The familiar murmurs float across his mind. He's vaguely aware that Dean is putting pressure above the tear in his side (no, wait, not a tear; now a massive bruise where the skin was pulled). He's vaguely aware that a low, animal noise is escaping him. He can't stop it.
It hurts.
M'sorry, Sammy. I know.
The cramps stop and he's able to lean back against his brother (only now does he notice that Dean has been holding him upright since they left the car), who gives him the perfunctory gross look
(and he should- it's been a week since he had a shower and there's dried blood in every possible place-)
and leads him to the bed closest to the bathroom. He'll need it, and Dean-
Dean knows things about him; the inevitable post-op infection, the nausea, the sky-high fever are all classic points in their family history.
I got you.
His brother says it with that same quiet smile he's had since he was too young to be patching their father up, and he knows Dean means it.