"Brace yourself." Two of the most loaded words in the English language, if you asked the Winchesters. As kids, they had heard those words uttered only sharply, harshly. A warning. As adults, when they had to say the words to each other? A broken apology for what had brought them there and what was about to happen.
Because now, after over a decade of hearing them, the words brought a flood of memories along with the pain.
A mosaic of joints popped back into place, whiskey poured over open wounds, stitches into angry, flayed skin, bullets pulled from flesh. Teeth biting down onto leather belts, white knuckled grips on consciousness, pale skin and shadowed faces and dimming hope. Hard alcohol, scratchy sheets, shredded clothing, and blood on damn near everything.
Then, the inevitable cleaning up the detritus of the trauma. Storing the med kit and making note of what you needed to steal next. Taking a swig of the whiskey, because it's always been medicinal in more ways than one. Locking and salting the doors once you were sure your brother wasn't going to die the second you turned your back. The washing of his blood off your hands, which never, never gets easier.
Today, it's Sam saying those two words to Dean, and Dean is glad of that. Glad that, for once, he doesn't have to control shaking hands and voice as he tries to put his brother back together, the whole world pushing down on his shoulders even more heavily than usual.
No, today he only has to lie there and fight for his consciousness, not Sam's life. He would even take the chance to close his eyes, if not to rest than to block out that image of Sam, frantically sanitizing his knife with a splash of Jack and a prayer, but Sam's panic reaches a fever pitch whenever Dean's eyes flutter shut.
"No, no, no, open your eyes, Dean, come on," Sam babbles, and Dean does. Sam's voice - and the fucking bullet lodged in his gut - anchor him in the present, as much as he wants to float off to Neverland. Part of him wonders if it really is just Sam's tone and not the searing pain, because Dean can't do anything but fight when he hears that desperation he knows so well.
He hates that Sam has to put the pieces of him back together, now or ever, but the selfish part of him is glad the roles aren't reversed this time. As jaded as Dean is when it comes to life, and to hunting... Even jade shatters under the right pressure, and the sight of Sam lying broken is a crushing force.
Still, Dean hates looking at the terror in his little brother's face whenever he has to care for him. He hates everything this does to Sam, every damn time Dean is hurt, the damage only compounding over the years. Hates it when Sam has to help him to the Impala, hates it when Sam has to drive and can barely keep his eyes on the road. He hates watching Sam's hands shake as he fumbles with the keys and hearing his voice shake as he tries to reassure Dean despite his own fear.
And it's an odd thing, comforting Dean. If he had the strength to tell Sam to stop, he would. Or so he tells himself. He made it through almost his entire childhood without any meaningless platitudes when the world went to shit, after all.
And then came the first time Sam saw him seriously hurt.
His baby brother, still all floppy bangs and puppy eyes - well, even more so than now - had rushed over to hold his hand as John started stitching him back together. John was focused on the stitches, which had given Dean a brief respite from being chewed out for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But John looked up, noticed Sam, and scoffed, and Dean reflexively tried to yank his hand away. Even through the haze of pain, he knew enough to be embarrassed at needing reassurance.
But Sam wouldn't let go.
It was the first time he had pushed his way into the room when John was patching Dean up without John barking at him to get out, and Dean would have been livid if he'd had the strength. He wanted to scream at John, tell him to get Sam out. He didn't need to see this. No kid did.
"It's gonna be okay, Dean," Sam had said then, still in that squeaky little kid voice, and part of Dean's already battered heart cracked just a little more. Sam's face was so damned determined, even through the fear. God, he was too young to be wrapped up in this – in any of it - and part of Dean would never forgive John for it.
Not that he could ever bring it up. So instead, it simmered, one of a thousand little hurts and resentments towards dear old Dad that he tried to pretend he didn't harbor. For Sam's sake, he tried to tell himself. But also for his own, if he's honest.
"He'll be fine," John had finally said, terse as ever. Because of course Dean would be fine. Daddy's little lethal weapon wasn't allowed to check out of this hunting life, not even through death. Dean would be fine, because John said it would be so. Yet another in a years-long list of impossible orders.
"Good." Sam had given John a look that Dean was sure was meant to be intimidating, if not for the trembling lip. And had they not had bigger issues to deal with just then, Dean was sure John would've smacked it off his face. Still, a rush of pride had come over Dean.
Every time he was injured after that, up until he left for Stanford, Sam was there to tell him things would be okay. And even when neither of them was sure they believed it, he said it anyways.
"Brace yourself," Sam says, snapping him back to the present, and Dean knows the drill. He bites down on the leather belt, trying to ignore the many, many teeth marks already embedded in it. Sam counts him down but goes in on two, because he's been taught well.
The world starts to get fuzzy on the edges, and Dean concentrates on Sam's voice.
Maybe the comfort isn't useless after all.