"Why didn't you tell me? Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!"
Dean is crouching over Sam, screaming at him, and Sam doesn't have the strength left to care. He does wish that Dean would choose either screaming or trying to stop the bleeding, because doing both means that Sam's ears are practically ringing with the proximity to his brother's rage and fear. But Sam says nothing, because, well, he deserves it for being a dumbass. He knows that, but the realization doesn't cause the twinge it should in his gut. That faintly sick feeling that always comes with betraying his brother. And that's how Sam knows it's bad.
In the time that Dean had been in hell, Sam had learned to do things on his own. He'd had to. He didn't have a big brother to help save him in the nick of time, to patch him up when things went wrong. To keep him from racing into danger without caring what happened to him.
And then Dean was back, and Sam had to re-learn how to be a little brother again, even when forty years of hell hadn't caused Dean to miss a step.
John had always, always instilled in them the importance of cataloguing and reporting their injuries. If you ever have the luxury of hunting with someone else, you need to use them as a resource. Sam can practically hear John's voice imparting the lesson, even now. Injuries that you don't think are significant can add up. Your judgement can be impaired by any number of factors. Things can turn quick. So watch out for each other, always.
It was a habit Sam and Dean had always followed to a T, especially with Dean's borderline neurotic need to make sure Sam was okay. But during those four months, Sam had no one. He wanted no one. Maybe part of him had hoped that his wounds would prove fatal at some point. It would have been a lot easier to let himself fade away after a rough hunt than to keep getting up, day after day, having to live a life he didn't want but his brother had died for.
Today's hunt hadn't even been a big deal. Famous last words, Sam knew. But his focus had been impaired; he'd been watching Dean like a hawk, terrified that the vamp was going to leap out of the dark and rip his brother away from him. As it turned out, Sam should've kept his own guard up.
"Sam. Sammy, you stay with me, dammit." Dean is pressing hard on the stab wound, trying to stop the bleeding. The wound Sam was sure wouldn't be a problem until they got back to the motel and he could stitch it himself.
Then he had collapsed, halfway to the Impala.
Sam thinks vaguely that he should be feeling sorry. He thinks he would, if he could focus on anything other than how Dean's usual façade, that sense of calm he always fights for in life-or-death situations, is gone. Sam always sees through it anyways, but there's something disconcerting about the raw fear in Dean's eyes.
Sam can't look at him anymore. He can't be the reason for that look on Dean's face.
So instead, he focuses on the soft grass beneath him. The cool night air. The stars above him.
But Dean's face invades his field of vision just as he's about to look for Orion.
"Fight, Sam, goddammit!'
Sam's spent his whole life fighting, and he wishes he had the strength to tell Dean just that. It's so much easier to just lay here and let himself fade into unconsciousness. To look up at the stars and wonder if he'll ever be among them, tonight or in fifty years.
Dean presses down hard on the wound again, and Sam's momentary peace evaporates in an instant. He tries to bite back a scream, not that there's anyone around to hear them. Normally, Dean would look guilty for hurting him, even if it was necessary. Tonight, he looks relieved to get any kind of response out of Sam.
"Now, you listen to me." Dean is in his face again, his expression tense with anger and determination. "I need to get the med kit from the car. But I am not leaving you until you promise to fucking fight, Sam. This isn't you. Not telling me shit, lying down and giving up. I just got you back-" Dean cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "So promise me."
Sam isn't sure he can even form the words. He's so damn tired. But he sees that haunted look on Dean's face, that look he's only seen a few times before. And he puts all his energy into two words: "I promise."
Dean meets Sam's eyes and gives him the slightest of nods. Then he's grabbing Sam's hands and placing them over the wound. "Pressure. As much as you can manage. I'll be back as fast as I can." Without another word, Dean takes off, sprinting the short distance to the Impala.
Sam's head is swimming, and he's seeing stars even when he closes his eyes. He presses down on the wound, as hard as he can manage, focusing on the pain. Not the soft grass that would be so easy to fall asleep in. The grass that is now inevitably soaked in his blood.
What must only be minutes feels like an eternity with Sam's tenuous grip on consciousness. But still, he fights. For every painful breath, he fights. Because his big brother didn't go to hell for him to go out like this. Eventually, Sam can hear pounding footsteps. Then Dean is skidding to a halt, falling to his knees beside Sam and replacing Sam's hands over the wound. Dean searches his face, and Sam swears he sees a hint of pride even through all the fear.
"Atta boy, Sammy."
The chick-flick moment lasts only seconds. The fond look on Dean's face fades away as he strips off his belt and puts it between Sam's teeth. "Bite down." The look in Dean's eyes says everything that his mouth doesn't. This is going to hurt. I'm sorry. I have to.
Sam manages a tiny nod, giving permission, and then a splash of alcohol is setting his flesh on fire. He bites down with all of his remaining strength, trying to ground himself in the agony. He can hear Dean talking to him, telling him to breathe through it, but Sam barely processes that his brother is speaking.
He can't breathe through it. He can't breathe period, can't focus on anything else except the searing pain. He fights as hard as he can, for himself and for Dean, but whatever gods are watching must not give a shit.
Everything goes black.