ohsam | FIC: IT COULD BE WORSE

Title: It Could Be Worse
Rating: PG-13
Genre / Pairing: gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, OMC
Word count: 1152
Summary: A rough hunt leads to an even rougher patch-up job.
Warnings: Gore, possibly disturbing imagery.

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.

The doctor is elbow-deep in his stomach. This wouldn't be such a problem if the morphine wasn't wearing off.

Sam. Sam. Look at me.

His thoughts are scattered. It's like the splatter art he did once in elementary school. No patterns. No discernable sense to anything except the pain in his middle.

Blood-splatter.

He can cope with death and loss and digging a bullet out of his own gut, but this?

He can't cope with this.

Sam. It's okay. Look at me.

Dean's hands are on his shoulders. No - one hand is on his face, thumb digging into his jaw. He forces his eyes open and is half-surprised to feel tears spill out.

Good. Eyes open. Keep 'em that way.

He can hear another voice now, authoritative. He can't make out the words, but it reminds him of his father. It makes him feel inadequate. Maybe it's his own fault he's hurting so bad.

No, damn it, I'm not leaving the room. I said no.

Green eyes turn back to him. He could drown in them now, but instead they keep him grounded, despite their desperate expression.

It's okay, Sammy. I gotcha.

Then the last ounce of painkiller is stripped away. He sobs convulsively, because you know, it couldn't possibly get worse than this. Dean's hand tightens on his.

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.