Stitches - They were both each others stitches, keeping the seams from ripping, letting the pressure win.

Sam took a deep breath, catching his bottom lip under his teeth.

He had to concentrate, his hands couldn't shake now.

Couldn't show the horror he felt.

It had been a routine hunt, find the bad thing, kill it, leave, but something had gone wrong. It hadn't been what they had expected, and it had cost them

The monster, for Sam wouldn't define it as anything else, had caught the his brothers skin, tearing it.

They had wasted it, it was ash now, but that didn't reverse the damage. Didn't make the looming sense of no and Dean disappear.

He had done this countless times, seen so much blood, too much. But as he dropped on the old carpet covered in unidentifiable things, kneeling before his sitting brother, he shook.

Shuddering breaths threatened to take surface if he didn't take control, didn't focus. He had to fix Dean.

But no matter how many times he performed this task, the thought of intentionally threading that needle through skin made him ill.

But he had to do it, for Dean.

And so he set to work, efficiently losing himself in the job, not paying attention to the battering thoughts, his brothers imperceptible flinching.

The minutes drew and he heaved a breath of relief when it was done, the neat row of stitches in front of him, resting on his brothers left arm, dug deep into the flesh.

Then he saw the blood.

On his hands, Dean's arm, the bed, and he felt the overwhelming urge to make it disappear.

He shot to his feet, ignoring Dean's shocked noise at the sudden movement as he headed to the bathroom, finding the softest towel he could and soaking it in water, not caring that it retained too much, dripping onto the floor.

On returning he went back on his knees, quickly scrubbing himself and then working it gently, frantically around Dean's wound.

Moving on to the sheets he started his almost possessed cleaning, trying to get the stain out, too many stains, too much lost.

He didn't know he was crying until his brother titled his head up, pulling the cloth out of his hands as he gently wiped away the salty liquid with his thumbs.

"It's okay, Sammy, it'll be okay, I promise."

His brother, injured, tired, self-sacrificing relier was trying to comfort him.

A wracking sob burst free and he was being tugged into his brothers arms, left one being held just out of contact.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be, he had meant to help Dean, to make it better, but all he'd done was make Dean comfort him, again and again.

He would never stop, always putting himself in harms way for Sam, just like tonight, just like last week, just like a month from now.

And Sam could only do the small things, try and relieve the hurt as much as he could, the pain he had caused.

But what he didn't realize was that just as Dean held him together, stopped him from crumbling under the overwhelming everything, he did the same for Dean.

They were both each others stitches, keeping the seams from ripping, letting the pressure win.

And they would never know it.