Just Like Dad.
Sam reluctantly laid on the bed, his teeth gritted tight as Dean examined the deep wound on his thigh. Whiskey was pumping hot through his veins, his heart hammering inside his chest. He was almost sure that Dean could hear it.
Dean on the other hand, was calm and collected, pressing a reassuring hand against Sam's knee as he crouched on the floor next to the bed. The bedclothes slowly flooding with red as Sam's body steadily pumped more and more blood through the wide knife wound.
Carefully, Dean threaded the sterilised needle before turning back to his paling baby brother, readying himself to stitch up Sammy for the first time in a long time.
He took a last look at Sam's face, screwed up in pain and reached over, reassuringly squeezing Sam's arm.
"Easy tiger, everything's gonna be ok."
And suddenly it was Dean laid on the bed. *** It was 1991 and a 12 year old Dean was laid on Bobby Singer's spare bed. Bobby had left for the week on a hunt, welcoming John and the boys to stay. But wherever the Winchester's went, trouble often followed. And this time it was big trouble. Trouble that had led to John's eldest son biting his bottom lip to prevent him crying out, even though his pale face and shuddering body gave the game away. Dean never liked to admit weakness, especially infront of his Dad - his hero. Sam had been sent downstairs to sit in Bobby's study. John had given him direct orders to close the doors, turn the TV up as high as Sammy wanted and watch cartoons. Though reluctant to leave Dean, Sam followed his orders, the dark edge to his father's tone showing that he meant business. "Easy tiger, everything's gonna be ok." Breathing heavily, Dean took in all the minute details of Bobby's spare room. The homemade bookshelves piled with heavy looking leather-bound books. On some, spines too faded to read. On others, bright shimmering gold letters caught the glint of the sunset outside the window. Concentrating hard on those books, Dean let his mind drift from his body for as long as he dare. For once in his life, he let his father's words wash over him, meaningless compared to the searing pain and streaked up and down his side. The pain that never seemed to ease up, even for a moment. John angled himself carefully, working quickly and skillfully to thread the sterilised needle, his eyes flitting between his son's vacant expression and the cold reality of the bleeding wound down his son's side. John's rough hand slipped under Dean's neck and tilted his head up whilst holding a shot of whiskey to Dean's trembling lips. "Drink up. It'll make it better. It'll stop the hurt." Dean's eyes locked with John's, his wide green orbs filled with unshed tears. John helped him drink and bit his lip as he watched Dean cough and draw a shuddered breath at the taste, his eyes never leaving his father's. All John could think of was, ' "You're doing good, son." John rested Dean's head back on the pillow and turned his attention to the wound, daring to hold the wound together as gently as he could. "Dad..." Dean whimpered, squirming away from the touch and wincing with the movement, a stray tear rolling down his freckled cheek. "I know, I'll be quick. I promise. I just need you to be really still for me, ok?" Dean sucked in a shaky breath and expelled it as a heartbreaking sob, forcing a nod. Fat tears streaked Dean's cheeks. Exhaling slowly, John gave Dean's arm one last squeeze and began to stitch.
John's strong hand clamped down on Dean's shoulder, squeezing tightly.
"It's all gonna be fine."
It took all of John's energy to keep his brave face from slipping.
Swallowing hard, he paused, looking at his baby brother on the bed, sweat matting hair to his forehead. Dean's hand had drifted to his side, where his fingers slipped under his thin shirt, brushing along the small neat scar left by his father's handiwork.
Snapping back to reality, he gently held the edges of the wound together, feeling Sam flinch.
"You need more whiskey?" Dean asked, not looking up from his brother's leg.
"Nah, I...I'm good." Sammy's voice was strained, the words being forced through gritted teeth.
"Ok, just hold really still. I'll be as quick as I can."
Sam scrubbed a hand over his closed eyes, punctuating the movement with a groan which Dean took for a vague sign of agreement.
Dean neatly stitched his younger brother's leg, being as careful and as swift as he could; luxuries he hadn't always been able to afford when stitching himself up. Many of his crooked scars stood as witness to that fact.
When he'd finished, he washed the wound with alcohol, wincing when he felt Sammy tense every muscle in his body, holding his breath captive in his lungs for as long as he dare.
"All done", the older Winchester announced proudly, slapping a hand against Sam's shoulder.
Sam propped himself up on his elbows, peering at his leg through his unruly bangs. Despite the searing pain and the sight of all the blood now missing from his 6'4" frame, white teeth peered through trembling lips to form Sam Winchester's iconic college boy smile.
"Just like Dad", he smiled, lowering himself back onto the pillow.
Dean smiled at the memory.
"Just like Dad."