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Dad’s nowhere in sight, but his training’s always right there for Dean.
- Keep the person still. Until medical help arrives, keep the injured person lying down and quiet, with the head and shoulders slightly elevated.
- Stop any bleeding. Apply firm pressure to the wound with sterile gauze or a clean cloth.
- Watch for changes in breathing and alertness.
He’s too nervous to move Sam even a little bit, so Dean hasn’t stuffed a jacket under his kid brother’s head. But he’s got the cleanest bandana pressed against the wound that’s bleeding nearly tar-black in the moonlight. Some of the blood even splashed a little on the headstone, covering up most of Edward Simmons’ name.
“Stupid sonofabitch,” Dean curses the dead guy, pressing more firmly on the wadded-up cloth. His little brother’s always in motion; he’s a ball of energy always looking to discharge somewhere. But now, sprawled out like a discarded rag doll, he looks dead. Not Dean’s first salt ‘n burn, but nearly that for Sammy. The kid was too busy screaming out a warning to him, waist deep in a grave, than to look out for himself. The very pissed off spirit had backhanded Sammy into the headstone like he was nothing. And Dean could only shoot the bastard with rock salt and keep digging until he smashed through the rotted wood and doused old Simmons in gas before sending him to his final resting place in a blaze of glory.
“Sammy?” Dean pleads, before switching to a deep timbre more like their dad’s. “Sammy!” he orders, hoping that will work.
And Sammy’s eyes start to flutter.
“Hey, hey,” Dean urges, “c’mon. Stay with me, little brother.”
It’s hard to tell by the white of the moon if Sam’s pupils are the same size. But he’s aware now and Dean knows that’s good.
“Hey, we’re gonna play a little game, okay?” he tries to wheedle.
“Too old f’r games, Deeee…” Sam slurs.
“You’re just afraid you’ll lose, cuz your 14-year-old brother’s just that awesome,” he taunts, hoping that’ll get a rise out of the kid.
For what seems like forever, Sam doesn’t say anything. But then he coughs and whispers, “What?”
“We’re gonna play a little game,” Dean stalls and then continues, “we’re gonna count, okay? Like that puppet on Sesame Street.”
Sam blinks rapidly and mumbles, “Count?”
“Yeah,” Dean grins lopsidedly with too much teeth, “The Count. One,” he starts, in his worst Transylvanian accent. But Sam just squints up at him and stays silent.
“Two,” he forces out with a fake laugh at the end and stares at Sam like it’s Dean’s life that depends on it, because it does.
“T-two,” Sammy stutters.
“Yeah, there you go!” Dean cheers and they keep going all the way until the Impala comes roaring into view. By then, Sam’s more lucid and his bleeding’s almost stopped. Dean’s also slipped one arm under Sam’s shoulder and is cradling him close now that he’s sure the worst is over.
“Dean,” Sam whispers and Dean leans closer. “Are you okay?” Sam asks, eyes now huge with worry for him.
And Dean can’t speak. He can’t even swallow because this kid. This kid.
Without thinking, he leans down and kisses his brother on the forehead like he did when Sam was a baby in a crib of ashes a lifetime ago.
“’M just fine, little brother,” he finally whispers back and hugs him close. And while he waits for their dad to reach them, Dean sends out a silent plea to whoever might be listening that he never has to go through this with his brother again.