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Jack wasn’t quite sure what had happened. There’d been a ghost, a fire poker that he’d incorrectly assumed was iron, and now… now his arm was aching beyond belief, hot blood welling out over his skin and down to his fingers. His hands shook, though the metal was no longer in him.
The floor of the recently deceased person’s house they were in rushed up at him, and Sam was there, salting and burning the last remnants of the ghost. Now he was holding Jack. His own trembling fingers swam in his vision.
“Sam?”
“It’s okay, Jack. It’s gonna be okay.”
Sam’s jacket was off, and his dad was ripping a piece from his shirt to press it to his wound, telling Jack to hold it there. His left hand was shaky, weak, but he did his best to press it against the wound. More blood poured forth, and he winced. His right hand was going cold, fingers spasming with pain, sudden exhaustion at the blood loss. Maybe shock.
“Okay, I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
Jack didn’t say anything, though he was unsure of where he would go in such a state.
The shaking in his hands grew worse, fingers unable to hold the makeshift bandage steady, and his palm was too slippery to keep it there. He had to get to Sam. Jack pushed himself up with his unsteady left hand, got himself into a chair, and couldn’t go any further.
His dad came back, saw fresh blood oozing onto the leather of the chair and got to work on patching him up. Jack’s fingers twitched with the pain of it, but afterwards Sam held his hands between his, rubbing them to bring back warmth, to try and steady them.
“Th-thanks,” Jack stuttered out.
“No problem.”
He spread his hands apart, examining Jack’s now, pressing on his fingers.
They were steady.
“Arm’ll be fine. Think the shock’s wearing off. You good to go?”
“Don’t tell Dean.”
“Why not?” Sam asked as he hauled Jack to his feet.
Jack then gently pushed his dad away, looking at his bloodied hands. A tremor ran through them every few seconds and his arm throbbed, but his legs were steady. He’d be alright.
“I wanted my first hunting injury to be from a zombie,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Guess we’ll go find a zombie then.”
“Really?”
Sam laughed, patting his shoulder as they walked out of the house. “No, let’s get you home. Can’t properly hold a weapon when your hands are still shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Jack lied, hiding his hands in his pockets.
Their shoes crunched over the gravel drive as they went to the car Sam had stolen.
“Mm hmm.”
Fine. By the Winchester definition, he was indeed.