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The first thing you noticed when you walked into the bunker was the blood. It streaked across the floor in uneven smears, leading from the hallway toward the bathroom. Your stomach dropped before you even reached the door.
“Dean?”
“Bathroom,” he called back, his voice strained. “And before you start, sweetheart, I’m fine.”
You found him sitting on the cold tile with his back against the bathtub, his flannel shirt discarded beside him. One hand was pressed firmly against his left side, and blood seeped between his fingers, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. His face was pale. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breathing was just a little too shallow.
You dropped to your knees beside him. “Dean, what the hell happened?”
“Ugly son of a bitch had a knife.” He attempted a smile. “Turns out, I’m not particularly fond of being stabbed.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too.”
“Stop joking.” The words came out sharper than you intended. Dean's smile disappeared.
You reached for the first-aid kit he'd dragged onto the floor, your hands already trembling as you opened it. The wound was deep, bleeding heavily enough that the pressure he'd been applying wasn't sufficient to stop it.
You swallowed hard. “Dean, I need to pack the wound.”
His eyes flicked toward the gauze in your hands. For the first time since you'd walked in, he looked genuinely worried. “Okay.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve had worse.”
“Don't you dare lie to me right now.”
His mouth snapped shut.
You pressed fresh gauze firmly against the wound, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath. His hand shot out, catching your wrist hard enough to make you wince before he immediately loosened his grip.
“Sorry,” he rasped.
“It's okay.” You brushed damp hair away from his forehead. “You can squeeze my hand. Just don't move.”
He nodded, jaw clenched.
You worked as quickly as you could, packing the wound while trying not to look at how much blood had already soaked through the gauze. Dean's fingers locked around yours. His knuckles turned white, and a low, involuntary groan escaped him when you reached the deepest part of the injury.
“I know,” you whispered, tears blurring your vision. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
“Hey.” His voice was weak, but he managed to turn his head toward you. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You looked up.
“That's it.” He tried to smile. “You're doing good.”
“You're bleeding all over the floor, Dean.”
“Floor's ugly anyway.”
A broken laugh escaped you, immediately dissolving into a sob.
Dean's expression changed. “Hey, hey.” He lifted his free hand, cupping your cheek with trembling fingers. “Don't do that.”
“Don't do what?”
“Cry like I'm already dead.”
You pressed your forehead against his, careful not to disturb your work. “Then stop giving me reasons to think you might be.”
For once, Dean had no smart remark. You finished packing the wound and secured the dressing, then immediately reached for your phone to call for medical help. Dean leaned his head back against the tub, his eyes slipping closed.
“Dean?”
“Just resting my eyes.”
“Keep them open for me.”
“Bossy.”
“Dean.”
His eyes opened again, though it took him a moment to focus on your face. “Still here, sweetheart,” he murmured.
You took his hand between both of yours, holding it tightly while you waited for help to arrive. “Yeah,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his bloodstained knuckles. “You'd better stay that way.”