Tag to 4.19. Sam's a little out of it, what with the blood loss and all...
It's only when he starts cleaning up that Dean realizes how panicked he must have been.
The floor of the motel room looks like a disaster zone, strewn with first aid supplies, wrappings, bloody rags, spilled pills. Blood splattered down the side of the bed and on the shag carpet below.
He glances up at Sam, who's leaning back against the headboard, bone white and still slick with sweat. He'd passed out in the car earlier, but now he's watching Dean dazedly from under heavy lids. Not quite asleep but not quite there, either.
The hasty, clumsy stitches up and down his arms look almost black against too pale skin, rough and abrasive like barbed wire. The thread pulls hard against the swollen, sensitive flesh and Dean can't help thinking the scars are gonna be ugly.
He locates the hacked apart rope by the foot of the bed, coils it out of habit and stuffs it in the bin. He must remember to take the trash out later. Can't leave bloody ropes for the maid.
Next to the bin he finds the discarded tea towels from the Milligan house. He picks them up, the half dried blood still caked in them smearing his hands.
"Be careful with that." Sam suddenly slurs from the bed.
"With this?" Dean asks and balls up the towels, trying to contain the mess. When he looks up, his brother's glassy stare is fixed on the wad of fabric with a strange intensity and Dean pauses. "Why?", he asks.
He freezes when the answer comes; low and warning. Earnest, almost scared:
"It's demon blood."