Missing scene from "My Bloody Valentine"
Sam wasn't looking at him, but even so, Dean recognized in his brother's expression the hardness that had become so familiar the year before. Seeing it there again made Dean's stomach churn.
"Cut off his finger and get the ring."
It was an order. And with a quick glance at the knife in his hand, Dean moved to obey. He grimaced at the crunch of bone, but slid the ring off the detached finger efficiently, tucking the circle of cold metal deep into the pocket of his jeans.
"Cas, you OK?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at the angel slowly getting to his feet.
"Yes," was the response, though he was swallowing queasily.
"Sam?" Dean turned back to his brother, bracing for what he'd find there.
"Yeah," Sam said. He hesitated for just a moment before staggering slightly to the side and sinking into one of the booths. Dean had just started toward him when Sam stuck a finger down his throat and vomited all over the floor.
"Whoa!" Dean couldn't help the exclamation or the reactionary step back. Behind him Cas moaned in sympathy. And threw up his own over-indulgence.
"Oh, hey!" Dean protested, caught between the two. He hesitated just a beat before advancing slowly again toward his brother.
Hunched over, hair falling in his face, Sam shook his head, using his sleeve to wipe at the strings of saliva and vomit (blood) hanging from his chin. He ran the back of his hand across his lips, absently at first, then more insistently, scrubbing violently at the dried blood around his mouth.
"Sam. Sam!" Dean surged forward, managing somehow not to step in the mess splattered at his brother's feet, and grabbed both Sam's wrists. "Stop, man. Stop."
Sam was shaking uncontrollably, but he didn't struggle in Dean's grasp. "I can't, Dean. I can't…"
Not releasing his hold, Dean gingerly crouched down (yuck) in front of his brother. "Yes, you can," Dean said, keeping his voice even. He pulled Sam's arms down, away from his face, placing the trembling hands palms down on Sam's thighs. He covered Sam's larger hands with his own. "Don't move, OK? Leave 'em there." He pressed down in emphasis. "I'll get you something." With one hand, Dean took Sam's shoulder and gave a shake. "You hear me, Sam?"
Sam nodded tightly, fingers curling toward his knees. "Yeah," he managed. "OK."
Standing, Dean made his way around the diner counter and found a rag. He took a second to run the cloth under the tap, and he squeezed out the extra water as he returned to Sam.
"Here." He picked up Sam's right hand and placed the wet rag in it. "Use this."
Sam took the cloth, applying it roughly to his face, starting in with a ferocity that had Dean reaching for him again.
"Easy, man," Dean said. He wrapped his fingers around Sam's wrist once more, tugging slightly to ease the pressure Sam was exerting against his skin. "Don't make me take this from you and do it myself," he chided gently.
Sam huffed out something that might have been a sound of amusement, but he didn't meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah," he said. "OK."
Patting Sam on the shoulder, Dean turned to give his brother some privacy. "Cas, you…?"
The angel was swaying a bit where he stood, blinking somewhat owlishly. "I have never thrown up before," he informed Dean.
"It's awesome, isn't it?" Dean responded, looking at the fallen bodies around them, trying to assess the situation.
"That was not my experience," Castiel returned solemnly.
Dean rubbed an exhausted hand over his eyes. "Yeah," he sighed. "I guess it wasn't." He turned back toward his brother.
"Sammy? You ready? We need to blow this popsicle stand as soon as possible."
"Yeah," Sam said. The rag was limp in his hand. His eyes were shadowed, staring into middle distance. "I'm ready."
"Let's go then." Dean pulled the stained cloth out of Sam's lax grip, intending to toss it out the window of the car as they drove, when he noticed a last smudge of dark red along the plane of Sam's jaw. "Hold still," he said softly as Sam's face tilted up toward him. He took Sam's chin in his left hand, and as quickly as possible he cleaned the last of the blood off his little brother's skin.
Even in the gloom of the unlit diner Dean could see the vivid flush that suffused Sam's cheeks. A muscle clenched in Sam's jaw before he looked away, angling his chin out of Dean's grasp. "Thanks," he whispered. And slipped from the booth and out the door.
Dean sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. "Come on, Cas," he said and followed his brother out, not checking to see if the angel came after them.