A/N: For Enkidu, because.
"Easy, easy." Sam nudges a shoulder up into Dean's armpit and grips his muddy belt loops.
"Gh." Dean nuzzles into him.
"Whoa. I gotcha, Captain Blood Loss." Sam stuffs the key card back into his pocket and steers Dean into the warm stuffy darkness of their room.
"Hot," the injured man mumbles. "Puke."
"OK. OK, hang on. This way." Sam flicks on the bathroom light and sits Dean clumsily on the tiles. "Sorry." He digs the good arm out of the thin blue coat, then peels the whole thing slowly down the bad one. "Better?" he asks, watching Dean wince and then settle against the wall. He palms his brother's pale forehead above the scrunched-up eyebrows. "Barf status."
Sam wets a faded green facecloth and soothes it over Dean's neck and cheeks, then settles it on his brow. "Hold this."
The functional hand comes up to comply. "'Sgood." Dean licks his lips and swallows with a grimace.
"Thirsty?" Sam unwraps a plastic cup and fills it for him. "Just a sip, OK?"
"Never saw him coming," Dean breathes as Sam withdraws the rest of the water.
"I noticed that." Sam works over the buttons on Dean's flannel shirt and teases it away from the wounded shoulder. "Tee's a write-off."
Dean grunts and moves the cloth down to his mouth.
"Still good?" Sam asks, slicing away the fabric.
"I shoulda checked."
Sam sighs and dabs at the blood around the gash. "People make mistakes. And you were sick."
"Dean." Sam takes the warm rag from Dean's hand and refreshes it, then presses it to his forehead and waits for Dean to open his eyes. "You're not stupid. Don't ever say that."
Dean snuffles and glances down at the cut. "Lgkh."
"I'm gonna clean it now." Sam grazes the epicentre with a towel and Dean jumps. "Sorry." He clears the redness away as gently as he can. "Hmm. OK. Looks like... six stitches and you're good."
Dean shivers and blows out a breath. "I move for a change of scenery."
"Yeah, it's cold down here. All right, let's ditch the jeans." He unzips the damp pants and tugs them down as Dean shifts helpfully and hums half-hearted stripping music.
On the bed Sam lays down a fresh towel, then helps Dean stretch out with his shoulders framed by the soft white fabric. "Good. Ugh, still bleeding." He wipes away the new spill. "How's your stomach? You want a shot?"
Sam lets him drink from the whisky bottle, then gives his elbow a squeeze. "Here it comes. Deep breath." He douses the wound. Dean twitches, pale face focused.
Sam pushes the needle through and sees perspiration glisten on his brother's upper lip. "Doin' good. Just a few more." He eases the dental floss through until it's tight to the knot. Too slow is bad, but so's too fast. "So, remember how Bobby said this hunt was a bad idea?"
Dean flicks bloodshot eyes to him. "Hmm?"
Sam nips the needle through the wound a little higher up, pulls gently. "Why was that again?"
"He thought we didn't have the right equipment."
"No." Sam feeds the hook through again. "Think back."
Dean's sweaty brow crunches up as the floss slides through his skin.
"Wasn't it something about a flu bug?"
"He said we shouldn't go because I was sick."
"Yeah." Sam picks up the cloth and clears away new blood, then drives the sharp point in again. "And uh. Well, here we are." He pulls the thread taut.
"I messed up because of the fever. I get it."
The metal bites in again. "You got hurt."
"I hate it when you get hurt."
Dean writhes as the needle ploughs through one last time.
"What if you'd died?" Sam watches him sweat on the bed, then knots the dental floss and snips off the end. "I like you alive."
"Never pegged you for a sadist." Dean groans and rolls onto his good side. "Jesus, Sam. Issues much?"
Circling the bed, Sam brings him pills and water. "Trust me. That could've been worse."
Dean searches his expression, then accepts the medicine. He repositions the facecloth over his eyes with a sniff. "I like you alive too."
Sam pulls the blanket off his own bed and drapes it over Dean. Carefully, he brushes out the air pockets. "I'll be back with soup. Don't get up. It'll piss me off."