Summary: Some things Sam still knows how to do. (spoiler for 6.07)
Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine. And unlikely to ever be.
Written for spnquotefic prompt 1.17 Hellraisers:
DEAN: You didn't.
SAM: Oh, I did.
In and out.
It is hard to see in the dim light, though every so often the silver catches a fragment of the light and briefly glitters.
Sam's fingers never slow. Thrust, catch the sides of the slash, let go when the needle is halfway in, grasp it with forefinger and thumb on the other side of the cut, pull smoothly, gently, let the blue thread pull the gap together. Angle the wrist back to start another careful stitch.
Tiny stitches, close together. Moderate the tension on the upswing so as not to cause a pucker.
Sam pauses, studies what he's done so far.
Dean is out cold, the painkillers finally having overcome his attempt to remain on duty, worried about Sam's condition.
Sam had come through this one completely unscathed. Oh, his muscles may be sore for a day, but the creature hadn't touched him. Dean had taken all of the bajang's fury. As the parallel rows of red gashes along his left side testify. They'd begun hacking at the tree trunk in rhythm, alternating ax strikes, but of course the creature drops down to attack them. Dean yells to keep chopping, since once the tree is down the bajang will disappear.
Only it had chosen a damn thick tree for its lair, and as intensely as Sam directs his blows, the thing is rapidly putting gouges in Dean.
When the tree finally topples and the bajang vanishes with a red flash, Dean is bleeding enough that he doesn't fight Sam's insistence on driving.
Sam strips off Dean's shirt "Damn, Lisa'd bought that one for me" and tee, painstakingly cleans all the cuts with antiseptic, and makes Dean take four Vicoden before Sam starts the task of sewing back together the mangled side.
In and out.
The act has its own mesmerizing quality, and Sam reaches the end of the final tear, takes one more stitch for reinforcement, and then ties a strong knot. He reaches for the scissors on the spread to cut the thread, then holds up his handiwork for inspection.
The repair isn't invisible – never will be – but it will pass the casual glance of most people. He'd washed it first, of course, so folding it neatly, Sam places the shirt in Dean's duffle.
Satisfied, he turns off his bedside light and settles on top of the covers with his laptop.
He may not possess his soul right now, but he still has memories.