Dean lay back on the bed, wincing as all the incisions protested and wept red. He watched as Sam gathered supplies from the first-aid kit. "Stitches?"
"No. Don't think so. I kept all the cuts shallow." Sam began the painful task of washing and bandaging the cuts.
Dean hissed at the sting.
"Dean…I'm sorry. I-I hated that," whispered Sam. "I would've gladly taken your place."
Dean patted his brother's shoulder. "I know, Sammy. It's okay. I'm fine. Cozied up here with my bottle of whiskey."
"Still…" Sam's hands shook.
"Hey…next time I'll be the artist, you'll be the canvass, okay?"