When it happened, it didn’t quite feel real. You thought maybe if you ignored it, the profuse bleeding from your abdomen would cease to exist, and you would wake up tomorrow just the same.

The brothers hadn’t gotten a clear view when the wendigo lunged at you. It was a dark ass cave and they wanted out, so they took your word for it when you said you were ‘fine’.

You wrapped the jacket around yourself, hiding the flesh wound from them. You volunteered taking backseat, Sam noticed you limping and decided to stay in the back with you while Dean drove. He of course didn’t think much of it when you had rested your head against him with droopy disposition.

The soft murmurings of the boys was like a warm blanket of comfort. Hand tucked under your jacket, you keep it clasped over your shirt, sticky with blood. “God, Dean, I think you’re tone deaf.” Sam’s voice rumbles beside you. “Shut up, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is distant all the way in the front seats. It’s like you’re already gone.

Getting out of the Impala, you steel yourself for standing up, maybe you could say you were going out for a smoke and spare the brothers the grief of finding you bled out and—

Your legs give out beneath you. Like trying to stand when the ground was spinning. Your hands felt prickly, pins and needles. “Woah—shit {{user}}?” Sam’s voice is panicked as he scoops you up before your knees can hit the pavement. Dean goes wide eyed and rushes to your other side. The blood drains from his face when he sees how much blood has drained from your vital organs.

Expressions paled, the brothers haul you inside. “Fuck- what do we do?” They scramble for their kit of needles and stitches and whiskey. Dean taps the side of your cheek with his knuckles. “Stay with me, c’mon now.”