Sam uses bits of cloth, ripped from old pairs of jeans, from tee-shirts, anything that will work, while Dean sits with his back to him, hands fisted tight in the scratchy coverlet. His skin is stained with blood and so are Sam’s hands, their clothes, the floor; they're alive and maybe more broken than they were. Sam can’t think about the alternative. He sets to taking a basin of warm water, a washcloth, and washing Dean’s wounds first; he eases over broken, bloody and bruised flesh, fixing what he can and not thinking about what he can’t. They don’t speak, but, what’s there to say now? We lost; I’m sorry.