Detached (Part Two)
Title - Detached
Summary - Season One. There's no such thing as a simple hunt. Unfortunately for Dean, he learns that the hard way. Plenty of hurt boys!
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish)
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 9400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to the fabulous scullspeare and harrigan who waved their magic beta wands over this. Your time, input and support is priceless and I'm a very lucky girl to have you both in my corner. I've tinkered and tweaked, so any mistakes are mine.
Detached Part Two
Dean was running down a dark alley. Not so unusual given his line in work, but having no clue why was certainly something new.
He remembered the motel, the office recon and the half bottle of Tylenol he'd downed. The headache from the night before was still pounding his skull. But he had clue how he got from the motel room to the alley, his last solid memory was Sam returning with the library books, everything in-between was a complete blank.
Rain was smacking against his face, his t-shirt clinging to his body like a second skin and he was clutching his .45 in a vice-like grip. As his weary legs pumped against the broken asphalt, his right knee mysteriously screeched at him like a banshee.
He wanted to stop running, to make sense of it all, but his legs kept moving. Whether it was instinct or not Dean knew better than to question these sorts of feelings; the sort that had taken a lifetime of hunting to hard-wire into his very being.
He ran around a tipped over dumpster, his lungs burning as the cold crystallized his breath into white clouds. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw nothing. But the footsteps echoing down the confined space of the alley told a different story.
He wasn't alone. Someone or something was on his tail.
Dean launched into a sprint and took a sharp turn to the right. Stopping dead in his tracks, he flattened his back against the sturdy brickwork, standing poker straight as he tried to control his erratic breathing. Turning his head to the left, his cheek mashing into the wall, he tried to blink the rain out of his eyes.
With numb fingers Dean checked the magazine of his .45, catching it expertly as it landed in his palm. Normal rounds, not silver or consecrated iron. But two were missing. It took a lot to ring Dean's internal alarm bells and right now they were deafening him.
He'd checked the clip earlier back at the motel and it was fully loaded. So how the hell was he now missing two rounds?
Shaking his head Dean shoved the magazine back into the butt of the gun with the heel of his hand. Clicking off the safety, he wrapped both hands around the ivory handle, trying to ignore the sight of his cracked and bloody knuckles. Yet another mystery to add to his collection.
And then, like a sucker punch it hit him. Cursing under his breath, Dean quickly skimmed a hand over the pockets of sodden jeans. Nothing. No wallet, no keys and more importantly, no cell phone, therefore no back up from Sam.
"Damn." Dean muttered as a noise caught his attention, his finger hovering over the trigger. Lazy, unco-ordinated footsteps were heading his way. He could hear the soft soles of sneakered feet stumble across the crumbling asphalt and the scrape of material scratching along a brick wall.
Definitely something corporeal. But human? Only time would tell.
Holding his breath, Dean's body stilled as he waited to pounce. The rain was falling slower now, in a soft patter against his bare arms. His heartbeat sounded too loud to his trained ears and his skin prickled with anticipation. Pushing his energy to the tips of his toes, Dean charged around corner, holding the gun outstretched in his arms.
Hurling himself forward he was only slightly surprised to see a solid human figure fly in a whirl of arms and wet material. Gathering a fist full of soaked jacket, Dean aimed the muzzle of his gun at the guy's forehead as he squinted through the darkness of the alley.
"Dean?"
One word. One whispered and breathless word was all it took for Dean to want to hurl all over his boots.
"Sammy? What the hell?" Lowering the .45, Dean tucked it safely into the small of his back as he stared into his brother's seeking eyes.
Sam blinked heavily, his brow creasing as he studied Dean's face closely. A beat later and Sam's face relaxed, the tension seeping away from his battered features.
"Dean," Sam choked out, a relieved smile twisting his lips as his body sagged into Dean's grip.
Stumbling, Dean re-arranged his hold on Sam's jacket as he tried frantically to support their combined weight but Sam's responding yelp of pain caught him completely off guard and before he could do anything to stop it, they were both sinking to the ground.
Propping Sam up against the nearby wall, Dean scooted nearer, feeling the sting on his kneecaps as they scraped across the rough asphalt below. "Sam?"
Huddling over his brother, sheltering him as best he could from the slowing rain, Dean stared in disbelief at the sight in front of him.
Blood. It was everywhere.
Dean moved on auto pilot as he shoved material aside and hastily tore at cotton, barely feeling the grazes on his knuckles as old and new cuts were ravaged open. Running icy hands over his brother's torso, Dean began searching for the cause of the blood as he tried to feel rather than see his way through it.
His hands had barely made contact with the fleshy wound on his brother's lower right stomach before Sam's breath hitched deep in his throat and he jerked forward, colliding with Dean's hands.
"What the hell were you thinking, Sam? Following me like that?" Dean said, gently propping his brother back against the wall.
"I had to know."
"Know what?"
"If burning the ledger worked." Sam's voice was slurred, his eyes struggling to stay open. "If McMillan was gone and if you were...you."
As soon as the words left Sam's bloody lips, a series of snapshots hit Dean. A black leather ledger, the motel room, watching numbly as his own clenched fists struck his brother, his finger on the trigger of a smoking gun.
Swallowing, Dean shoved all the images to the back of his brain; there would be time to deal with that later. His fingers found the source of the bleeding, the edges of the wound puckered and pumping blood. "Gunshot?"
"Gah," Sam gasped breathlessly, as Dean hands further examined the wound.
"Through and through?" Dean asked, curling his hand around Sam's back, feeling the slick warmth of seeping blood from the exit wound coat the pads of his fingers.
Noting that he wasn't wearing a shirt or coat, Dean gently coaxed off Sam's soaked khaki jacket and balled it up, pressing it hard against Sam's stomach. Tendons and veins corded in Sam's neck as his back arched off the wall and he let out a gut-wrenching scream.
With shaking hands, Dean tapped Sam's pockets. But his phone was missing and there was no one around. And he'd be damned if he was leaving his bleeding brother alone for even a second.
"You're okay, Sammy. Everything's okay."
He knew it was a lie, even before the hushed words left his mouth. But Sam didn't need to know that and maybe he didn't either.
"How bad?" Sam gasped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed deeply, his eyes boring into Dean.
Dean forced a weak smile. "Not that bad. I'll get us out of this, OK?"
Sam coughed, his lungs rattling. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a sucky liar."
The humour fell flat as Dean's mind short circuited. What was he supposed to do? They were in the middle of God knows where, with no phone and no signs of anyone willing to help.
Dean could feel his teeth ache as his jaw tightened. His brother was bleeding out and he couldn't even think straight. "Just hang on, Sam."
It shouldn't have surprised him when Sam chose that moment to cough up blood, specks of red pebble-dashing his deathly pale skin.
Dean strained his ears, wanting to hear the grumble of a car engine and the crunching of rubber tires against wet asphalt; wanting to hear the creak of a car door opening and the pounding of footsteps coming to save them.
But all he heard was Sam gasping for air.
XoXoX
In the end they walked. Well, sort of.
Sam was sagged against him, his arm slung over Dean's shoulders as the toes of his sneakers scraped across the concrete.
Dean's fingers were thumping with strain but he tightened his grip on the waistband of Sam's jeans anyway, pulling him closer to his hip. He could feel Sam's head bounce off his shoulder, feel his own brain throbbing inside his skull as he dragged them both through the network of alleyways.
They'd been on the move for too long and there was still no sign of anyone or anything. Dean had banged on a few doors, hollered through a few barred windows but there'd been no response, no offers of help. It was a ghost town.
"We there?" Sam's breath was hot in Dean's ear.
"Almost. Not far now."
Rain drops slid lazily down his face as he watched streams of red tinted water run down Sam's chin. And it took Dean a while to realise that the electric sensation running through his veins was panic. Panic at the situation, of what was at stake and what could happen.
Dean had been trying not to notice that Sam had been getting steadily heavier and his breaths more ragged. But he knew that Sam was trying; knew for a fact that if he wasn't, Dean wouldn't be able to carry his brother's weight.
"Dean."
He knew it was coming. Because damn, he had no idea how Sam was even still awake let alone on his feet and walking.
"Stop. I need…"
The words were just as broken as Sam's body and Dean tried his best not to freak out when Sam's weight got a whole lot heavier and his own knees started to buckle. He wanted to tell Sam that they couldn't stop, that if they did he wasn't sure they'd get going again.
Before Dean had the chance to plan the best route, they were falling to the ground, knees melting bonelessly as Sam's weight became too much for Dean to bear.
"Damn it," Dean cursed, his knees crashing into wet asphalt. Pulling himself up and dragging a hand over the water dripping off his chin, he reached out for his brother.
Sam was out for the count, his limbs folded uncomfortably under his body. Cupping his brother's face with cold hands, Dean thumbed away the rivers of water that were pooling around Sam's closed eyes.
Sam's forehead crinkled, the ridges of skin quivering as consciousness beckoned. "Nap time's over, Sammy. We've gotta haul ass."
Sam frowned, confusion etching every inch of his face.
"I'm getting us out of here," Dean said, wrapping his hands around Sam's biceps. "All you have to do is trust me. OK?"
"OK," Sam whispered.
Gently guiding Sam into a sitting position, Dean checked that the jacket he'd tied around Sam's waist earlier was still in place and staunching at least some of the bleeding.
Placing his shoulder into Sam's armpit, he dragged them both to their feet. Sam's guttural scream tore through the darkness of the alley, his breathing harsh and pained as his knees suddenly folded. Tightening his grip, Dean shouldered Sam's weight, his knees shaking with the strain. "I got you, Sammy, I got you. Just breathe through it."
Dean cast a glance over his shoulder. Sam's head was lolling, his eyes barely open but Dean could hear stuttering inhales and the quiet whistles of slow and controlled exhales.
"That's my boy," Dean said, taking a small step forward and squinting down the dark alley, their footsteps ricocheting off the brick walls.
Five minutes later, Dean was carrying so much of his brother's weight that they were hardly moving. Rain bounced off his eyelashes as he scanned the perimeter. He blinked away the water, almost missing how the alleyway had opened up onto a small back road. Several rusty trucks were parked outside a seedy looking bar that pumped out guitar riffs into the night air.
He thought about going in, about yelling for someone to call 911 as he laid his brother onto the sticky floor, trying his best to do something to save him. But he couldn't risk it. A bullet wound would attract entirely the wrong kind of attention, especially in a bar like this.
So he dragged them both forward through the rain towards a nearby truck, the doors tinged red with rust. Sam was shivering and mumbling. The words were jumbled nonsense but their meaning was crystal clear: time was running out.
Fuelled by adrenaline and fear, Dean fisted his free hand and punched the passenger window, watching as the glass spider-webbed. The second punch shattered the glass and probably his hand, as bones cracked and blood flowed. Dean knocked out the remaining shards, before snaking his arm through the window and unlocking the door.
Gently lowering his brother into the passenger seat, he unlocked the driver's door before dashing around and jumping into the truck, rusty hinges groaning as he slammed the door closed. Scooting over towards Sam, Dean winced at the pain in his hand as he patted Sam's knee and gently peeled away the makeshift jacket bandage, watching as blood bubbled to the surface.
"Son of a bitch," he mumbled, hoping that somehow it might have miraculously clotted.
Taking a deep breath, his pulse racing, Dean hastily bunched up the jacket, holding it firmly against Sam's stomach, his brother biting back a pained groan. "Sam, I need you to keep pressure on this, OK?"
Sam's eyes travelled lazily through the haze of pain and blood loss before finally settling on Dean's face.
"You hear me, Sammy?"
Sam's head bobbed, his eyes blinking heavily.
"Good." Dean placed Sam's hands over the jacket, making sure he was applying pressure before reluctantly letting go. "Then we'd better get a move on, huh?"
Pulling out the wires from the steering column was hard, especially since he was forced to do it one handed. Stripping and twisting the wires was nearly impossible, his hand shaking so fiercely it looked like it was seizing.
The engine growled to life and before long they were eating up the blacktop, windshield wipers swishing violently as rain sheeted down the glass.
Dean had no idea which way to go and for the longest time wasn't even aware he was driving. Buildings and cars passed by in a blur of colours and random shapes. But it didn't take long for the back roads to become larger ones and before long he found a sign pointing him in the direction of the nearest hospital. Swerving the truck across several lanes of traffic, Dean ignored the blaring horns as he slammed his boot harder on the gas, the speedometer now well over the legal limit.
"Just a bit longer," Dean said, a passing car's headlights lighting up the interior of the truck. Sam had sunk down on the seat, his head tilted towards Dean, his blanched skin paler than pale, his eyes open but shining with exhaustion and defeat.
"Dean-"
"Don't," Dean said, his fingers curling tighter around the worn leather of the steering wheel. "I don't want to hear that freakin' speech. Not from you, not ever. You got me?"
Sam's eyes hovered past Dean, struggling to latch on as his focus drifted.
Dean sniffed, his eyes on the road as he turned sharply into the exit lane. "You're gonna be fine, Sammy."
Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes burning, Dean's heart pounded in his chest.
Sam's hand was hanging limply off the seat, the bloodied jacket now pooled in a heap over his boots, his eyes closed.
Part Three
Summary - Season One. There's no such thing as a simple hunt. Unfortunately for Dean, he learns that the hard way. Plenty of hurt boys!
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish)
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 9400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to the fabulous scullspeare and harrigan who waved their magic beta wands over this. Your time, input and support is priceless and I'm a very lucky girl to have you both in my corner. I've tinkered and tweaked, so any mistakes are mine.
Detached Part Two
Dean was running down a dark alley. Not so unusual given his line in work, but having no clue why was certainly something new.
He remembered the motel, the office recon and the half bottle of Tylenol he'd downed. The headache from the night before was still pounding his skull. But he had clue how he got from the motel room to the alley, his last solid memory was Sam returning with the library books, everything in-between was a complete blank.
Rain was smacking against his face, his t-shirt clinging to his body like a second skin and he was clutching his .45 in a vice-like grip. As his weary legs pumped against the broken asphalt, his right knee mysteriously screeched at him like a banshee.
He wanted to stop running, to make sense of it all, but his legs kept moving. Whether it was instinct or not Dean knew better than to question these sorts of feelings; the sort that had taken a lifetime of hunting to hard-wire into his very being.
He ran around a tipped over dumpster, his lungs burning as the cold crystallized his breath into white clouds. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw nothing. But the footsteps echoing down the confined space of the alley told a different story.
He wasn't alone. Someone or something was on his tail.
Dean launched into a sprint and took a sharp turn to the right. Stopping dead in his tracks, he flattened his back against the sturdy brickwork, standing poker straight as he tried to control his erratic breathing. Turning his head to the left, his cheek mashing into the wall, he tried to blink the rain out of his eyes.
With numb fingers Dean checked the magazine of his .45, catching it expertly as it landed in his palm. Normal rounds, not silver or consecrated iron. But two were missing. It took a lot to ring Dean's internal alarm bells and right now they were deafening him.
He'd checked the clip earlier back at the motel and it was fully loaded. So how the hell was he now missing two rounds?
Shaking his head Dean shoved the magazine back into the butt of the gun with the heel of his hand. Clicking off the safety, he wrapped both hands around the ivory handle, trying to ignore the sight of his cracked and bloody knuckles. Yet another mystery to add to his collection.
And then, like a sucker punch it hit him. Cursing under his breath, Dean quickly skimmed a hand over the pockets of sodden jeans. Nothing. No wallet, no keys and more importantly, no cell phone, therefore no back up from Sam.
"Damn." Dean muttered as a noise caught his attention, his finger hovering over the trigger. Lazy, unco-ordinated footsteps were heading his way. He could hear the soft soles of sneakered feet stumble across the crumbling asphalt and the scrape of material scratching along a brick wall.
Definitely something corporeal. But human? Only time would tell.
Holding his breath, Dean's body stilled as he waited to pounce. The rain was falling slower now, in a soft patter against his bare arms. His heartbeat sounded too loud to his trained ears and his skin prickled with anticipation. Pushing his energy to the tips of his toes, Dean charged around corner, holding the gun outstretched in his arms.
Hurling himself forward he was only slightly surprised to see a solid human figure fly in a whirl of arms and wet material. Gathering a fist full of soaked jacket, Dean aimed the muzzle of his gun at the guy's forehead as he squinted through the darkness of the alley.
"Dean?"
One word. One whispered and breathless word was all it took for Dean to want to hurl all over his boots.
"Sammy? What the hell?" Lowering the .45, Dean tucked it safely into the small of his back as he stared into his brother's seeking eyes.
Sam blinked heavily, his brow creasing as he studied Dean's face closely. A beat later and Sam's face relaxed, the tension seeping away from his battered features.
"Dean," Sam choked out, a relieved smile twisting his lips as his body sagged into Dean's grip.
Stumbling, Dean re-arranged his hold on Sam's jacket as he tried frantically to support their combined weight but Sam's responding yelp of pain caught him completely off guard and before he could do anything to stop it, they were both sinking to the ground.
Propping Sam up against the nearby wall, Dean scooted nearer, feeling the sting on his kneecaps as they scraped across the rough asphalt below. "Sam?"
Huddling over his brother, sheltering him as best he could from the slowing rain, Dean stared in disbelief at the sight in front of him.
Blood. It was everywhere.
Dean moved on auto pilot as he shoved material aside and hastily tore at cotton, barely feeling the grazes on his knuckles as old and new cuts were ravaged open. Running icy hands over his brother's torso, Dean began searching for the cause of the blood as he tried to feel rather than see his way through it.
His hands had barely made contact with the fleshy wound on his brother's lower right stomach before Sam's breath hitched deep in his throat and he jerked forward, colliding with Dean's hands.
"What the hell were you thinking, Sam? Following me like that?" Dean said, gently propping his brother back against the wall.
"I had to know."
"Know what?"
"If burning the ledger worked." Sam's voice was slurred, his eyes struggling to stay open. "If McMillan was gone and if you were...you."
As soon as the words left Sam's bloody lips, a series of snapshots hit Dean. A black leather ledger, the motel room, watching numbly as his own clenched fists struck his brother, his finger on the trigger of a smoking gun.
Swallowing, Dean shoved all the images to the back of his brain; there would be time to deal with that later. His fingers found the source of the bleeding, the edges of the wound puckered and pumping blood. "Gunshot?"
"Gah," Sam gasped breathlessly, as Dean hands further examined the wound.
"Through and through?" Dean asked, curling his hand around Sam's back, feeling the slick warmth of seeping blood from the exit wound coat the pads of his fingers.
Noting that he wasn't wearing a shirt or coat, Dean gently coaxed off Sam's soaked khaki jacket and balled it up, pressing it hard against Sam's stomach. Tendons and veins corded in Sam's neck as his back arched off the wall and he let out a gut-wrenching scream.
With shaking hands, Dean tapped Sam's pockets. But his phone was missing and there was no one around. And he'd be damned if he was leaving his bleeding brother alone for even a second.
"You're okay, Sammy. Everything's okay."
He knew it was a lie, even before the hushed words left his mouth. But Sam didn't need to know that and maybe he didn't either.
"How bad?" Sam gasped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed deeply, his eyes boring into Dean.
Dean forced a weak smile. "Not that bad. I'll get us out of this, OK?"
Sam coughed, his lungs rattling. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a sucky liar."
The humour fell flat as Dean's mind short circuited. What was he supposed to do? They were in the middle of God knows where, with no phone and no signs of anyone willing to help.
Dean could feel his teeth ache as his jaw tightened. His brother was bleeding out and he couldn't even think straight. "Just hang on, Sam."
It shouldn't have surprised him when Sam chose that moment to cough up blood, specks of red pebble-dashing his deathly pale skin.
Dean strained his ears, wanting to hear the grumble of a car engine and the crunching of rubber tires against wet asphalt; wanting to hear the creak of a car door opening and the pounding of footsteps coming to save them.
But all he heard was Sam gasping for air.
XoXoX
In the end they walked. Well, sort of.
Sam was sagged against him, his arm slung over Dean's shoulders as the toes of his sneakers scraped across the concrete.
Dean's fingers were thumping with strain but he tightened his grip on the waistband of Sam's jeans anyway, pulling him closer to his hip. He could feel Sam's head bounce off his shoulder, feel his own brain throbbing inside his skull as he dragged them both through the network of alleyways.
They'd been on the move for too long and there was still no sign of anyone or anything. Dean had banged on a few doors, hollered through a few barred windows but there'd been no response, no offers of help. It was a ghost town.
"We there?" Sam's breath was hot in Dean's ear.
"Almost. Not far now."
Rain drops slid lazily down his face as he watched streams of red tinted water run down Sam's chin. And it took Dean a while to realise that the electric sensation running through his veins was panic. Panic at the situation, of what was at stake and what could happen.
Dean had been trying not to notice that Sam had been getting steadily heavier and his breaths more ragged. But he knew that Sam was trying; knew for a fact that if he wasn't, Dean wouldn't be able to carry his brother's weight.
"Dean."
He knew it was coming. Because damn, he had no idea how Sam was even still awake let alone on his feet and walking.
"Stop. I need…"
The words were just as broken as Sam's body and Dean tried his best not to freak out when Sam's weight got a whole lot heavier and his own knees started to buckle. He wanted to tell Sam that they couldn't stop, that if they did he wasn't sure they'd get going again.
Before Dean had the chance to plan the best route, they were falling to the ground, knees melting bonelessly as Sam's weight became too much for Dean to bear.
"Damn it," Dean cursed, his knees crashing into wet asphalt. Pulling himself up and dragging a hand over the water dripping off his chin, he reached out for his brother.
Sam was out for the count, his limbs folded uncomfortably under his body. Cupping his brother's face with cold hands, Dean thumbed away the rivers of water that were pooling around Sam's closed eyes.
Sam's forehead crinkled, the ridges of skin quivering as consciousness beckoned. "Nap time's over, Sammy. We've gotta haul ass."
Sam frowned, confusion etching every inch of his face.
"I'm getting us out of here," Dean said, wrapping his hands around Sam's biceps. "All you have to do is trust me. OK?"
"OK," Sam whispered.
Gently guiding Sam into a sitting position, Dean checked that the jacket he'd tied around Sam's waist earlier was still in place and staunching at least some of the bleeding.
Placing his shoulder into Sam's armpit, he dragged them both to their feet. Sam's guttural scream tore through the darkness of the alley, his breathing harsh and pained as his knees suddenly folded. Tightening his grip, Dean shouldered Sam's weight, his knees shaking with the strain. "I got you, Sammy, I got you. Just breathe through it."
Dean cast a glance over his shoulder. Sam's head was lolling, his eyes barely open but Dean could hear stuttering inhales and the quiet whistles of slow and controlled exhales.
"That's my boy," Dean said, taking a small step forward and squinting down the dark alley, their footsteps ricocheting off the brick walls.
Five minutes later, Dean was carrying so much of his brother's weight that they were hardly moving. Rain bounced off his eyelashes as he scanned the perimeter. He blinked away the water, almost missing how the alleyway had opened up onto a small back road. Several rusty trucks were parked outside a seedy looking bar that pumped out guitar riffs into the night air.
He thought about going in, about yelling for someone to call 911 as he laid his brother onto the sticky floor, trying his best to do something to save him. But he couldn't risk it. A bullet wound would attract entirely the wrong kind of attention, especially in a bar like this.
So he dragged them both forward through the rain towards a nearby truck, the doors tinged red with rust. Sam was shivering and mumbling. The words were jumbled nonsense but their meaning was crystal clear: time was running out.
Fuelled by adrenaline and fear, Dean fisted his free hand and punched the passenger window, watching as the glass spider-webbed. The second punch shattered the glass and probably his hand, as bones cracked and blood flowed. Dean knocked out the remaining shards, before snaking his arm through the window and unlocking the door.
Gently lowering his brother into the passenger seat, he unlocked the driver's door before dashing around and jumping into the truck, rusty hinges groaning as he slammed the door closed. Scooting over towards Sam, Dean winced at the pain in his hand as he patted Sam's knee and gently peeled away the makeshift jacket bandage, watching as blood bubbled to the surface.
"Son of a bitch," he mumbled, hoping that somehow it might have miraculously clotted.
Taking a deep breath, his pulse racing, Dean hastily bunched up the jacket, holding it firmly against Sam's stomach, his brother biting back a pained groan. "Sam, I need you to keep pressure on this, OK?"
Sam's eyes travelled lazily through the haze of pain and blood loss before finally settling on Dean's face.
"You hear me, Sammy?"
Sam's head bobbed, his eyes blinking heavily.
"Good." Dean placed Sam's hands over the jacket, making sure he was applying pressure before reluctantly letting go. "Then we'd better get a move on, huh?"
Pulling out the wires from the steering column was hard, especially since he was forced to do it one handed. Stripping and twisting the wires was nearly impossible, his hand shaking so fiercely it looked like it was seizing.
The engine growled to life and before long they were eating up the blacktop, windshield wipers swishing violently as rain sheeted down the glass.
Dean had no idea which way to go and for the longest time wasn't even aware he was driving. Buildings and cars passed by in a blur of colours and random shapes. But it didn't take long for the back roads to become larger ones and before long he found a sign pointing him in the direction of the nearest hospital. Swerving the truck across several lanes of traffic, Dean ignored the blaring horns as he slammed his boot harder on the gas, the speedometer now well over the legal limit.
"Just a bit longer," Dean said, a passing car's headlights lighting up the interior of the truck. Sam had sunk down on the seat, his head tilted towards Dean, his blanched skin paler than pale, his eyes open but shining with exhaustion and defeat.
"Dean-"
"Don't," Dean said, his fingers curling tighter around the worn leather of the steering wheel. "I don't want to hear that freakin' speech. Not from you, not ever. You got me?"
Sam's eyes hovered past Dean, struggling to latch on as his focus drifted.
Dean sniffed, his eyes on the road as he turned sharply into the exit lane. "You're gonna be fine, Sammy."
Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes burning, Dean's heart pounded in his chest.
Sam's hand was hanging limply off the seat, the bloodied jacket now pooled in a heap over his boots, his eyes closed.
Part Three