Sam Winchester

get to the roadhouse. sam hurt. call bobby.

It's the best Dean can do, sending a voice text while driving at damn near full speed towards the Roadhouse. Sam is in the back seat, the entire car thick with the scent of blood and pain. His brother. They'd done this to his baby brother. Half frantic, Dean picks up his phone and barks out another text to Rhys. Sam was in bad shape and he wasn't going to be able to take care of him on his own. He needs a goddamn healer, someone with enough power to stop the fucking bleeding..

"Hang on Sammy." Reaching back, Dean rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Almost there Sam. Almost there."

One job. It was supposed to be one damned job. One job.

The Impala pulls up to the bar with a squealing of brakes, gravel everywhere and the low groan of Sam from the back of the car. "D'n?"

"Hang on Sam. Just hang on," Dean threw the door open, dipping his shoulder beneath Sam's. "Come on Sam. Inside."

Y'all know the drill - concrit appreciated!

Sam pulled away from the drivethrough window, stopping long enough to push back the little plastic lid and take a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. He glanced in the rear view mirror, checking on his fitfully sleeping brother in the back. He was pushing himself too hard, asking too much, and as usual, trying to do it all alone. The scotch had finally put him under long enough for Sam to haul his brother into the backseat.

The cup balanced on one leg, Sam turned the car back onto the highway. They had to drive most of the night if they wanted to meet up with Bobby on time, and Dean was in no shape to drive. Again. He switched the headlights on and accelerated, breathing in the warm smell of the coffee against the cool interior of the Impala.

He was trying not to let his frustration show, and the longer Dean insisted he was fine, the more frustrated Sam got. He wasn’t all right. He was coming apart at the seams, and he wasn’t letting anyone help him. Dean was back to that same self-destructive bent he had when he’d come back from Hell. Thinking he wasn’t worth saving and so wrapped up in self-hatred and guilt that he didn’t even see how much it was hurting the people that loved him.

He sipped at the coffee, letting the cup rest between his legs as he drove. Dawn was just starting to tint the sky a pale shade of blue. It was going to be one hell of a sunrise.

He’d told Dean the truth. He still saw Hell, still saw Lucifer, and there were still times when he had a hard time telling the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. But he was getting a handle on it. He felt better. He wasn’t laboring under any illusion – he’d never be all right. He’d always be a Grade A Freak, but at least he was managing. Sam.. couldn’t help but wonder if Dean resented him a little because somehow he’d made peace with his past, with everything that he’d done.

His mind amended bitterly that if the stubborn jackass would just talk to someone.. he’d probably feel better too.

But he wouldn’t. Because it was Dean and he didn’t know any other way.
So Sam drove on in silence. He drove, and he worried. He was losing his brother and he didn’t know how to save him this time.