I do not own any of these lovely characters; they are solely the brainchildren of Eric Kripke and the folks at Warner Bros.
Old prompt/one-shot in the midst of Season 4.
Cheers!
Anna
Somewhere in southern Tennessee, three weeks of dodging angels and exorcising demons behind them, and Sam laid in the backseat of the Impala, straining to hear the whispered conversation between Dean and Castiel. They were stopped by some cornfield, Dean's low voice pacing back and forth outside the car. He caught words about him, about the last hunt, could get the general idea. After a while the soft murmuring subsided and Sam imagined Dean drawing a long kiss, exploring Castiel's mouth to find some small measure of comfort. At least, that was how he found them after St. Mary's that night, after they were settled in the motel. Sam coming from a scalding shower, feeling as though he had been socked in the gut, seeing it a second before Dean jerked away - Dean's hand soft on the angel's face, their foreheads nearly touching.
So that was it. Sam had gone back into the bathroom, sat on the cracked rim of the toilet and bit his fist so hard he might have left marks.
He had waited since before Stanford for any sign that Dean would turn to him, find him. Nothing. At least with Ruby he could make her choke out his name. And fuck, who was he now to offer something better than an angel?
It was in West Virginia a week before, when a demon managed to slice an especially brutal cut down through Dean's sleeve. Sam stitched him up, Castiel watching grimly from across the room and stepping closer as soon as he went to wash his brother's blood from his hands. Dean's eyes closed as the angel ghosted his fingers over the rough series of train track stitches. He murmured something in Dean's ear and Sam couldn't not notice. Things like that were killing him. I've loved him longer, loved him better, Sam thought.
An hour ago he had gone after the demon in the old barn alone, because god help him if he would stand or could stand another night of torture.
"Where's your back-up, Sammy?" the demon leered, pressing him up against the wall so hard he could actually feel his ribs about to break in. It felt better than anything had in weeks. "I'm not supposed to touch you, what with being Lucifer's favorite boy scout, but it's a little personal. Three sisters and my mother dead." The demon narrowed its eyes. "Not so good without all those big bad psychic powers now, are ya?"
"Good enough to make your mother die screaming," Sam baited.
The demon slammed him against the opposite wall, seething, and Sam saw sparks. There went a few ribs, he thought. A pain in his side revealed some sort of farm tool dug into his skin a few inches. Keep going. "They begged before I killed them, sent them back to the pit."
Her lips curled in a snarl and she grabbed a pitchfork from the wall. "Then I'll make sure you do the same."
"Not today, gorgeous."
Sam felt himself released from the demon's power as she lurched forward, a searing bright cut across her throat. Dean. He tried to say something, just leave him, he didn't want a hospital, but nothing was coming out. Instead Dean was cursing up a storm in a voice that threatened to break at any minute.
And here he was now, in the middle of a cornfield, comfortable only because Dean had been generous with the Vicodin. He closed his eyes for a moment as Dean slammed his way back into the car, the familiar spots of leather creaking.
"Sam. Sammy. C'mon, stay awake, man. Don't be dozin' off on me." Dean's concerned face popped into view for a moment. "Gotta get you to the hospital after all," he muttered, more to himself than Sam.
"Cas … " Sam found himself slurring. God damn Vicodin. He watched Dean's grip on the wheel tighten.
"Sam," Dean warned, but then stopped himself.
"I can hear you at night. With him." He wished he had the energy to sound more accusing, instead of beaten and miserable.
Dean hissed in a sharp breath as though stung, but still didn't reply.
"I wish—I wanted … instead of him. Instead of anyone. Dean-"
"Stop it, Sam." He finally managed to pull words out past his lips. "God, you have no idea, how—Jesus," he said, sounding just as pained as Sam felt. "We need to get you to a doctor."
Sam closed his eyes again, feeling the engine of the Impala purr on underneath. This moment at least, driving across some state at midnight, was bearable.