The Chauffeur
Dean was out of it, that much was clear. And Sam didn't blame him, not when he looked back and realized he'd been sick all week, high fever, body racking coughs, the works. And Sam really shouldn't have let him come, but of course Dean didn't accept no as an answer.
Now his body was tainted with scars, his right arm cut up and cradled against his chest. Redred blood currently cascaded down his massively holed shirt in thick strands. A pitiful little waterfall that Sam just wanted to end.
He shut his eyes, told himself to suck it up.
…
The younger brother slipped an arm around his freezing shoulders, whispered meaningless but encouraging words in his ear. Promises and pleases and things he didn't want to relive at a later date.
He was focused on the task of getting Dean to his baby, back to their stupid little motel room. So Sam half-carried, half-dragged Dean through the thick mud mucking their boots and slowing their paces. He swore under his breath when a groan was heard amidst the silent moonlit night.
Dean was heavy but he barely realized it. Love and the insane urge to protect outweighed everything else.
…
"You're doing good, Dean. You're doing good."
Just make Dean feel useful. Even if I am carrying 95% of his weight.
Sam was able to make out his beloved Impala in the distance, and he silently vowed to kiss every inch of her when she drove his brother home safe and sound.
The panic was coming back. Suddenly, his strength faltered a little, and Dean came this close to collapsing only a foot away from the car. Sam lifted him up and deposited him frantically into the passenger seat.
"I'm driving, Dean."
"Wait. Sam, M' not gonna…"
"I'm driving."
FIN