It is not advisable to drive when you are half-dead from exhaustion and aching all over. Usually at least one of the guys is healthy enough to manage the Impala after a hunt – it's almost an affinity: If you're going to screw up and get hurt, make sure you are the only one; push your brother out of the way; make sure one persons stays conscious.
Sam is conscious, but barely. He took a nasty hit to the head and blood is still trickling down his forehead, clumping up to matt his eyebrows uncomfortably. Dean is in a better state mentally but he screwed up one ankle and twisted the knee to hell on the other side. Of course he attempted to turn the key in the ignition, but pushing the pedal down with that swollen ankle made his head swim as a sharp stab of pain shot up the leg, greeting leg and hip with a high-five. The knee tossed in its own two cents, screaming at him for being bent - so sitting down for any duration was pretty much a lost cause. It was just one of those times where he couldn't play it down – physical inability beat him to the ground. Pain could be downplayed if it was a throb, an ache, a burn, but feeling as though a nail bomb is going off inside your ankle every time pressure is applied? Recipe for a disaster.
"Keep your eyes open, Sammy."
Dean affectionately grunted his instructions from his position; sprawled across the back seat. Thankfully it was coming up to three in the morning on an empty highway, otherwise they would have been pulled over by the cops for sure – no way would the authorities miss the way the Impala swayed all over the road. No way would Dean have let Sam behind the wheel in that condition either if it were not the only option.
"How far away are we?" Sam asked, voice slurred slightly as he wiped a bloody hand on the denim of his jeans. No way he'd risk colouring the Impala's seat with read. Death would certainly be on the cards.
"Not too far." Dean nodded, allowing a grimace to cross his features as a pothole jostled his sore joints. "Just keep your eyes open, yeah?"
"Could do with a coffee." Sam responded, actively forcing his eyes to stay in the required state.
"Could do with something a little stronger." Dean added. "Not you though. Not stayin' up all night cleaning up your puke."
"Thanks for that image." Sam grumbled, "Seriously, are we going to be there soon? Tell me if I'm going to hit anything, Dean. There are about three roads ahead of me."
"Tell me you're joking."
"Possibly four."
"Dude, if you crash this car…"
"Just a bit dizzy. I'll be OK. As long as we're almost there."
"Five minutes." Dean nodded. "Do we have some bandages left?"
"Think so." Sam replied with a shrug. "Probably. Are you just twisted up or do you think it's more serious?"
"Sprained ankle and jarred knee. Three days and I'll be golden."
Except the joints take a regular hammering, and each time it happens he seems to limp for one more day.
Silence fills the car for a few minutes, just the sound of slow, precise breathing from each of the brothers.
"'kay." Dean nods, scooting up in the seat as their motel comes into sight. "We're here."
Sam sighs in relief, pulls an awkward right turn and haphazardly brings the Impala to a halt. The reduced motion quickly has his head spinning and he closes both eyes in an attempt to block out the nausea.
Dean watches with due concern but frankly he has his own worries. Both knee and ankle have further swollen up during the ride – his foot now tight in the sturdy boot and his knee failing to show any signs of bending, and he wonders how he'll even make the short journey.
"If anyone asks," Dean speaks up, clearing his throat, "Bar fight."
"It's always a bar fight." Sam grins through his pounding headache, although the taut muscles surreptitiously cause the throb to worsen.
"That's because we're always beat up, Sammy."
Sam recognises the truth and nods his head gingerly, unlocks his seatbelt. "Let's do this."