Author Note: So I THINK there will be another four chapters to this happy, light-hearted piece. :P
Casualty
Chapter Two
He comes to with a start, jerks with a gasp that catches painfully in his throat. Spots dance in his vision as he gags and chokes, and the strong arm locked across his chest tenses.
"Dean?"
Sammy?
He tries reflexively to answer, can't manage anything beyond a wordless noise of pain.
"Hey, man, just – just hang on a little longer. Okay?"
He doesn't remember what happened, but if his brother's tone is any indication, it must be bad. It must be really bad.
They're in the car. that much he knows. He recognizes the low, steady rumble of the engine vibrating up through the bench seat as he struggles vainly to draw a full breath. Blurry spots of light pass at a frightening speed. Only a slipstream of oxygen makes it down his swollen airway, and he writhes in discomfort. He tries again to speak, croaks, warm blood on his tingling lips.
"Jesus, Dean, just a few more minutes."
Sam is trembling, hugging him one-armed and holding him upright as he drives.
It must be really, really bad.
He wheezes, reaches up a clawed hand to tug at whatever is wrapped around his neck and cutting off his air, but his weak fingers find nothing there but chilled skin slicked with what has to be his own blood. He's strangling from the inside.
Sam adjusts his grip, drags Dean's hand away from his throat. "Don't mess with it, man. Just hang on."
He snorts, gargles blood. Can't Sam see he's already been hanging on for months? Since he coughed up dirt and shredded his fingers climbing out of his own grave. Since the last time his starved lungs begged for relief. At least this time he's not alone.
He tries to twist, to see his brother, and figures out very quickly that's a bad idea.
He reels, unable to make sense of what happened, of how they got here, why he can't breathe. The car takes a turn too fast and his wooden, unbalanced body slips against the seat. Sam hikes him straighter and he blacks out momentarily as something shifts in his chest, as fiery pain explodes in his head.
A firm, steadying hand splays against his sternum and over his head, Sam mutters a frantic mantra of "sorry sorry." The hand stays put, communicating don't fucking move, and that's not really an issue, because it's not really a possibility.
He gasps dumbly like a stranded fish, numb legs hanging off the seat, one heavy arm draped across his lap. His thoughts slide loosely in his battered, huge-feeling head as he focuses on breathing, and suddenly he remembers.
When we win –
A fist crashing in his face, over and over.
- when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down –
Pounding on him until he can no longer feel the blows.
- we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester.
Everything dimming, Alastair grinning as he crushes the life out of him.
The memory has him bucking against his brother's hand, and he hears the tires squeal as Sam wrestles to maintain control of the car. He arches away from the contact, numb lips moving soundlessly as he strains for breath.
"Calm down, Dean. You gotta calm down."
His head is spinning. Hazily, he thinks he remembers Cas there, in that room, but not Sam. Fresh panic flutters in his rattling chest as the thought of his brother there, with Alastair. "How," he manages, and Sam shushes him, says something about saving his breath, his strength. But he can't. He doesn't have much left to save. "Cas – "
"He's not here, man. He couldn't…I had to get you out of there. Get you help."
Sam's not getting him. He might die in this car, weak and broken, but not without some damn answers. He needs Castiel to tell him if there's any validity in what Alastair said.
The first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...that was the first seal.
He's pretty sure he knows the answer already.
He bites his lip against a spike of pain in his chest, a familiar shifting of broken, scraping rib bone as his lungs heave desperately. "No," he rasps. "He – " He runs out of air, gulps greedily, but nothing gets through.
His panicked wheezes fill the car, and the hand on his chest trembles. "Seriously, Dean. Stop trying to talk. Alastair's dead, man. You don't have to worry about him anymore. Just hang on." His brother's talking a mile a minute, voice shaking.
It doesn't matter. The damage has been done, his body crushed to match his spirit. His soul. He's dead already, some vital piece of himself left behind in that room. Sam has to feel it, the lifeless chill in his uncooperative limbs.
Without warning, pressure in his throat increases and the precious little air he's been pulling cuts off completely. He flails as panic surges in his chest, and Sam struggles to keep him upright, still.
"Dean!"
He's light-headed, confused, cold. The lights whizzing past overhead dim away, and he claws at the seat, the dash, Sam's leg, scrabbling for purchase and trying to keep the black at bay for as long as he can.
"No, no, no." Sam's voice pitches higher. "Don't do this, Dean."
The Impala presses forward with a growl, then jolts to a stop so violent it nearly pitches him from the seat. His brother is screaming for help as the curtain starts to fall, his voice nearly unrecognizable.
And he thinks, if the last thing he hears is Sammy, that's an okay way to go.
To be continued...
