2012
Dean is running. He can hear footsteps pounding out a rhythm of pursuit behind him on the forest floor. He dodges a tree in his path at the last second. His reflexes are starting to lag, his muscles burning, breath coming more and more shallow. He wills himself to keep running, just long enough to outlast the pack. But they're built for this. He's not. He's prey.
Desperately, he starts looking for a place to duck down and wait them out.
Something trips his foot on the uneven terrain, sending him crashing face-first into leaves and underbrush, and they're on him in a second. One of them turns him over onto his back and the others pin his arms and legs to the ground while Dean fights with every reserve he has left. The leader leans close to Dean's face, a wide grin showing a sharp set of fangs, and Dean hauls back and thrusts his head forward into the vamp's nose.
The blow connects with a satisfying crunch, and Dean feels a grim sense of accomplishment as the thing draws back with a pained yelp, blood flowing from behind the hands it's holding protectively over its face.
"You're gonna pay for that," one of them whispers conspiratorially in Dean's ear, and Dean jerks his head away.
"Yeah? Why don't you blow me," he mutters.
The vamp smiles, and it makes Dean's skin crawl. He struggles against the hands holding him down.
The leader, whose nose Dean broke, steps up to Dean and puts a boot on his chest. He leans forward, increasing the pressure little by little, until Dean can't breathe under its weight. Panic makes him fight harder, but they're stronger.
"We are going to kill you," he informs Dean, whose fight is weakening as he loses air. "But we're going to bleed you first."
He takes the pressure off Dean's chest, and Dean gasps. His vision is jumpy. Through a dance of black spots, he's aware that one of the vamps pushes up the sleeve of his shirt and exposes his forearm. There are fangs, and there is pain, and Dean thinks he's just screaming but it comes out "Sam!"
Dean.
Sam is sure it was Dean's voice that woke him up.
Dean needs him. Dean is in trouble. Dean is hurt. Dean is dying. Dean is-
But no. He's not. Because Dean is dead.
Oh God, Dean. Dean is dead.
It hits him again, the emptiness, the loss, everything that matters gone, and he falls back against the pillow to stare, blank-eyed at the ceiling.
"Dean, I'm sorry, I can't do this without you." His voice is a whisper by the time he trails off, and his eyes slide closed because he's talking to an empty room.
There's nobody to care if he lets tears fall unchecked from the corners of his eyes to pool at the sides of his face. And once the tears have started, he can't turn them off, not that he doesn't see the point in trying. He gives in to the raw, racking sobs that leave him feeling drained and hopeless.
He stares at the ceiling. Then he pulls on jeans and a shirt and heads outside, because there's only one place he wants to be when it's this bad, and that's inside the familiar interior of the Impala.
Sometimes he lets himself fall asleep in the back seat, his hip and back habitually sliding into the familiar dips and crevices and bringing his elbow up under his head. He'll close his eyes and turn his face into the seat, letting his breath spill out over the aged mustiness of the upholstery. But tonight, he gets into the driver's seat and turns the key, feeling the vibration of the engine wrap around him until he's numb. Distant and numb.
Drive, his mind urges him. Just go. Drive.
And numbly, Sam complies.
He drives through the night and into morning, tears tracking down his face unacknowledged. He just drives. The sound of passing cars and rushing wind feel like it's echoing across something jagged and gaping inside of him.
Then it happens.
The flash of movement darts out in into his path, and he brings his foot down hard on the brake. The rear of the car swerves. There's a bump, and he hears a yelp, and then something limps to the side of the road.
Oh God.
Adrenaline is shooting through him, all traces of numbness gone. His senses are hyper-aware.
The dog folds itself onto the side of the road, its legs collapsing like cardboard. Sam can hear it trembling and whining. He can see blood matting the fur on its side.
Hands shaking, Sam goes around to the trunk and he finds the blanket they've always kept there, its coarse, nubby texture bringing back all the times Dean has wrapped this blanket around him to ward off hypothermia or shock. He approaches the dog slowly, holding out one hand non-threateningly. He speaks to it soothingly, and the dog inches away, whimpering, eyes darting anxiously. But Sam stays steady and calm, keeps his voice low, and holds his hand is in front of the dog's nose until it lets him bring his hand along the back of its head.
"Okay," Sam says, more to himself than the dog, "It's okay. You're going to be okay. We can do this."
He tucks the blanket around the dog, wincing as it whimpers at the contact with its injuries, and carries it gently to the back seat of the Impala.
The dog looks up at Sam warily but oddly trusting, and Sam runs a hand over the silky side of its face and along its ear. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault."
As he drives, he keeps looking back at the dog. The dog whimpers and whines, but it always meets Sam's eyes in the rear view mirror as if it's trusting him. "You're going to be okay," Sam promises over and over. By the time he finds an animal hospital, he almost believes it.
The receptionist follows Sam out the door. "Hey," she calls. "Sam, right?"
He turns around. "That's right. Did I—forget to…?"
"No, no, you're fine." She walks up to him, glancing back at the building behind her, then smiles kindly. "I just wanted to tell you, don't take it personally. Doctor Richardson. She's… always like that."
Sam chuckles. "Okay. Thanks. I guess. I mean… I did kind of deserve it."
"No." The receptionist puts a hand on Sam's arm, and Sam looks at her in surprise at the unexpected contact. "No, Sam. You didn't. It wasn't your fault. You more than made up for any role you had in it. Don't keep trying to punish yourself. It.. it doesn't make sense. You know?"
Sam frowns, then nods and forces a smile, and the receptionist looks a little embarrassed. "Sorry," she mumbles, "None of my business, I know. I just… Amelia overreacts sometimes and…"
"No," Sam assures her as she turns to go back inside. "Really. Thank you."
He drops back into the driver's seat of the Impala and his hands find the well-worn position on the wheel where Dean's hands have been so many times before. He closes his eyes. He misses Dean so much. The urge to drive and keep driving until the pain disappears is overwhelming.
But the dog is going to need a place to recover. He should get a place. Someplace nearby.
It's not the dog's fault, after all.
Maybe he can fix the dog. Maybe… they can fix each other.
Dean feels a hand grasp his hair and yank his head up off his chest. It's a shitty way to regain consciousness. "F…fuck," he moans.
"Oh good, you're alive."
Dean squints. "Benny? 's that you?" He tries to move, and discovers that his arms are bound above his head, and moving sets off a firestorm of pain through his body. "Nngh!"
"Don't get excited," Benny says. "They've got you strung up here like Christmas dinner. Might take me a sec." Dean blinks past the grey in his vision and sees Benny working at a network of thickly knotted ropes that are holding him.
"How did I…"
"Might not want to put much into talking, either," his friend says. "From the looks of you, I'd say you're at least a couple of quarts low. Just sit tight and let me save your ass."
Dean's pulse is racing. He knows he's lost blood. He knows he owes Benny his life. Again. How many times now?
He lets his head fall back to his chest while Benny works to free him.
Hurry, Sam, he thinks. You've got to get me out of here.
