Sorry for the delay. First I had writer's block, then the hamster-on-a-wheel who runs my computer went claws up. Thanks for your patience!
Sam collapsed against the Impala and slid to a seat in the dirt, grasping his arm. He smeared away the blood with his palm, trying to assess the damage, wincing as a blaze of pain shot up his arm and into his chest. The bullet had grazed a furrow across the top of his bicep, which was oozing blood, but the wound didn't appear to be serious. Just hurt like a sunuvabitch.
Dean stumbled to his side and knelt, smoothing his hand across Sam's arm to clear the blood away. "Y'okay?" he slurred, and Sam pulled away.
"It's just a graze. I'm fine." Sam turned his head, hearing the far-off wail of sirens. "The train conductor must have called the police." Dean leaned sideways, opening the rear door of the car and rummaging through the back until he came up with the tackle box that they used as a first aid kit. Unrolling a strip of bandage, he tore it with his teeth. He pressed a square of gauze against Sam's torn flesh and wrapped it tightly, then tied the bandage off with a messy square knot. His own blood left muddy brown fingerprints on the white fabric.
"Let's get out of here. We don't need the cops askin' questions," said Dean gruffly, reaching to help Sam to his feet. But he stumbled sideways, wavering on his feet, and had to lean against the car to stop himself falling. Sam looked at his brother's face, which was painted with dried and fresh blood. His eyes were bleary and unfocused.
"You're not driving," Sam ordered, reaching for the keys.
"The hell I'm not," retorted Dean.
"You probably have a concussion, Dean. You're not driving." Sam snatched the keys from Dean's shaking hand. To his surprise, Dean didn't argue, just stumbled to the passenger side of the car and collapsed into the front seat.
Sam folded himself into the driver's seat and turned the key, and the Impala roared, engine rumbling. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of the window and winced. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ wearing steel-toed boots. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and a colorful bruise was spreading down his temple to his cheekbone. Dried blood snaked along his hairline. Sam shook his head, slammed the car into drive and floored the accelerator, spinning the wheels and spitting rocks behind them as the car fishtailed into motion.
Sam leaned back, thumping his head against the headrest and sighing loudly. He grasped his bicep, trying to squeeze away the throbbing of pain. "Shit." Dean didn't reply, only nodded. Sam glanced in his rearview and caught sight of the oncoming strobes of police cars and an ambulance. He spun the steering wheel and stamped the accelerator, speeding away from the compound, from the questions.
Sam shut his eyes for a second and ground his teeth to swallow down the pain flaring in his arm. He soon opened his eyes, though, not because he was driving but because each time he closed them he saw Colleen evaporating in a burst of blood and bone. He ran a palm over his mouth, tasting bitter bile in the back of his throat, and mumbled, "The girl…"
"Don't." Dean cut him off tersely. He grasped the neck of his t-shirt and pulled it up to wipe blood away from his mouth. "Leave it be, man."
"How can you say that?" Indignation sharpened Sam's tone into a shrill bark. "We just watched a little girl get annihilated by train, I watched her fucking head explode." He shook his head. "Leave it be," he repeated, disgusted.
Dean dug a knuckle into his eye, scraping away a crust of blood from the corner. "Why? What does reliving it do for her? What does it do for you?" He clenched his jaw. "It won't bring her back, and all it does for you is steal your sleep."
Sam looked at Dean, brow furrowed. He wanted to argue, but somehow he didn't have the energy. And in his heart, he wished he could forget, could exorcise the memory of Colleen's face. He knew that she would appear in his dreams, wake him with cold sweat in the quietest hours of the night. He wished he could leave the memory behind.
"You know what scares me?" Dean's voice was suddenly quiet, and he didn't look at his brother. Sam wasn't sure that he wanted to know and he pressed the accelerator harder, pushing the Impala's speed to well over the legal limit, as though trying to outrun the horror they were leaving behind. "We've spent our whole lives fighting demons, fighting spirits and monsters and freaks. Our whole lives have been about fighting the things that nobody else knows about, the things from the other side."
Sam said nothing.
"But all these things that we've killed, all the evil that we've stopped…there's still these crazy people doing the same evil and worse." Dean finally turned his head to look at Sam. "What are we supposed to do about it? Are we supposed to start hunting people, hunting humans who are doing these evil things? Are we supposed to kill them, too?" Dean shook his head and stared back out at the road in front of them. "When does it stop?"
Sam stayed silent, a little shocked to hear Dean saying the things that he himself had long wondered about. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "But I think that all we can do is keep doing what we do. All our lives Dad taught us to protect people. If we cross that line, what will we become? Where will the next line lie, and when will we cross it?"
"Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die." Normally Sam would have been shocked to hear the quote out of the mouth of his rough-and-tumble brother, but the sentiment was so correct that he remained silent. The brothers just stared silently out the dusty windshield as the countryside flashed by.
"And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware
Of what they're going through."
-David Bowie