Disclaimer: I don't not (unfortunately) own Supernatural, I'm just playing in the wonderful sandbox that has been created by Kripke and company.
Spoilers: None really, takes place in an unspecified time and place.
This story came from a odd conversation with my SPNsters where I mentioned that copious amounts of blood smelled like stale peanut butter and jelly on wheat (don't ask). The comment was followed by my good friend Chrissie0707 challenging me to write a story with that in it. This story is a product of that challenge. I hope y'all enjoy and thank you in advance to those who take the time to review. Also thank you to BlueRiverSteel for doing a grammar check for me.
Sam shot a frantic glance from the road to the other side of the Impala where his brother sat slouched against the passenger door. "You know," Sam started, trying to inject some lightness into his tone, failing miserably. "That red stuff, you're supposed to keep it on the inside."
Dean let out a pained hum through pressed, pale lips, but made no other indication that he even heard him. The lack of response tore at Sam, almost more so than the copious amount of blood decorating his brother's . . . everything. Sam worried at his bottom lip, trying to figure out how much blood a person could lose and still live versus how much blood Dean had already lost. It seemed like too much, it looked like too much; there was a fine line between bleeding and bleeding out, and he was pretty sure Dean had crossed that line three wheat fields, two pastures, and one abandoned farm house ago.
Sam pressed down on the accelerator, cursing the monster that just had to live out in the middle of Nowheresville, miles from any hospital or clinic. He'd even take a vet clinic at the moment; anything would be better than his brother bleeding out, but there was nothing, nothing but a long stretch of road between them and any type of civilization. There wasn't even a god forsaken cow out here.
He pulled his eyes from the mud-covered single lane road to check on Dean, his heart nearly stopping as his brother's eyes slid shut and he began to slump forward, hand falling from where it had been keeping pressure on the still heavily-bleeding wound.
"Dean!" Sam reached over and grabbed his brother's shoulder, both to keep him from falling forward and in an effort to keep him awake. Guilt shot through him like a knife as Dean's face crumpled and a strangled cry pressed its way between clenched teeth. "Sorry man, but you have to stay awake."
Dean let his head fall backwards against the seat, his breath stuttering across his tongue. His skin was cold and clammy and Sam was worried he was teetering on just this side of hypovolemic shock.
"Come on, Dean, talk to me."
"Bout . . . wha'?" Dean gasped out.
Sam shook his head. "I dunno, man. Your latest conquest, what you ate last night. Something. Anything. You just . . ." His voice softened as he shot another worried glance to his brother. "You need to stay awake. We're almost there." That was a lie, sort of; Sam had no clue how far out from the hospital they were.
Silence filled the car, broken sporadically by Dean's ragged breathing. For a moment Sam was worried he'd passed out and was about to call his brother's name when Dean started talking—a bit haltingly, but talking nonetheless.
"They . . . 'scribe it . . . wrong."
Sam's eyebrows furrowed together. "They? They who?"
"They." Dean gestured limply. "They . . . the . . . om . . . inous . . . they."
"Did . . ." Sam glanced over to his brother. "Did you just quote Game of Thrones?"
Dean shot Sam a bitch face that would have been impressive if not for the blood decorating his face in liberal streaks and splashes.
"All right, all right." Sam tapped the air with his fingers. "What is it They are describing wrong?"
"Blood."
Sam blinked. "Blood?"
"Mm." A grimace washed over Dean's face as he shifted in his seat, desperately seeking a position to relieve some of the pain. "It . . .doesn't . . . have a . . . metallic . . .scent."
"What?" Sam glanced over at the older hunter, unsure if it was the concussion or blood loss that was clearly starting to mess with his head. He supposed it wasn't really that important though; as long as his brother was talking, Sam didn't care what it was about. A talking Dean was a conscious Dean, and a conscious Dean was a breathing Dean.
Dean opened his mouth to answer but a wet cough tore through his chest instead, splattering blood across his too pale lips. He curled forward around the pain, gasping desperately for air in between the relentless spasms that rocked through his body.
"Easy, easy," Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder, trying to provide some kind of support as his brother struggled to regain control of his rapidly failing body.
It felt like hours before Dean finally stopped coughing, hot tears turning pink as they trailed down his face through blood and grime. He began to sag forward once more.
"Whoa, hey, Dean!" Sam squeezed his shoulder, pressing it back toward the seat as best he could. He watched as the older man blinked slowly, as though the very act took almost all his energy. "Come on, Dean, stay with me."
"S'm?"
"Yeah." He gave Dean a shaky smile. "How you doing?" It was a stupid question, one that he already knew both the real answer to, and the one Dean would give him.
"M'fine."
Sam nodded, taking little comfort in the familiar lie. "Tell me, what does it smell like?"
"Wha'?" Dean let himself be guided back against the seat, his right hand pressing once more against the thick red cloth covering his side.
"You were telling me that They described the smell of blood wrong." Sam started, trying to get his brother's focus back on anything that wasn't him passing out. "So, what does it smell like?"
Dean licked his lips, swallowing thickly. "Like . . . stale . . . peanut . . . butter . . . and . . . jelly . . . on wheat . . . bread."He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and curled his lips against his teeth.
Sam cocked his head to the side as he let the words sink in. "That's . . . oddly specific. Why—" Sam stopped cold; Dean's eyes were shut and he was lying boneless against the passenger door, the hand that had been holding vital blood inside limp across his lap.
"Dean!"
Nothing.
Sam tried again, even going as far as nudging the injured man's side but Dean didn't even so much as twitch.
"Damn it, Dean," Sam growled, and dug the Impala's accelerator deep into the floor.
Sam shook his head, a scoff puffing his lips; it was ridiculous, not even remotely believable. Not to say it wasn't possible, it just wasn't . . . believable. It wasn't sustainable, maybe good for a minute or two but no good for long distances. More importantly, any person worth their weight in salt had to know there were better ways of doing it. Ways that allowed for better balance, stamina, and just overall better everything.
Sinking further into his seat, Sam shook his head once more at the T.V. screen across the room. Shows and movies had no concept of reality: the bridal style of carrying someone over long distances was a terrible idea, more likely to injure the person doing the carrying. For someone completely out of it, the fireman's carry was probably the better carry. It placed all the weight up above the center of gravity which meant better balance and counter balance, which in turned made it easier to travel longer distances. There was a reason why firemen used it.
Sam scrubbed his face with both his hands. He'd been in the hospital, sitting in the same chair for far too many days now, reduced to critiquing bad day time t.v. while he waited for his older brother to grace them all with the sparkling wit that indicated both consciousness and recovery. Dean had spent hours in surgery, received numerous blood transfusions, and had been on a respirator that forced air into lungs too damaged to work on their own. During his initial conversation with the doctor the words collapsed, perforated lung, swelling, high chance of infection, and low chance of survival had left Sam breathless and unable to think clearly. The very real chance that Dean could die, after everything they had been through, scared Sam more than he would ever admit.
True to form, however, Dean had beaten the odds and the doctors said he would eventually make a full recovery. This time they used words like miracle and angels watching over them. Sam had to bite down a scoff at both those sentiments; miracles weren't real and angels weren't watching over them. He was pretty sure that most of the angels didn't care much for Dean, and the only time they were likely to help his brother was off a cliff. Cas not included of course.
This morning the doctors had decided Dean could breathe on his own, removed the respirator and stopped the sedatives. They'd said he would wake up on his own at some point during the day, most likely sometime in the afternoon. It was now evening and Dean had still shown no signs of waking. The doctors claimed it was normal, that some people took longer to work the sedatives out of their system, but Sam knew the truth; he knew what was really going on. His older brother was trying to drive him insane, payback for dragging him into the middle of nowhere for what was supposed to be an easy hunt.
His heart beat rhythmically, bouncing through his head. It took him a long moment before he realized that the sound wasn't coming from inside his head but from somewhere to his right. He could feel something digging into his arm but ignored it for the moment in favor of the realization that he could breathe, without the accompanying stabs of pain that had been shredding him earlier. The air was crisp, clean, and tasted of bleach and antiseptics, which meant one of two things. Either he had died and Crowley had redecorated since his last visit, or he had somehow managed to keep breathing long enough for Sam to get him to the hospital.
Dean forced his eyes open, pawing clumsily at the grit pressing against his eyelids. Everything was blanketed in shadows; for a short moment he imagined that there was something wrong with his eyes, until he realized that it was nighttime and all the lights had been turned low.
"Dean?"
He glanced to his left, finding his baby brother folded impossibly into the standard, far too uncomfortable hospital chair, looking like he'd been there for a while.
A tentative smile pulled at Sam's face. "Was starting to think you were going to sleep forever." He scooted his chair closer to the bed. "How you feeling?"
"Confused." His voice was a whispered rasp and his throat felt like he'd been gargling with broken glass and acid. "What happened?" Dean attempted to sit up, his face collapsing into a grimace of pain as various parts of his body cried out against the movement.
"Whoa, hey." Sam jumped out of his seat and pushed Dean back down. "Easy man, you're gonna tear your stitches."
Dean let out a low hum of pain as he settled back against the scratchy hospital bed. He breathed steadily through his nose as the flare of pain worked its way back to a manageable level. "What happened?"
"What do you remember?"
Dean frowned; he remembered the hunt was supposed to be an easy one, random animal killings, farm animals mostly as there was nothing else close by for the creature to snack on. The biggest annoyance had been that they had to drive hours into the country all to save Bessie. Which they did, by the way. Long live the red heifer or some shit. It was directly after Bessie's rescue that things went pear shaped, and all things considered he was pretty sure he'd never forget that. The creature had been slightly miffed at him and Sam and made its feelings crystal clear.
After that he remembered the struggle back to the car, bits and pieces of the drive and . . . "Peanut butter?" That didn't seem right.
"Peanut butter?"
"I remember something about stale peanut butter and jelly on wheat." Dean gave a half shrug.
Sam rolled his eyes and dragged a hand down his face. "Of course you would remember your own delusional ramblings."
Dean gave him a quizzical look.
Sam sat back down in the hospital chair "In the car, I don't know if it was the blow to the head or the blood loss, but you started talking about how blood smells like stale peanut butter and jelly on wheat and how they always get it wrong."
"Well, it does."
"What does?"
"You know," Dean gestured with his hand. "Blood. It smells like a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"On wheat?"
"On wheat."
Sam blinked, opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head. "I don't know what's more disturbing, the fact that you associate the scent of blood with food, or that you have clearly thought this over." He snorted and shook his head. "There is something wrong with you."
A tired grin pressed across Dean's face. "I've been told that."