A/N I've found myself in a reflective mood tonight. I have been working on this story for a long time (and had a general idea of what I was going to do for even longer). Shortly after I had finished the first draft of this story my younger sister and her friend were driving home after visiting me and hit a deer on the interstate in a somewhat similar style to what just happened here. They rolled at least twice, and if they hadn't been wearing their seatbelts, they would have died...yet tonight, I got to watch her perform in a band concert. Editing this chapter tonight made me strangely emotional and it hit home once again the tender mercies I have received in my lifetime. The long-short of all that, I guess, is wear your seatbelts. :)
Chapter Six
Everything was eerily quiet inside of the truck.
Sam took a shaky breath, trying to process what had happened and take stock of his situation. He was bleeding from somewhere on his face, he could feel it dribbling down his cheek and toward his hairline, and his head was pounding like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. But besides that—and being upside down—he didn't seem to be in that bad of shape.
That was a minor miracle in and of itself, but it didn't solve his immediate problem.
Groaning around the gag, Sam began to work the burlap sack free from around his head. He ripped it off, gasping in the fresher air and blinking away the sweat and blood that was now dotting his face.
The gag took a little longer to work free with just one hand but it was worth it to be able to take his first real deep breath in hours.
Inhaling deeply, Sam blinked at his surroundings.
The windshield in front of his face was caved in, the splintered glass far too close to his face for comfort. The window next to him had blown out, and Sam could see Jesse's phone laying in the dirt just outside his window. For some reason, the sight hit home just how close to death he had come. If he hadn't been wearing his seatbelt…Swallowing thickly Sam turned his head to the left to see how Jesse was faring.
Instant, blinding pain shot through the left side of Sam's head and he froze, squeezing his eyes shut as he slowly turned it back to face straight. Once the scenery stopped spinning, he tried again, this time prepared for the pain.
Jesse was gone.
That could not be good news for the vampire, but in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but feel relieved. At least for the moment, Jesse was taken care of and that made everything much simpler.
Moving tentatively for fear of new pain, Sam dragged his bloodied free arm up. There was no pain yet, probably due to shock, but the back of his hand and his arm were bleeding from multiple lacerations that had most likely happened when the window blew out.
"Okay, you're fine, it'll be fine," Sam muttered to himself, closing his eyes as he let his hand hover over the seatbelt. He was preparing himself for the fall that was bound to happen with only one functional arm with which to brace himself. Taking a breath, he jammed his thumb into the button to release the blet.
Only, it didn't click. Swearing, Sam tried again with more force, but nothing was happening. The seatbelt was jammed.
Groaning, Sam tipped his head back to rest against the seat. He wasn't at his best; he wasn't going to be able to rip the belt out of the lock. And then there was the issue of his other arm still cuffed to the safety rail. There was no way that he was going to be able to pick the lock right now.
Sam was stuck, and he was just going to have to wait until help arrived.
It was an irksome thought. Someone could come along and see the crash within the next ten minutes, or it could be hours. Hell, he could be dead by the time someone came along.
Time moved by achingly slow.
The clock on the dash had frozen at 9:53, but the sun was gently creeping further across the truck and the interior began to grow uncomfortably warm under the rays. Sweat began to trickle down the back of Sam's neck and his face, stinging the small cuts there. All the blood to his head was also leaving him feeling foggy and like he wanted to throw up.
Every once and awhile he tried to wriggle out of the seatbelt or the handcuffs, but his movements were growing weaker and lacked any real coordination. The movement just left him dizzier than before, and he finally gave up.
By his best guess, it had been about an hour or two when another problem presented itself. Over the past two days and the subsequent dosages of the antidote, Sam had become familiar with the poison's symptoms; the racing heart, the chest pains, the fatigue, and the fever…and it was all starting up again.
And it made sense, it had been about five hours since his last dose, but now… he had no clue if Jesse was alive or where he was at. Even if someone did find Sam, he strongly doubted that they would be able to provide the help that he needed.
For the first time since being taken captive, Sam was hit with the sudden gut realization that he was probably not making it out of this one alive.
He very well could die here, alone in a crushed pickup.
Sam blinked furiously. It wasn't that he was afraid of death, but that didn't mean he wanted to die. He still had books that he wanted to read, things he wanted to do. Conversations he wanted to have. More importantly, he didn't want to leave Dean alone, not yet. Not while Dean was still finding his footing after Dad's death. He had to make sure that Dean was alright, that he could—
Sam gasped air raggedly, scrubbing at his face with his free hand and leaving a smear of blood across his face.
Outside of the truck, he could hear the faint chirping of birds and the humming of insects, and he bowed his head. He didn't know how much time he had left, he needed—all he really wanted right now was Dean.
#
Dean spent the next couple of hours willing his phone to ring with either more information from Bobby or a call from Jesse with ransom demands. That option seemed less and less likely as time passed, but still…it would have been nice to know for sure that he was going in the right direction.
It would be an absolute waste of time if he was chasing a phantom trail, and time was the one thing that they simply did not have.
He jumped, almost spilling the coffee that he had picked up to keep himself awake when the phone finally did begin to vibrate. Swearing, Dean fumbled to put the cup down in the cupholder before wrenching the phone free and checking the caller ID. Bobby.
Fixing his eyes back on the road, Dean answered gruffly. "You find anything?"
"Not much near Carson, but I started looking further away. There is a small town about four hours west of Carson that has been experiencing some suspicious behavior. People missing, cattle mutilated, stuff like that."
Dean paused, thinking. "That's not a lot to go on, though I guess that it does sound like it could be our kind of gig. But why would Jesse be going there?"
"I'm not a magician, Dean, I can't pull a reason for a vampire to go rogue out of my ass."
"I know, I know," Dean paused, fighting off a wave of frustration. "I'm about an hour out of Carson. I'll stop and ask around, but after that, I'll head towards…?"
"Douglas. And you never know, if it walks like a duck, it's probably a duck. Wherever Sam's going, it's nowhere nice."
"No, really? I thought Jesse was taking him to Disneyland." Dean blew out a sigh as he gripped the wheel tighter. The gas light popped on and Dean frowned hard at it. "I'll call you after Carson."
Once this was all over, Dean owed Bobby a bottle of his favorite whiskey. Or maybe a new gun or really whatever price Bobby laid down. Not that he would, because it was Bobby, but hey, Dean was willing to pay.
Carson, it turned out, was good for nothing but gas. The operator hadn't been lying when she described it as a small town. There was only one street, no stoplights, and Dean didn't even talk to anyone besides the gas station attendant before pulling out.
Whatever Jesse was planning, it wasn't going to happen in a town that only rose to double digits during tourist season. And the only reason that would probably happen was that the town was about the only one on the only road between the mountain and the cluster of towns that included Douglas. It served more as a glorified gas station than anything else.
All the same, Dean left Carson with higher spirits than he had entered. It was a straight shot from here to Douglas. If Jesse had gone through Carson, then he had left on this road.
And that meant that Dean was on the right track.
The van chugged along the deserted highway as the minutes changed into hours and Dean sat in heavy silence. The van wasn't picking up any stations worth listening to, and he didn't have his tapes.
They were winding down the side of the mountain when the motor turned over uneasily, its gears grinding and Dean shifted it down to a lower gear, easing her down to a more reasonable speed. If the engine gave out—or worse, the breaks—then he would be screwed over.
Dean would have trusted the Impala to fly down this hill and he once again felt the longing for his Baby, but he pushed it back down as he tightened his grip on the wheel.
They were almost at level ground when Dean rounded a tight bend in the road to find fresh skid marks marring the black pavement.
He started to pump the break, even as his mind began to wage a war between itself.
Someone had gone off the road, and they could be hurt and be in serious need of help…but time was precious. He needed to get to Sam, who knew what the vampires were doing to him, and he was already too damn far behind…but Sam would want him to stop.
"Damnit!" Dean slapped the steering wheel even as he applied the brakes more firmly, easing the van to a stop off on the shoulder of the road. Running a hand through his already thoroughly disheveled hair, he got out and jogged over the ledge.
He wouldn't stay long. As soon as he knew that they were okay and that help was on the way, he would be on the road again. Reaching the ledge, Dean peered down the shallow incline.
His heart stopped.
Jesse's little white pickup was resting on its roof halfway down the hill. The bed of the truck was crumpled, a tire was sticking out oddly. The hood was crushed, the windows shattered.
It had probably rolled at least twice.
"Sam—" he meant for it to come out as a shout, but all that escaped him was a hoarse whisper as his throat went suddenly dry. There was no sign of life around the truck, no sign of Sam.
Dean began to run. The ground was softer than he had expected, and the dirt threatened to send him flat onto his ass, but he hardly noticed the mishaps as he came to a stop at the end of the truck.
He couldn't see inside yet, and his chest had constricted so tight that he couldn't breathe. What were the chances of Sam surviving two horrifying car crashes in less than a year?
Dropping down onto his knees next to the passenger side window, Dean ducked down, trying to look through the shattered glass.
"Sammy?" he called out, ignoring the way that his voice broke as he took in the image of his brother.
Sam was hanging upside down, only kept that way due to the seatbelt and one wrist that had been cuffed to the safety handle. His shirt was soaked through with sweat in a deep v-pattern, and blood had dried along his hairline and beneath his nose.
His head was bowed, his eyes closed.
"Sam!" Dean tried again, louder and with more desperation in his voice than he wanted to admit.
Sam's eyes slitted open, and Dean inhaled, dropping his head. Sam was alive, that was all that mattered.
"Sammy, hey," he said softer, going down onto his belly to make eye contact.
"Dean?" Sam said in disbelief and he tentatively turned his head to the side, moving stiffly as if everything hurt.
"Yeah, it's me, buddy."
Sam broke into a weak smile. "Thought I was gonna die alone," he mumbled, his voice faint, and something in Dean's chest tore.
"You're not dying, not on my watch, okay? So just hold tight. I'm going to get you out of here."
Dean began to examine the door. The hinges were crushed, it wouldn't open without effort and he crossed to the other side of the truck to look for an alternative entrance. He hadn't seen any sign of Jesse, but he would worry about that later. The driver's side was crumpled even more than the passenger side. The windshield had cracked and splintered, with most of the glass gone on the driver's side.
He dropped to his knees, peering in through the opening. Sam's eyes were closed again. "Sam? Hey, Sam!"
"Still here…"
"Good. Talk to me, tell me what's going on. What hurts?" Dean waited, examining each of Sam's exhausted movements carefully.
"'m alrigh', not beedin' internally…or at leas' I don't think so," Sam's words were slurring together badly and Dean frowned.
"Do you need a hospital, man? Should I be calling 9-1-1?"
That got Sam's attention and he twisted his head towards Dean, only to blanch a sickly white and freeze, his eyes squeezing shut as his free hand jumped to his head. "No, no. Don't—don't call them, they can't do anything for me. Just…stay with me, get me out."
"Okay, okay, calm down. I'm getting you out. Do you think that you can move up here through the windshield?" Dean asked hurriedly, glancing around the truck one more time. Jesse wasn't in the truck, but he could be around.
"My hand, can't pick the lock," Sam confessed dazedly, his eyes closing once again and Dean swore under his breath as he shrugged out of his jacket.
"I'm going to have to break a window, cover up with this, okay? Can you reach—?" he began to thread his jacket through the opening, ignoring the shallow scrape that he received on his arm as he did so.
Sam blinked dumbly at him, and then at the jacket. C'mon, it's not that hard…Dean thought, his apprehension growing. Sam wasn't thinking clearly, it was taking him too long to process information.
Sam's hand snuck out, inching towards the jacket. Dean waited until he had a firm grasp on it before letting go and hurrying back around to the passenger window.
Grabbing a nearby rock bigger than his fist, Dean paused, waiting until Sam's face was mostly covered by his jacket. Sam certainly did not need any new cuts from flying glass. "Hold tight," he warned again as he took off his flannel and wrapped it around his hand for protection. He smashed the rock into what remained of the window. It splintered, taking another two hits before shattering completely and sending glass shards flying.
Once the main section of glass was out of the way, Dean began to crush the pointed ends, ensuring that the edge closest to the ground was free from sharp points.
"You still good?" he asked once he had finished, tossing the rock behind him. He dropped down again, reclaiming his jacket. Sam didn't answer, and Dean repeated his question.
"Stop asking me that," he finally said, giving Dean an annoyed look that did little to comfort him.
Spreading the jacket out over the ground and the window to add further protection from glass shards, Dean lay down, squirming his way in until the ends of Sam's sweaty hair were in his face.
"Hey…" Dean said, forcing himself to be gentle as he reached up, tipping Sam's head back so that he could better see his face. The inside of the car was stifling hot, and Sam's skin was burning underneath his hands.
"Get me out of here," Sam mumbled again, his eyes fluttering.
"I'm doing that, but you've got to stay with me, man."
Dean forced a smile as he began to run his hands over Sam's head, his neck, and then his back. He was checking for anything that caved wrong or felt funny, for a reason that he shouldn't move Sam. With his limited experience, he could find nothing, he was just going to have to risk it.
"Okay, here we go. We're getting you out." Dean drew his hands back, tilting his head down to try and make eye contact with his brother. "I'm going to unlock the cuff. No sugarcoating, this is gonna hurt like hell."
Sam grimaced but nodded.
Letting go, Dean squirmed back a little as he dug through his pocket for a paper clip. Sam's arm was handcuffed near his head, and it was a slightly awkward position. Dean stuck his tongue in between his teeth as he worked, wriggling the paperclip around.
It snapped free, and Dean held tightly onto Sam's wrist to keep his arm in place as he quickly unwound the metal, throwing it aside. He had no clue how long Sam had been hanging from his arm, but the already injured muscles were probably painfully locked up.
"Take deep breaths," Dean coached absently, glancing back at Sam as he began to gently move his arm down. Sam's already pale face went white and then green and his eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed convulsively. "Hey, c'mon, deep breaths 'cause if you throw up right now, I'm in the splash zone and you would owe me big time."
He tucked the bad arm close to Sam's chest and Sam groaned through his teeth. It wasn't great, but it might keep him from jostling it too much until they could get it wrapped properly.
"Have you tried the seat belt?" Dean asked and Sam swallowed again. It took him a moment to reply and when he did, he seemed to be having trouble stringing the words together.
"It's….uh, it's stuck. I think. I couldn't…"
Bracing a hand up against Sam's chest just in case, Dean gave the seatbelt an experimental tug. Nothing happened.
"I'm going to cut it," Dean warned, and Sam nodded. He extended his good hand, bracing it against the dashboard in preparation for the drop and Dean grimaced on Sam's behalf as he reached for his boot knife. He exchanged one last glance with Sam before cutting the belt.
Sam immediately dropped down, partially onto Dean, partially onto the dashboard and he emitted a sharp gasp that ended in a breathy moan. Dean grunted as he took the brunt of Sam's weight—his brother was not a light person, despite the fact that he ate salads—and he had to force his lungs to expand before he tried to move.
He wormed back, listening to Sam's choppy breaths as he struggled to get his pain under control.
"Almost out, almost there," he promised, panting. He was starting to sweat as well, the physical labor and the close confines getting to him. Wriggling back, he cursed sharply when his head caught on the window. Shrinking down further so that he was flat on his stomach, he began to make his way out.
The fresh air was a relief on his face as he snatched up his jacket, hurrying around the side of the truck and towards the front. The windshield would, hopefully, be easier for Sam to get through and he tossed the jacket down again, before sticking his head inside. He fished for Sam's good hand and felt a small measure of relief when Sam wrapped his fingers around his wrist.
Leaning heavily on Dean for support, Sam managed to crawl his way through the windshield with relatively few cuts. Once he was out, he pushed away from Dean and, grabbing onto the grill of the truck for support, tried to pull himself upright. Dean hovered anxiously next to him, his hands outstretched just in case.
His worry was justified when Sam's knees gave out before he was even fully standing.
"Easy, easy does it," Dean murmured as he shoved an arm under Sam's chest while his other hand knotted in the back of his shirt. Sam let his head hang, his body quivering as he took several ragged breaths that seemed to do little to relieve his symptoms.
Through the thin fabric, he could feel the furious pounding of his brother's heart and a chill went down his spine.
"Sam? Okay, Sam, let's just…" Dean looked around a little desperately. Wrapping his arm tighter around Sam's chest, he began to pull him towards the back of the truck where there was not near as much glass. He leaned him up against the crumpled fender, his hand bracing him upright as Sam threatened to topple forward.
Sam moaned under his breath, his hand coming up to press against his chest just over his heart. Dean pressed two fingers into Sam's neck, taking his pulse and feeling the erratic beat.
This was not good; this was so not good…
"Sammy, when was the last time you had the antidote?"
"What?" Sam panted out, his face scrunching up.
Dean frowned. "The antidote, man, when do you need it? When was the last time Jesse gave it to you?"
Recognition dawned in Sam's dull eyes. "I don't know," he admitted, having to take a breath before he could continue. "But I should have had it by now."
"Son of a bitch." Dean dropped his head, the panic that had been simmering suddenly boiling over. "Um, we can do this. We can do this; you aren't dying today. We're going to start treating symptoms. Talk to me, Sam, tell me exactly what you are feeling."
"Dean," Sam rolled his head gingerly back against the metal and squinted through one eye at his brother.
"Not what I asked," Dean snapped impatiently.
But Sam was shaking his head. "No, that's not…Dean, Jesse…he, uh…" Sam seemed to have trouble getting his thoughts in order, and Dean tried not to lose his patience. They only had some much time.
"I don't care about Jesse—"
"He has more of the antidote…somewhere, he has some already made," Sam said, heedless of Dean's interruption.
Dean's eyes grew wide. "Okay, okay…I'm going to go look, you stay here, yell if you start feeling worse."
Scrambling upright, he abruptly turned around. "What does it look like? The antidote what is it in?"
Sam paused. "Little…little round jar. Screw-on lid."
Dean nodded and hurried to the front of the smashed-up cab. Dropping back down, he crawled inside.
There wasn't much there in personal belongings and Dean wormed around onto his belly to yank the glove box open. It was mostly stray papers and napkins, and Dean hastily dug through them, ruthlessly emptying the space.
There was nothing there.
The rest of the truck came up empty as well, and Dean forced his way back out. Jesse must have had the antidote on him, which was an issue because he still had no clue where he was. If Jesse hadn't been wearing his seatbelt, then he had probably been ejected from the truck, which meant that Dean was going to have to start searching for the body.
Rounding the truck, Dean passed by Sam—whose skin was turning an awful shade of grey—and began working his way steadily back up the incline, looking for Jesse.
Halfway up the hill and to the left, he found the first drops of blood darkening the dirt. Darting that direction, he lurched back a step as he came across Jesse. He was lying prone on his side and, although his head was still attached, Dean did not think that he was going to be getting up again.
His head had been crushed in and dark blood matted the ground all around him. Several of his limbs were sticking out in odd directions, with white bone jutting out in places.
It did not look good.
All the same, Dean kept him at arm's length, aiming a kick at his knee.
There was no response and Dean once again wrapped his flannel around his hand before he bent cautiously down and began to go through his pockets. He was going to be taking care of Sam, he couldn't afford to have any of the vampire's blood on his hands.
There was nothing except a knife in his right pants pocket, but Dean struck gold in the left when he pulled out a small, round, container, which he unscrewed urgently. A wave of relief rolled through him as he saw the powder there, the same one which he had witnessed Amelia giving to Sam.
"Finally!" Dean shook off his blood-stained flannel without regret and began to run back towards Sam. Sliding to a stop, he made an abrupt turn and headed up further towards the van.
Sam was going to need water to dissolve the antidote and he was sure that there was a bottle in the back of the van. Also, he was going to need the machete. Jesse was probably dead, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
He was on his way back down the hill after finishing the job and separating Jesse's head from his body when a large, black object caught his attention. Dean wavered for a moment, before diverting. It was a backpack, probably Jesse's, and he grabbed it by the handle. He would go through it later if he had a chance on the possibility that there was something useful there.
His brother was slumped in the same position as before with his eyes closed and his hand clenched over his heart as Dean skidded to a halt next to him.
"Hey, you with me?" he asked as he untwisted the lid on the water bottle.
"Still here," Sam mumbled, his eyes fluttering feebly open.
"Stay that way," Dean ordered as he poured half of the water into the dirt before setting it carefully on the ground. He crab-walked back a step, grabbed one of the papers that had been in the glove box, and curled it up to use as a funnel. Unscrewing the lid on the jar, he began to tap the powder down into the water, glancing up at Sam every few seconds.
There wasn't as much powder there as Dean had been hoping for, and he forced himself to stop when there was about a teaspoon of it left.
When they inevitably tried to recreate the cure, they would need some of the original to work with and compare to.
Shaking the bottle to dissolve the powder with one hand, he reached out, finding Sam's wrist.
His skin was burning, his pulse pounding at a worrying speed.
"Here, Sam, you need to drink this." Dean slid a hand underneath Sam's neck, lifting his head. Sam gasped a little, his eyes scrunching up in pain.
"It's just my head, from the crash," Sam said swiftly, if faintly, as Dean froze.
"Yeah, you're lucky you have such a thick head," Dean said grimly as he pressed the lip of the bottle to Sam's mouth. "Jesse did not, and it cost him."
Slowly so that Sam would not choke, Dean carefully administered the life-saving antidote.
"That's really gross," Sam bit out as he finished and Dean glared half-heartedly at him.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. You live such a hard life, Samantha."
Sam gave a weak chuckle and Dean sat back, running a hand through his hair as he waited for the rush of relief that had accompanied finding the cure, but there was none. He gripped Sam's wrist again, waiting for his pulse to slow.
"Listen, man, you've got to tell me if you feel better or worse, and no—no lying just to make me feel better. Okay?"
Sam frowned, looking at him, and his voice turned gentle. "Dean..."
Dean looked away, unwilling to see how Sam's eyes were softening. Instead, he checked his watch, mentally counting five hours from now. He had about that, maybe another hour if Sam could hold on, to find the antidote.
To save Sam.
That wasn't enough time and Dean rubbed a hand across his chin, trying and failing to not feel slightly terrified.
"Hey," Sam reached out, his far-too warm hand wrapping around Dean's forearm, pulling him back. "Hey, Dean, calm down. We'll figure this out, together."
"And if we don't?"
Sam paused, his eyes going even softer as they glistened, and Dean held up a hand. He wasn't ready for that, he didn't think that he would ever be.
"We've got to haul ass, do you think you can stand?" he said pointedly instead, already moving to help Sam up.
"I don't—give me a minute. I just need a minute." Sam shielded away from Dean's hands, his face turning faintly pink from embarrassment. Dean frowned, diverting to check his brother's vitals. All still too high…and Sam's heart was compromised. He gnawed at his lower lip, thinking hard.
They didn't have time, but what would five more minutes make? The antidote worked quickly, Sam's heart wouldn't be working quite so hard in a moment. Sam would feel better.
"Okay…you sit there, catch your breath. Technically you should probably be in the ER with your feet up, so yeah… I'm going to make some calls, but then we are going even if I have to carry you out of here."
Sam nodded, waving a hand limply in his direction.
Bobby picked up on the first ring. "Dean?"
"Good news—I have Sam. Bad news—Jesse's dead." Dean began, absently pulling the backpack towards him and rummaging through it. If there was something—anything—that could help them, it was probably going to be in the backpack.
"What?" The shock came through loud and clear. "What happened?"
"Uh," Dean dug past clothing, a couple of magazines that another time might have interested him, and a shaving kit. "I don't actually know. We haven't had a lot of time to sit down, have coffee, and talk about it."
There was a second pocket and Dean unzipped it, pulling out a thick manilla envelope.
"How's Sam?"
"Not good," Dean said bluntly as he opened the envelope, dumping the contents onto the ground. His heart skipped a beat. It had been full of plastic bags, all clearly labeled and filled with crushed-up herbs and other ingredients.
He still had no clue how to make the antidote, and he wasn't dumb enough to try and recreate it himself. Antidotes were often tricky and sometimes involved fighting fire with fire. Too much of one thing, not enough of the other, and he was just as likely to kill his brother as to save him, but someone else with more experience and knowledge would need the ingredients.
That was perhaps the best starting point that they could have.
"How long have we got?" Bobby asked, the faintest note of panic in his voice. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
"A little more than five hours. Jesse had some of the antidote on him, but I had to give most of it to Sam. I have all the ingredients, though. I just don't know how to put them together. We need help."
Bobby was silent for a long moment. "Dean…this is tricky business, especially in such a short timeframe."
"Bobby, please, it's Sam. It's for Sam, we have to try, because otherwise—" Dean cut himself off.
"I didn't say I wouldn't try, boy," Bobby snapped and Dean took a breath again. "List the ingredients off and say 'em slow. We don't got time for mistakes."
"Thank you," Dean said, his voice filled with more emotion than he would admit to. He began to carefully read off the names on the bags, spelling the ones out that he couldn't pronounce or didn't know, Bobby grunting in acknowledgment after each one.
"I know someone who works with herbs. I've had her on standby just in case, so I'm going to send this information over. That might buy us some time, which is what we need. Look…I know of something else, a kind of a 'cure all' so to speak. I'm going after it right now, but…" he trailed off, and Dean knew exactly what he meant. That could take hours and those were hours that Sam simply did not have.
"Now, you have about five hours, right?"
Dean made a noise of agreement and Bobby went on. "You get Sam in the car and you head in my direction like a bat out of hell. As soon as I have the relic, I'll head your direction just as fast."
Dean hummed an agreement and a goodbye and then flipped the phone shut. He carefully gathered up the herbs, making sure that none were left behind, and replaced them in the envelope before he turned to face Sam.
"How you doin'? You feelin' any better?" he asked as he once again checked his vitals. Not great, but better. Much better. Sam's heart was no longer pounding at pre-heart attack levels and that was something.
"I'm fine. We can go." Sam opened his eyes and shifted stiffly to sit up straighter.
"Yeah, cuz you look so healthy."
Dean heaved a sigh, looking his brother over. Sam was still sluggishly bleeding from several lacerations, but none of them look life-threatening. And with no first-aid kit immediately handy and time wasting, they would just have to wait. "C'mon, it's just to the top of the hill."
"Yeah, I know, just help me up," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes.
"What do you think I was going to do? Wait up there while you hobble up? We'd be here till Christmas." Dean reached down, allowing Sam to grab his arm as he sized Sam's. "On three…one, two—"
He pulled Sam upright and held him steady as the little color he had drained from his face.
"You're alright," he soothed, hooking Sam's arm over his shoulder, and turning him around. Sam gripped a handful of his t-shirt tightly and Dean allowed it as they began to make their way up the hill.
By the time that they got to the top, Dean was panting and Sam was gasping for breath. Breaking away from Dean, he lurched up against the side of the van, allowing it to support his weight.
"Where's the Impala?" he asked as he heaved the passenger side door open.
"I didn't exactly have time to go back and get her. I was a little busy chasing after you." Dean braced Sam's back, trying to help him climb in as nonchalantly as he could.
"Fair point, I'm just…" Sam trailed off, frowning a little as he slumped in the seat. "I guess I always just expect you to come rolling up in the Impala. The van really isn't your style."
Dean climbed in the other side, starting her up. "Trust me, I know." He checked both ways, and then spun the van into a u-turn.
He pressed his foot to the accelerator, the engine whining in faint protest as they began to climb back up the mountain.
Dean eyed Sam out of the corner of his eye. He had been planning to drill Sam about what had happened to him, but he didn't have the heart to. Sam was limply sitting in the bucket seat, his head pillowed against the window with his bad armed pulled close to his chest to keep movement minimal.
He looked miserable.
It was not an encouraging sight, and Dean vowed as he pressed a little harder on the accelerator that he would make it right. He wasn't quite sure how, but between him and Bobby and whomever else Bobby was bringing in, they would figure this out.
Sam wasn't dying, not on his watch.