The Impala hurdles over uneven dirt road. The twin headlights cut through the black, dividing the forest.
"Sam, stop the car."
"No."
The word is a rusty saw blade.
"Sam." Dean barks. He does not try to jerk the wheel. That would be suicidal. He fists Sam's shirt, pulling at the bloody frayed cotton. He feels Sam's thundering heartbeat underneath his palm. He grimaces. Sam does nothing. He can't. Jesus, not now. Maybe not ever.
"Pull over!" Dean shouts. Demanding. Authoritative. Dad's voice. Even now, the man is riding shotgun. Sam's knuckles turn bone white around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw jumps. He yanks Dean's hand away, his fingers curling around his brother's trembling fingers. Trembling? And to think, all for him.
To think: everything's for him.
They pass a dog on the side of this lonely country road. The canine's mangy black head lifts from its roadkill feast, maw dripping with stringy gore. For a split second, Dean meets the dog's remote black eyes. Then they are gone.
"I swear to God, man, if you don't pull over, I will kick your ass," Dean says, yanking his arm back and out of his brother's grasp. Sam's fingers are cold and tacky. Dead fingers, Dean thinks. He doesn't know why these words come to mind. His stomach twists sourly.
Sam shakes his head. "I can't."
"Why?" Dean's voice breaks pathetically. God, he hates himself. This isn't him. He clears his throat, glares daggers into the side of Sam's face. "What happened?"
The silence between them only lasts a minute but feels like a lifetime.
Finally: "I have to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" Dean says, because it's his job to protect Sam the last time he checked. And, yeah, maybe he didn't do such a great job to begin with and that's what led them to this mess, but it's still his job.
Sam won't look him in the eye. The knife sits between them, a silent, sticky accusation. Dean has always been able to read Sam. This is no different. His brother is cracked at the seams, and he will fragment. Maybe not this second, but soon. Dean tries a different approach, his mind scrambling to pick up the pieces, to slam them back into a logical picture.
Sam: blood splashed black in the moonlight, stumbling towards him in that abandoned ghost town. Cold Oak, South Dakota. Sam: a bloody knife clasped in his fist. Sam had been pale. His eyes, haunted.
Dean hurried to him and threw his arms around his baby brother's broad, slumped shoulders. Dean almost tilted his head up and smashed his mouth against Sam's. Almost. But then he remembered Bobby was right behind him and maneuvered into a deeper hug.
Dean could still smell the charred remains of the ruined roadhouse. The image of Ash's charred arm-Ash's watch connected to that arm-is burned into his retinas. He had not expected Sam to smell like smoke, but he had.
Sam curled around him with the efficiency of a marionette doll, his long arms quivering. Before Dean could process what was happening, Sam pressed his mouth against his ear, urging them to leave, to get in the Impala, to drive, drive, drive. When Dean protested, Sam gripped his upper bicep, virtually dragging him into the car, demanding to see his keys. Bobby tried to stop Sam-to get the youngest Winchester to sit down and explain what the hell was going on-but Sam had stopped Bobby with four simple words: "Get out of here."
Dean pretends that the expression on Bobby's face did not match the expression on Tracey's when Ansem told her to take a swan dive over the edge of the dam in Guthrie, Oklahoma.
"Okay," Dean sighs. "You don't have to tell me what happened. I just want you to calm down."
"I am calm."
Dean laughs. There's no humor in it. "That's hilarious."
A single string of blood oozes from Sam's nose. Dean has to fight not to respond. The blood curls against Sam's upper lip. Sam's tongue flicks out and licks it off, but more blood flows to take its place. Dean's hands begin to sweat.
"I don't know, man. Why don't we just chill out, think about this?"
"What's there to think about?"
"Where the hell we're going, for one." As if to make a point, Dean nods to his window.
Sam presses harder on the accelerator. The world outside whirls faster, a blur of trees and endless hungry shadow. They've been like this since Sam sped away from Cold Oak, South Dakota an hour ago. Dirt roads. Boundless farmland. Dumb-eyed cows startled awake by the abrupt roar of the Impala. Dean senses that Sam has a final destination. Where that is, is anybody's guess.
The sun will rise in an hour and a half.
"We're going somewhere safe." Sam finally admits, his face softening. He's just realized he's bleeding. He swipes the blood with the back of his hand urgently. He shakes his hand fiercely, as if that can dispel the evidence.
"Headache?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Sam murmurs.
Dean's silence is a shout. His stare, two hot brands on the side of Sam's face.
Sam jerks the wheel to the left, turns a bin. "Please, Dean." His voice softens, pleading. He glances in Dean's direction, his eyes wide and wet. Puppy dog eyes, Dean used to call them. Suddenly Sam is all but five again, peering up through thick bangs, crying for his big brother to help him up off the hot concrete. Dean's chest twists uncomfortably.
"Please stop asking. I can't-I don't have much time." Sam says.
Although Dean's one stubborn son of a bitch himself, he grows quiet. He watches the way Sam trembles behind the wheel of Baby. He places his hand on Sam's thigh and squeezes. He watches Sam as he drives. He watches as the world tumbles into something concrete.