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There wasn't even that much of it: brown now, a little splatter of drops on the fist-sized rock and even fewer on the sand which had sucked it in eagerly while it was still liquid. He might not have recognised it if blood hadn't been something with which he was only too familiar.
He'd certainly seen worse. He'd seen Sam's blood before, more times than he cared to remember; seen it on Sam's clothes, on the ground where it had spilled. He'd seen it leaking from claw marks and bites and even the occasional bullet or knife wound. He was usually the one who cleaned up the damage. On a hunt, this much blood would have been nothing.
But this wasn't a hunt. And Sam wasn't with him, to assure him that there was nothing wrong and to be checked over when Dean didn't believe him.
Up to that point Dean had still been clinging to the possibility that there was some unalarming explanation for Sam's absence. He'd been worried, but he'd somehow still imagined that Sam would appear, unharmed, from wherever he'd been concealing himself.
He hadn't realised how much he'd unwittingly been relying on that until the incontrovertible evidence showed him otherwise.
"Damn it, Sammy..." He dragged his hand over his face. A zebra lizard that had been sunning itself nearby gave him an indignant glance and disappeared into a little pile of rocks.
The collapsed bank of sand, the body-length depression... it was obvious that Sam had fallen and hurt himself. The position of the rock in relation to his fall made the site of the injury only too clear.
A gash which produced that amount of blood would have been no more than an irritation anywhere else. But a head wound was serious for reasons other than the volume of blood lost. For the first time Dean saw why Sam might have walked away into the desert.
And the understanding was no comfort at all.
He rocked back on his haunches and stared out into the broiling air, across the landscape. Somewhere, out there, Sam was wandering, injured and confused. Or maybe he had collapsed, and was lying unconscious on the sand, in the sun.
Limp, unmoving body...
Slack hand that reached uselessly for help...
It was his nightmare.
It had always been his nightmare, the thing he feared more than any of the creatures he hunted; Sam hurt... Sam dying. And Sam would die, if Dean didn't find him, because no-one could stay out in this heat without water and expect to survive.
Sam would die, alone.
"As a companion you really suck..."
Completely unbidden, the memory swam into his consciousness. He saw Sam's face again, as he'd seen it just after he'd thrown those words at his brother: eyes wide and pained, mouth twisting.
Idiot.
You grade A, super-freakin'-moron.
He'd actually meant it, when he said it: he'd been so irritated with his brother, with the car and the gas and Sam's disapproval of the Vegas plan. He hadn't exactly intended to hurt him, but it hadn't really bothered him when he'd seen that that had been the result. At that point he had felt that Sam was lacking as a companion. He'd wished that he'd been more careful, had followed the road signs more carefully, had replaced the gas, had not moped and growled and sulked about them having some fun.
And right now there was nothing he'd like better than to be sitting next to a bad-tempered Sam.
Then, he'd been spoilt. He'd been happy to complain about Sam and his ways, because Sam was right there.
Now that he didn't have that companionship he was brutally aware of how much he wanted it.
He wanted to see Sam staring at him disapprovingly, or rolling his eyes when Dean made an inappropriate comment. He wanted to hear him whining about Dean's food or dirty clothes or... or anything. It was all part of what made him Sam. It went along with the concern Sam always felt for the victims on their hunts, with the way he worried when Dean was hurt, with how he had sat up with his delirious brother over the last week, night after night, just so that Dean wouldn't wake up alone. He could be a pain in the ass, but he was Dean's little brother. Dean's best friend.
And if Dean didn't find him, he would die thinking that Dean didn't want him around.
His feet hurt.
He thought that perhaps he wasn't thinking very clearly. He saw people, friends from Stanford, some of the nameless individuals they'd encountered on their hunts; sometimes they spoke to him, but most of them ignored him. He wasn't quite sure what they were doing there. They couldn't all be looking for Dean, surely? Because that was the only reason to be in this place.
He'd been walking for days.
He'd been walking forever.
That was probably why his feet hurt so badly.
He looked down at them. They were far away, too far to see clearly. His legs stretched out until he couldn't see the ground at all. He was dizzy, his head floating and spinning, up there at that tremendous height... and then suddenly the sand was close again, and he could see his feet, angry red and swollen, and they were getting bigger and bigger and there was nothing but the sand and the rocks and his feet in his face.
A long time later he found himself on the ground.
Dean...
He needed to find Dean.
He had to save Dean.
If this was how Sam was feeling, Dean must be infinitely worse. What if Dean was also in this heat, in this fiery burning universe of thirst and pain and blinding sun? What if Dean was wandering around, lost and hurt? Sam was the only one who could help him, and if he didn't, Dean would die.
He needed to find water, and find Dean, and give him the water.
He struggled to his feet, and almost collapsed again. He groaned, the sound dull and cracked, small in the vast uncaring expanse.
Feet... hurt...
For a moment he wanted to give in to the pain, to the thirst and dizziness. He just wanted to fall over and lie there. He wanted to give up.
But Dean was depending on him. Dean needed him.
He could do this... had to do this. For Dean.
His bare feet left bloodied imprints in the sand. He stumbled on until he couldn't walk. Then he crawled.
Dean had expected that it would be some time before Bobby arrived. The older hunter still had to dispatch his poltergeist, and it was a fair distance to drive. But as the sun reached its zenith and slowly began to descend, he found himself fighting a sense of panic.
Bobby should have been with him by now.
Dean had been relying on that. He been expecting Bobby's pick-up from around midday, and it was the one thing keeping him from doing something stupid. He'd decided not to go rushing out into the desert to look for Sam, because he knew Bobby would come and then they could figure something out that would not result in the end of both Winchesters.
But Bobby didn't come. Dean's eyes grew red and painful from squinting into the distance, and the hard lump of fear in his chest grew bigger each time the empty road stared back.
He couldn't just sit there. He couldn't just wait passively for Bobby to arrive, while Sam was lost and hurt and in who knew what condition out there in the desert. He didn't have the luxury of time. Sam didn't have that luxury.
He twisted around from where he was sitting on the side of the driver's seat, reached for another bottle from the chest and swallowed a blissful gulp of cold water. Then, stricken, he stared at the plastic container.
I've been drinking... how many bottles... while Sam is out there without water.
Blue-green eyes, wide and pleading...
"Water... please..."
His fist clenched around the bottle, crushing the plastic, as his breath caught involuntarily.
Sammy...
Dean might die if he left the car to search for Sam.
Sam would die if he didn't.
He had to go after his brother.
It was slipping into evening, but the sun was still unmerciful. Even sitting still, he'd been perspiring freely; walking in the sand, unsheltered, soon had him drenched with sweat. Every breath was a discomfort as the hot air parched his throat and lungs, and he could feel the prickle that would soon be pain of sun-exposed flesh on his arms and face.
And Sam had been out in this all day.
"Sam!" His yell drifted dully, and was swallowed in the stillness without an echo.
Without a response.
He walked as far as he dared, until the Impala was a shimmering blur in the distance, but there was no sign of Sam. He called his brother's name until the sound was a rasp. Sam didn't answer. Eventually he stopped, straining his eyes painfully into the haze.
How far could someone walk with a concussion, anyway?
Further than this, maybe.
Sam might be ahead of him, just out of sight, and if Dean went a little further he would find him.
But then again, Sam might not be near here at all. And if Dean got any further from the car he wouldn't be able to see it, and it was the only navigational tool he had. He swung round, and returned to the Impala. But his chest ached at the possibility that he was leaving his brother behind.
The Impala was solid and familiar, reassuring in its bulk. He blinked hard as he neared it, his eyes burning unexpectedly.
Sam should have been there. Sam should have been sitting in the passenger seat, head bent over a book, mouth pursed in concentration and dark hair flopping in his eyes. Sam should have been looking up at him with disapproval and forcing water on him, complaining about how Dean didn't take care of himself and how he'd just had flu.
"...if you don't stop hovering, I'm gonna deck you..."
Well, Sam wasn't hovering now.
And the only one Dean wanted to deck was himself.
"I don't know what to do, Sammy..." His voice quivered. He was too worried to notice.
Dizziness blurred his vision for a moment and he squeezed his eyes shut. Walking in the sun hadn't done his convalescence any favours. He hadn't even walked that far, and his mouth was already sticky with thirst again.
This time, though, he hesitated about having a drink. He couldn't afford to get dehydrated, not if he wanted to be any use to Sam. But Sam would need all the water they had if – when – Dean found him. Every swallow that Dean took was one less for Sam.
He rested one hand on the back of the seat, frowning at the chest.
And then he saw the m&m's.
Bobby lifted his cap and resettled it after pushing his hair back with one hand. Perspiration squelched unpleasantly around the band, leaving a damp red imprint where his skin protested.
He was no stranger to hot weather, but this was something else entirely.
Dust speckled the glass in front of him. His eyes were thin slits, narrowed against the glare of the evening sun reflected from the pale sand all around, and he could feel the uncomfortable warmth on his left arm even through the closed window.
He would have preferred to have done this at night. He would have liked to have left earlier, to have finished the hunt and been on his way by the previous evening. But that had been one stubborn poltergeist. He winced, unconsciously rubbing a bruised shoulder.
Who would have thought an antique porcelain dinner service could make such good missiles?
He'd been tempted, after the poltergeist had departed in a blinding flash, to wait until the following evening. Dean had assured him that they had water and food; they'd be uncomfortable, but not in any danger. And it would certainly be easier to make this trip in the relative cool of night.
He huffed a breath, shaking his head. Dean had been less cocky than usual when he'd phoned, almost embarrassed.
As he damn well should be... breaking down in Death Valley!
He hadn't managed to get a real explanation out of the older Winchester as to exactly how they'd managed to accomplish that. Dean's answers had been evasive, and it hadn't helped that the reception was so poor. Half of the conversation had been lost in crackles and whistles, and the call had eventually cut out altogether.
It was only once Bobby was already on his way that he'd realised that he wasn't sure where the boys were.
He reached for the bottle of tepid water lying on the passenger seat. He'd bought all the water the gas station had; several six packs were stacked in the back. Dean would undoubtedly have some smartass comment to make when he saw them.
Well, Bobby had plenty to say back, and none of it complimentary.
If he hadn't decided to leave straight after the dispatching of the poltergeist, it would have been even longer before he discovered that he couldn't find the Winchesters. It would already have been evening before he spent a fruitless hour trying to connect a call to Dean's phone, and then to Sam's. It would then have been midnight before he thought of contacting Ash.
But he had left immediately, although even he couldn't have said why, and thanks to Ash and his hacking skills he had GPS co-ordinates for the boys' position.
Now he just had to get to the morons.
"Dean... Dean..."
It was a mantra. It was a threat and a promise, what he was fighting not to lose.
He was embarrassed by how much he wanted his brother. Or he would have been, if he'd had the capacity to feel anything but fear. He wanted to see Dean, alive and whole and healthy. He wanted to relax and let Dean take charge.
He was so tired.
"Dean..." His throat was too dry for more than a whisper.
Need to...
Dean...
He was on his side on the sand.
He couldn't lie there. He had to find Dean.
He had to get up.
He made it to his hands and knees, but there was nothing left within him and his head dropped, blackness lapping at the edges of his vision.
Can't...
Have to...
"Sam!"
His eyes flickered. Hope flared, a tiny indefatigable flame.
"Sam!"
It was the one sound that could overcome exhaustion and dizziness and pain. He raised his head, squinting into the glare.
Dean was walking across the sand towards him.
"D-Dean?"
Dean was okay. He was on his feet, walking, not hurt. Alive.
"Dean... you're okay..."
He had to tilt his head up to see his brother when Dean finally reached him. For once Dean was taller than him, standing there while Sam was crouched on the ground.
"You're okay..." he muttered again. Dean was there, with him, looking unharmed and fine, and Sam couldn't quite grasp it, or feel the relief. He needed to hear Dean say it. He needed the reassurance.
"No."
A harsh breath caught in his throat. He blinked.
"Wha...what?"
"No. I'm not okay."
"But –"
"You didn't find me, Sam. You let me get hurt."
"N-no –"
"You let me die."
"No!"
"I would have been fine if you'd just found me. You could have saved me. You failed, Sam."
His mouth opened, but he couldn't speak. He stared, stricken, and then his head dropped as the truth of what Dean was saying went home.
"You're useless, Sam... you're a useless hunter, and a useless companion, and a useless brother."
"No... Dean... please..."
"Please what? Please don't say it? It's the truth, Sam... you could've helped me, but you just didn't try hard enough. I'm dead... and it's all your fault... it's all your fault... you're pathetic."
His arms gave way under him so that he collapsed into the sand.
"No, D-Dean... no... I'm sorry..."
"Sorry's not good enough. I don't want you, Sam... I'm better off without you."
"Dean..."
"It should have been you, Sam. You should have died. Not me."
He curled his arms over his face. Agonised, tearless sobs shuddered through him.
It was true. He had failed Dean. He hadn't found him, and he hadn't helped him, and now Dean was dead. Dean was better off without him. He was a useless brother.
"... as a companion you really suck..."
"Don't... don't..."
Dean didn't say anything.
After a while Sam's arm slid away from his eyes, and he peered hazily up. Dean was gone, as he had been all the other times, and Sam wasn't sure he'd ever really been there.
He didn't know what was real anymore.
He didn't know if Dean was alive, or dead.
But Dean didn't want him. That much was true. It echoed in his mind as a memory from before. And for the first time he just didn't have the strength to get up again.
One arm reached out, desperate and hopeless, but there was nothing to hold on to.
Dean ran his forearm over his face. He knew that sweat was a good sign – it meant he wasn't dehydrated – but it stung where it dripped into his eyes. He paused, glancing behind him, and was pleased when he could clearly make out the blue dot on the ground.
The Impala was a vague blur in the distance.
Fear simmered just below the surface. He was worried – afraid. Sam had been out in the desert, unprotected, for hours. He was hurt. Dean had no idea where he was.
But for the first time since finding the blood, there was determination keeping the dread at bay. He was doing something. He wasn't just waiting for Bobby to arrive. He'd never been very good at sitting around patiently doing nothing, especially where Sam was concerned. Now at last he had a plan.
He wasn't sure how much longer he had before the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon, but as long as his flashlight battery lasted he was fine. He could go all night. He would go all night if he had to.
The m&m's would see to that.
He glanced back at the Impala, and then turned away from it and started walking again. From one hand dangled the large bag of chocolates; the other dipped in and out, dropping the little brightly-coloured spheres on the ground. This was the third time he'd gone out in a different direction, and each time he'd found his way back to the car via the m&m trail he'd laid down.
Sam would probably have been able to tell him which children's fairy tale involved laying down a trail of food. Sam would probably have recounted the entire story.
The m&m Dean was holding disintegrated as his fingers tightened convulsively around it.
"Sammy..."
Dean teased him about his brain, his geek-boy ability to remember random and useless facts. He ripped Sam off for liking fancy coffee, and preferring salad to cheeseburgers, and being buzzed after two beers. And Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, and grinned to himself when he thought Dean wasn't looking.
"...as a companion you really suck..."
Dean hadn't been teasing then. And Sam hadn't grinned to himself. Dean destroyed another m&m as he remembered the hurt in big green-blue eyes.
Right now he'd happily watch a documentary, eat lettuce and drink decaf if Sam was doing it with him.
Absently he rubbed his fingers against his jeans, leaving a smear of soft chocolate, and reached into the bag for another, glancing without thinking behind him towards the Impala.
It wasn't visible anymore.
His eyes flickered, and for an instant he knew an instinctive alarm. It was just him, all alone, in this wilderness. No Impala, no Sam... no anything. Just rocks, and dusty little bushes, and sand, everywhere he looked.
Plastic crackled in his fingers, and he forced himself to relax.
M&m's, dude... that's why you're dropping them, remember?
Get on with it, Dean. You don't have time to stand here freaking out.
He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his temples, sucked in a deliberate breath, and dropped another chocolate.
And then the whole bag slid unheeded from his fingers and hit the ground with a soft crunch.
"Sam..."
He stumbled as he ran, boots catching on the awkward terrain. He almost fell, but caught himself reflexively. His breath came sharp and quick, less from heat and exertion than from the heavy hard knot of fear that was suddenly choking him.
"Sammy!"
He'd seen it. This was his nightmare. But this time it was real, the heat and the sand and the burning sun, and the limp huddle that was his brother, unmoving on the ground, one arm stretched out uselessly in a last desperate plea for help.
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