Sam was in a world of pain. His back was flayed. His head felt like it had exploded, and it was hard to breathe – like an elephant had landed on his neck and stayed to dance a set or two.
He was clearly going to die, strung out here on this wet, filthy mattress in the attic of some old house that looked like it belonged in a Stephen King novel. He wasn't even tied up or chained down.
He was just too injured to present any sort of escape risk, so the bastard had simply dragged him onto the mattress by his feet and left him there to linger.
Sam would kill for one of Dean's aspirin. Or he'd die for one – either option sounded fucking fantastic in the moment.
He willed himself to get up – for his gelatinous limbs to take control and raise him off the foul bedding that smelled like a mixture of puke, mildew and old blood. And in his clearer moments, Sam wondered how many people had died on this mattress already and how long it would take him to follow them down. The truth was, he wasn't going anywhere without help, and since nobody knew where he was or even where he'd stashed his car, that option was off the table.
And all that was left was a long, slow, and unnecessarily painful death.
Sam knew that eventually he would die from his injuries. So much of his blood had pooled beneath him already, and he was relatively certain that at least a portion of his windpipe was nearly crushed. He couldn't turn his head – couldn't lift his head even. The muscles simply didn't work anymore.
No fixing that.
"Nope, Sorry Dean," Sam thought – not enough stitches anywhere to put his head back on his body and make his neck work again. He was like a favorite sock monkey that some kid had loved just a little too much – all thin and floppy in all the wrong places with stuff oozing out the seams.
Wait … what?
"Where the hell did that come from?" Sam thought, and snorted. Or tried to snort. What came out was actually more like a sob, but hey, who was counting? And if a man cried in an attic and there was no one around to hear him, did he still have a brother?
"Those were some wild. fucking. drugs." Sam whispered, and cackled.
And always with the freaking water.
Drip
Drop
Drip
Drop
Dripdropdripdropdripdropdripdrop.
Couldn't anyone in this freaking town fix a fucking roof?
"That's alliteration, Sam." Dean said, shaking his finger in his brother's face. "Rarely a good idea. What's next? Plagiarism?"
"Fuck you, Dean."
"Baby."
"Jackass."
Dean tsked. He fucking tsked. When did Dean start tsking?
"Stop it." Sam said. "You sound like a little girl."
Dean held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. "Stop what, little brother?"
"Stop fucking tsking."
"You stop fucking bleeding."
"Can't."
"Tsk."
"Fucker. I hate you."
"I hate you more."
"Why don't you help me, since you're here and all?" Sam demanded.
Dean stretched out lazily, full length across the putrid mattress, folded his hands behind his head, and took a deep breath. "Mmmmm … smells like … like …"
"Smells like what, Dean?" Sam sighed. "Puke? Blood? My outsides that are supposed to be inside?"
Dean suddenly leaned up on one elbow, hovering excitedly over his paralyzed brother. "Hey Sam! Remember that wendigo hunt in Colorado?" he grinned. "The inside of the cave? Now there was a smell. Ah," He leaned back, "Good times. Good times."