Ooopsie Daisy

Red Roof'd Hospital ß=) =)

You are Dean Winchester, and it's getting hard to keep your head upright. Your stay at the new motel flashed by in a blurry mess, your attention mostly focused on your back molar, which felt almost loose. It was bizarre. You're a grown man, not some child.
A child had wiggly teeth. A man volunteered to drive, even when his joints were burning and grinding and creaking like hell. So you, Dean, had gotten behind the wheel like you always had and started to drive. The pain was distracting, but you had been through worse before, right?
There had always been worse. There would always be worse.
You make small talk with Sam as you cruise down the road, sun rising on the horizon. You know that you don't remember the address you need to get to, and you know that the map is safely tucked away in the glove box, where you can't even surreptitiously reference it. A man always knows the directions to where he needs to go. Where are you going?
The fields fly by on either side of the road, and you vaguely notice another copse of trees ahead. You vaguely note that you should 'thread the needle' and not drift to either side of the road, before remembering that driving is a lot less complicated than that. You pass the trees without incident.
There's a shift behind you. Checking the rearview mirror reveals Cas sitting there, blank expression on his sculpted face. You turn your gaze back to the road, trying to keep your thoughts clear.
You can't help but balk at the thought of talking to him earlier. Letting him wash your hands? How old did he think you are, five? Maybe to an angel all humans seemed young, but you were in the prime of your life and needed no help.
"Hey, what's the speed limit?" Sam says with a strange expression. Your gaze drifts to the speedometer.
You guess 100mph is probably higher than the speed limit. With a grunt, you ease your foot off the gas. Your bones audibly creak. You slowly tilt your head to look at Sam, but he doesn't seem to have heard. You let out a slight sigh and lean back in the seat of your black 1967 Chevy Impala.
"So. Finally decided to join us?" you say, nodding your head towards the back seat.
Cas shifts suddenly. He knows that you know that he's here. The silence stretches until continuing the conversation would be worse than just letting it go. Cas stares at you from the middle of the back seat... you're glad he didn't appear in front of your moving vehicle this time. A bead of sweat runs through your hair, and you consider whether or not it is blood. Does it matter?
You continue onward, gravity pulling at your bones. This is ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. You jerk your head up, trying to focus on the road again. You glance into the rearview mirror and the second time meeting Cas's eyes are just like the first. You're so tired. You wish you could rest...
"Hey. Dean. You're falling asleep, man." Sam's voice cuts into your head. The sunlight comes from your left...you're driving south. You had been driving east yesterday. Did Sam point you in this direction?
You try to reply, but your words come out as a breathy whine.
"Dean?" You don't like the urgency in Sam's voice. Reminds you of bad times.
You clear your throat, feeling a rawness as your Adam's apple bobs up and down. "I-I'm fine," you manage to force out, words slurred.
Sam's hand is on your shoulder shaking it, and the skin there is so raw it feels like it's tearing.
"Dean, you have to pull over." Sam just wants to drive. You can do it, it's your car. Why do you feel so awful lately?
You drift to the side of the road. Sam can take over. Just for a little bit... just for an hour or so.
As you put the car in park, your head hits the steering wheel. You vaguely feel hands on your back, holding you steady and asking if you're okay, but then you're stumbling towards the passenger seat of your black 1967 Chevy Impala, and feel a wave of relief engulf your achy body as the responsibility of driving is lifted from your shoulders. Forgetting for a moment that things are awkward with Cas, you allow the cool hand on your forehead. His hands feel like a healing balm.
Your brother driving and your... friend talking to you. This isn't too bad, you think. All too soon, the car turns, slows, and stops.
"Are we there yet?" You try to grunt, but it hardly comes out at all. Cracking open your eyes reveals a drastic change in the angle of light. You're in a parking lot.
"...and so we go talk to them and you stay here, okay?" said Sam.
You shake your head blearily. Something is wrong. Something is... you shift your head to a cooler spot on the tan leather seats black 1967 Chevy Impala and feel something damp. It could be blood.... You'd had the car for decades now, but never let blood sit on the leather enough to stain. You're fully upright now.
The edges of the blood were dried and crusty. It's not very much, but it's spread across a wide area, pooling around where your head had laid. You taste iron in your mouth, and something else. Old blood? Blood that had sat in cracks and crevices for too long, blood that had been forgotten and left to rot...
You hurl yourself upright, ignoring the pain surging in your body. A muscle in your right thigh feels like it'll tear with the movement, and your ears ring. Your shoulder aches like hell. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
Your black 1967 Chevy Impala is parked in an empty lot you've never seen before. The sky is dark, the streetlamps a strange, glaring color. All around, thick vegetation encroaches in a wild bacchanal of foliage, a gently swaying, tumultuously grasping mess. Faintly, you see the low red roof of some building. You idly wonder if the trees followed you here before shaking the thought off. The pain in your head when you shake it is so intense you're surprised it doesn't leave a visible afterimage in the air.
You groan and lift yourself off of the seat. Your old wounds scream all at once, giving evidence of a life spent hunting on the road. If you ever wanted to write an account of your adventures, now would be the time. Your body is trying its hardest to prove it hasn't forgotten a single one.
You can't tell if you've wandered into a hellish pocket dimension, or if Cas was right about needing to eat the Orange Minute Maid Juice Bar 100% JuiceTM. Either way, you need to clean the blood out of your car before it stains.
You reach over to the car door and strain with all your might to unlatch and open it... You feel like a child, continuously yanking the handle and throwing yourself limply against the door, but you can't stay here watching the seats of your black 1967 Chevy Impala get stained to shit. You can't. Your shoulder... something in it gapes, and blood flows out. You flinch back. 
The door cracks open, startling you with the sudden sound and warm rushing air. Outside there are the sounds of nighttime insects or frogs singing their din into the warm night. It's a good thing you weren't resting on the door when it opened. You pull yourself out carefully, hating the shaking in your arms that forces you to steady yourself. In the open light of the parking lot, you can see the doom liquid on your car seats more clearly.
You shamble to the back of your black 1967 Chevy Impala, step by painful step.
The car door wobbles in the gentle warm breeze, and you do too. You spit, testing a theory. It spatters on the concrete parking lot, and you know from its dark color that it is definitely blood. You stumble forward, hyperaware of your leg's bruises as they chafe against your jeans.
You feel ridiculous. Briefly, you consider returning to the safety of the car, to fall asleep and wait for Cas to show up.... But he was already here, wasn't he? You shake your head, trying to clear the fog that's been there ever since you hit your head braking too hard three days ago. Or was it an older injury? You've forgotten.
"Careful prettyboy, don't want to fall and hurt yourself!" a voice called semi-jeeringly from across the lot.
    You whip around, bracing yourself on the car. A man is standing just outside the parking lot, as if he had just been walking by.
    "Prettyboy? Sounds gay, man." You lurch forward, staggering toward him. "I am not gay. I am NOT gay, asshole." You suddenly realize the parking lot is far too big for you to cross without falling. You realize this through experience. Halfway across the parking lot, and halfway to the ground.
    You barely catch yourself, glass and grit catching in your palm, and realize that you don't need to make it all the way across the parking lot. He's coming to you.
    You stagger to your feet. In the sallow light of the parking lot, you can see his black leather jacket, his blue spiked hair, his punk eyeliner.... Like a video game character. You only need to take only a few more steps before his face is in range for a right hook.
    You pull back and give it everything you have... it's one of the best punches you've ever thrown. You make it count. He grunts.
    Your arm hasn't fully returned when a fist connects with your temple. Sonic's punch unbalances you on a fundamental level.
You fall to the ground unable to catch yourself, and something breaks. It's over.
    You are no longer Dean Winchester.