𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚢𝚜𝚖 ➳ 𝚝𝚠𝚍/𝚜𝚙𝚗

1. Day 310

Dean braced his hands on his knees and harshly sucked some much-needed air into his screaming lungs. He let out a breathy laugh in between his heavy panting, he hadn’t run that hard since before he’d stumbled upon Woodbury. He wiped the sweat off his brow, glancing over at the cluster of arguing people that were swarmed around his friend.

While they were running for their lives, the brunet’s friend mentioned that the people who came and unleashed chaos onto the quaint little town were his previous group, the ones who’d left him handcuffed on a roof. 

With a huff, Dean levered himself upright, only to be abruptly hit with a wave of vertigo that made him stumble. His left side throbbed in a familiar manner and Dean could only hope that the damage wasn’t too substantial. He set his jaw and dragged his eyes down to the source of the pain in question, wincing when he took in the pitiful state of his favorite pine green Henley. The stain would never come out.

Today was just getting worse and worse.

Dean's throat clicked when he swallowed, feeling irrationally betrayed by gravity when the world started to spin. When his stomach lurched threateningly, Dean figured it was prime time to let his pal know that he was gonna be down for the count in a hot minute.

He shed his hoodie and bundled it up before pressing the garment firmly against the wound, hissing when the pressure made the injury burn with a vengeance. He wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost already, but he would need treatment soon or he was as good as dead.

“Hey.” Dean called and the voices that had been angrily arguing quieted, the attention of several strangers shifting to his swaying form. “I got hit. Don’t have much time left before I faint like a damsel, so the question is… who’s gonna catch me?” Dean’s lips quirked at the shocked looks his blunt statement received and his knees abruptly buckled, the ground rushing up to meet him.

Thankfully, before he could hit the hard Georgia dirt and injure himself even further, he was caught at the last second. Something solid and familiar dug into his back, pressing him flush against a warm body. He could feel the person’s other hand awkwardly keeping the hoodie over the hole in his side when his own arm gave up.

Dean breathed in to confirm his suspicions on who his knight in shining armor was and chuckled when the scent of booze, sweat, and the coppery tang of blood made it perfectly clear that his friend had been the one to lend a hand.

“Thanks Merle, it would've been humiliating if I face-planted in front of your buddies. Not a very good first impression man.” Dean sagged onto the redneck, trusting Merle to support his weight. The elder Dixon’s chest vibrated when he spoke, but for some reason Dean couldn’t make out the words that were being exchanged. He didn’t really have time to properly worry about his hearing before more hands were touching him, carefully removing the hoodie and tugging his shirt up to expose the injury.

Between one blink and the next, Dean was in a moving vehicle, which was more than a little disorienting. He must have made some sort of involuntary noise at the jarring shift in location, because the rising sun was blotted out by a blurry figure a heartbeat later.

Dean caught the telltale glint of a knife and he twisted to get away from the perceived threat on instinct, only remembering that he was shot when pain flared up with his struggling. He bit off a cry, kicking out when a pair of hands landed onto his chest and pinned his shoulders to the cool vinyl beneath him.