The Flock (SPN / destiel)

The Flock

"Keep pressure on it," Dean snaps, adjusting his grip on the wheel to lean across the front seat and reposition the rag Sam has balled up against the gash on his thigh. Dean tore it from one of his old t-shirts, a three-inch strip of gray gradually darkening with blood. Dean pushes too hard; Sam gasps and shoves his hand away, clutching the soaked cloth in both hands. His fingers are tacky with blood, nose filled with the iron tang of it.

"I got it," he insists, annoyed but grateful as the pain recedes to an ache. It throbs as the Impala tears down the road, across a desolate stretch of Kansas.

They're still a couple hours from Lebanon. Dean has been favoring back roads over highways, crisscrossing the trail back from Bismarck to the bunker. There's no music on the stereo. They drive to a soundtrack of the engine, to the slide of Dean's jacket against the seat, to the occasional grunts Sam can't contain when the car rolls over a rough patch.

"Hang in there, Sammy," Dean offers, and Baby strains under the additional force on her accelerator. "We're gonna get you patched up."

"I forgot how much I hate Vetalas," Sam mutters. "Wouldn't be so bad if it'd stop bleeding."

"Frigging subspecies," Dean says, like he's the one who researched the thing instead of Sam. "Venom messes with your platelets."

Sam sighs. "I wish Cas could still fly."

"Yeah, well," Dean grunts. "He can't."

He checks the rear view mirror, the back seat, out of habit. He keeps his face neutral, but Sam watches his jaw work, his knuckles strain white, then relax.

A minute later, Dean shoots him a grin. "Soon as we get back, we'll stitch you up good."

Sam knows that, like he knows he'll be fine, that within two hours he'll be on the couch with a beer and painkillers and Dean suturing the gash in his leg. They'll marathon TV and fall asleep like that, wake up pissed-off and stiff. But it makes Dean feel better to talk out the plan, so Sam drops his forehead to the window, a spot of cool that gradually warms to his skin. When he sits back upright, it's left a smudge on the glass. He buffs it away with his sleeve.

"What, did I miss a spot?" Dean asks, taking his eyes off of the road momentarily to scowl at the window.

"You're kidding me, right?" Sam asks flatly, causing Dean to make a face and look back out the windshield. "I don't think the car was this clean when it was brand new."

"Well," Dean replies, with a roll of his shoulders that tells Sam he's trying to make light of the situation. "She needed it."

"How're you feeling?" Sam asks.

"I'm fine," Dean answers too easily. "I'm great. My ass is sore from sitting too long."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, inching forward to relieve the pressure on his lower back. It helps somewhat. He twists right and left, hoping it will crack. It does, and he winces, slumps back.

"You want me to pull over?" Dean offers.

Sam's muscles are growing stiffer the longer he sits, but if they stop to stretch, that's even longer before he gets stitched up. Dean wanted to do it before they left, but Sam insisted they get the hell out of there, put some distance between them and the Dakotas in case that wasn't a rogue like they thought.

The injury's nothing he hasn't dealt with before, but Dean's suggestion is sounding better by the mile. The road's surface has deteriorated in the last few minutes to gravel that makes the car rattle and jerk.

His mind wanders to the bunker. What kind of food do they have in the fridge? He went shopping not too long before they hit the road, but since he hadn't known how long they'd be gone, he only bought enough for a couple days. Maybe there's a jar of pasta sauce, otherwise Dean will have to make a food run, which means a stomach full of grease and dragging ass in the morning. Course, a double bacon cheeseburger sounds pretty good right about now, considering the alternative is whatever condiment packets they've got stashed in the glovebox.