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He’s cradling Sammys head to his chest, whispering soft please, reassurance, rocking back and forth so gently, his brother soaked and caked in mud, sweat, sobs. They’re perched on the side of the road, their car long gone, ditched as soon as he’d seen the blood soakin’ through his shirt. Dammit, why hadn’t he seen it sooner? Sammys face under his hold, its so pale, so dreary, his eyes big and welled, peering out from those lashes of his, and Dean holds his face steady in his hands, praying. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but Sammys different, you see, blood caked in something sick, a horror magnet walking in human skin.
“You’ll be alright,” he’s murmuring, whispering, thumbing back the bead of sweat shining at his cheek. “You’ll be alright, Sammy, just hang on in there, yeah? Just hang on.”
Sam nods, his head lulling, eyelids shutting dangerously, far too long for comfort. Dean scrambles, heaving the mess of his brother up to his shoulder, collapsing his way to their car as he steps over vomit and spit. Sams a giant, he is, and Deans not shy for manhandling the guy into the passenger seat, even despite his pleas, his begs, rushing over and slamming into motion as soon as he has the engine running.
He gauges Sams reaction by tentative glances, every time they pass an overhead lamp or some sort of entryway, hand never leaving Sammys as he squeezes, keeping him consciousness, upright. When he gets to their place Dean stumbles his way in, dragging Sammy by the waist, hand soaked, tarnished in blood. Sam groans, tries to plead, anything, to go the hospital, to someone better who can patch him up better, but Dean shushes him. He’s too sick. Too unwell. They'd take one swap and see that nest inside of him, send him right back to the guillotine, just like he was nearing on today. Dean's got this, he tells him. Dean'll handle this. He patches him up real good, all methodical movement. He weeps hushed, whispered prayers, later, once he’s fast asleep, kneeling against Sammys bedside like an angel’ll appear and grant him his wish that, somehow, through this flimsy knowledge, that his brother will make it out of this alive.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. A rogue one had caught them off guard and Sammy, well, he’d been out of the business for quite a while, Standford and all that, and Dean hadn’t been there in time to nick the guy in the bud before Sammy was collapsing, arching into himself, his own hands coming back red and sticky when they pressed onto his side. Horror magnet, damn he was. The ghoul had gone down quick after that, and Dean had wasted no time in gettin’ Sammy outta there, as far as his car could take them. He'd thought it’d be just a scratch, but then Sammy had stumbled out on their break and spewed his guts out for hours, hours, hours, and he was so unsure, now, so goddamn afraid, because he couldn’t lose him. Not Sam. Not his little brother, with a future too bright, too far off for it to cull here.
So he weeps. So he crumbles.
When the day splits against the horizon, he’s already sat at his desk, coffee half cold, Monday paperwork spread out across the desk. Across town there was a commotion last night, someone spotting something alarming and unusually red, two figures off of the highway that stopped too long and speed off too fast, all sorts of rubbish that barely make sense now, barely makes sense at all, not when the only witness is spewing up their own brain trying to communicate, hunched in on the chair opposite to him. Its barely morning. Its far too early for all this.
“Take it real slow,” he says to the babbling mess. “Take it from the top, okay? You see where they went?”
“Yes!” The man cries, tear stricken, hoarse. “Yes, and that poor young fella, that guy was draggin him around, all, all careless! Looked like he was about ready to kneel over and cark it.”
He nods, scratches notes across his book. “Did you see where they went?” He asks.
The man babbles, then pauses, then nods. “Yes,” he answers. “Near the outside of town.”
“East? South?”
“Near the motel, right off the highway.”
He nods, thanks the man, and heads out.
The motels dry and desolate when he finally pull up. He spots them instantly, these two figures, large and giant in that small one window room. He lingers in his seat, not yet sure he can take one two at once. Better be safe than sorry, right?
One of the boys is slouched down on the mattress, his skin clammy, hair mattered with something sickly red. He looks deceased, if not on his very way to be. The other man that he can see just from the tip of his head alone is leaning against the bed, hands clasped, looking stern and solum all at once. He should go in there, really, grab that poor sickly fello and take him away from this sick meat of man. Even then, taking another look, sunlight sticks on his face all tacky and yellowed, cheeks hollow, chest harrowingly still.
He dials backup instead, though, after a mull, after he sees the alive one get up and grab somethin’ rich and silver from his jeans. This guys been running on for fifty states, and he doubts a loss will cull his bloodthirst now.