all duct tape and safety pins inside

If their life was a never-ending loop of chase the monster and then be chased by said monster, then this is the moment where it always ends.

Bleeding out in the Impala, crimson staining his fingertips as his shirt grows more and more moist. Dean, in the driver seat, alternately cursing their misfortune and cursing at Sam to stay awake.

Just two days ago, he was encouraging Sam to sleep more. Funny, how fast things change. In a blink of an eye, in a flash in a—insert whatever cliché you like here.

“Sammy, you keep your goddamn eyes open, you hear me? Open, Sam, and awake—”

At Stanford, Jessica would curse to herself, softly, when she was sure he couldn’t hear. She’d break her pencil and curse or that one time she’d stubbed her toe and jeez, he hadn’t even heard some of those curses she’d screamed before. It was a little personality quirk—something he’d loved about her, back when normalcy had been within reach.

And now he’s here, bleeding out from a well-aimed bullet wound, in the back seat of the Impala, normalcy gone the second she’d started burning on the ceiling.

“Sammy, hey,” Vibrant green eyes meets his in the rear view mirror. “You stay with me, okay?” They sparkle, though is it because of the light or the unshed emotions welling up within his brother?

Maybe he would never know.

“Sam?”

If he could, he would say something to put his brother’s mind at ease, but a bullet to the gut is one of the most painful—if not the most painful—wounds you could ever experience. Sam may have a high tolerance for pain, but even he has his limits and right now, the idea of opening his mouth to speak is beyond his comprehension.

All he knows is that he hurts and Jessica is dead and he’s bleeding out in the back of the Impala.

How’d he even get shot anyways? They’d been chasing a nymph, not going after something with firepower.

“It’s going to be okay,” Dean reassures, but Sam knows it’s more for his older brother than for himself, “I promise.”

For his part, Sam is having trouble focusing on really anything other than the searing pain in his gut. Fuck, bullets really hurt. He’d forgotten that at school. He’d forgotten a lot of things about this life actually, but the one thing he’d never forgotten was how it always ended up in the same place every single time without fail.

He’s going to die here.

“You’re not going to die,” Dean growls, low and deep in his throat. “Don’t you fucking say that again, you hear me? You’re not dying, I don’t allow it.”

Sam would laugh at that, if he had the strength. Leave it to Dean to try and stop Death. Not even Dean could do that. There were some forces beyond even their control. Otherwise, Jessica would still be alive, smiling warmly at him, baking cookies and cursing when she thought he wasn’t listening.

But Jessica is dead and Sam is dying and that’s the way this life works.

Hunt, kill, hurt, repeat.

Over and over, the same cycle, the one he tried to break out of so many times before.

He misses Stanford. He misses the life he had there—the life he could’ve had there. But until he’s avenged Jessica, until he is finally able to conquer the demons of his past, the backseat of the Impala is where he’ll stay.

Bleeding out, in the backseat of the Impala.

“Sam, look at me! Keep your eyes open!”

Dean roars to try and keep the darkness at bay. He can’t though. Unconsciousness, as sinister as it may be, is welcoming. It’ll be a break from the pain, from the grief, from this life—if only for a moment.

“Sammy!”

And bleeding out in the backseat of the Impala, Sam Winchester passes out.