Sam felt like his face was falling apart.

He wasn't sure what was happening anymore, he'd been looking at the wall, and then he'd been staring at the sky, and the breeze was touching his tongue in a way he's never felt before, and he could taste blood, and in a convulsive swallow he'd gulped it, gagged on the thick, warm taste of iron and...and...

Pain. Swift spiking from his cheek and mouth and tongue. A needle like piercing, spread across him like...like...

He couldn't think. He couldn't describe it, it couldn't think.

Dean was there, somewhere, he could hear him and feel him, vague and peripheral, like half-consciousness. But then he moved, or Dean moved him, and a new stabbing in his chest and side trilled at him, burning in swift waves and giving him the sensation of being impaled, of metal and depth and blood, he could taste so much blood...

His eyes were rolling, he could catch glimpses of the sky, of Dean's hair, of blue cloth, of black metal, of leather, and nothing made sense, nothing was stopping the pain, the streaking feel of it down his body and across his face, and Dean would've stopped it, surely he would stop it from hurting like this, why wasn't Dean making it stop.

And that was all the incentive he needed to pass out. This was too confusing, too painful and nauseatingly panicked, and if the blood in his mouth didn't abate, he was going to choke on it, so when unconsciousness offered him a reprieve, Sam took it, and cleaved to it, and then he didn't feel anything at all.

Dean hit a trash can while he rounded a corner into town. He ran two red lights, and ignored the honking, his right hand pressed as best as he could get it against Sam's lolling head, and cursing but not slowing when he picked up a cop.

In the last mile to the hospital, the cop seemed to get wise and made some kind of short cut, ending up in front of Dean' and blaring his siren as he led the way to the hospital's emergency entrance.

Dean barely managed to throw the Impala into park before reaching around to open Sam's door, and the cop was there, looking wary but ready to help, and then the man froze, his mouth falling open at the sight of Sam's face.

"Sweet jesus..." he hissed, and then Dean lost all volume control.

"Help me or get out of my way!"

"Sorry, here," and the cop reached out, getting a hold of Sam's right side, careful of the metal embedded there, and worked with Dean to lift his brother out of the car. They left the Impala there, wide open and still running, coated in Sam's blood, and it was four and a half hours later before Dean even remembered to come out and park the thing.

When he did, he sat there for just a moment in the darkening twilight, and let himself freak out, and cry a bit. Then he shook it off, wiped his face, and headed back inside the hospital, calling Bobby on the way.