Because I just needed to hurt Sam. Okay? I had to, otherwise my head would explode and really, who wants to clean up all that brain from the walls? *shrugs*

I own nothing and this is really just some Sam!hurt with no plot whatsoever, me thinks! You know? Coz really… sometimes I just wanna hurt that boy! Oh and yeah, this is not a death fic even if it seems like that…

Enjoy…


"Sam?" Its one of those soothing, gentle voices Dean doesn't use very often anymore. Not on Sam anyways. Not on anybody. Not anymore.

Sam wonders why Dean's using it now. On him.

"What?" He snaps...can't help it. Can't stop clenching his teeth, can't find the strength to try and open his jaw to speak properly, can't get his tongue to work.

"You doing okay? You feelin' like you're gonna throw up, pass out, you cold? Your head?" Dean glances at him and Sam feels exposed, like he's being examined… which he is… Dean's eyes see things Sam wants to hide, "Sam? Talk to me."

"Nawh," breath, "I'll make it." He grunts out not believing the words for a second and doubting that Dean believes them either.

"Sam?"

Dean doesn't believe him, period.

"'m fine… drive…"

The blood running down his left temple is warm; hot even, oily, smells like iron... smells like life and death all at once. Tastes like rust, when it slips into his mouth and moistens his lips. He raises his left arm up, groans and slips with his fingers on the stream of blood near his ear.

Shit… shit… shit.

He leans his head back on the seat, hits his nape on the edge there and looks up at the Impala's ceiling… so different from a motel's… so very more home... and tries not to think about the mess he's making of the seats, bleeding all over them like that. Dean'll gonne love that in the mornin'.

"Hey, hey, hey… don't fall asleep."

Fingers snap in front of his eyes, the sharp noise splitting something apart in his chest.

He blinks… once, twice, three times… really slowly like he has all the time in the world.

"Don't close your eyes, man. Keep 'em open." It's gruff… Dean's throat Whiskey burned.

"Mhm…" he murmurs to the ceiling. He won't panic, panic makes no difference, just makes you go crazier a bit sooner.

Stars flicker in front of his eyes, white sparks of light that mean nothing, yet mean everything. Blood loss never ceases to amaze him… how your body reacts… cold, getting colder, seeing stuff you're not meant to see… getting sleepy, sleepier until all you can see it darkness, until all you can feel is cold. Until all you can smell is nothing. Until everything just slips away from you through your blood. Until everything is just… gone.

"Eyes open, man."

There's urgency… there's fear… there's Sammy… in that voice.

It hurts. Pain in his head that he would never wish upon his worst enemy. He wants to scream, tear his throat wide open with screams but he can't... can't do that to Dean. Gotta be strong. Gotta be a man about it, Sammy - he can hear his Father's voice, clear as a bell in his ears. Gotta be a man... gotta suck it up, gotta breathe through it, Sammy... gotta be brave.

He thinks – just a thought - that maybe he has something stuck in his head. Something sharp, thick, long... but when he tries to raise his right arm up to check... it doesn't move. He can't make it move. Can't make it do anything he wants. And he wants... wants it to move, wants it to twitch, wants it to fucking do something. He glares down at it, willing it to move already. But the want... 's just that... because his arm is just there, on his lap, doing nothing, just a dead weight on his bloody jeans, mocking him – you can't move me, lalalalala.

Fresh blood mixing with mud underneath his fingernails. He wants to grab his knife and cut it off - can't even hold a knife, you moron.

His hair stuck to his forehead, sweat making him itch all over... he wants to ask Dean if there is something sticking out of his head. He decides that in the end... it doesn't really matter.

He breathes a little deeper, a little faster, a little on the verge of hyperventilating and wouldn't that be nice. Choke on the air with an unmoving arm and something - maybe - sticking out of your head with your brother breaking every speed limit and every rule ever written. Crash into a tree... what a way to go.

He licks his lips, gets all that blood into his mouth and almost chokes on it: "Can't move my arm, Dean... my arm…" he says to the open road moving before his eyes, into the darkness of the Impala. He sounds like a child, ready to burst into tears, but he doesn't care... he doesn't care about anything anymore, but how much his head hurts so bad, so, so bad and why he can't move his arm and he doesn't care about fear and tears and oh shit, Dean that was so loud and clear in his voice.

He doesn't care. Doesn't have the strength to care… the flickering stars in front of his eyes won't let him.

He could swear he heard Dean gulp.

Oh god...

"Just hold on, alright." Again with that soothing, deep voice, that just makes Sam wanna cry and hit something, anything, Dean preferably because he doesn't deserve that from Dean. Not anymore. Not after everything. He doesn't deserve Dean freaking out over him.

"Just hold on..." like an order.

Yeah, Sam can do orders. He can follow them just fine… when he wants to. Does he wanna now? Does he trust Dean?

"Yeah..." He breathes out before he loses his thread with the small world that is the interior of the Impala and falls into pain free blackness, saying goodbye to the awesome stars, saying hello to trusting his brother.


The End.