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Night Flight // Dean & Sookie

Sookie had ran two stop signs just to get to her house but she really didn’t care. The roads were empty this time of night and she had a man bleeding out - dying - in her backseat. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing but really she had no time to stop and dilly dolly about that. Her house was only three minutes away now and every second that it took to get there was paralyzing her. There had been a number of people that had died on her account. People that were closer to her actually, like her Gran and even Tara. Yes. Some days she even counted Tara because technically her vampire best friend was dead. Undead. Others too like Debbie and Eggs that weren’t really friends with her but she had counted them among the people she was responsible for. Debbie especially since Sookie had pulled the trigger.

The car screeched to a stop on the rocky driveway of Sookie’s house. She switched the car off, stuffing the keys in her pocket as she ran around to the back to check on Dean. “Hey…hey, do you hear me?” She called out to him, her hands sliding against his cheeks to try to get him to focus on her. “Dean, come on. I need to get you inside.” She trailed a hand over his wounds, feeling the blood slick against her tanned skin. “Dammit…” She uttered and she realized she was going to have to pull him out of the car and inside by herself using all of her strength if he was still out of it.

Sookie hooked her arms under his and pulled him as carefully as she could out of the seats and onto the driveway. “Work with me,” she stammered in a struggling breath as she tried pulling him to his feet. “Dean, please…I need to get you inside…” The house was right there yet it felt so far away compared to how panicked she was.

Inert and disoriented, he couldn't hear how much she was shrieking at him, her tone overflowing with dread and alarm. The hunter gave into those miniature upper limbs, a sense of tribulation swarming in his body as he detected a scorching hot pain at the bottom of his stomach. Dean quivered, eyes blinking intensely as he held onto his stomach, conscious of the searing torment and agony in his head. It was like having daggers storming through his head, his back, his legs. With a loud groan, he managed to heave himself upwards, now very well conscious of her pleads. He was tough, sturdy, like well built iron. But just like iron, he could fracture. Dean is as weak and feeble as an old man, merely because he is an old man, aged and wise. But not wise enough to remember how old he was, not wise enough to cloak his pride and continue on hunting with his father and Sam. Suddenly he felt culpable, and yearned for his brother's reproaches.

As he continued to walk, he couldn't help but feel the many knives that were stabbing him in his legs. Still, he resumed his walking to her house, at least striving to meet her domicile without having her do much labor. His eyes were closed, however, so he permitted her to supervise him and lead the way. At a leisurely pace, he managed to reach the wooden steps before the door and fall with a thump. He'd stay here, perhaps for an elongated duration of time, and perhaps take note of how smooth the wooden floor was, and how mushy it felt-- almost like the motel beds he'd sleep in.

One more second, he would stay here for one more second and then he would rise as if nothing ever transpired. But as he kept convincing himself that he was strong enough to get up, the other part in his head would come in and battle with his assertive side. You're too weak, too brittle, you fracture at the slightest hassle. And he believed it, brought it in as a belief, therefore not getting up. "What?" He yelled. "Just-- get lost."

A pause then. “As you say — Dean.” The term sister would be let to slide this once, and this once only.

"So uh---..." There was a temporary break in proceedings as he looked down to what she was clad in. "Ever think about dressin' me like that Kettleblack dude?"

Sherrilyn Kenyon (via nadezhdi-paket)