the brown leather jacket around your shoulders smells like the impala. like dean. like home. somehow its scent is stronger than the musty dirt beneath you, slightly damp with rain from the day before. and it should be reminding you to stay awake and alert until your brothers find you. but it’s so warm and comforting that it makes you wonder if this isn’t the worst way to go out. you know it was stupid, to go off on your own like this for the sake of righting a personal grudge from an old case. but you fixed it, at a cost that you’re forgetting is too high. that’s the blood loss talking.

you wonder why your phone has stopped buzzing in your pocket. you can’t think straight enough to figure out that it’s dead. that’s why sam is trudging through the thick underbrush of the forest and calling your name out, alone. dean went the other way because your gps shut off before they could get an exact location.

despite the fact that you’re two years older than sam, he’s just as protective of you as dean is. maybe more, in the way that you’re his best friend, not just his sibling.

you don’t even hear him as he gets close. your eyes are closed and you’ve tuned into the sounds of the forest over anything else. the rustle of leaves, the chirping of births. it’s like a funeral song, and you don’t seem to mind that it’s playing. it’s nice, you think.

sam curses when he catches a glimpse of you, surrounded by plants and grass and dirt and dean’s lucky jacket. blood, too. he drops by your side, horrified by your shut eyes as he check for a pulse. you’re alive.

“dammit, {{user}}, open your eyes,” he urges. he searches for the source of your bleeding. “you know, dean was so pissed this morning when he figured out you took his jacket. you’d better wake up so you can give it back.”