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13 April 2012 @ 02:44 am
Killing Me Softly: Industrial Light and Magic (Chapter 2)  

The same four letters had been uttered by Sam thousands upon thousands of times over the course of his life.

 

Killing Me Softly

Chapter Two

Industrial Light and Magic

**O**

The same four letters had been uttered by Sam thousands upon thousands of times over the course of his life. The same four letters he’d whispered, barked, laughed, hissed, whined, and chided.  The same four letters he’d ejected through the side of the mouth with his tongue in cheek, expelled along with an exasperated click of clenched teeth, or yammered out along with a Grade-A bitchface.  The same four letters he’d used to both convey and evoke any number of emotions: anger, boredom, humor, pride, impatience, grief or love. This time, however, the same four letters came out as a guttural blast, wrenched from his diaphragm in absolute terror and concern, a version of the same four letters that, sadly, Sam had uttered far too many goddamned times during the course of his short life. 

“DEAN!”

He had seen his brother stagger and glance around him with a mystified expression, putting his hands to his ears as though he were trying to get water out of them. When Sam had gone to see what was up, Dean had unaccountably backed away from him. He had shouted in panicked alarm when he saw that Dean was running out of stage, but his brother had just appeared even more perplexed and off balance, either not hearing or not comprehending his warning. Sam watched horrified as Dean stepped right off the edge of the stage and heard the sharp clatter of stands and stools scattering, followed by a sickening, harsh thud.

With the agility of a base runner hell-bent for home, Sam barreled forward and slid off the stage and onto the floor in one fluid motion, reaching his brother within seconds of his fall.  Dean had ricocheted off the music stands and chairs that cluttered the orchestra-pit and had landed in a graceless pile on the floor, limbs askew and pliant.  One leg remained slobbishly draped over one of the upended orchestra chairs as though he hadn’t a care in the world, as though he’d been making himself right at home.  Sam half expected to see his brother scratch his balls and toss him a grin that suggested he’d just eaten a big old steaming pile.  But there was no scratching, there was no grin.  Dean lay entirely inert.  His head had clearly made solid contact with the hard surface of the floor when he landed, and Sam could see blood saturating his hair and radiating outward in a red, syrupy puddle. 

Cleo thunder-thighed her way down the stairs, a mannish juggernaut of determined salubrious intent, squawking for all the world like a surrogate mother grackle whose chick had just taken a header out of the nest. “We need to call 911!” she rasped breathlessly, her face creasing with distress and worry.  She knelt down clucking her care in little tsk-tsking noises.  Leana caught up to them, palm to her mouth in a shocked expression. She had picked up the makeshift EMF meter from the stage where Dean had dropped it and held it in her hand, studying it curiously.

“Hang on, Cleo.  Wait.” Sam replied quickly. St. Louis was only a few hours west.  He couldn’t take the chance, at least not without trying to get Dean to rouse on his own, first. Sam pressed his fingers to Dean’s neck and, finding a steady pulse, he heaved out a sigh of relief.  He gingerly felt Dean’s limbs and ribs, checking for breaks or other injuries but found none.  His head seemed to have taken the brunt of the fall and upon gently turning it to get a closer look, Sam discovered a large goose-egg at the back of his brother’s skull, from which blood was freely flowing.  Shedding his outer shirt he swathed his brother’s head and applied as much constant pressure as he dared in order to try and stop the bleeding.

 “Sam, I’m calling 911.” Cleo got up and started frisking her ample hips in search of her cell phone.

“No!” he said far more biting than he really intended, hovering over his brother in full protective watchdog mode. “No,” he repeated more calmly and held up a hand trying to fend her off and get his own bearings without having to bare his teeth further. He turned back to his brother and gently smoothed his brow.  “Hey, Dean!” he urged and rapped his brother’s cheek with light staccato taps.  It elicited no response at all. 

“He really needs help, Sam.  You don’t know, he could have had a stroke or something.” Cleo cautioned, referring to Dean’s sudden outburst that had precipitated his fall.  Sam wasn’t even registering her, though. 

“I’ve got it.” He said with his full attention on his brother.  “Just help me get him to the car.  I’ll take him myself,” he said just to get away from these women so that he could think, so that he could just deal with this back at the motel.  Cleo and Sam gently lifted him, Sam cradling his brother’s head with his now blood-soaked shirt.  Leana flitted ahead, grabbed the door, and then trailed after them still holding the EMF meter.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital.” Cleo said as they got Dean situated in the Impala. 

Sam was grabbing for the driver’s door.  “No, no…I got it.  I’ll call you later and let you know he’s OK.”

“Nonsense, Sam!” Cleo said incredulously.  “We’ll be right behind you.”

“No, Cleo.  Seriously.  Dean, uh…he doesn’t like visitors when he’s sick, doesn’t like people, you know, waiting.” Sam was fumbling here and he knew it, but he didn’t have any more time for her well-intentioned shit.  “Look, you stay here.” He took the EMF back from Leana and tossed it in the back seat.  “I promise I’ll call you.  I have to go now, though.”  He slid into the driver’s seat without bothering to listen to another word and pulled out, leaving both Leana and Cleo with their mouths flapping wide.

**O**

Sam flung his arm out in attempt to keep his brother from crumpling in a heap against the dash.  He’d had to stop short, having nearly blown a stop sign in his haze.  He’d been talking to his brother, gently shaking him now and again the whole way back to the motel with no response whatsoever, and if Sam didn’t have acid reflux before, he sure as hell was developing it now.  He gently pulled Dean toward him, setting his brother’s head in his lap and draping a firm, protective arm around him as he continued on.  He constantly checked and rechecked Dean’s pulse, which, to his dismay, had increased somewhat.  Clucking his tongue nervously, he alternated between softly stroking his brother’s cool cheek while babbling incessant appeals and dabbing at the blood that flowed unabated.  Sam’s jeans were wet with it. The Impala never moved so slowly. It had been more than half an hour since Dean’s fall, and he still was not coming around.  Anxious and fearful, Sam hit the steering wheel in frustration with one hand and tugged on it with a twisting grip while keeping the other resting lightly on Dean in an attempt to anchor his brother or maybe himself, he wasn’t sure which—probably a little bit of both.   “Come on, Dean.  Please,” he coaxed, but Dean remained motionless. 

When he reached the motel he quickly ran and opened the door to the room and then back to the Impala to collect Dean.  While his brother was a heavy lift, Sam felt a little lighter the moment he kicked the door closed behind him.  At least they were away from prying eyes and well intentioned, but intrusive, helping hands.  He shifted his burden to the nearest bed and laid Dean down with as little jostling as he could.  After grabbing several towels from the bathroom and the first aid kit from the Impala, Sam sat back down on the bed and gently examined his brother.  He rechecked for any other injuries and even lifted his shirt to check for broken ribs or signs of internal bleeding, but beyond some superficial bruising on his shoulder and back, Sam saw nothing out of place or troubling.  Palming Dean’s brow, Sam gently lifted both eyelids.  “Fuck,” he grated out.  Keeping up a front, if only for himself, he cleared his throat and whistled in mock reproach, “Nice saucers there, Morrison.”  Sam shook his head and gripped his brother’s shoulder and squeezed it a little.  “Look what you went and did,” he said trying to sound light.   He sobered, tapped his cheek again.  “Dean, wake up,” he demanded, but Dean had apparently dug his heels in.  “Goddamn it,” he admonished, unable to hide his growing alarm.  He grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt and tugged.  “Dean!”  Nothing. Sighing, he shifted his brother on to his side and examined the bleeding goose-egg.  The steady flow had ebbed to a viscid ooze and the blood was clotting, but it was still going to need stitching.  He got the suture kit out and began cleaning and disinfecting the wound. 

He cleared his throat.  “So,” he struck up a one sided conversation while he worked, finding the silence and stillness in Dean to be unbearable.  “I was thinking about what you said last night, man.  And I’m sorry, you know?  I mean, I get it.  You may not think that looking out for me is a waste.  I didn’t mean what I said.  I was being an ass. I do need you to be there for me, man.  I just…the shapeshifter just scared me.  Made me think that maybe you feel cheated, resentful. I don’t want you to think that this is all there is for you.  I don’t want you to have to sacrifice everything you may have wanted for this,” he said looking around the room.  “I don’t want you to have to sacrifice everything for…you know…for me.”  He worked steadily, dabbing some seeping blood away as he sewed.  “I’m sorry about the Grad-student, thing, too.  You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.” He smiled genuinely.  “I know, I know, man.  You’d never believe me, but I swear it’s true.  Sharper than a lot of the kids I went to Stanford with, that’s no lie.  And you can downplay it all you want just like you always do, but you don’t fool me, Dean.  I know you.  And that’s the thing, you know?  Knowing you, knowing what you’re really capable of.  I don’t want you to think that protecting us, sacrificing yourself for me or Dad, is the only thing you have to offer.”  He finished the stitches and grabbed a moist cloth to dab the rest of the blood away then wiped his own hands.  “I just wanted you to know that.”  He checked Dean’s pulse again, it was still a bit fast but not any worse, and as the bleeding had stopped he felt a little more encouraged. Sam let out a short sigh of gratitude for that, at least. “So, we good, Dean?” he said as he searched his brother’s slack features and pretended to find the absolution he sought.  “That’s good, man. Thanks.”  He’d bought into his own delusion. 

He looked at the clock.  It’d been close to an hour, now, and his stomach was starting to pretzel in on itself, sick with dread.  Sam sat with his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his hands through his hair repeatedly, twisting and braiding his fingers into the locks at the base of his neck.  If something was seriously wrong, he was just wasting precious time. The thought nauseated him. He looked back at his brother with mounting care and doubt.  “I really need you to open your goddamned eyes, Dean.” He took his brother’s hand in his own and gripped tightly. 

“Dean.”   

But Dean refused to budge.  

**O**

Dean’s consciousness teetered, swayed briefly, and then doubled back abruptly, taking a tottering stumble into inchoate awareness.  Dazed, his mind lay sprawled out, exhausted and ungainly in its attempt to recenter with no particular notion of up or down, side to side.  A wistful melody, accompanied by a corresponding aurora of multicolored lights, oscillated through his skull and lapped against his amorphous brain.  He floated embryonically as sound and color corkscrewed and contorted into a singularity.  With no reference point to grasp hold of, his equilibrium tilted and swirled as his involuntary reflexes took over.  His body lurched of its own volition, and he began to gurgle and choke on the vomit that suddenly welled in his throat.   When a pair of hands gripped him he could hear a corresponding sound, a chime, much like the lightly tinkling glass-beads of a chandelier.  The chime turned him onto his side, firm yet tender, rubbing his back in gentle circles.  The touch set off a shower of sunrise-yellow sparks pinwheeling through his head, beautiful, disorienting.  With a heaving pitch, he heard the contents of his stomach paint the outside of the garbage can. Thoughts finally started to coalesce, Well, this just fuckin’ sucks! being the most predominate at the moment.

Dimly he perceived light-waves emanating from a muffled voice, vibrant colors undulated over him and splashed across his titillated tongue.  You with me, man?  The kaleidoscopic voice tasted like a mildly tart summer pie.  “Uhn-n-n P’ches?” he murmured as he numbly pushed his tongue into his lower lip, seeking the source of the taste.  All he found was a putrid tang that made him wretch again.  More crystal chimes, more vomit, a cool cloth on his lips and more gentle nudges made up of sparkling, radiant light, That’s it, Dean…hey, hey c’mon, man.  Open your eyes.  It took several moments of burbling and bobbing like a forlorn buoy clanging amidst his surging awareness before he could even attempt to comply.  Again, the taste of peaches rippled across his tongue as that sunlit, citrus voice, encouraging yet insistent, commanded that he C’mon, c’mon that’s it, Dean.  Open those lady killers, man...you don’t want to sleep all day, dude.  And, well, he really did like peaches, so he thought he would at least give it a try.  Unfortunately, the moment his eyes flickered and light filtered in, the quiescent sea he’d been drifting in became a turbulent maelstrom of molten light and sound.  Splintering prisms accompanied by a shrieking, cacophonous tabernacle-choir-from-hell shrilled a path down his brainstem, through his spinal cord and tortured their way into each and every raw nerve ending.   Thought froze and his brain shattered as if dipped in liquid nitrogen.  His consciousness skittered head over ass, ending in a very enthusiastic nose-dive back into the senseless dark.

**O**

Sam had done everything short of trying to yank his brother out of that dark hole by his tail.  Just as he was contemplating dragging him back out to the Impala and driving him to the nearest hospital, Dean finally stirred.  Aimless eye movements beneath his lids and erratic body twitches precipitated a convulsive lurch, and, immediately, Dean started to aspirate on his vomit.  Sam quickly turned him on his side and got the garbage can as close as he could, as fast as he could.  Wasn’t fast enough, though.  A geyser of vomit erupted and splashed the outside of the can, dribbling slowly down in chunky, gelatinous globs.  Sam swallowed against his own sudden reflexive urge.

“You with me, man?” he soothed, rubbing his brother’s back gently.

Dean lay there limply for a moment and then quite randomly garbled out, “Uhn-n-n P’ches?”

Peaches?  Sam grinned.  Wow.  He’d have to stuff that one in his pocket and save it to play with later once Dean was feeling better.  Jesus Dean, you always were goddamned adorable when insensible.  That’d have to wait, though.  Dean licked his lips in an odd fashion like he was trying to pinpoint the taste of something but immediately began vomiting again.  Sam held him gently and wiped his mouth after the wave passed.  Drawing slow circles on his back, Sam offered his brother steady encouragement. “That’s it, Dean…hey, hey c’mon, man.  Open your eyes,” he coached.  He could see Dean doing battle with his eyelids, wrestling against their weight.  “C’mon, c’mon that’s it, Dean.  Open those lady killers, man...you don’t want to sleep all day, dude.”  Sam smiled in relief as Dean’s lashes began to flutter. 

 His smile slipped off the side of his face, though, when Dean opened his eyes and abruptly let out a sharp wheezing hiss of abject agony.  His eyes rolled back in his head and his body wracked out a shuddering tremor just before going completely slack.  Sam sat there gaping for a moment, too stunned to do anything else.  A dark, wet stain suddenly appeared on the front of his brother’s jeans and spread out, bringing a lump of fear and pity to Sam’s throat. Oh God, Dean. “Hey man, it’s OK.  I got this,” he said passing it off as no big thing. Unconscious or not, Sam felt compelled to cover for his brother, to ease the humiliation that Dean would surely feel if he was aware.  Unbuttoning Dean’s pants, he tugged both jeans and boxers down in one go.  Sam quickly toweled his brother off, rummaged through Dean’s duffel and redressed him in loose sweats.  “See that, dude?  Never happened, man,” he offered with a conspiratorial nod of empathy.  “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”  He quickly collected the soiled garments along with the garbage can and rapidly changed out of his own blood-stained jeans, setting everything to soak in the bathroom. Keeping an eye on Dean, Sam grabbed a clean pair of his own jeans. Sliding them on, he resituated himself on the edge of the bed. 

Sam looked at the clock and massaged his face in anxiety, it’d been well over an hour, now.  He would give this another ten minutes, no more. “That was only round one, dude.  You can do this,” he coaxed.  Sam gently smoothed his brother’s hairline and softly stroked an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, cooing a stream of nonsensical encouragement all the while.  Just before the deadline, Dean began to resurface with a soft groan.  He twitched feebly.  “Yeah, that’s it, man.  Up and at ‘em, Dean.”  Sam gently patted his brother’s chest and rubbed circles.  Dean’s eyebrows pleated and he did that exploratory gesture of pressing his tongue against his lip that Sam had noticed earlier. 

“You t’st like p’ch pie, dude,” he said sloppily, his eyes closed. 

Fuckin’ adorable. Sam smiled and continued to pat-pat, rub-rub Dean’s sternum.  “I taste like peaches, do I?

“Mmmnn,” Dean affirmed, then paused a moment as his eyes swam under his lids. “W’happ’nd?”

“Don’t you know, Dean?” Sam coaxed.

“Nh-nhuu”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Dean sighed and twitched in deep concentration “Uh, went to s-see dude looks l’k a lady…”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at that. “That’s right, we went to see Cleo. Do you remember what happened?”

“Nhuu-uh.” He sluggishly lifted his hand and extended a finger as though he were tracking something above him. “Fuckin’ r’nbow, dude.”

“You fell and hit your head, man. Remember?”

“I did?”

“Took a tumble right off the stage. Did Steve Tyler proud, man.”

Dean’s brow puckered again, “Whassat m’sic?”

“What music, Dean?” Sam played along.

Dean gave his brother the concussed, closed-lidded version of his pat what the fuck do you think, dumbass?—look.  “The m’sic, dude.  Can’t you h’r it? S’like f’ckn Fantasia.  S’pr’tty.  F’ckn colors ev’rywh’r.”

OK.  This is different.  Sam chewed a nail. “Dean?”

“Uhnnh-nn, ‘think I took th’brown acid, dude!”  Dean clumsily swirled his hand through the air.  “Makes me w’nna go mud slidin’ in th’ rain an’ lissn’ t’Hendrix, fuck yeah, dude!” he slurred, playing a feeble air-guitar, his arms continued to bumble and flail in sing-songy circles and psychedelic waves.  His brain was precessing like a gyroscope, and his body tilted and swayed along with the giddy motion, his arms conducting their own little, trippy orchestra of one.  “C’n taste p’ch pie when you talk, an’ I c’n hear win’ch’ms an’ see a billion lights like li’l spermies swimmin’ wh’n you keep pattin’ me like that.  It’s j’st like…whoaaa…OZ, dude!”  Sam held his breath as Dean strove to open his eyes again.  The moment he did, Dean let out a strangled gasp of pure misery, and Sam watched his brother’s consciousness make a—boot-dragging, vacant-eyed, zombie-walking, see-ya-the-fuck-later!—break for the nearest exit. 

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, hey, hey man.  Stay with me, Dean.”  Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders to try and prevent him from pitching back into the dark.  Dean’s eyes shuttered and he guppy-gulped air while swashbuckling his vertigo and pain as best he could.

“Dn’t feel so g’d, S’mmy. Think I hit m’head or s’mthin’,” Dean said between thrusts and ripostes.

“Yeah, I know Dean,” Sam said gently.  He paused and pinched his lower lip, considering.  He was used to dealing with concussions, they’d both had their fair share. He knew the drill.  But this?  He’d never seen anything like this type of disorientation before.  It unnerved him.  “Hey, Dean,” he said as he watched Dean swim in his confusion, “I think…I think we need to get you to a hospital, dude.”  Dean sighed out his annoyance but voiced no further objection.  And there was nothing more chilling for Sam than that, it was like the blaring-buzz of an alarm heralding a meltdown at a nuclear reactor.  He moved to the head of the bed and shifted his brother into a somewhat sitting position.  Dean was rag-doll pliant in his arms, breathing in shallow huffs like a late trimester Lamaze practitioner. 

Dean remained there for a moment unable to think beyond trying to fend off the stimuli that threatened to maul him with its ear-splintering, crystal-sharp claws. If he could just distract it long enough.  “Fuckin’ throw it a steak or som’thin’! Alw’ys works on S’mmy!” he seethed out in his throes.

What the hell is wrong with him? Sam was becoming truly terrified.  “What the hell are you talking about, Dean?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t even remember what he’d said or what he’d been thinking, anyway. Hadn’t quite mastered the high art of hanging onto his thoughts for any meaningful length of time just yet. Merely the simple act of breathing caused billowing sheets of light to pulse dizzyingly behind Dean’s eyes.  “Gonna be sick,” he warned dully.  Sam quickly grabbed the garbage can from the bathroom and set it between his brother’s thighs.  Dean draped his arms around it weakly, using it as an anchor while his diaphragm lurched and then lurched some more.  At this point nothing had come up other than bile, but that didn’t stop his body from digging for pay dirt.  “Fuckin’ orange cymbals all over!” he clashed out between dry heaves.  When the waves finally passed, Sam helped him swing his legs off the side of the bed. 

“Put these on and keep your eyes closed, man.” Sam said, handing him a pair of sunglasses.  “It’s going to be bright out there.”

“Awesome,” Dean huffed.

“You ready for this?” Sam asked, gathering him up and threading his own arms through Dean’s armpits, clasping them firmly behind his back in a bear hug. 

Dean’s head drooped listlessly on his brother’s shoulder.  He drunkenly pshawed and spoke directly into Sam’s neck, “Phfft, s’no sweat, be a walk in the cake, dude.  I goddit.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Riiight.” He bent his knees and braced, “Here we go, man.”  With a quick thrust he hoisted him up.  Dean immediately groaned out.  His head flopped back and his knees hinged.  Sam battled for balance, straining under the weight of his burden, pivoting until Dean’s head rested back against his neck and shoulder.  Sam held him firm.  “Up, up!” he urged until he could feel Dean’s legs tenuously take back some of the weight.

“Holy mother fucking fuckery fuck!” Dean panted, his lexicon of strong oaths having diminished, apparently, to just the one for the time being.  His vision hadn’t just become ‘spotty,’ it had become a veritable fireworks display on the Fourth of July with seventy-six trombones leading the big, goddamned parade, a squadron of Blue Angels thundering overhead, and a nine-year-old with his first drum-set wailing away for good measure.  “The colors are so loud, dude,” he panted.  “So loud.” he moaned.

“I know, Dean.  I gotcha, man.”  He twisted his fingers, grabbing a fistful of his sweatpants and more than half carried him to the entrance.  Upon opening the door, Dean immediately shrunk into himself, shriveling away from the light that threatened to fling out a tongue and detach his head in one fluid frog-like motion. Even from behind the glasses and closed lids, he quivered violently as the light seared right through his temporal and occipital lobes.  The pain was excruciating.  

Dean put a hand up to cover his glasses, protecting him from the inescapable mosaic of shattering colors and sounds as Sam guided him outside the door.  He tipped and reeled, swaying with the overwhelming onslaught as it crested right over him and sucked him into its treacherously vivid undertow.  He dimly became aware that Sam was speaking to him.  He’d no clue when he began talking or what he’d been saying, but he sure as hell could taste those peaches. 

“You need to get up, Dean!  C’mon, man, work with me!” Sam said gently shaking his brother who had tripped and flailed his way into a prone position on the pavement. When did I fall? Dean wondered. 

“I’m up.” Dean said languidly, not entirely convinced that was even true.  He felt a firm, chiming grip on him followed by a whoosh and a nauseating altitude shift.  He strove to get his legs under him.  “M’up!” Dean slushed, this time with more pride.

“Yeah you are.  Let’s get you to the car.”

By the time Sam had gotten his brother sitting in the passenger’s seat Dean was barely conscious again.  Even protected behind sunglasses, his brother’s eyes couldn’t tolerate the light.  Sam searched the back seat and quickly grabbed one of Dean’s stray shirts, a dark purple-checked flannel, and draped it over his eyes.  “You still with me, man?” Sam asked, gripping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“Yuhnh,” he uttered, having little energy or cohesive thought for anything else besides holding the wadded shirt against his face.

Sam took what he could get.  “We’ll be there soon, man.” 

“My head h’rts, Sammy. Did I hit it?”

“Yeah, Dean, you did. Hard, man. We’re gonna go get you some help, though.”

“Oh.” Dean said thinly.

“Just hang tight,” Sam soothed as he pulled out of the parking lot.

The sound of his baby’s engine was accompanied by bluish, black plumes of scintillation that coiled and spiraled rhythmically with every beat of Dean’s pulse, superseding the caterwaul.  The vibrations of her song rippled throughout his body, offering shade from the blazing sun and bringing just a bit of soothing, dark clarity to his confusion.  Dean smiled.  “M’baby’s so pr’tty,” he grogged dreamily. “S’like the best m’gic f’ngers ever.”

“Magic Fingers?  Seriously, dude?” Sam chuckled. 

“Hell yeah.  ‘S’why I always loved m’gic f’ngers, man.”  He said with a dopey grin, wiggling his fingers in demonstration. “R’minds me of m’baby’s purr.  Love me some m’gic f’ngers ‘cuz I love m’baby.”  His body started to list limply toward the window.  Sam put out a steadying hand and pulled him back.

“Stay with me, Dean.  C’mon, man.”

“Nh-nuhn.  M’real tired, S’mmy,” he said with childlike petulance.

“I know, man, but you’ve got to keep awake.”  Sam’s heart was loping toward his throat.  “So, your baby’s purr is pretty, huh?” he asked, trying to tether his brother, stake him to the ground.

“Mmm-hmm.” Dean drowsed.

“Well, what does she look like?” he asked.

“L’ke black v’lvet ‘n blue lights, sp’nnin’ ‘n twistin’ sexy…w’th…pr’tty…” Dean tapered off.  He’d either lost the thread of his thought or he’d passed out. 

“Dean?” Sam shook him gently.

“Mmmm.”

“Baby’s engine,” Sam prompted.

“Mmmm?”

“What does she taste like?”

Dean’s breath hitched a moment in thought and he weakly licked his lips.  A sluggish grin crooked the corner of his mouth.  “S’like…” his voice dwindled down to nothing again.

“Like what, Dean?” Sam shook him again.

“She t’stes like th’best ch’sburg’r ever, dude.”  And with that, Sam lost Dean to the darkness again.

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