i’m gonna find that ugly mother.
saints row 4. / accepting. / @hellazrus
they’ve had a lot of close calls. (trained and armed to the teeth didn’t account for inhuman strength and the testy variable of luck.) this is one hell of a close call, sam supposes. blood flows hot and thick under the trapping of sam’s denim, squeezing his wounded thigh. his leg wavers under the pressure of his own weight, agony radiating up through his pelvis and stabbing needles into the femoris muscle. he gets two steps toward the car before he crumbles like a jenga tower, knee twisting out the wrong way. dean catches him by the front before he can really eat the dirt, but the damage is evident, slicking blue into unpleasant night hues. dean assesses the situation, palms flat against sam’s shoulders. were he looking, sam would notice the fruition of anger (imposed elsewhere, for once, instead of self inflicted, instead of worthless worthless worthless), how it beds in dean’s face, rousing lines by his rounded eyes. i’m gonna find that ugly mother, he grits, pulling sam’s weight up against his stern shoulders to hobble him back to the car.
‘ give me my rifle from the trunk before you go. i can still shoot, y’know. ‘
dean makes a short, nasally sound sam cannot determine the inflection of -- maybe agreement, maybe concern. still, he obliges well enough, bowing into the door frame as sam picks his long legs up and shuffles them into the impala. he thrusts the gun upon him. wrap up that leg before you do any god damn thing, dean frowns. sam huffs a laugh, the sound crackling in his sternum. ‘ it’ll be fine. ‘
but he doubts. the feeling is slipping.
