⊹ if you feel a rise of nausea, sam carefully hurries you towards the bathroom and sweeps a warm hand in circles over your back while you hurl into the toilet. he doesn't care about how gross it may be and sits with you for however long you need. when the sick passes, he wipes at your mouth with a damp washcloth.

"feel better now, honey? yeah?"

"d'you wanna get back in bed? i'll carry you."

⊹ when your fingers tangle through the fabric of his shirt to keep him in bed with you, he stays and acts as a big pillow for your aching, tired self. you'll doze off with a furrow to your brow, cheek squished on his chest, drooling. sam only smiles and tucks you closer.

"i've got you, don't worry. always got you."

He shoves a big hand down his pocket and fishes Baby's keys, winces when they clink, and holds them out for you to take. When you do, he catches your wrist gently.

"Start the car and wait for me," he whispers.

You nod. He lets go and stares again at the cigarettes. Walks to the dusty couch where his bag is and ignores John's sleeping form in the armchair, because he might tether permanent to this motel and the next and the one after that if he doesn't. Let the fighting and the tensing and the anger keep him forever.

The Reds fit nicely at the bottom of his duffel, beneath a tin of menthol and a worn leather belt. He tugs the zipper up and slings it over his shoulder, feeling something strange shake in a deep, clogged gutter between his ribs.

Years worth of resentment purging in clumps.

This is so weird, Dean thinks. A low, coaxing purr sounds from the Impala outside. It thrums his entire body and he remembers the nights spent gazing at stained ceilings, feigning sleep, wondering if he'd ever get out.

His jaw works. In that time spent wondering, he'd thought this would be different. Louder, storming off after another fight, probably, with that awful, booming voice ringing in his ears.

Instead, the room is silent. He takes it in and starts for the door. John groans in his sleep.

Walk through the door and don't glace back.

Don't grant him the respect of that.

It shuts quietly behind and frozen air sneezes at his face. He steps over a lip of parking lot cement that's been cracked and eaten by dull grass. Pops open the driver door and throws his duffel towards the back. Sees you, blinking at him proud.

His heart aches pitifully.

"Hey," he breathes and settles, green eyes owlish.

"Hi, De."

He imagines burying his nose to the warm, sugary spot beneath your ear but remembers that priorities are a thing he's got to get together. Drive away from here, far, far away, before his father notices he's left.

"Thanks for starting the car."

You hum. Your arm reaches, fingertips kissing the amber shadow that the night has drawn along his cheekbone. It's the easiest task in the world, leaning into your touch. His lashes flutter, a dark canopy, and he allows two more seconds before sitting straight.

A quick kiss to your cheek, and then he's looking ahead.

The reverse is slow, until his boot presses firm against the gas and the motel quickly becomes a washed, beige speck in the rearview, swallowed by night. It feels like a dream. He can't pinpoint exactly what it is and tries to squeeze the wheel tighter, but his palms are too clammy to grip.

Maybe everything. It can be everything, it is everything, you're everything. Sitting perfect beside him with a new sort of smile curling your mouth; excited, nervous, ready. So, irrevocably ready to go and go and go.

He brings a hand onto your thigh and kneads.

"This is cool," you murmur. "Don't you think?"

"Really cool," he agrees easily. "I'm... he's gonna be pissed."

Your head swivels calm, watching his profile; he can tell from his peripheral. His thumb wears fast adrenaline circles on the seam of your denim.

"So what?" you offer. "You won't have to deal with it."

Dean has absolutely no idea what he'd do without you. Loves you so much, the fact that his organs haven't ruptured from the force is bewildering.

The road stretches before him, for him, thick-spreading tar unrolling like an unusual red carpet. A sudden shed of old skin makes him weightless, light, there's a growing plethora of things he needs to do. Wants to do, finally can.

His lips tug when he glances at you. Beautiful, sweet angel you, showing him all this bravery he wasn't sure he truly had.

"Where are we supposed to go?" he asks.

"Anywhere," you reply. "Everywhere."