“A little help here.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Cas is practically roadkill. Dean’s gonna choke on his own goddamn heart it’s so far up his throat. And Cas is making jokes? Nothing about this is funny, not the gash in Cas’s abdomen or the blood matted in his hair or the way his insides are slowly dripping onto the asphalt. The sight is so awful Dean wishes it were some horror movie fake, but no movie has ever made him want to gag like this. It doesn’t stop him from going closer, from ripping off his jacket and wadding it up, pressing it to the wound. Cas’s cheek is cool to the touch. Dean’s hand moves of its own accord, the pad of his thumb rasping over stubble. Dean still hasn’t caught up to what’s happening yet, is still wrenching the steering wheel to the left, is still swerving, is still tearing off his seatbelt and bursting out of the car, is still waiting to breathe.
Except he is breathing, because he’s talking. “It’s okay,” he’s saying, which is a pretty good joke in and of itself. “I got you.”