Pungent, that smell. Petroleum and something almost like spice. Nothing else like it. Gun oil.
Yeast and a sharper tang. Beer.
Onions, that peculiar bite in the breath from raw ones.
A whiff of almost-garlic. Sweat. Maybe his own, maybe not.
The coppery, rusty taste of blood.
A hint of bitter bile, making him queasy.
Vibration beneath, inside him, rumbling.
Throbbing pain, almost everywhere.
Pressure on his shoulder, warm and light.
A voice, low, urgent. "Sammy? You with me?"
Dean's face, gaunt in the shadows of the dashboard light. "You ok?"
A split-lip smile worth the sting. "Yeah. I'm good."