A/N: Written for a few friends on tumblr. Had fun with this.
WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence.
Sam dragged himself out of the shack, escaping just in time to miss the end of the fight — he told himself it was alright; Dean was finishing up. The violent, rushing sound of fire spewing outward as gas left a canister, sparking before blasting into the air (and hopefully, at the remaining monster) met Sam's ears. The sound was soon followed by an unearthly scream. It sent a chill down Sam's spine despite how long he'd been doing this.
He dragged himself a little farther, wanting to be closer to the Impala, closer to safety, to home.
His left leg was on fire, and it was sore, more sore than there were even words for. It was a pain he could barely handle. Yes, Sam Winchester knew pain, but it had been awhile since he'd been hurt so badly.
That last wendigo he'd killed in that shack had dug its claws into the back of his thigh and then he found he couldn't use it to walk. He'd been hamstrung — if only partially. The son of a bitch hadn't gotten the other leg. Thank God… or whoever the hell was up there who gave a shit. Maybe no one.
Sam felt weak, woozy, his vision fogging. Nothing seemed to make sense to him anymore. He didn't know where he was, what was happening. He just knew that he felt like absolute shit.
That was when he threw up, and as reality came back to him he shifted to lie away from the vomit. Body shuddering fiercely, muscles tense till they ached, he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees. But he failed at that.
Dean was running out of the shack, covered in blood, blowtorch still in one hand, a silver knife in the other.
Immediately, he was at Sam's side, and Sam was reaching out for him with fumbling fingers, only able to reach his brother's bloodied and dirt-stained boots. Dean dropped the weapons and started scanning him.
"H-hamstring…" Sam forced out through trembling lips.
His leg had gone cold, but the rest of him was doused in flame. Dean grabbed something — Sam thought maybe the silver knife — and started cutting into Sam's jeans to expose the wound further. The cold air against hot blood was a strange sensation, sending Sam into a mess of warring temperatures, sweating profusely while shivering.
Dean worked fast, taking off his belt and tying it around Sam's upper thigh.
"Let me know when it hurts," Dean told him.
Sam grunted as it tightened, and tightened…
Then, when he knew the pressure was just right, the pain throbbing incessantly, he just let out a simple, "Fuck."
Dean pat his back with one hand.
"It's okay. I got you. I gotta get the med kit. I'll be right back. Don't worry, Sammy. Everything's gonna be just fine."
Sam watched as Dean came into his view, and then rushed away from him, dirt kicking up under his boots. He made his way over to the back of the Impala, and dug around furiously before he came back with a duffel bag they'd hastily Sharpie'd a plus sign on in red to designate it as their medical bag (a regular first aid kit didn't always cut it for them). There was a bottle of whiskey in his other hand.
Sam's stomach started churning again, nervous from the further torment he would be put through. It would help him, but at a great mental cost. There was only so much pain in one moment that the mind could take, and it was already far past what Sam could handle at the moment. His pain threshold was drowning in blood.
Don't be a baby, he told himself. You've had worse.
But that didn't seem to matter right now. Nothing seemed to matter except the screaming and throbbing agony in his leg. It took his breath away, numbing all thoughts as he lay there, helpless, vulnerable.
His head began to spin, and he felt weak, though he wasn't even moving. And then reality seemed to start fading away. He heard Dean talking to him, telling him it would be okay. The bit they had with their supplies was gently, but sternly, put into Sam's mouth. He bit down, tears leaking from his eyes. Still, he couldn't see. The world didn't seem to matter.
Blood was leaving him…
Everything felt wrong.
And then the pain of alcohol being poured over what was left of the back of his thigh burst into his senses, and he screamed, biting down hard on the bit. He moved, trying to drag himself away, finding a hidden well of strength. Dean put a knee to his lower back. Sam kicked feebly with his other leg, demanding to be released.
"I know, Sammy. I know."
Then there was the godawful sensation of something in him. Dean seemed to be mopping up the blood and alcohol. And then there were large wads of gauze being shoved into his leg. The pain shot down to his toes, and up his spine, till even his teeth hurt.
Sam dropped the bit out of his mouth to throw up again. It was an effort to keep his head up so he wouldn't lay back down in it. Dean took care of that problem almost immediately, shifting Sam to a puke-free area on the damp earth.
And then there was fierce tugging, stinging, yet there was still that painful and foreign wad of gauze in his leg. God, it was bad enough to have to pack it?
Dean's needle didn't reach all the parts where he was in pain, letting Sam know that the injury couldn't be fully stitched up. He seemed to try to remedy this with long strips of butterfly bandages. Through the whole process, he had to keep cleaning his skin, washing off blood.
"Okay, I'm gonna lift your leg back," Dean told him. "Don't kick me."
"But I want to," Sam joked in a voice that barely wanted to come out.
"You can later. After I save you."
"That a promise?"
"You can punch me too."
Sam was too tired to smile at their joking. Dean probably felt guilty about Sam getting hurt, so that'd be why he mentioned a potential future punch in the face.
His leg was being lifted up and back, and Sam clawed at the ground, little bits of sediment digging under his fingernails. Then bandages were being applied, wrapped quickly and efficiently. They were tight, restricting; just enough so Sam wouldn't bleed out.
"Alright," Dean said, mercifully lowering Sam's leg back down, "we're gonna go over to the Impala. Alright? You got this?"
Sam tried to nod, to say something, but he just groaned.
Somehow Dean got him off the ground, and Sam was wavering on one leg, leaning heavily against Dean. Both were blood-covered, but Sam was pale, and had a green tinge around his mouth. He thought he might have cried out and screamed the entire way to the Impala. When he was safely buckled in the back, lying down, he realized someone was moaning and whimpering.
Sam saw the leather in the car, smelled the familiarity of it, and then he faded in and out of consciousness.
He would've thought it'd be peaceful to be unconscious, but for some reason he had a hard time breathing, and his chest hurt, and he could still hear somewhat.
He gasped, a breath wheezing into him.
"Sam?!" Dean asked in apparent alarm.
Suddenly, the door near Sam's head was opening, and there were hands on his face, lifting up his head.
"Hey, hey. Look at me. Look at me."
The next thing Sam knew was that Dean's jacket was resting over him, and his brother was driving, telling him he was going to get him to a hospital, that everything would be fine.
Sam had to believe him.
There was simply nothing else to do.
That faraway person was crying, and Sam felt their tears on his cheeks. Faintly, he thought, they tasted like his own.