Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. sigh I am making no money from this. double sigh Any resemblance to any person, living, dead, or wandering the earth in ghostly torment, is strictly coincidental.
Author's notes: Howdy. Once again I am fleeing my responsibilities and playing in make-believe land. I have so many starts to stories that I have never finished that it's truly sad. I mostly don't post because I don't want to do to people what I have unfortunately done to the readers of my other long fics and leave you high and dry. Somehow I want to play today though, so be warned: I may never make it to the end of this story. I aplogize in advance for that. But I will try; and right now I don't know what happens next, so I will probably stay with it for awhile (it's when I figure out how it ends that my muses abandon me. Go figure). As always, all feedback is welcome. Good, bad, or constructive, I appreciate it all.
Dripping and the smell of burning rubber and ozone as wiring fried, and his head was throbbing in time with his pulse – and there was no real rhythm to it. Bad Moon Rising was still playing.
That was wrong, somehow.
He fought to find where his head was. Almost got it up. Couldn't, quite. The world was rolling.
What was wrong?
Metal squealed, the sound ripping through his skull like a rusty saw, agony arcing through his brain and jaw and eyes – his neck ached, hot and electric, his gorge coming up as the sound sparked not just pain, but nausea.
He wanted to scream, but couldn't seem to remember how to do that. Wanted to curve in, curl up; hold his head, cry, breathe…but everything hurt. Beyond hurt.
What the fuck was wrong?
Metal squalled again and something rocked, jolting… everything. He tried to gasp in enough air to scream in protest, but the pain that woke in his chest kept him breathless.
A murmur of voices.
He couldn't understand. Couldn't think about anything except trying to pull in enough air to keep going, Keep awake. Breath coming thin and reedy and coppery around the pain.
He heard that, clear and calm in the cacophony of derailed senses and raw nerve-endings that was reality right now.
But not Sam. Sam, but horse, and thick, and…wrong. Like the music, wrong.
The world jostled again.
Someone started screaming.
No. God, no.
He fought. Forcing a whooping gasp into a chest that couldn't deal with much air, forcing a head that was no longer properly attached to move, struggling with the massive task of getting his eyes open.
Fight. Fight. Move. Sam. Dad.
What the hell was going on, damnit?
Someone was shooting.
Automatically he flinched, muscles that resisted his conscious efforts for control responding to a training ingrained in him from a time before conscious thought.
The hot flush of agony that followed pulled him down, sinking him deep.
Still, on some level he could still hear the shooting; the explosions; the screaming that just went on and on….
Jostling again. He gasped, sputtered, coughed up red. The pain brought him around enough to see a form, leaning in through the door – through where the door should have been – and searching. Finding a cell.
His eyes closed, all of existence swirling in a dark red flare.
Bad Moon had switched to House of the Rising Sun.
It was quiet, and … soothing, somehow, as CCR can be. Familiar. And someone was talking calmly, emotionlessly, say things like: Hi-way 35. North. Accident. Ambulance. Two. And hurry.
There was more pain. His eyes opened again, and a cell was laying, open and active, on his legs. The screen glowed with numbers. He struggled to decipher them. They were important.
His eyes closed again. Fingers, stroking his cheek, too hot and too sticky.
"I love you."
Sam; but not.
Something was wrong.
Really, really wrong.
It was so quiet.
The numbers had said 911.
Move. C'mon, move. Get Sam. Get dad. Hurry. Hurry.
He sank again to escape the pain that the sirens and lights caused.