Title: Crimson Drops
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the characters …
Author's Note: Damn - no time to write an epic. I think this fic will just be a few chapters delving into a little bit of Sammy pain – well, because I can. Needless to say, Dean will make an appearance because what's the point of Sam in pain if Dean isn't around. I must warn, there are a few stray swear words. Sam is 16 and Dean is 20.
Crimson drops fell from the edge of his chin, widening the damp red stain on his shirt. He wiped a hand across his brow as an errant splash of blood invaded his eye, but the action was superfluous as the removed drop was quickly replaced by another.
Head wounds bled like a bitch.
Stopping for a moment as a wave of dizziness washed over him, he reached his fingers up to his head and ran them tentatively through his hair until they grazed the raised bleeding bump. His fingertips came away coated in the warm sticky substance, although he was relived to feel that the blood was now thicker, the wound already starting to clot. But he had one hell of a headache - and knew that the slight blurriness to his vision suggested that he might have a mild concussion to go along with it.
Looking around, he was thankful that the street was near deserted as the final vestiges of daylight were slipping away. He just needed that luck to stay with him, enabling him to reach their house and slip inside unsighted. A near impossible task if Dean was home. His older brother was unerringly alert and it wasn't easy to skirt under his radar. Slipping by Dean would be like trying to break into Fort Knox and making off unnoticed with a truckload of gold. No, he needed Dean to still be out, which was probable at this time on a Thursday night, he thought, for once hopeful that he would be returning to a cold empty house.
He resumed his walk, keeping to the shadows and out of sight – like he'd been trained to do.
Making himself invisible.
As he turned the corner, the house came in to view. As usual, it was easily identifiable, being the most decrepit building in the run down street of long neglected housing. Even in an undesirable area like this, his Dad still managed to find the worst house, in the worst street. When he was younger, he'd made the mistake of admiring the neighbors newly painted house and picket fence, asking his Dad why their house didn't look like that. His father's response of 'lucky to have a roof over your head' put heed to any further questions, and after more than a few nights of sleeping in the car during their travels he finally had to agree.
As he got older, he realised that the main advantage of renting the house that nobody else wanted was that the landlord was usually happy to just take the meagre rent and leave you alone. When there were trails of salt covering window sills and doors, and protection symbols crudely carved into wooden surfaces, this was a good thing. The Winchesters needed their privacy, and snoopy landlords and neighbors were well steered clear of.
If only older brothers were so easy to bypass.
Scanning the house before him, he was relived to see the windows shrouded in darkness and the house quiet. Unless Dean was sleeping, music would betray his presence, always turned up a notch when their dad was away. Added to that, there was no shiny black Impala taking pride of place near the house. His brother rarely let the car leave his sight, so where there was one there was generally the other.
He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, relief flooding through his body.
No longer having to move with stealth, he made his way directly to the front door, unlocking it and stepping inside. Still a little wary, he called out his brother's name, satisfied when he got no answer.
He was home. Alone.
Slumping against the closed door, he felt deflated as the adrenaline surge that had helped him get this far left his body. Pain reared its ugly head, assaulting him all at once, drawing his attention to the injuries he had sustained but so far ignored.
His life was really fucked up.
It wasn't bad enough that he had to get beat up by spirits, ghouls and other supernatural entities, but now the local thugs were taking a turn. All for the lousy couple of bucks he carried in his pocket, and maybe a little entertainment in this dead end town.
He should have been able to defend himself better, even avoided the situation altogether. Instead, his mind had been engrossed elsewhere and he hadn't realised the danger he was in until it was too late.
A Winchester taken down by a group of street thugs.
His father would be disappointed.
His father wouldn't find out.
It shouldn't be this hard, this complicated. Looking around at the bare floorboards and peeling paint he suddenly felt so alone as his laboured breaths echoed through the sparsely furnished room.
No welcoming light or the aroma of a home cooked meal to guide him home.
No heated room or maternal hug waiting for him.
No one to take the pain away.
Another splash of blood obscuring his vision hastened him out of his morose thoughts and into action. He needed to get himself cleaned up before Dean got home.
Dropping his school bag beside the front door he left the lights off as he made his way to the bathroom at the rear of the small house, only switching on the overhead light as the door clicked quietly closed behind him. Standing in front of the stained mirror hanging crookedly over the sink, he got a good look at himself for the first time since the attack.
Pain filled eyes stared back at him as he took in the blood coating one side of his face and matting his tangled mess of hair.
Glancing down, he wrapped his fingers around the small carved knife handle protruding from his side through his blood soaked t-shirt. The handle was only large enough to wrap three fingers around, not a proper knife at all he thought, and hardly a weapon. Bracing himself with one hand on the sink and taking a deep breath he pulled. The small blade slid out easily and he dropped the blood coated object with a clatter into the sink before releasing his breath.
Uncaring of the already ruined t-shirt, he pulled the bloody garment over his head and pressed the damp fabric to his side. Clamping his hand firmly over the makeshift bandage now covering the bleeding puncture wound, he held tightly, waiting for the blood flow to lessen.
A feeling of light-headedness washed over him, forcing him to close his eyes against the undulating room. Passing out wasn't an option.
The desire to throw up was nearly overpowering, but he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. He didn't want to be sick. He was too tired to deal with nausea on top of everything else.
Blood soaked through his wadded t-shirt and he belatedly wondered whether removing the knife had been the smartest course of action. He pressed against his side a little harder, keeping his eyes averted from the blossoming flow of red engulfing his t-shirt and dripping down his side.
It hurt like a bitch.
Ironically, it was the knife wound that had saved him. Stabbing him had thrown his attacker off balance as he'd grabbed the guys hand when he'd plunged in the knife, knocking him off balance. Using his training to land a forceful punch to the man's face he had watched as his attacker had stumbled backwards and fallen to the ground. Taking the opportunity to face the other two surprised gang members, he had advanced on them, delivering a well aimed kick to the abdomen of the closest. The third member of the group had cut and run, leaving his comrades behind. Sam had followed his initiative, moving away from the scene before the other two could regroup.
After about ten minutes of the tight pressure the blood flow had reduced to a small trickle and he removed his blood covered hand from the wound. His boots and jeans quickly followed his t-shirt to the floor, until he was standing clad only in his boxers in front of the mirror. Already he cold see the multitude of bruises staring to form across his chest and abdomen where he'd been unable to ward off his attackers' initial strikes.
He'd promised his brother that he'd be home well before dark, but knowing that Dean had a date, he'd stayed at the library a little longer; sure his brother would be none the wiser. But he'd promised Dean – and Winchesters always kept their word. They mightn't have much else, but their father always reminded them that a man's word was his honor.
He didn't want to face his brother's disappointment.
Dean's loss of trust.
Or his father's wrath.
No, this was something he'd keep to himself.
It looked worse than it felt he tried to reassure himself, drawing his eyes away from the image in the mirror.
To be continued…
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