Author: Supernatural Mommy
Beta: The awesome fayedartmouth, by the same name here on (THANKS!)
Characters: Sam, John, a bit of Dean
Rating: PG-13 for some naughty language
Warnings: None, really . . . except for a little language grins
Summary: John and Sam face a non-supernatural danger as tension is already running high.
Author's Notes: This was the first of three prompt challenge fics I plan to write. This first prompt was Supernaturalfan's and she wanted hurt Sammy and maybe a bit of John, facing a non-Supernatural danger ... I think I delivered. With life as crazy as ever, I'm moving slow on working on more one-shots, but I plan to write many, many, more. This and my other prompts came from a challenge issued on my Livejournal, which you can find linked in my profile.
Also, while the genius that is Faye beta'd this out of the kindness of her heart (thanks so much!), special kudos go to Robin, for reading through my early drafts and not telling me it sucked. big grin
"And I said this is what you're going to do!"
Sam leaned his aching head against the cool window, watching the blur of trees and silver guardrails. He had tried, and failed, to keep the anger out of the set of his shoulders; Dad had still seen it. How the great John Winchester could catch that sign of disrespectful but not see how unfair this whole thing was, how worthless it made Sam feel . . . his Dad just didn't get it.
He didn't want to stay with Pastor Jim. He didn't want his dad and Dean to hunt without him. Not that he particularly wanted to go, he just . . . didn't want to be left behind. It was like he was just an extra, not part of the team. Not that Dad cared at all.
He peeked at his dad's profile, but didn't see any sign that his dad could actually read thoughts, which was a good thing. He just really didn't like John sometimes. He was fifteen! He sure as he . . . ck didn't need a freaking babysitter. He could help, screw the Rawhide – he wasn't a kid!
"Whatever." It was his standard line, guaranteed to show Dad just how ticked off he was. Kind of guaranteed to make Dad just as mad; which was really the point.
"I swear, Sammy, you need to listen when I'm talking to you! And show me some fuckin' respect!" Dad's weathered face turned toward him for a brief moment, and Sam felt a pang of remorse. It was gone just fast enough for him to sigh and look pointedly out the window again.
The tension in the truck was thick enough to slice, and Sam decided now might be a good time to be quiet. He crossed his arms and tried to make his body as small as possible, intent on just staying quiet for the rest of the ride to Pastor Jim's. A squeal of breaks from the other side of the road had him turning just in time to see a Honda cross the midline.
The truck swerved sharply, his head connecting with the window with a soft thud. He pushed against the dashboard, his arms extended to support him as the old Ford whined in protest.
"Damn idiot driver!"
Sam watched in near-panic as Dad's face took on a familiar mask, and, just like that, the hunter – the marine – took over. How come he never panics? A growl, a squeal of breaks and he caught the blinding headlights as the pathetic Civic's grill glanced off dad's door. Least he's not mad at me right now. The base from the blaring radio still echoed in his head, stupid screaming morons adding to the overwhelming blare of sound.
The road, the other car, trees, guardrails . . . it was all a blur as the truck kept moving toward disaster despite his father's frantic turning of the wheel and stomping on the brakes.
"Damn! Sammy, hold on!"
He was already busy following that order, thank you very much. Sam clenched his eyes shut as the truck went weightless for a long beat, his stomach rising in that weightless moment to make him want to puke.
A loud crash, tangle of tree branches whipping across his window, and they rocketed through a small knot of trees fast enough to make his ears hum with the deep booms of impact; Over and over again, limbs attacked the windshield, the impact whipping him first one way and then another. It occurred in a whir of motion and sound until, with a drawn out whine, the truck rammed one last tree.
Sam's head connected with the windshield as the truck rocked forward violently, and just when everything finally became quiet, he slumped into darkness.
"Dean?" No, he's not here . . . "Dad?"
His head hurt. Bad. He tried opening heavy eyes but bright light pierced his skull; he clenched them shut against the agonizing pain, groaning. Sam tried to control his breathing, tried to figure out why he was almost standing in the cab of the truck. Now that he was starting to feel the pain, Sam could tell one of his legs hurt too. His right one.
He panted now, suddenly becoming more aware of pain, everywhere. Just . . . pain. His head, his eyes, his leg, his stomach, his back, his right arm, and his freaking pinky: Everything hurt.
He braved the spike in pain and opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the bright light. Bright light? It was dark, right? Huh. Everything was a murky shadow of itself except for the bright light, which washed over everything, making it even harder to see. He blinked, sending another stabbing pain through his head.
He could feel his arms, vaguely registering they were trapped against the dashboard, under him. His head was . . . he wasn't sure where his head was. He could barely make out the sparkling remains of glass in front of him, and he was looking out of the truck?
Glass . . .
Windshield . . . he was staring at the windshield, or what was left of it, anyway, wrapped around the tree in reflecting particles. The . . . headlights, they were hitting the shards of glass, lighting up the scene before him. He was somewhat relieved he couldn't make out details too well.
"Dad!" He turned his head to his left, bit his lip to keep from crying out: No Dad there. He could make out the outline, the shape of a body inside the cab of the truck. Dad! He had to get back inside the truck, all the way, somehow. Instead he was draped over the dashboard and lying partially on the hood of the truck, what was left of it, anyway.
He wiggled, gasped at the agony spearing through his body at the small movement, and felt the tingling of something in his shoulder. He'd have to go up and back, avoid whatever that was. He tensed his arms, used his stomach muscles, heaving up and back in one movement.
He hit the seat behind him with a crunchy thud and grunted as the impact knocked his lanky frame around like a rag doll. Pain seemed to light his entire body on fire and he moaned in relief as he felt the familiar crawl of unconsciousness.
". . . you hear me, son?" Dad. He must have flinched or something. "Sammy, come on . . . open your eyes. Please?"
That freaked Sam out. Dad never said please. It was always Do it now, soldier!
Hands were on his leg, probing.
Then, suddenly, OhmyGodthat hurtssofreakingbad!
His leg was wrenched into a straight position, and the blinding pain of the action caused him to whimper. He'd never tell Dean that, though.
"Sammy? Son . . ." The pain was too sharp, the world too fuzzy.
His father's calm, commanding voice wasn't enough to keep him from slipping, sliding back into unconsciousness yet again.
". . . unconscious. Woke up for . . . yeah, concussion, busted leg . . ." Dad's military voice swam through his head, familiar and reassuring. ". . . worried. Need an ambulance . . . yes."
"Dad?" Dean? No, Dean was home, packing. Not here, trapped, hurting. "Dad, I think . . . too much blood here . . . Dad?"
He could feel it now, pressure on his shoulder, clenching, horrible pain behind it.
His leg throbbed.
Agony encompassed his head. Sharp, stabbing, horrible pain – everywhere. It hurt.
"Sammy?" Dean, help me! It hurts so bad. ". . . coming around . . . he's hurting bad . . ."
He couldn't . . . Sam's body was floating on waves of agony and he was helpless to fight the pull back into darkness.
"Lmlnnnn…." Leave me alone. The soft tapping on his cheek barely pierced through the haze, but it was enough to annoy him.
"Sammy, dude, come on . . ." No.
He wanted to sleep, for like a week, or a year, or something.
"Sammy, please." Please? Dean never said please. It was usually Quit being such a girl, Samantha. Or . . . Grow some nuts, dude. Not that Dean was ever mean about it, he just never . . .
The pain of his broken body hit him in one crushing wave of agony and he caught his breath and made a noise that was not a whimper, but a manly scream of discomfort. He felt crushing pressure applied to his right hand and turned his head that way; tried to, anyway.
"Help's coming, son." That gruff voice . . . that sounded like Dad, but no way could it be him because his father never sounded that close to tears. "Open your eyes, Sammy, can you . . . please?"
He was panting now, trying to keep the pain from drawing him under again. He couldn't isolate one hurt from another anymore, his body was just one big ball of misery. He tried again to turn his head, taking strength from that hand clutching his own as the pain intensified again.
"That's it, Sammy, now just open your eyes, 'kay?" Dean's voice again, breathless. His head was facing the right way now, at least. He concentrated on opening his eyes, the pain acute as they opened to a blurry image of his brother. Thank God. Dean! "There you go, little brother."
He couldn't focus, but his eyes were open now. He still panted, the pain a steady, throbbing presence.
"Good job. Just try and keep them open." That gruff voice again. Dad? It came from the other side of him and he just couldn't gather enough energy to turn his head in that direction.
"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here."
He blinked a few times, his view of Dean sharpening slightly. He took in his brother's wary eyes, but they weren't looking at his face. Dean was studying his shoulder, his thigh, his leg, and then he looked back up to meet Sam's eyes. He blinked, his face clearing as he smiled down at Sam.
"Hey, there, tiger."
"Hrts." 'Cause, really, how could he even think past the steady, pulsating pain?
"I know, kiddo. It'll be okay. Help's coming." His eyes were heavy now. The pain was worse. He caught his breath in a sob, and his eyes closed against his will. "Sammy?"
How'd Dean get here?
"Sam . . ."
" . . . know how it is!" Dad? The voices faded in and out of his grayish void. He wasn't ready to leave his cocoon yet.
" . . . wish they'd . . . are they?"
"Get . . . shoulder, Dad." Dean? How'd he get here? Of course Dad would need his good soldier . . . He registered the stabbing pain in a vague, halfway there sort of way. Someone . . . Dad . . . was pressing on his shoulder. It hurt. He must have made a sound, because now they wanted to see his freaking eyes again. What was it with the eyes? Screw opening his eyes! Someone turn off the pain!
He blinked open his eyes after another minute of sharp pain, whining under his breath, panting. Just make it stop!
"M'sorry, Sammy, but it's still bleeding." The fiery pain didn't lessen, but it joined the rest of his body, the throbbing hurt barely tolerable. Not tolerable, actually. Da . . . darn Dad, making things worse . . . "I'm so sorry, Sammy."
The whisper broke him. He looked, actually looked, at his father. Bloodstained face, shimmering eyes, his mouth was still moving. His hand was still pushing against Sam's shoulder.
"Huh?" Not so eloquent. Dad didn't apologize, though. Ever.
"Just . . . hang in there son. Dean's here." Sam heard the unspoken words . . . I'm here, too, Sammy. Usually, Dean was the one who made his hurts go away, soothed his fears. Dean was here, and that was good. But so was Dad, and for the first time since he could remember, Sam actually wanted, needed, his Dad to be there.
It seemed to Sam that Dad was trying, needing, to take his pain away now. A big paw of a hand reached out to cup the back of his neck, resting there heavily, solidly, comfortably. His Dad inched just a little closer to him.
"Y'r 'er." And that's enough. It's more than enough. He met his father's eyes, wished he could tell him that it was enough, because Dad made him feel safe. The same way Dean did, only just a little bit . . . more.
He'd be okay, now. Dean was here. Dad was here.
A soft squeeze on the back of his neck, Dad's soft monologue that he had no hope of comprehending at this point, the smell of old spice, cheap shampoo, sweat and just . . . Dad. He licked his lips but couldn't put any thoughts into words, barely understood his own thoughts anyway. He did know one thing, though.
It would be okay now.
I currently have serious ideas about producing at least one other one-shot to accompany this, that follows perhaps John and shows us a bit of the aftermath as well. Just a thought...there have been a few cries for continuation.
Reviews feed the aspiring writer...won't you feed me today? SMILE ---Kat