I know this seems to be a recurring theme of mine, but I thought I'd just go with the flow. Basically, this is some shameless Sam whumpage for BlueEyedDemonLiz, for the momentous occasion of her birthday. Supernaturaldh and Rafikiven waved their magic beta wand over this chapter.
Disclaimer: Yep, still don't own them …but if I did, I'd share.
Summary: An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.
Warning: You know they swear occasionally.
Sam sat slumped in the corner of the room, warm blood dripping steadily from the cut on his scalp, splashing down the front of his shirt.
He spared a glance around the sparsely furnished room before his eyes settled on the large wall clock hanging askew. He could hear the constant tick tick tick as it struggled to keep consistent time, struggled and failed, always running ten minutes behind. He'd considered changing the batteries or maybe just taking it down, but figured in the long run it wasn't worth the effort. It never was.
If you started changing things you started getting attached. Started to give a damn. Until it was all pulled cruelly away as once again you were forced to move on, leaving everything behind and settle some place new. There were only so many times you could start again until you finally realized that you were the only one who cared, who actually gave a damn.
Everything Sam Winchester owned he could carry slung over one shoulder. He no longer tried to change things, but he still had his dreams, that small glimmer of hope hanging on by a tendril, that belief that things would change. His dreams weren't of owning that large color TV in the store he walked past on the way to school, or the fancy sneakers that a lot of the kids his age wore, no, his dreams were of warmth and comfort and security.
He wanted to belong, to be apart of something. He wanted a dad who was at home more that he was away, someone who came to cheer him on at sports or actually turned up at a parent-teacher conference. He needed to feel that he mattered, that someone actually cared, not just about what he could offer, but the person he really was.
It wasn't goddamn fair. His life wasn't fair. He was just so sick of all the crap he had to put up with.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes. As he stared blindly at the clock he tried to work out how long he'd been sitting there, bruised and battered, letting the blood splash onto the worn carpet leaving a deep crimson stain. He tried to focus on the clock hands but his vision was fuzzy and refused to cooperate, and he gave up the effort, because really, what did it matter.
Fuckin' drivers with their cheap cars, he thought, as he tried to push himself up from the floor. He scarcely remembered the walk home or how he came to be sitting in the corner with his bag by his side. But he remembered the impact and the red hot pain that tore through him as he hit the pavement. He remembered the harried driver panicked and screaming, and he remembered the fear he felt and the need and urgency to get away.
He was alone and his head hurt. His Dad and Dean weren't due back for a couple of days, maybe not until the end of the week – that is if their current hunt went according to plan. Of course, something could have called them away longer, since the hunt was always more important than Sam.
Being sick or hurt wasn't an option, so he needed to suck it up. They had no insurance, and his Dad sure as hell hadn't left him enough money to cover a trip to the hospital or even the local clinic. Then there'd be forms and questions he just couldn't answer, a parent he couldn't produce and all sorts of hell would be let loose as the authorities got involved. He didn't need to second-guess his actions. Running had been the right choice.
He could get through this. Shit, if he couldn't even take care of a few cuts and bruises how the hell would his Dad ever think he was old enough or strong enough to start hunting with them. Not just getting dragged along on the hunt, but actual hunting. Just once he wanted his dad to suggest that he 'take point' instead of just tag along. He was so goddamn sick and tired of being the lackey who got to carry the gear and keep watch, well out of harms way. He wasn't sure which was worse, being dragged along on a hunt or being tucked away in some crappy apartment; only allowed to leave if he was going to school or picking up something at the nearby store, like some sort of third-world courier boy.
He took a deep breath before levering himself to his feet, taking small unsteady steps into the bathroom.
Resting his elbow on the rim of the porcelain bowl, he propped his head on his hand, supporting the heavy weight. A steady throb persisted, pounding away at his skull, answered by wave after wave of nausea that showed no signs of abating anytime soon. All he could do was sit and wait, praying that an end was in sight.
He spat stringy lengths of saliva into the toilet, gagging as he started to dry retch again, nothing remaining in his stomach to come up. It didn't seem to matter though, his body refused to accept that there was nothing left, leaving his stomach muscles clenching and unclenching as they tried to eject what was no longer there. He almost wished he had something to throw up, the painful dry heaves gaining in intensity and barely allowing him time to take a breath.
When it was over, it was all he could do to slump back against the wall, legs spread out in front of him and arms hanging limply by his side. He felt like crap and he could see no point in making the effort to drag himself out of the bathroom, not yet anyway. Not until he was absolutely sure it was over.
So he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Waking with a start, he struggled, engulfed in a haze of pain, disorientated and panicked. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the lighting, trying to bring his breathing under control as he took stock of his surroundings.
God, he felt like crap.
Kicking off the covers he levered himself to sit up in bed, bruised flesh protesting at the small movements. He felt like he'd only just gone to bed, but the sunlight streaming in through the thin curtains told a different story. He swung his feet to the floor and steadied himself for a moment, poised on the edge of the bed as his vision wavered.
He felt like an eighty year old man as he staggered to his feet, one hand leaning on the wall for support.
The persistent ring tore through the silence and John bit back a curse as he lowered his shotgun and shrugged his pack off his shoulder. He buried his hand deep into his coat pocket, searching for the irritating object. His fingers wrapped around the phone just as it fell silent and he had to restrain himself from tossing it into the dense undergrowth.
He stared at the number displayed as a missed call, searching for some glimmer of recognition. A small beep heralded the arrival of a new message, and with a sigh, he pressed the button and raised it to his ear.
"God dammit," John swore as he listened to the recorded message. "Usually we wouldn't be so concerned, however considering this is already Sam's tenth absence this term, I find this cause for concern. If you could call me to discuss Sam's attendance…"
"Dad?" Dean queried, watching the scowl that creased across his dad's forehead.
"So much for some important test at school. Seems like Sam's been playing hooky." John bit out, a scowl etched across his face. He really didn't have the patience for Sam's crap.
"What? Sam missed school?" Dean queried, raising troubled eyes to his father.
"Thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants to just because no one's there watching his back. God damn kid's gonna get a wake up call when we get back, let me tell you. Won't know what the hell hit him when I get my hands on him." John heaved his pack back onto his shoulders and stormed ahead.
Sam stood, braced in the doorway, struggling to keep his balance as he looked up at the wall clock. It confirmed what he already knew – he was late for school. He couldn't believe that he'd managed to sleep away most of yesterday afternoon plus the entire night. He could have cursed himself for forgetting to set his alarm clock, for sleeping in …for everything. It seemed like fate was conspiring against him and he was just going along for the ride.
His vision swam as he turned around too quickly, head throbbing and stomach protesting. He raised a hand up to his temple, feeling his way through dried blood to the scalp wound nestled beneath his hair. A large raised lump had already formed, tender to the touch, but fortunately no longer bleeding. He really needed to clean up.
He stumbled towards the bathroom, eager to wash away yesterday's filth and grime. Maybe scrubbed clean, wearing fresh clothes, he could pretend that yesterday never happened.
Pulling his tee-shirt over his head, he tossed it onto the bathroom floor, his other clothes quickly following. Reaching into the shower, he turned the water on full blast, waiting with impatience for it to heat up.
A cursory glance in the mirror confirmed that he looked a wreck; caked blood matting his hair, bruising marred his neck and shoulder. His body struck hard by the cold metal of the hit and run driver. Unfortunately, he didn't feel any better than he looked.
Clean, but feeling none the fresher, Sam sank back down on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress absorb his weight. He willed his body to find the energy to keep moving, but sheer determination seemed to have little effect and his strength deserted him, leaving him dizzy and tired.
He brushed his damp hair away from his face, regretful that the long hot shower seemed to have had little effect in waking him up fully. His mind still seemed muddled with sleep, his limbs lethargic and slow.
Giving in, he lowered the rest of his body on to the bed, curling onto his side and cushioning his head on the pillow. He was already so late for school, a little longer would make no difference. The house was still and silent, taunting him with the lure of sleep. He let his eyes close, no longer fighting his body's needs, welcoming the drift into oblivion.
The sun was high in the sky when he woke again. He blinked against the light streaming in through the streaked window, flecks of dust floating in the rays of sunlight beaming across the room and hitting his face. He twisted with a groan against the unwelcome intrusion, wanting nothing more than to bury himself under the blankets and go back to sleep.
He threw a hand across his face, blocking out the light, trying to ignore his surroundings. The persistent ache throbbing through his body, combined with the pressing need of his bladder finally prompted him to admit defeat. Some things couldn't be ignored, not for long anyway.
Stiff muscles protested as he swung his feet to the floor, but he ignored their complaint, pushing himself up off the bed. He swallowed hastily as his vision swam and stomach lurched, leaning one hand against the wall to steady himself.
He cursed his weakness. Hating it. He felt like he should have greater command over his own body, his movements and reactions. Taking a few deep breaths he closed his eyes and fought for control, seeking out his inner strength. He could do this.
When he opened his eyes again the room was still and for the moment at least, his stomach had settled. With his teeth gritted tight against the anticipated pain, he let go of the wall and walked, one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way towards the bathroom.
School wasn't going to be happening today, he decided, leaning against the bathroom sink. Hell, it was almost over anyway. Even if he dressed and left now, he'd be lucky to get there much before the final bell.
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Next chapter will be ready in a couple of days.