Disclaimer: Ha, Me? Own the Winchesters? Only in my dreams *wink*
Summary: Sometimes the things we do to lessen the pain don't always go to plan. Dean see bunnies.
Prompt Number: 58
AN: my response to the prompt at found_fic_spn, I just couldn't resist. Beta'd by the magnificent pdragon76, she's made of win. Any other faults are my own.
All honor's wounds are self-inflicted. ~Andrew Carnegie
He blinks, takes in the stained denim. The jeans were blue when he put them on, as blue as the sky, now a medley of brown and crimson patches.
"God, Dean, you hurt?"
Sam hands are all over him before he can process the question; the inspection's over by the time his answers reached his lips. It's the bunnies, they're evil.
"How much have you had to drink?"
That's another question that goes unanswered. Sam must have missed them. From a distance they looked just like ordinary bunnies playing in the fields, white with fluffy upturned tails and long whiskers. A closer look revealed their true nature. They were evil, possessed--demons, whatever. They were bunnies gone bad. Nightmare-on-elm street, bad. Red squinty eyes, sharp razor-like claws and teeth that would put Jaws to shame. But that wasn't the worst of it. They'd just finished eating. It wasn't carrots or lettuce or the crap that Sam eats. He couldn't quite make out what it was but there was blood everywhere. In the grass, pools of it in mud. The red stuff drenched their fur coats and was dripping from their pearly whites.
Thumper's far from being cute anymore. And somehow all that mess, all that blood and gore, is all over him.
His stomach churns, he tilts forward. There's movement, some curses and throat burning heaves. Painful at first, but then it's just numb-- empty. Bunnies must have run away because when he's done spewing his guts, he can't see them anywhere. With Sam's help, he's upright and in motion.
Sam's pressing gently on the small of his back with one hand. It feels warm, nice. The other has firm grip on his shoulder, keeps him steady. He's steered towards the road across slippery grass; heavy mud-soaked boots clumsily wade through at snail's pace. He wishes his limbs weren't so clumsy, wills each step to stay above the malleable ground.
"Did someone do this to you?" He also wishes Sam would stop asking so many questions. Didn't he see the bunnies? His throat is so fucking sore. He hawks and spits to the right, misses Sam's shoe by inches. If there was anything left in his stomach he'd puke again.
"Warning would be nice," Sam whines.
"The bunnies, Sammy--"
"Jesus Christ, Dean. You're high, aren't you? What'd you take?" Sam's poking him again. "Your pupils…"
Ow, fuck. Now Sam's prying his eyes open. Why won't he listen?
"Bunnies, Sam." His voice croaks. He shoves Sam's invasive fingers away from his face.
"Fuck the bunnies, Dean. You're tripping or something, and you're scaring the shit outta me. Dude, don't make me take you to hospital, tell me what the fuck you took." Sam's bluffing. He must have seen bunnies too. In fact, Sammy's doing that scrunched I-sucked-a-lemon face.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?"
Sam's face changes, and to Dean, it's almost sobering. It has concern written all over. Pure genuine concern, enough he can feel it seeping through the haze, neutralising the buzz. He takes a deep breath, bobs his head in acknowledgment. He'll give it to him straight. Dean waits for the ground to level, the nauseating wave to subside. He looks his brother in the eye. "'Kay, Sammy…been tryna tell ya, man…bunnies gone bad."
Good, bad, ugly, let me know?