AN: yet another idea that won't leave me alone. This will be multi-chapter if it gets some interest :)
With mud staining his uniform and blood staining his head, Jake lay face-down in the dirt as rain pounded down upon him. The rain, though oppressive, was nothing compared with the looming visage of Sam Winchester.
The last one left. The Boy King.
He stood, taking heaving breaths, above the fallen soldier; his last opponent. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream and fall to the floor and tear his hair out and-
They didn't kill humans.
It was self-defence-
They didn't. Kill. Humans.
Thunder sounded nearby as he stared at the wound he'd inflicted on Jake's head with a rock that had been in reach as he'd been cowering on the ground. He thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, about the close call between Jake's knife and his back. So close, yet so far. If he'd died, he wouldn't be feeling this cloying, suffocating guilt; this heavy burden, weighing down on his shoulders and making his stumble slightly as if it were corporeal.
If he'd died, though, Dean would have-
Dean. It didn't matter what Dean might have done, just that when he saw the blood on Sam's hands, saw the bloody rock and the body at his feet, he would want nothing to do with Sam … No, scratch that: he'd want to kill him.
He was supernatural. He'd killed a human. So, Dean would want to kill him. Easy as two plus two.
Speak of the devil. Sam heard the growl of the Impala's engine close by – he couldn't have said when it had begun, but he'd only just noticed it. Then he noticed its driver, hurtling towards him at full pelt, his eyes wide and full of alarm and fear. Sam would have liked to think that the fear was for him, and not ofhim.
Sam's face contorted in fear and devastation as he tried to think of a way to beg Dean not to kill him that would actually work. Did he want it to work?
This place … All the death, and the fighting, had done a number on him. A rational voice in his head told him that he was being paranoid, and should just hear Dean out, but he couldn't hear the tiny voice over the cacophony of other, louder voices in his head that were screaming at him to run before Dean shot him in the head.
Suddenly, the choice was taken from his hands. He felt an invisible force clench around him – around his arms, his legs, his chest, his brain – tight and forceful, until his eyes rolled back and he fell, boneless, to the floor.
But he didn't hit the floor. The last sensation he felt was weightlessness before he was swallowed into blackness, to the soundtrack of thunder right above his head.
Dust. Dust, everywhere. His tongue chafes against the inside of his mouth; throat seemingly stuck to itself as he tries to breathe. The panic of not being able to get enough oxygen causes him to open his eyes, which only causes more pain and panic, as all he sees is blinding light.
He threw his arm up, to cover his eyes with the crook of his elbow; squeezed his eyes shut, lest some errant rays of light make their way into them against his will. His hand brushed against his face on the way up, and he noticed that he'd grown some stubble. He rolled over, moving from being sprawled spread-eagled on the hard, rough surface to curling up in the foetal position on his side.
He realises suddenly that he is too hot. Way too hot. He didn't have his jacket anymore, but even in a t-shirt and jeans, he felt as if he were boiling alive.
This brings him to a realisation, once he finally remembers the feel of a rock in his hand, and the sound of a skull cracking, and the sensation of slippery blood on his fingers-
I'm in Hell. I am in Hell.
This is it. An eternity of hard, rough ground and blinding light and burning skin -
"… An ambulance or something …"
He groans slightly, and it comes out as a heavy sigh.
"… Definitely breathing, though. It's not far– we can't just leave him here, he'll die of, of – sunstroke, or something,"
"What if this is a scam? I saw on one of those programmes, they leave bait for tourists, and then when you're least expecting it, they pounce and they take your wallet and car keys, and they-"
"Do you see anyone else out here? We're in the middle of nowhere!"
"Yeah, but what if-"
Sam holds up his head slightly; he finds that he isn't as weak as he'd previously thought. He shades his eyes with a hot hand, and looks up.
Because that does not sound like the eternal taunting of demons to him. That sounds like yuppies.
"Oh, hey – hey, are you … Are you okay?" There's a woman, brunette and doe-eyed, and a man, equally as naïve and clueless. A couple, his brain supplies helpfully, and he almost rolls his eyes at how slow he's being.
In response, he frowns. Why do they care? He's a murderer. He's got demon blood in him. He's evil. His brother wants to kill him, and they should leave him to die.
"N – no," He says, but it comes out as a whisper; half way through the syllable, he involuntarily swallows, in an attempt to provide his throat with much-needed moisture. As a result, he coughs, curling up slightly again.
"Here – take as much as you want. We'll restock when we get to there. It's not far," The man reassures, offering Sam an unopened bottle of water. His fears about this being a scam have seemingly been put on the back burner. He sees that they are both happy, and smiling, and that they seem genuinely concerned for his wellbeing.
"How did you end up out here, all alone?" The woman asks, casting her gaze around as Sam swigs gratefully from the water bottle. It's the most satisfying sensation, although slightly overwhelming at first. He notes that, yes, they are yuppies, in their late twenties, perhaps. He isn't complaining, though – at least they're friendly.
He notices, too, that they wear crucifixes. He wonders if they were encouraged to stop in the middle of nowhere by the parable of the Good Samaritan. He almost laughs at the thought.
"I – don't know … Where is here?" He asks, sitting up properly.
The yuppies glance at one another with frowns that obviously state that they're judging him to be some sort of drug-addled freak. It's fine by him – that's better than the demonic reality. Would they even touch him if they knew how deep Hell had sunk its claws into him, and for how long? They were God-fearing people, after all.
He didn't mind their sideways glances: he was too busy squinting into the distance, and realising that he was in the desert. Granted, the couple sounded American, but he couldn't be too sure. He'd passed out in Cold Oak, and now he was in the desert, slowly roasting while parched and starved. Who was to say that he was even on the same continent anymore? Who was to say how long he'd been out of it?
"Nevada. The desert," The man replies slowly, as if Sam is four. He just nods, though. "You involved with drugs? Or, uh, drink?" Sam shakes his head, keeping tight-lipped. "You got your money on you still?"
Sam pats his pockets … No, he must have dropped his wallet back at Cold Oak. He shook his head. The couple simultaneously sent him sympathetic looks.
"Ah. I see," The woman says in a way that tells him for sure that she thinks he's been the victim of organised crime – possibly kidnapped, or carjacked, and left on the side of the road. "Well, we'll be happy to give you a lift to the city, if you want," She offered, and the man nodded enthusiastically; all his scepticism gone now that he considered Sam a victim rather than a potential perpetrator of crimes against tourists.
"Uh … Which city?" Sam asked, as the man helps pull him up. He gives him a tight-lipped smile, and finishes the bottle of water. He can't wait to get in their car: honestly, the prospect of AC and shade is more important than the potential for them to do him harm (which, he judges, is low anyway).
"Las Vegas!" He replies excitedly, "What's your name, anyway?" Sam thinks idly that if they're not careful, they'll get eaten alive in Vegas.
"Sam – my name is Sam," He replies, as the woman opens the backseat door for him to climb in. He does so, and it feels good to result his limbs on something softer than hot, rocky desert ground.
"God's looking out for you, Sam," She replies with a smile, as they both head to the front seat.
He stares at the back of their heads, feeling his eyes boggle at them with incredulity.
Yeah, right. He's looking out for me. Watching, waiting for me to kill again, probably.
He just nods vaguely.
Let me know whether or not I should continue this! I have a little more written, and it gets a bit darker. Thanks!
p.s. Now would be a really great time to thank everyone who has left a review on any of my oneshots/finished stories - I really appreciate them, even if I have no more chapters to add! Bless you all, and thank you.