A/N: Some 'old-fashioned' h/c. For Darksupernatural, because I promised her this, a long, long time ago. I own nothing and I'm sorry for all the mistakes, this is unbetaed, because I'm already late with this story. Enjoy.
His heart is racing.
There's an airplane drawing lines of white across the painfully bright baby blue sky. He read once that the contrail is supposed to be full of chemical agents deliberately sprayed to the ground, conspiracy theory of course, but he just scoffed at that, because what's hiding in the dark is what people should be scared of, not contrails. Although, Crowley sure could be behind the chemtrail theory. The son of a bitch is crafty enough.
The noise is deafening, the plane's engines a humming pressure in his head going hand in hand with the already existing throb somewhere in his left temple. It hurts so badly; pressure and throbbing and heartbeat that he can feel deep in his head. He moans, loud and long and tries to reach up with his hands to feel if his head is still attached to his neck, or is it half way to falling off.
The airplane is gone now, just the white remaining, showing the destination of people who are perfectly safe and unaware of what is happening to him here, on the forest's ground. People, who live completely in the dark, worrying only about how fun their vacation is gonna be. He's pretty sure they're heading to Florida and he snickers, because a lot of crap goes down in Florida.
He wants to reply, say something, say whatever, but he can't. His tongue is glued to the sky of his mouth, his teeth feel ten times too big for his gums and every time he tries to swallow he gags at the taste of copper filling his throat.
He's probably not doing so well. He's probably kinda dying, and isn't that funny. Those people will go to Florida and sunbathe themselves to 3rd degree burns and drink cocktails with funny straws all the while he's dying ... on the warm, soft, ground. Well at least it's warm. The sun's bright, the sky clear, with white puffy clouds rolling on the light breeze.
And then there's his brother's bloody, dirty, sweaty face blocking his view of the disappearing white line and the puffy white clouds. The noise is still there, muffled by the distance and getting even more lost in the sound of his brother's deep voice yelling: "Sam!"
Dean's eyes are wide open, the green in them bright from panic and adrenaline running through his veins, Sam knows that, can feel the same happening to him, and he can't stop it. He wants to stop it, because it hurts so goddamn much. His head. His chest. His arms.
He hopes his brother can fix the plane's engines, because the noise is getting worse, it's whistling now, a loud screech in his brain and his brain will fall to pieces if this will go on, but he can't stop it. He tries to raise his arms up again, to press the heels of his hands in his eyes, block out the sight of his brother's worried face, press his fingers into his ears and block out the sound of the screeching airplane.
He groans, when his wrists are gripped tight, caught with sure, strong fingers somewhere half way to his eyes. The fingers hurt, pressing in so deep, he's gonna get bruises and his blood's gonna stop flowing and ... and ... and maybe that is gonna make him die faster. Maybe, if Death will have mercy on him. They're friends, now, right? Death should have mercy on him.
"Sam, hey, hey man. You with us?"
His brother's cracked lips are moving, he can even tell what they're saying, but he just doesn't know. The ringing in his head is getting a higher pitch, like a telephone - one of those old ones - that no one wants to answer. He wants to answer and say fucking stop, but he can't, because his hands are held tight by his brother and he needs his hands to hold the receiver, right?
"Sam, Sammy, hey, you with us? Answer me, man."
He tugs at his arms, because dude, he needs his hands to answer, but Dean just tightens his grip. How's he supposed to answer now, if his brother won't give him back his hands? Weird Dean.
"Kkkkhh." he says and hopes it's enough and by the way Dean's mouth splits into a wide grin ... its enough.
"Okay, you with us, okay, now just stay like that. Don't move."
As if he can move, stupid idiot of a big brother. His hands are trapped, held close to Dean's muddy shirt, all he can do is uncurl his fingers and grab hold of the fabric, sink his fingernails in and hold on, because the world just tilted on its axis and that ... that is so not good. He tries to curl up to his left side, curl up into his big brother, curl up and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to a sunny day when nothing would hurt.
But his stupid idiot of a big brother doesn't allow that to happen. Before he can file a protest at not being allowed to curl up and escape the pain and the Earth clearly free falling into space, Dean's left hand is stretched around his waist, pinning his upper body down into the leaves.
"I said don't move."
He tries to curl up again, twisting his shoulders and chest left and right, arching his back, anything to dislodge Dean's arm around his middle.
"Dude, stay down."
It's an order. An order, not a request. An order and his brain snaps to attention even through the telephone ringing and his heartbeat drumming in his ears.
He stills. Collapses back to the ground and blinks. There's a tear that breaks free of his lashes and runs down into his ear. It's wet and it tickles and Dean's eyes change. Just like that; from fear to ohgodsammyholdon in a split of a second.
"Keep him still over there!"
That ... that is definitely not his brother's voice. That ... that is just not.
He looks at Dean, still hovering above him and he knows Dean's pissed. Oh so very much pissed. But not at him, never at him. Even if at him, sometimes, the anger in his eyes is never like that. Murder. It spells murder. With a side of torture.
And then his brother's eyes leave him, his head spins back and Sam can see grime run down his brother's right cheek. It's hot. Here. So hot. And he can feel his own sweat run down his body in rivers, itching down his neck, his spine, his chest. Or maybe it's blood. He can't tell. Maybe he's bleeding out right here on this beautiful day that started out just fine.
There was magic in the air, or well the smell of coffee but for his brother that was just one and the same, he figured.
He leaned back with a huge coffee cup of his own held tightly in his hand, his back hitting the back of the seat and sighed.
It really was some good coffee.
"So… you done having sex with your coffee?"
"Dude, the noises you're making, seriously…"
"What?" Dean squeaked. He's sure Dean would deny it later, but come on, seriously?
He watched his brother raise an eyebrow and let it go, because his brother knew that with him, he really needed to be careful about the fights he chose.
"So... where to now?"
"Nathan called … while you were…" he twirled his hands around "…drinking your coffee. He needs some help with a hunt. I said alright."
"Dad's friend, apparently. We talked some, sounded legit. Called Bobby later and he said yup, legit."
"And where was I when all of this was going on?"
"Uh, like I said … having coffee and other … stuff."
He moved his eyes towards Dean's plate full of nothing. Licked clean of eggs, bacon and pancakes.
"Ah, the fun. Where to?"
"Not far, Colorado."
"Okay, just let me hit the can and then we can go."
"Alright, I'll get the check."
That had been this morning. Just this morning. He's still able to feel the coffee swirling in this stomach and he's afraid that it's gonna make a second appearing pretty soon.
"Shut up, you son of a bitch and do it!"
"You sure Sam can handle it?!"
"You let me worry about my brother, you just do it!"
The words are growled, the anger showing in them plain and simple and he's really glad he's not on the receiving end. He had been though, lots of times, but they're brothers. It's different. The anger is different. The words are different. It's all different and that suits him just fine, because he can do different. But plain, pure, raw out there anger from Dean? That he can't do.
When Dean's eyes settle back on his, Sam winces. He wants to erase that anger, wants to know what the hell is going on, wants to move away, twist away and curl up again, ignore the order to stay still, because he doesn't know what is going on, he doesn't know what happened, what went wrong, what is wrong with him.
"Sam, listen to me. Stop squirming and listen ... listen, listen..."
He's all ears and all twitching limbs and his fingers are digging into his brothers chest and, and his legs ... won't work, his legs... he can't feel 'em, he can't feel his legs.
" Dean, 'mhh leggghs?"
His voice is a weak whisper, but his brother is leaned so close to him their noses are practically touching so he's pretty sure Dean heard him.
He can't feel his legs. Can't make them move. He focuses really hard on them, so hard he closes his eyes and grunts from the pain, but he still can't feel them.
"Dean?" he mumbles and clenches his fingers harder into his brother's shirt.
He can't feel his legs. And he's terrified.
"Sam, okay, listen ... you're good, alright? Just lay still and look at me."
Dean's bony elbow is digging right into his chest and he can't take a deep enough breath and Dean should know better than leaning down on him so heavily. He opens his eyes and has to cross them to be able to look at Dean's face.
"You got him?!"
The voice, again. Nathan. Dad's old buddy. Good hunter.
"Yes, I got him! Fucking just do it already and let me worry about my little brother!"
Whoah, pissed. So much, anger is leaking out of every pore on his brother's body. This is not good. This is so very, very not good. Obviously something went wrong on this hunt. And obviously he took most of the trouble.
"Yeah, yeah, 's all good, you just lay there."
As if he has any other choice. He'd huff if he'd find the strength, so he digs his fingers deeper into his brother's chest.
"Dude, ow, that's my nipple, leave it alone, bitch."
The perks of being a little brother.
And then he's screaming and trying to push his head right into his brother's chest. Deep, deep in there, through the skin and the bone.
There's a dark brown wooden ceiling right above him. The wooden planks are nailed diagonally, which is making his head hurt. To his right there's a window with dirty white curtains - almost gray - pushed to the sides, the stained glass revealing a bright, sunny day and a lot of trees.
It feels like a Sunday. Warm. Painless. Floating on a high of beer and pretzels. Or maybe pain meds.
There are birds outside, chirping, happy, going around on their business.
He shifts his head to the left where he sees Dean leaning on the door frame, with a bright window at his back across the hall. The light there is brighter and it blinds him for a second. He squints and blinks, his eyes taking some time to readjust to the brightness.
He moans and smacks his lips. He's thirsty. And hungry. And nauseas. And his head is swimming on the soft pillow.
He looks at his brother again and sees him wiping his hands on a rag. There's something wrong with that scene, because he's pretty sure his brother was not just doing the dishes.
"I can't," he swallows, "feel my legs."
"Okay, that's okay. Nothing's wrong with 'em. They'll just be numb for awhile."
"A few hours, days, a week tops."
He's still wiping his hands on the rag in a way that's making Sam feel real uneasy. There's some kinda ... is that blood?
"What happened?" he rasps.
"Nathan screwed up."
"Okay. Where," smack of lips, "is he?"
"Not what I asked."
"Sam, he's fine."
He stops wiping his hands in the bloody rag and lets it hang from his hand. There is still some blood on Dean's knuckles, but Sam's sure his brother will deal with that later.
"He's on the couch. Resting. Had a busy day."
But it's not alright, because when he adds everything up, he's pretty sure Nathan is a bloody mess on that couch and possibly dying. Or he wishes he was dying.
"'m gonna go grab you some water, be right back."
And he's left there with numb legs and no answers.