SPN - Ring of Fire
Title: Ring of Fire
Word Count: Unknown
Part: 2/2
Summary: Sam and Dean come across an unusual hunt. Limp!Sam, Hurt!Dean, slightly crack!fic.... I think I was on crack when I wrote this... Again, no beta, so all mistakes are mine. Although, I hope there be none.
I know this story is totally ridiculous, but I have to say, it's the most fun I've had writing in a very long time.
A/N: No Basan's were hurt in the production of this story... well, not totally hurt... In my defence it was trying to barbeque them.
His arm was on fire.
For a moment Dean felt a surreal detached sensation as he watched the orange flames dance up his dark jacket. Reality hit him harder than he could have imagined. Pain flared up his entire arm, the skin burning. He yelped and suddenly remembered he needed to put it out. In his panic, he dropped onto the floor and rolled around in an attempt to douse the scalding fire.
It took seconds to put the flames out, but it felt longer to Dean. His arm was burnt beneath the jacket, he was sure, but he didn’t exactly have time to think about it. He was suddenly aware that the room was filled with thick, black smoke. The acrid taste of it burnt the back of his throat, tearing down his windpipe with jagged claws. The Basan was hissing and shrieking in a nails-down-a-chalk-board kind of way that made Dean’s teeth ache, but he wasn’t focused on the moving chicken drumstick. His gaze was locked onto his brother’s limp form.
Sam was slouched back against the wall, his head lowered so it was resting on his chest. Dean couldn’t see his brother’s face, shrouded beneath too-long dark hair, but the fact he wasn’t up and kicking Big Birds ass was a bad sign - especially considering the Basan was stalking closer towards Sam.
Half-staggering to his feet, he clamped his hand around the handgun he had dropped when he’d gone up like a human candle. Dean ignored the fact his leg buckled beneath him and forced his newly-healed ankle to take his weight as he slapped a fresh magazine into the gun. He found traction after two steps, the pain that had been shooting up his leg dissipating as he barrelled across the room. Sam was down, and the Basan looked ready to make his brother into chicken feed. No way in hell was Dean letting that happen. He fired the entire clip into the creature, ignoring the anguished screams that erupted from its mouth. It writhed, throwing its head back and listed off into the smoke. Dean kept his gun raised, sliding it back and forth, expecting the Basan to reappear. Time seemed to crawl to a halt as he strained to hear in the all-to-still room, but Dean wasn’t willing to wait around for Chicken Little to make another grand entrance. He slipped his weapon into the back of his jeans and turned his attention to his brother.
Cupping Sam’s chin in his hands, he lifted his brother’s head off his chest, grazing his eyes over the dark patch and torn material on Sam’s shoulder. There was a substantial amount of blood staining his shirt, but it was the rattling wheeze as Sam’s ribs caved in and out that worried him. Splitting his gaze between the smoke-filled room, Dean felt edgy as hell that the Basan wasn’t in sight. What the hell was it doing? The rounds had probably hurt the bird, but Dean wasn’t stupid enough to think being shot would kill it. Suddenly he knew how Tom felt when Jerry disappeared.
His thoughts were broken as he tried to stifle a spluttering cough with no success. The air was so thick and his lungs were burning as he breathed the heavy toxins in. He covered his mouth and nose with his uninjured forearm, unable to stop the coughs wracking him now. Wave after wave of paroxysmal spasms raced through him until he could barely inhale at all. His vision was starting to darken around the edges and Dean knew he wasn’t going to last much longer in the house.
With trembling and clumsy fingers, he curled his fists into his brother’s shirt and hoisted all six-foot-four of Sam off the ground. They both wavered; Sam because he was a dead-weight, Dean because he was dizzy as hell. He ignored his wobbling vision as much as he could, and somehow managed to drag his brother over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Moving as quickly as he could on shaky legs, and with the added weight of his brother, Dean moved into the adjacent room - a second reception - before moving into the hallway. There were only ghostly wraiths of smoke here and his lungs took a tremulous breath, grateful for the clean air, hypoxic muscles appreciative of the new oxygen flooding their cells. Desperate to get into the fresh air, and to get his brother out of danger, Dean staggered up the narrow corridor and hit the front door at a run. Fumbling with the latch, he was out into the fresh air in less than a minute. Dean didn’t stop running, however. He took the steps down from the porch quickly, and stumbled across the front lawn towards the Impala. His baby had never looked as frigging good as it did now.
He gently lowered his brother off his back, propping him against the side-panelling, one hand clamped against the shoulder that wasn’t blood soaked as he fumbled for the handle. His chest felt as if elastic bands had been wound tightly around his lungs and he was still spluttering like an emphysema patient. His arm was throbbing electrically but Dean didn’t even acknowledge it. It wouldn’t take the Basan long to figure out they had left the house, and Dean really was not looking for a re-match. He’d come back later, with bigger guns and a fire-extinguisher and watch Big Bird squirm.
Somehow, Dean managed to manoeuvre his little brother into the passenger seat of the car. Sam still hadn’t roused and he was limp as hell during the entire procedure. By the time Dean had lifted Sam’s legs into the foot well, he was breathing heavily. He was also wheezing like an asthmatic mid-attack, but he couldn’t really do much about smoke inhalation at the moment.
Turning his attention back to his unconscious little brother, he quickly reached under the back seat for the first aid kit. He wanted to get out of there quickly, but he didn’t want Sam to bleed to death while they were escaping. Dean didn’t spare his brother’s t-shirt any mercy as he tugged it out of his jeans and pushed it up so it was bunched around his arm pits. The material clung to the bloodied wounds and Dean carefully, but quickly, prised it free.
The wounds weren’t long but they were deep, and they were still bleeding. Normally, Dean would have cleaned them out with saline, packed them with gauze and found the nearest clinic able to give tetanus - and probably rabies - shots. He didn’t have time for that, however, and instead settled for simply covering the wounds and taping the gauze down. He could look at them later. For now, his plan was simple: get the hell out of Dodge.
The Basan had other ideas.
It appeared out of the darkness like a chicken-shaped-wraith, shrieking like a banshee. Dean instantly pulled his torso out of the car, and whirled to face it. The Basan was pissed, and from the purple goo running down its beautiful technicolour feathers, Dean guessed he was the reason why. It was just annoying as hell that his .45 hadn’t even slowed the creature down.
Dean closed the door of the car slowly, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. Sam was still unconscious, his chest heaving as he took shuddering breaths. At least he was safer in the car - for now.
Dean shifted on his feet, moving away from the car step by step, attempting to draw it away from his brother. His limbs felt a little rubbery beneath his legs, but no way in hell was he and letting Big Bird take a swipe at them both. The fact this thing wasn’t deep-fried already suggested that Sam must not have finished the sigil.
Sam had figured out pretty early in the research that the damn sigil was the only way to kill Chicken not-so-Little. It was a series of complicated markings and some language that Dean couldn’t even pronounce, let alone copy. Sam had shoved a picture of the sigil into Dean’s hand before they’d even gotten out of the car, telling him he’d have to finish it if he couldn’t. But Dean was even less of an artist than Sam, and even if he wasn’t at risk of being flame-grilled, Dean doubted he could have drawn it. He glanced at the now burning house, smoke and flames licking through the windows at the back of the house, Sam’s half-completed sigil probably already destroyed and sighed.
So much for Plan A.
With a slow hand, he pulled the gun from his waistband. He knew it was about as useful as slinging mud at a poltergeist, but running out of damn ideas. He emptied what remained of the clip into the creature, slammed a new magazine in and emptied half of it before the Basan slammed into him.
The weight of the bird, and the momentum of its attack, carried them both into the side of the Impala with a heavy thunk. White hot pain raced through his entire pelvis and lower back as he was crushed between the cold metal of the car and the two hundred pound bird.
“Son of a bitch!” He pushed a hand underneath the mass of feathers, cringing at the slick oiliness and shoved savagely. “If you’ve damaged my paintwork, I swear to God I’ll-“
That was as far as the threat went.
Dean’s feet suddenly left the ground, his gun slipping through his fingers as he flew through the air like a human dart. The landing was less graceful than the flight. He slammed into the lawn hard enough to wind him, this time his spine taking the full force. Dazed, he blinked sluggishly at the twinkling stars overhead and didn’t attempt to move, not even sure he could. His entire body was hurting, his arm, his hips, and his spine. Something warm was trailing down the side of his face. With awkward fingers he reached up and wasn’t surprised they came away blood-slicked.
The Basan shrieked into the night sky, more wolf-like than bird. Dean twisted his head across the grassy ground as the giant bird stalked towards him, cooing and cawing between screams, huge talons sinking into the grass. It was looking at him like he was a sirloin covered in gravy. It made Dean uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure he liked being considered a food source.
Dean rolled onto his front clumsily but he didn’t manage to get his hands underneath him. A sharp agonising pain exploded through his thigh as the Basan pinned him down with its clawed feet. His leg felt as if it was being torn apart. Dean arched his back, trying to get free of its grip, but the Basan wasn’t done playing games yet. It dug its knife-like talon deeper into the fleshy part of Dean’s leg mercilessly. The yelp that emitted from Dean’s lips was completely primal and so pain-filled that for a brief moment he didn’t realise it had come from his own mouth. Technicoloured spots danced in front of his eyes, dripping across his sight like a feathered curtain coming down on a stage. Then it released and pulled the talon out. The exit was almost as bad as the entrance. Dean was blind for a second before his vision wobbled back into focus. He didn’t waste any time dwelling on the pain, or the fact his thigh was already warm with his own blood. Survival instincts were on overdrive, and if Dean was going down, he was going down swinging - and he was taking Big Bird with him.
His body had other ideas, however. Pushing his elbows into the dewy grass, he attempted to rise, but his leg wasn’t cooperating. His jeans were already soaked with his own blood and the limb felt dead. With grim certainty, Dean realised there wasn’t a chance in hell he was walking out of this mess.
Instead, he did the only thing he could. He propelled himself backwards using his elbows and his one working leg. He barely moved before the Basan was clamping its large foot over his newly-healed ankle, pinning him to the ground. The merest touch sent him into agony which seemed to please the Basan. It pushed harder, putting more weight onto the damaged limb. Dean threw his head back against the ground, the muscles in his throat taut as he attempted to stifle the scream on his lips. His ankle bone creaked and groaned under the Basan’s weight. He was sure it was a second from breaking. The bastard was toying with him, like a cat with a bird, only, Dean was the damn bird. It tilted its head to one side, considering him as he tried to wriggle his ankle free to little avail. Breathing heavily, whimpering quietly, Dean closed his eyes and tried to get a hold of his pain. It was consuming him, making him dizzy and nauseous as hell. He couldn’t control it. Hell, he could barely think straight. His entire leg was thrumming with electric agony that had every pain-receptor in his body on red alert.
“Hey!”
Dean shifted his gaze behind the Basan to see his brother leaning heavily against the passenger door of the Impala. He was pale as hell, wheezing, but he had Dean’s favourite shotgun trained on Chicken Little.
“Sammy…” Dean’s relief almost overwhelmed him, but then he should have known that his little brother wouldn’t let this oversized turkey turn him into giblets.
“Let him go you son of a bitch!” Sam’s voice shook and sounded hoarse, but it was the most welcoming sound Dean had EVER heard.
The Basan slowly turned to glance over its shoulder, snarling deeply. Dean hadn’t imagined a bird could express emotions but the thing radiated malice as it tightened its hold on his ankle. Dean couldn’t help it this time. He screamed in agony. He was sure it had snapped the bone.
Sam didn’t let it do more than that. With a quick finger, he pulled the trigger and released two rounds into it.
The Basan imploded. Two rounds and it imploded. Feathers and bits of the Basan itself spattered up Dean’s face, purple goo liberally coating his legs and the ground as well. Dean closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth, not wanting to smell the rotten decaying stench that was fusing the air, and instead focused on his throbbing ankle, thigh, arm and head.
“Dean?” His name was followed by a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder. Dean’s eyes flew open, Sam’s worried face appearing in front of him.
“Man, I have never been so damn glad to see you in my life,” Dean murmured breathlessly, appraising his brother quickly for damage. Sam seemed sluggish, congested as hell, but he was in one piece. Dean guessed the fresh air had done him some good.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Sam said, moving to examine Dean’s leg. He hissed as his younger brother pulled back his shredded jeans. “Sorry. It looks pretty nasty.”
“Yeah, Big Bird did a real number on me.” He winced again at his brother’s less than gentle touch. His hands were shaky, probably from the smoke inhalation, possibly from his wounds, possibly a concussion. “Easy… on the merchandise, Sam.”
Sam snorted softly under his breath, and then pulled a face. “Your leg looks like mince.”
“Don’t sugar-coat it, will you?” Dean muttered, but then softened his tone. “How you feeling? You were pretty out of it. What happened?”
Sam’s lips tightened into an amused line. “Smoke inhalation, shock at being sliced and diced by a fire-breathing chicken - take your pick, dude.” Sam’s voice was tired and hoarse still.
“My next question is how the hell did you kill it? I emptied three clips into the son of a bitch and nothing.”
Sam actually grinned. “I used special rounds.”
When Dean raised a brow, his brother pulled out a clear vial and held it up for him to see.
“Is that…?”
“Holy water,” Sam finished, sliding tiredly onto his knees next to Dean. “I figured since it was fire-based, water would probably have some kind of adverse affect.”
Dean blinked. He hadn’t even thought of that. His brother’s ingenuity amazed him sometimes. “Ok, Erkel, that’s uh… what I was gonna try next.”
Sam merely raised a brow but didn’t contend it. He reached under Dean’s armpit and gripping his wrist, pulled his arm around his neck. Together they managed to get Dean upright, albeit shakily. His leg was throbbing now, as was his singed arm. Dean hadn’t even tried to get his jacket off to see the damaged.
“You’re gonna need to see a doctor,” Sam noted, tensing a little, no doubt expecting an argument. Dean sighed. He hated doctors, but he knew Sam was right about this one.
“Yeah, I know.” They could treat the burns themselves but the wound to his thigh was deep - surgery deep - and his ankle was a mess. “You too. That whole ‘sleeping-on-the-job’ thing makes me twitchy. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
Dean let his brother take some of his weight while he tried to find traction in the damaged limb. He could feel Sam trembling wearily beside him and didn’t want to put too much weight on his weakened brother. His ankle and thigh protested at being used, and Dean realised quickly that there was no chance in hell he was going to be able to weigh-bear on the limb. He closed his eyes and bit on his bottom lip as he tried to stand on it again, receiving a shot of red-hot pain for his trouble.
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Just take your time,” Sam said softly, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm and waist. Sam was pretty much the only thing keeping him on his feet at the moment. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He then turned back to Sam. “So? Did you hit your head?”
“It was the smoke, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “There was just too much of it, and I couldn’t catch my breath.”
Dean prised one eye open. “You fainted.”
Sam scowled. “I did not faint.”
Dean snorted, giving up on trying to walk himself, finally letting his brother help him. “Well, Francis, you think you can stay awake long enough to drive us to a hospital?”
“I’m glad you’re ok, too, jerk.”
Dean’s lips twitched into a smile. He really was glad his brother was in one piece. That had been close. Too goddamn close. Another thirty seconds and Sam would have been identifying him from dental records.
Sam laughed under his breath suddenly, pulling Dean out of his morbid thoughts. Casting a side long glance at him, Dean frowned. “What?”
“Fire-breathing chickens…” He shook his head, tightening his grip on his brother’s arm. “Man, our lives are weird.”
Dean grunted, and then laughed himself. Weird didn’t even begin to cover it.
The End...
Word Count: Unknown
Part: 2/2
Summary: Sam and Dean come across an unusual hunt. Limp!Sam, Hurt!Dean, slightly crack!fic.... I think I was on crack when I wrote this... Again, no beta, so all mistakes are mine. Although, I hope there be none.
I know this story is totally ridiculous, but I have to say, it's the most fun I've had writing in a very long time.
A/N: No Basan's were hurt in the production of this story... well, not totally hurt... In my defence it was trying to barbeque them.
His arm was on fire.
For a moment Dean felt a surreal detached sensation as he watched the orange flames dance up his dark jacket. Reality hit him harder than he could have imagined. Pain flared up his entire arm, the skin burning. He yelped and suddenly remembered he needed to put it out. In his panic, he dropped onto the floor and rolled around in an attempt to douse the scalding fire.
It took seconds to put the flames out, but it felt longer to Dean. His arm was burnt beneath the jacket, he was sure, but he didn’t exactly have time to think about it. He was suddenly aware that the room was filled with thick, black smoke. The acrid taste of it burnt the back of his throat, tearing down his windpipe with jagged claws. The Basan was hissing and shrieking in a nails-down-a-chalk-board kind of way that made Dean’s teeth ache, but he wasn’t focused on the moving chicken drumstick. His gaze was locked onto his brother’s limp form.
Sam was slouched back against the wall, his head lowered so it was resting on his chest. Dean couldn’t see his brother’s face, shrouded beneath too-long dark hair, but the fact he wasn’t up and kicking Big Birds ass was a bad sign - especially considering the Basan was stalking closer towards Sam.
Half-staggering to his feet, he clamped his hand around the handgun he had dropped when he’d gone up like a human candle. Dean ignored the fact his leg buckled beneath him and forced his newly-healed ankle to take his weight as he slapped a fresh magazine into the gun. He found traction after two steps, the pain that had been shooting up his leg dissipating as he barrelled across the room. Sam was down, and the Basan looked ready to make his brother into chicken feed. No way in hell was Dean letting that happen. He fired the entire clip into the creature, ignoring the anguished screams that erupted from its mouth. It writhed, throwing its head back and listed off into the smoke. Dean kept his gun raised, sliding it back and forth, expecting the Basan to reappear. Time seemed to crawl to a halt as he strained to hear in the all-to-still room, but Dean wasn’t willing to wait around for Chicken Little to make another grand entrance. He slipped his weapon into the back of his jeans and turned his attention to his brother.
Cupping Sam’s chin in his hands, he lifted his brother’s head off his chest, grazing his eyes over the dark patch and torn material on Sam’s shoulder. There was a substantial amount of blood staining his shirt, but it was the rattling wheeze as Sam’s ribs caved in and out that worried him. Splitting his gaze between the smoke-filled room, Dean felt edgy as hell that the Basan wasn’t in sight. What the hell was it doing? The rounds had probably hurt the bird, but Dean wasn’t stupid enough to think being shot would kill it. Suddenly he knew how Tom felt when Jerry disappeared.
His thoughts were broken as he tried to stifle a spluttering cough with no success. The air was so thick and his lungs were burning as he breathed the heavy toxins in. He covered his mouth and nose with his uninjured forearm, unable to stop the coughs wracking him now. Wave after wave of paroxysmal spasms raced through him until he could barely inhale at all. His vision was starting to darken around the edges and Dean knew he wasn’t going to last much longer in the house.
With trembling and clumsy fingers, he curled his fists into his brother’s shirt and hoisted all six-foot-four of Sam off the ground. They both wavered; Sam because he was a dead-weight, Dean because he was dizzy as hell. He ignored his wobbling vision as much as he could, and somehow managed to drag his brother over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
Moving as quickly as he could on shaky legs, and with the added weight of his brother, Dean moved into the adjacent room - a second reception - before moving into the hallway. There were only ghostly wraiths of smoke here and his lungs took a tremulous breath, grateful for the clean air, hypoxic muscles appreciative of the new oxygen flooding their cells. Desperate to get into the fresh air, and to get his brother out of danger, Dean staggered up the narrow corridor and hit the front door at a run. Fumbling with the latch, he was out into the fresh air in less than a minute. Dean didn’t stop running, however. He took the steps down from the porch quickly, and stumbled across the front lawn towards the Impala. His baby had never looked as frigging good as it did now.
He gently lowered his brother off his back, propping him against the side-panelling, one hand clamped against the shoulder that wasn’t blood soaked as he fumbled for the handle. His chest felt as if elastic bands had been wound tightly around his lungs and he was still spluttering like an emphysema patient. His arm was throbbing electrically but Dean didn’t even acknowledge it. It wouldn’t take the Basan long to figure out they had left the house, and Dean really was not looking for a re-match. He’d come back later, with bigger guns and a fire-extinguisher and watch Big Bird squirm.
Somehow, Dean managed to manoeuvre his little brother into the passenger seat of the car. Sam still hadn’t roused and he was limp as hell during the entire procedure. By the time Dean had lifted Sam’s legs into the foot well, he was breathing heavily. He was also wheezing like an asthmatic mid-attack, but he couldn’t really do much about smoke inhalation at the moment.
Turning his attention back to his unconscious little brother, he quickly reached under the back seat for the first aid kit. He wanted to get out of there quickly, but he didn’t want Sam to bleed to death while they were escaping. Dean didn’t spare his brother’s t-shirt any mercy as he tugged it out of his jeans and pushed it up so it was bunched around his arm pits. The material clung to the bloodied wounds and Dean carefully, but quickly, prised it free.
The wounds weren’t long but they were deep, and they were still bleeding. Normally, Dean would have cleaned them out with saline, packed them with gauze and found the nearest clinic able to give tetanus - and probably rabies - shots. He didn’t have time for that, however, and instead settled for simply covering the wounds and taping the gauze down. He could look at them later. For now, his plan was simple: get the hell out of Dodge.
The Basan had other ideas.
It appeared out of the darkness like a chicken-shaped-wraith, shrieking like a banshee. Dean instantly pulled his torso out of the car, and whirled to face it. The Basan was pissed, and from the purple goo running down its beautiful technicolour feathers, Dean guessed he was the reason why. It was just annoying as hell that his .45 hadn’t even slowed the creature down.
Dean closed the door of the car slowly, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. Sam was still unconscious, his chest heaving as he took shuddering breaths. At least he was safer in the car - for now.
Dean shifted on his feet, moving away from the car step by step, attempting to draw it away from his brother. His limbs felt a little rubbery beneath his legs, but no way in hell was he and letting Big Bird take a swipe at them both. The fact this thing wasn’t deep-fried already suggested that Sam must not have finished the sigil.
Sam had figured out pretty early in the research that the damn sigil was the only way to kill Chicken not-so-Little. It was a series of complicated markings and some language that Dean couldn’t even pronounce, let alone copy. Sam had shoved a picture of the sigil into Dean’s hand before they’d even gotten out of the car, telling him he’d have to finish it if he couldn’t. But Dean was even less of an artist than Sam, and even if he wasn’t at risk of being flame-grilled, Dean doubted he could have drawn it. He glanced at the now burning house, smoke and flames licking through the windows at the back of the house, Sam’s half-completed sigil probably already destroyed and sighed.
So much for Plan A.
With a slow hand, he pulled the gun from his waistband. He knew it was about as useful as slinging mud at a poltergeist, but running out of damn ideas. He emptied what remained of the clip into the creature, slammed a new magazine in and emptied half of it before the Basan slammed into him.
The weight of the bird, and the momentum of its attack, carried them both into the side of the Impala with a heavy thunk. White hot pain raced through his entire pelvis and lower back as he was crushed between the cold metal of the car and the two hundred pound bird.
“Son of a bitch!” He pushed a hand underneath the mass of feathers, cringing at the slick oiliness and shoved savagely. “If you’ve damaged my paintwork, I swear to God I’ll-“
That was as far as the threat went.
Dean’s feet suddenly left the ground, his gun slipping through his fingers as he flew through the air like a human dart. The landing was less graceful than the flight. He slammed into the lawn hard enough to wind him, this time his spine taking the full force. Dazed, he blinked sluggishly at the twinkling stars overhead and didn’t attempt to move, not even sure he could. His entire body was hurting, his arm, his hips, and his spine. Something warm was trailing down the side of his face. With awkward fingers he reached up and wasn’t surprised they came away blood-slicked.
The Basan shrieked into the night sky, more wolf-like than bird. Dean twisted his head across the grassy ground as the giant bird stalked towards him, cooing and cawing between screams, huge talons sinking into the grass. It was looking at him like he was a sirloin covered in gravy. It made Dean uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure he liked being considered a food source.
Dean rolled onto his front clumsily but he didn’t manage to get his hands underneath him. A sharp agonising pain exploded through his thigh as the Basan pinned him down with its clawed feet. His leg felt as if it was being torn apart. Dean arched his back, trying to get free of its grip, but the Basan wasn’t done playing games yet. It dug its knife-like talon deeper into the fleshy part of Dean’s leg mercilessly. The yelp that emitted from Dean’s lips was completely primal and so pain-filled that for a brief moment he didn’t realise it had come from his own mouth. Technicoloured spots danced in front of his eyes, dripping across his sight like a feathered curtain coming down on a stage. Then it released and pulled the talon out. The exit was almost as bad as the entrance. Dean was blind for a second before his vision wobbled back into focus. He didn’t waste any time dwelling on the pain, or the fact his thigh was already warm with his own blood. Survival instincts were on overdrive, and if Dean was going down, he was going down swinging - and he was taking Big Bird with him.
His body had other ideas, however. Pushing his elbows into the dewy grass, he attempted to rise, but his leg wasn’t cooperating. His jeans were already soaked with his own blood and the limb felt dead. With grim certainty, Dean realised there wasn’t a chance in hell he was walking out of this mess.
Instead, he did the only thing he could. He propelled himself backwards using his elbows and his one working leg. He barely moved before the Basan was clamping its large foot over his newly-healed ankle, pinning him to the ground. The merest touch sent him into agony which seemed to please the Basan. It pushed harder, putting more weight onto the damaged limb. Dean threw his head back against the ground, the muscles in his throat taut as he attempted to stifle the scream on his lips. His ankle bone creaked and groaned under the Basan’s weight. He was sure it was a second from breaking. The bastard was toying with him, like a cat with a bird, only, Dean was the damn bird. It tilted its head to one side, considering him as he tried to wriggle his ankle free to little avail. Breathing heavily, whimpering quietly, Dean closed his eyes and tried to get a hold of his pain. It was consuming him, making him dizzy and nauseous as hell. He couldn’t control it. Hell, he could barely think straight. His entire leg was thrumming with electric agony that had every pain-receptor in his body on red alert.
“Hey!”
Dean shifted his gaze behind the Basan to see his brother leaning heavily against the passenger door of the Impala. He was pale as hell, wheezing, but he had Dean’s favourite shotgun trained on Chicken Little.
“Sammy…” Dean’s relief almost overwhelmed him, but then he should have known that his little brother wouldn’t let this oversized turkey turn him into giblets.
“Let him go you son of a bitch!” Sam’s voice shook and sounded hoarse, but it was the most welcoming sound Dean had EVER heard.
The Basan slowly turned to glance over its shoulder, snarling deeply. Dean hadn’t imagined a bird could express emotions but the thing radiated malice as it tightened its hold on his ankle. Dean couldn’t help it this time. He screamed in agony. He was sure it had snapped the bone.
Sam didn’t let it do more than that. With a quick finger, he pulled the trigger and released two rounds into it.
The Basan imploded. Two rounds and it imploded. Feathers and bits of the Basan itself spattered up Dean’s face, purple goo liberally coating his legs and the ground as well. Dean closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth, not wanting to smell the rotten decaying stench that was fusing the air, and instead focused on his throbbing ankle, thigh, arm and head.
“Dean?” His name was followed by a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder. Dean’s eyes flew open, Sam’s worried face appearing in front of him.
“Man, I have never been so damn glad to see you in my life,” Dean murmured breathlessly, appraising his brother quickly for damage. Sam seemed sluggish, congested as hell, but he was in one piece. Dean guessed the fresh air had done him some good.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Sam said, moving to examine Dean’s leg. He hissed as his younger brother pulled back his shredded jeans. “Sorry. It looks pretty nasty.”
“Yeah, Big Bird did a real number on me.” He winced again at his brother’s less than gentle touch. His hands were shaky, probably from the smoke inhalation, possibly from his wounds, possibly a concussion. “Easy… on the merchandise, Sam.”
Sam snorted softly under his breath, and then pulled a face. “Your leg looks like mince.”
“Don’t sugar-coat it, will you?” Dean muttered, but then softened his tone. “How you feeling? You were pretty out of it. What happened?”
Sam’s lips tightened into an amused line. “Smoke inhalation, shock at being sliced and diced by a fire-breathing chicken - take your pick, dude.” Sam’s voice was tired and hoarse still.
“My next question is how the hell did you kill it? I emptied three clips into the son of a bitch and nothing.”
Sam actually grinned. “I used special rounds.”
When Dean raised a brow, his brother pulled out a clear vial and held it up for him to see.
“Is that…?”
“Holy water,” Sam finished, sliding tiredly onto his knees next to Dean. “I figured since it was fire-based, water would probably have some kind of adverse affect.”
Dean blinked. He hadn’t even thought of that. His brother’s ingenuity amazed him sometimes. “Ok, Erkel, that’s uh… what I was gonna try next.”
Sam merely raised a brow but didn’t contend it. He reached under Dean’s armpit and gripping his wrist, pulled his arm around his neck. Together they managed to get Dean upright, albeit shakily. His leg was throbbing now, as was his singed arm. Dean hadn’t even tried to get his jacket off to see the damaged.
“You’re gonna need to see a doctor,” Sam noted, tensing a little, no doubt expecting an argument. Dean sighed. He hated doctors, but he knew Sam was right about this one.
“Yeah, I know.” They could treat the burns themselves but the wound to his thigh was deep - surgery deep - and his ankle was a mess. “You too. That whole ‘sleeping-on-the-job’ thing makes me twitchy. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
Dean let his brother take some of his weight while he tried to find traction in the damaged limb. He could feel Sam trembling wearily beside him and didn’t want to put too much weight on his weakened brother. His ankle and thigh protested at being used, and Dean realised quickly that there was no chance in hell he was going to be able to weigh-bear on the limb. He closed his eyes and bit on his bottom lip as he tried to stand on it again, receiving a shot of red-hot pain for his trouble.
“Shit,” he hissed.
“Just take your time,” Sam said softly, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm and waist. Sam was pretty much the only thing keeping him on his feet at the moment. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed. He then turned back to Sam. “So? Did you hit your head?”
“It was the smoke, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “There was just too much of it, and I couldn’t catch my breath.”
Dean prised one eye open. “You fainted.”
Sam scowled. “I did not faint.”
Dean snorted, giving up on trying to walk himself, finally letting his brother help him. “Well, Francis, you think you can stay awake long enough to drive us to a hospital?”
“I’m glad you’re ok, too, jerk.”
Dean’s lips twitched into a smile. He really was glad his brother was in one piece. That had been close. Too goddamn close. Another thirty seconds and Sam would have been identifying him from dental records.
Sam laughed under his breath suddenly, pulling Dean out of his morbid thoughts. Casting a side long glance at him, Dean frowned. “What?”
“Fire-breathing chickens…” He shook his head, tightening his grip on his brother’s arm. “Man, our lives are weird.”
Dean grunted, and then laughed himself. Weird didn’t even begin to cover it.
The End...