Another Morn Than Ours, PG, gen
Title: Another Morn Than Ours
Author: britomart_is
Rating: PG
Characters: Dean, Sam, gen
Word Count: 1500
Notes: Title filched from Thomas Hood. This is what happens when I start writing at 3am. I play with old tropes. Be warned, lately I seem incapable of writing anything but angst. Not the fic to read if you're sensitive to unhappy endings.
Summary: It's almost sunrise. Dean needs to wake up.
It hurts. What happened?
"Dean, you need to wake up!" Fear. Urgency.
Sammy. Now Dean's worried, 'cause he's hurt and Sammy is there, and they were in the middle of-of something.
"Sammy?" Dean's eyelids are heavy, pain throbbing through his head with each pulse of blood. He tastes plaster dust in his dry mouth, and his ribs are complaining about their impact with the wall. He's on the floor now. On the floor. Sammy's there. "Sam?"
"I'm here. I'm right here." Dean can hear Sam's voice above him. "You've got to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"
Anything for Sammy. Dean's eyes open slowly and there's Sam. Dean evaluates what he can see of him, and Sam looks okay. Looks like he got out unscathed even with Dean out of action. "Spirit? Remains?" A man doesn't have to be articulate when he's concussed, good enough Dean's talking at all through the pain in his head and encroaching darkness.
"You got it. The hair's torched, spirit just got in one last crack at you. But Dean, we gotta go." Sam looks anxious, hovering over him.
"Just gimme a second." The room is hazy, Dean's head is spinning, he can't quite catch his breath.
"Fire's spreading, man. We gotta get out of here." Ah, fuck. Dean figured his breathing was just bothering him because of his ribs, but now he can smell the smoke. Fire. Why is it always fire?
"Fuuuck." Dean pushes himself up on his elbows and Sam's just looking at him with those big concerned eyes. "You gonna help me up?"
Sam's face is still projecting scared and scattered and lost little boy big brother save me, but he covers it with a small smirk. "Hmm, sorry, think you should get yourself up. Make sure you're okay. With the concussion and all."
Okay. Usually when there's blood and fire they drop the bitching and moaning, glad of the excuse to confirm with hands that nothing's fatal, no missing limbs or gaping gut wounds. And the concussion doesn't feel that bad. "I'm remembering this next time it's your ass getting slammed into walls."
Sam smiles a little sadly. "Up." Sam stands, brushes his hands off on his pants.
Dean staggers and sways to his feet, makes for the door. Sam's close on his heels, practically shepherding him away from the heat Dean's starting to feel beating at their backs. Wait. Forgetting something.
"My pack." Dean starts to turn to look.
"No," Sam says sharply. He steps firmly in front of him and Dean's too tired to push it. "Leave it, Dean, we got to get you out of here. Just keep your eyes forward, just focus on walking, okay?"
"Kay."
Dean makes slow progress, but he knows Sam's following behind silently. Every time his ribs twinge, he gets a little more irritated, but for now Dean wants to just get out of there. He can plot revenge on Sam later.
There are sirens outside, audible even over the crackle of flames and creaking of weakening wood behind them. As soon as they're through the door, a firefighter's pointing and shouting, and paramedics run to Dean. They practically carry him to the waiting ambulance and oh, that looks good. Dean's eyes lock onto the gurney that looks like the most comfortable thing he's ever seen, and as they pull him onto it they're already sliding an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. The strain on lungs and throat eases. Bliss. Dean looks around.
"Sam?" There's another ambulance over there, and he can see the doors are flung open. Ah, good boy, Sammy, taking care of himself for once, getting checked out.
Knowing Sam doesn't need him, Dean lets himself fade into that comfortable, half-asleep gray place, sitting up on the gurney, leaning against the wall of the ambulance. Half-asleep turns to just asleep, and by the time Dean wakes the fire is extinguished and the sun is sending a few rays up over the horizon. Dean wakes up to a gentle touch on his knee. "Sammy?"
There's a police officer and a paramedic standing by the doors, looking worried. The paramedic takes Dean's pulse again, asks him a few questions, makes sure he's not about to slip into a coma or hiding a gunshot wound or something.
"How's Sam?" Dean's hoping Sam wasn't hiding some injury from Dean's less than keen awareness in there, cursing himself for not checking his brother over before passing out, a little worried that Sam's not here pestering him to death with endless are-you-okays.
The police officer clears his throat and wears a face that's too formal.
And he tells Dean they've recovered the body. Dean pulls the oxygen mask to the side, because what? "What body?"
The officer exchanges a glance with the paramedic, silent conversation in their eyes. The body of his friend in there, the officer says. "The man who was trapped in the building."
Dean just shakes his head, no; "There was no one else in there, just me and my brother." They'd checked, they were careful, thorough, and anyway, the racket they made taking the spirit down would have sent any squatters running.
"Your brother?" The officer looks sad, pitying, compassionate and all that shit that you feel for a guy who's lost everything, and that's just unacceptable.
"Yeah, my fucking brother. The guy who came out of the house with me!" Dean's starting to get pissed because these incompetent cops could give a guy a freakin' heart attack, going around saying things like that. If he hadn't seen Sam walking and talking, just fine, with his own eyes-
But they're exchanging that look again. The paramedic says, "Sir, you took a pretty bad blow to the head in there."
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, son," says the officer, and Dean's not his fucking son, and why won't they fucking tell him where Sam is?
"He was right behind me! What the fuck are you talking about?"
They're both looking compassionate again when the cop says, "The only man we've found was the one in the building." He pauses. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
Maybe Dean shouldn't have taken the oxygen mask off, because it's getting harder to breathe and the world is kind of blurring in and out of focus. Sam. Sam didn't touch him.
Dean won't believe them, still looking all around the street, shouting for Sam, until they unzip the body bag.
Sam looks like he's asleep, smoke-blackened but pale underneath. Not burned, at least-whole but so, so still.
"What happened?" Dean asks hoarsely, grating through the smoke and tightness in his throat.
The paramedic doesn't want to say, but a long quiet stare from Dean is all it takes. The man says he can't know for sure, that it looks like Sam's spine was broken before the smoke even got to him.
Dean aches where the spirit threw him into the wall (but not as hard as it could have), and then he aches everywhere else, too.
They don't give him long with Sam before the officer's back, asking him for details about their attacker (didn't throw themselves around like that, Sam didn't snap his own neck, Dean didn't get himself knocked out like an amateur while his brother died fighting, no). Dean can't answer, can't lie tonight, and they deem him a post-trauma case and prepare to take him to the hospital.
Dean stops to see Sam again before they zip the bag up, hide his face and take him-wherever they're going to take him. These strangers. If Dean were stronger he'd pull Sam up over his shoulder, nothing he hasn't done before, make a run for the car. See if maybe, away from all the noise and lights, Sam'll see that it's safe, that Dean's there to take care of him, and he'll come back.
It's getting light out, and the higher the sun rises the more Sam looks dead.
"Sammy." Dean rests his forehead against Sam's still chest, whispers against where the heartbeat should be. He doesn't know if Sam's still hanging around, now that Dean's out of harm's way. Dean wishes Sam had let him burn while he was out cold instead of waking him up to this hell, but saying that doesn't seem right when he remembers the fear and sadness in Sam's eyes as he talked Dean out of the room where his body lay. Dean chokes on what sounds like goodbye. "Thank you."
As morning breaks on the worst day of Dean's life, Sam sees his brother warm and breathing, and turns to face a different dawn.
Author: britomart_is
Rating: PG
Characters: Dean, Sam, gen
Word Count: 1500
Notes: Title filched from Thomas Hood. This is what happens when I start writing at 3am. I play with old tropes. Be warned, lately I seem incapable of writing anything but angst. Not the fic to read if you're sensitive to unhappy endings.
Summary: It's almost sunrise. Dean needs to wake up.
It hurts. What happened?
"Dean, you need to wake up!" Fear. Urgency.
Sammy. Now Dean's worried, 'cause he's hurt and Sammy is there, and they were in the middle of-of something.
"Sammy?" Dean's eyelids are heavy, pain throbbing through his head with each pulse of blood. He tastes plaster dust in his dry mouth, and his ribs are complaining about their impact with the wall. He's on the floor now. On the floor. Sammy's there. "Sam?"
"I'm here. I'm right here." Dean can hear Sam's voice above him. "You've got to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?"
Anything for Sammy. Dean's eyes open slowly and there's Sam. Dean evaluates what he can see of him, and Sam looks okay. Looks like he got out unscathed even with Dean out of action. "Spirit? Remains?" A man doesn't have to be articulate when he's concussed, good enough Dean's talking at all through the pain in his head and encroaching darkness.
"You got it. The hair's torched, spirit just got in one last crack at you. But Dean, we gotta go." Sam looks anxious, hovering over him.
"Just gimme a second." The room is hazy, Dean's head is spinning, he can't quite catch his breath.
"Fire's spreading, man. We gotta get out of here." Ah, fuck. Dean figured his breathing was just bothering him because of his ribs, but now he can smell the smoke. Fire. Why is it always fire?
"Fuuuck." Dean pushes himself up on his elbows and Sam's just looking at him with those big concerned eyes. "You gonna help me up?"
Sam's face is still projecting scared and scattered and lost little boy big brother save me, but he covers it with a small smirk. "Hmm, sorry, think you should get yourself up. Make sure you're okay. With the concussion and all."
Okay. Usually when there's blood and fire they drop the bitching and moaning, glad of the excuse to confirm with hands that nothing's fatal, no missing limbs or gaping gut wounds. And the concussion doesn't feel that bad. "I'm remembering this next time it's your ass getting slammed into walls."
Sam smiles a little sadly. "Up." Sam stands, brushes his hands off on his pants.
Dean staggers and sways to his feet, makes for the door. Sam's close on his heels, practically shepherding him away from the heat Dean's starting to feel beating at their backs. Wait. Forgetting something.
"My pack." Dean starts to turn to look.
"No," Sam says sharply. He steps firmly in front of him and Dean's too tired to push it. "Leave it, Dean, we got to get you out of here. Just keep your eyes forward, just focus on walking, okay?"
"Kay."
Dean makes slow progress, but he knows Sam's following behind silently. Every time his ribs twinge, he gets a little more irritated, but for now Dean wants to just get out of there. He can plot revenge on Sam later.
There are sirens outside, audible even over the crackle of flames and creaking of weakening wood behind them. As soon as they're through the door, a firefighter's pointing and shouting, and paramedics run to Dean. They practically carry him to the waiting ambulance and oh, that looks good. Dean's eyes lock onto the gurney that looks like the most comfortable thing he's ever seen, and as they pull him onto it they're already sliding an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. The strain on lungs and throat eases. Bliss. Dean looks around.
"Sam?" There's another ambulance over there, and he can see the doors are flung open. Ah, good boy, Sammy, taking care of himself for once, getting checked out.
Knowing Sam doesn't need him, Dean lets himself fade into that comfortable, half-asleep gray place, sitting up on the gurney, leaning against the wall of the ambulance. Half-asleep turns to just asleep, and by the time Dean wakes the fire is extinguished and the sun is sending a few rays up over the horizon. Dean wakes up to a gentle touch on his knee. "Sammy?"
There's a police officer and a paramedic standing by the doors, looking worried. The paramedic takes Dean's pulse again, asks him a few questions, makes sure he's not about to slip into a coma or hiding a gunshot wound or something.
"How's Sam?" Dean's hoping Sam wasn't hiding some injury from Dean's less than keen awareness in there, cursing himself for not checking his brother over before passing out, a little worried that Sam's not here pestering him to death with endless are-you-okays.
The police officer clears his throat and wears a face that's too formal.
And he tells Dean they've recovered the body. Dean pulls the oxygen mask to the side, because what? "What body?"
The officer exchanges a glance with the paramedic, silent conversation in their eyes. The body of his friend in there, the officer says. "The man who was trapped in the building."
Dean just shakes his head, no; "There was no one else in there, just me and my brother." They'd checked, they were careful, thorough, and anyway, the racket they made taking the spirit down would have sent any squatters running.
"Your brother?" The officer looks sad, pitying, compassionate and all that shit that you feel for a guy who's lost everything, and that's just unacceptable.
"Yeah, my fucking brother. The guy who came out of the house with me!" Dean's starting to get pissed because these incompetent cops could give a guy a freakin' heart attack, going around saying things like that. If he hadn't seen Sam walking and talking, just fine, with his own eyes-
But they're exchanging that look again. The paramedic says, "Sir, you took a pretty bad blow to the head in there."
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, son," says the officer, and Dean's not his fucking son, and why won't they fucking tell him where Sam is?
"He was right behind me! What the fuck are you talking about?"
They're both looking compassionate again when the cop says, "The only man we've found was the one in the building." He pauses. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
Maybe Dean shouldn't have taken the oxygen mask off, because it's getting harder to breathe and the world is kind of blurring in and out of focus. Sam. Sam didn't touch him.
Dean won't believe them, still looking all around the street, shouting for Sam, until they unzip the body bag.
Sam looks like he's asleep, smoke-blackened but pale underneath. Not burned, at least-whole but so, so still.
"What happened?" Dean asks hoarsely, grating through the smoke and tightness in his throat.
The paramedic doesn't want to say, but a long quiet stare from Dean is all it takes. The man says he can't know for sure, that it looks like Sam's spine was broken before the smoke even got to him.
Dean aches where the spirit threw him into the wall (but not as hard as it could have), and then he aches everywhere else, too.
They don't give him long with Sam before the officer's back, asking him for details about their attacker (didn't throw themselves around like that, Sam didn't snap his own neck, Dean didn't get himself knocked out like an amateur while his brother died fighting, no). Dean can't answer, can't lie tonight, and they deem him a post-trauma case and prepare to take him to the hospital.
Dean stops to see Sam again before they zip the bag up, hide his face and take him-wherever they're going to take him. These strangers. If Dean were stronger he'd pull Sam up over his shoulder, nothing he hasn't done before, make a run for the car. See if maybe, away from all the noise and lights, Sam'll see that it's safe, that Dean's there to take care of him, and he'll come back.
It's getting light out, and the higher the sun rises the more Sam looks dead.
"Sammy." Dean rests his forehead against Sam's still chest, whispers against where the heartbeat should be. He doesn't know if Sam's still hanging around, now that Dean's out of harm's way. Dean wishes Sam had let him burn while he was out cold instead of waking him up to this hell, but saying that doesn't seem right when he remembers the fear and sadness in Sam's eyes as he talked Dean out of the room where his body lay. Dean chokes on what sounds like goodbye. "Thank you."
As morning breaks on the worst day of Dean's life, Sam sees his brother warm and breathing, and turns to face a different dawn.