Safe
Title: Safe
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 1500
Summary: All Sam wants to feel is safe.
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N 1: For 27_jaredjensen, based on the lovely drawing she did! I imagine this set in S1, but really, it could be whenever.
A/N 2: Thank you to everyone who's commented so far! You're all wonderful. I've tweaked a few things since last night. Nothing major, but if you wanted to read it again, it's now in its final form. :-)
Also available on AO3.
. . .
. . .
His feet are dragging through piles of heavy leaves, catching on rain-slicked roots. He shakes wet hair out of his eyes and blinks hard. Dean’s a few steps in front of him, weaving a bit, left arm wrapped tight across his chest and fingers pressed firmly against his ribs. Sam can tell that his breathing is shallow, but he just keeps walking. That’s all Sam has to do. Keep walking. The creature is burning somewhere behind them-the rain will probably douse the flames before it turns to ash, but it’s already blackened enough that it could pass for a bear. A very skinny, burnt bear. Which would raise questions, yes, but they’re so far out in the middle of nowhere that the odds of anyone finding it before the scavengers tear it apart are slim.
Sam trips again and gasps, pressing his palm to the bloody slashes on his left side. The bleeding had slowed down, but the movement pulled them open again. The cuts are warm beneath his icy fingers, and he closes his eyes for a moment, pulling that warmth into his hands. He’ll take what he can get. Not much has gone right today. It wasn’t like it had been hard to find the thing-there’d been reports of hikers being mauled in the area, always around sunset, by something the authorities couldn’t identify. They’d tracked it down during the day, and had made it almost to its lair before it had woken up, coming out to meet them, tall and hairy and thin with long, sharp claws. Going on the theory that it might be related to Wendigoes, they’d threatened it with fire (no dice) and then pumped it full of silver bullets. It’d taken two dozen to slow the thing down and another dozen to finish it off, and all the while, it’d been fighting hard. Sam remembers being thrown back against a tree, rifle dropping from his hand on impact. The creature had been swinging at him with those long, filthy claws when he’d reached down to his right to grab the gun. He was lucky, really; it only got his side. His shirt’s a lost cause, but he thinks (hopes) he might be able to get away without stitches. Dean, on the other hand, had taken a large tree branch, swung like a club, to the ribs. Sam hasn’t asked him yet whether he thinks they’re broken. It’s not like there’s anything they can do about it here.
The next tree root takes him down, and he hits hard on his hands and knees. Dean turns to look, hissing at the pull on his ribcage. Sam waves him off. “Fine. I’m… fine.” He’s breathing hard. That’s not right. They’ve been walking for a good twenty minutes, and there’s probably twenty left to go, but the terrain is flat. Well, except for these damn roots. He pushes himself to his feet, aching fingers on aching knees. It feels like the ground is moving, like he just stepped off a boat. He tries to remember if he hit his head on that tree. Must have. Dean’s pulling ahead, even as his pace slows. Sam starts walking again.
By the time they get back to the Impala, Dean’s pale and sweating, taking rapid, shallow breaths as he pulls the med kit out of the trunk and swallows painkillers dry. When he gets in on the driver’s side, Sam doesn’t fight him-he’s too exhausted to talk, let alone get them back to the motel in one piece. “Don’t you dare… bleed on my baby,” Dean says through gritted teeth, stopping to pull a quick breath in the middle. Sam turns over onto his right side, away from Dean. The blood’s not flowing anymore, but his shirt’s a mess, drying into his wounds. Shit. Well, he’s not going to reopen them now. He closes his eyes. The leather seat is too cold against his cheek.
When he opens his eyes, it’s because they’ve stopped. Dean’s breathing a little easier-the meds must’ve kicked in. Good. Sam, though, feels worse than ever. It’s hard to move. And to think.
“You coming?” Dean’s already halfway out of the car, moving carefully.
“Yeah. Just… give me a sec.” He forces his eyes to stay open and follows his brother inside.
Dean looks him over. “Have the first shower.” It’s not so much altruistic as practical: Sam’s the one with blood all over him, and Dean probably wants a few minutes to sit still before he has to deal with things like washing the mud out of his hair.
“Yeah.”
The motel room seems to have grown in their absence, but even so, he very nearly runs into the table as he makes his way to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him. The lock’s broken, but that’s alright. When Dean was 17, he locked himself in the bathroom after a hunt and proceeded to pass out from blood loss. Dad had to break down the door. They’ve tried to avoid a repeat of that particular scenario since then.
He takes stock, hands on the sink for support. Dried blood holds the shirt to his side, and he sucks in a breath as he tries to pull it away from his skin. Okay. He’s shaking as he reaches over to turn on the shower. He steps out of his jeans and into the tub with his boxers and t-shirt still on, letting the water loosen the fabric from the blood. He’s breathing hard again, and the room is starting to spin. He keeps it together long enough to separate his shirt from his body, then sinks to sit on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees and his head down low. Three deep breaths, and then he pulls off his shirt and boxers. When he can see straight, he pushes himself to his feet and back in front of the mirror. The gouges the creature’s claws left in his side and back are bright red and swollen, ringed with bruises. Something’s wrong. They shouldn’t be infected. Not this fast. His heartbeat pounds, too loud, in his ears. Was there poison on those claws? Shit. He doesn’t think he feels poisoned. Just sick. As sick as he’s felt in years. The acknowledgement breaks down the barrier he’d put up, the one that got him through the woods, and the awfulness comes rushing in, hot and fast.
Okay. One thing at a time. He has to clean out the wounds. The first aid kit’s out in the room, but he can start with taking a shower. He pushes off from the sink, and immediately has to sit down on the toilet lid. The shower’s still running, so after a moment of consideration, he flips the tab to close the drain, and then the one to switch from the shower to the bath. Carefully, he climbs in and lets the water rise, his forehead resting on his bruised, scraped knees.
When he was little, five or six, Sam would wake up with a fever and roll over in bed to bury his face in Dean’s neck. Dean would never admit it now-never admit it then-but that was the one thing he would never give Sam a hard time about; he’d just push the hair out of his eyes and get up to get Tylenol and juice. Sure, he’d bitch about having to take care of Sammy for the rest of the day, but those mornings, he was nothing but patient. That’s what Sam wants now. To be five years old and safe. Not to have to do this alone.
The water’s rising, the warmth seeping in. He closes his eyes and finds tears on his cheeks.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Hey, you need stitches or what?” Dean sounds better. Those must be some good drugs.
Sam intends to answer, he really does, but a quiet sob escapes instead.
“Sammy?” A pause. “You alive in there?” The door opens.
Sam looks up, squinting in the light. Dean’s taking in the scene, his left arm still wrapped protectively around his ribs. He exhales. “Okay. Alright. I’m gonna get the med kit. Sit tight.” As if there were a choice.
And then Dean’s back, turning off the water that’s threatening to overspill the tub, pouring rubbing alcohol over the wounds in one swift go, his other hand bracing Sam’s shoulder against the involuntary jerk. Pulling Sam’s chin up so he can get a good look at him, but gently. Pushing Sam’s wet hair out of his eyes.
Dean’s talking, saying something about the creature, about how there must’ve been something on its claws; how you're okay, Sammy, I've got you, you're fine.
Sam’s still crying, just a little bit, which he thinks is probably freaking Dean out, but he can’t stop the slow stream of tears. It’s not fear anymore, though. It’s relief. He’s in a haze of fever and pain from the bruises and blood coming up through his skin, but Dean’s words are filtering through, and he knows from those words and from the pressure of his hands that he’s safe. He breathes out. Safe.
Author:
hopeintheashes
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 1500
Summary: All Sam wants to feel is safe.
Warnings: Language
Disclaimer: These boys? Definitely not mine.
A/N 1: For 27_jaredjensen, based on the lovely drawing she did! I imagine this set in S1, but really, it could be whenever.
A/N 2: Thank you to everyone who's commented so far! You're all wonderful. I've tweaked a few things since last night. Nothing major, but if you wanted to read it again, it's now in its final form. :-)
Also available on AO3.
. . .
. . .
His feet are dragging through piles of heavy leaves, catching on rain-slicked roots. He shakes wet hair out of his eyes and blinks hard. Dean’s a few steps in front of him, weaving a bit, left arm wrapped tight across his chest and fingers pressed firmly against his ribs. Sam can tell that his breathing is shallow, but he just keeps walking. That’s all Sam has to do. Keep walking. The creature is burning somewhere behind them-the rain will probably douse the flames before it turns to ash, but it’s already blackened enough that it could pass for a bear. A very skinny, burnt bear. Which would raise questions, yes, but they’re so far out in the middle of nowhere that the odds of anyone finding it before the scavengers tear it apart are slim.
Sam trips again and gasps, pressing his palm to the bloody slashes on his left side. The bleeding had slowed down, but the movement pulled them open again. The cuts are warm beneath his icy fingers, and he closes his eyes for a moment, pulling that warmth into his hands. He’ll take what he can get. Not much has gone right today. It wasn’t like it had been hard to find the thing-there’d been reports of hikers being mauled in the area, always around sunset, by something the authorities couldn’t identify. They’d tracked it down during the day, and had made it almost to its lair before it had woken up, coming out to meet them, tall and hairy and thin with long, sharp claws. Going on the theory that it might be related to Wendigoes, they’d threatened it with fire (no dice) and then pumped it full of silver bullets. It’d taken two dozen to slow the thing down and another dozen to finish it off, and all the while, it’d been fighting hard. Sam remembers being thrown back against a tree, rifle dropping from his hand on impact. The creature had been swinging at him with those long, filthy claws when he’d reached down to his right to grab the gun. He was lucky, really; it only got his side. His shirt’s a lost cause, but he thinks (hopes) he might be able to get away without stitches. Dean, on the other hand, had taken a large tree branch, swung like a club, to the ribs. Sam hasn’t asked him yet whether he thinks they’re broken. It’s not like there’s anything they can do about it here.
The next tree root takes him down, and he hits hard on his hands and knees. Dean turns to look, hissing at the pull on his ribcage. Sam waves him off. “Fine. I’m… fine.” He’s breathing hard. That’s not right. They’ve been walking for a good twenty minutes, and there’s probably twenty left to go, but the terrain is flat. Well, except for these damn roots. He pushes himself to his feet, aching fingers on aching knees. It feels like the ground is moving, like he just stepped off a boat. He tries to remember if he hit his head on that tree. Must have. Dean’s pulling ahead, even as his pace slows. Sam starts walking again.
By the time they get back to the Impala, Dean’s pale and sweating, taking rapid, shallow breaths as he pulls the med kit out of the trunk and swallows painkillers dry. When he gets in on the driver’s side, Sam doesn’t fight him-he’s too exhausted to talk, let alone get them back to the motel in one piece. “Don’t you dare… bleed on my baby,” Dean says through gritted teeth, stopping to pull a quick breath in the middle. Sam turns over onto his right side, away from Dean. The blood’s not flowing anymore, but his shirt’s a mess, drying into his wounds. Shit. Well, he’s not going to reopen them now. He closes his eyes. The leather seat is too cold against his cheek.
When he opens his eyes, it’s because they’ve stopped. Dean’s breathing a little easier-the meds must’ve kicked in. Good. Sam, though, feels worse than ever. It’s hard to move. And to think.
“You coming?” Dean’s already halfway out of the car, moving carefully.
“Yeah. Just… give me a sec.” He forces his eyes to stay open and follows his brother inside.
Dean looks him over. “Have the first shower.” It’s not so much altruistic as practical: Sam’s the one with blood all over him, and Dean probably wants a few minutes to sit still before he has to deal with things like washing the mud out of his hair.
“Yeah.”
The motel room seems to have grown in their absence, but even so, he very nearly runs into the table as he makes his way to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him. The lock’s broken, but that’s alright. When Dean was 17, he locked himself in the bathroom after a hunt and proceeded to pass out from blood loss. Dad had to break down the door. They’ve tried to avoid a repeat of that particular scenario since then.
He takes stock, hands on the sink for support. Dried blood holds the shirt to his side, and he sucks in a breath as he tries to pull it away from his skin. Okay. He’s shaking as he reaches over to turn on the shower. He steps out of his jeans and into the tub with his boxers and t-shirt still on, letting the water loosen the fabric from the blood. He’s breathing hard again, and the room is starting to spin. He keeps it together long enough to separate his shirt from his body, then sinks to sit on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees and his head down low. Three deep breaths, and then he pulls off his shirt and boxers. When he can see straight, he pushes himself to his feet and back in front of the mirror. The gouges the creature’s claws left in his side and back are bright red and swollen, ringed with bruises. Something’s wrong. They shouldn’t be infected. Not this fast. His heartbeat pounds, too loud, in his ears. Was there poison on those claws? Shit. He doesn’t think he feels poisoned. Just sick. As sick as he’s felt in years. The acknowledgement breaks down the barrier he’d put up, the one that got him through the woods, and the awfulness comes rushing in, hot and fast.
Okay. One thing at a time. He has to clean out the wounds. The first aid kit’s out in the room, but he can start with taking a shower. He pushes off from the sink, and immediately has to sit down on the toilet lid. The shower’s still running, so after a moment of consideration, he flips the tab to close the drain, and then the one to switch from the shower to the bath. Carefully, he climbs in and lets the water rise, his forehead resting on his bruised, scraped knees.
When he was little, five or six, Sam would wake up with a fever and roll over in bed to bury his face in Dean’s neck. Dean would never admit it now-never admit it then-but that was the one thing he would never give Sam a hard time about; he’d just push the hair out of his eyes and get up to get Tylenol and juice. Sure, he’d bitch about having to take care of Sammy for the rest of the day, but those mornings, he was nothing but patient. That’s what Sam wants now. To be five years old and safe. Not to have to do this alone.
The water’s rising, the warmth seeping in. He closes his eyes and finds tears on his cheeks.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Hey, you need stitches or what?” Dean sounds better. Those must be some good drugs.
Sam intends to answer, he really does, but a quiet sob escapes instead.
“Sammy?” A pause. “You alive in there?” The door opens.
Sam looks up, squinting in the light. Dean’s taking in the scene, his left arm still wrapped protectively around his ribs. He exhales. “Okay. Alright. I’m gonna get the med kit. Sit tight.” As if there were a choice.
And then Dean’s back, turning off the water that’s threatening to overspill the tub, pouring rubbing alcohol over the wounds in one swift go, his other hand bracing Sam’s shoulder against the involuntary jerk. Pulling Sam’s chin up so he can get a good look at him, but gently. Pushing Sam’s wet hair out of his eyes.
Dean’s talking, saying something about the creature, about how there must’ve been something on its claws; how you're okay, Sammy, I've got you, you're fine.
Sam’s still crying, just a little bit, which he thinks is probably freaking Dean out, but he can’t stop the slow stream of tears. It’s not fear anymore, though. It’s relief. He’s in a haze of fever and pain from the bruises and blood coming up through his skin, but Dean’s words are filtering through, and he knows from those words and from the pressure of his hands that he’s safe. He breathes out. Safe.