SPN FIC: The Gift (Part 4 of 7)
TITLE: The Gift: PART 4
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 5,034
GENRE: Humor/Hurt/Comfort
RATING: T, or PG13 for swearing
TIMELINE: Season 4
BETAS: mad_server & adrenalineshots
SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission,leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 4
-~*~-
Dean felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds. Any moment, it would fall from his shoulders, if those fucking little midgets didn’t stop slamming back and forth inside his skull with pickaxes and hammers. The agony was overwhelming and he groaned in misery…
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
That throaty rasp no sooner rumbled past his sore throat than it morphed into an uncontrollable cough. The fight to breathe was on and his body shook and contorted with the effort. That effort ignited a fire across his shoulders, up his arms.
It was like suffocating. Choking on the gobs of crap trying to push from his chest and wheezing gasps of air to starving lungs, Dean wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his aching torso and fold into himself. Only he couldn’t.
As feeling returned, he realized his shoulders and arms hurt like hell. When his body swayed uncontrollably, he knew something was very wrong.
The effort was immense but he soon forced his head back and pried open watery eyes. Slowly, painfully, his situation swam lazily into view.
Blood cut a trail down his arms from where ropes chafed and cut into his wrists. That same rope secured his hands overhead at the wrists, leading to a beam high above. Suspended and vulnerable he hung there, the tips of his boots swinging freely several feet from the ground.
“Shit…” he breathed out, eyes watering before they closed. It was hard enough to get air through congested lungs with both feet planted, arms close, but to be stretched like this…
“You alright mister?” a voice called from the dark.
Dean’s eye snapped open and he froze. The shock, the oddity of the voice was enough to quell his coughing and he was able to right himself enough to squint in the direction he'd heard the sound. In the murky darkness of the cave he blinked in surprise - it was a kid!
After a few nervous backward glances, the kid edged closer, feet shuffling into the dirt floor. While older than the little girl he’d found earlier, he was still young and his clothes hung from his frail frame. They too were every bit as dirty and torn.
Eyeing Dean sympathetically, he whispered harshly, “I can get you water if you need it, but you gotta stay quiet.”
Dean wanted to answer, even if it was just his sick mind was playing tricks on reality, but instead dissolved into another fit of coughing. Strung up, dangling, the pressure on his already restricted airways was tripled. Even these small coughs pushed against the lack of air, and upon subsiding, left him lightheaded and dizzy.
“Hang on,” the boy whispered harshly, cutting through his hazy mind.
When Dean opened his eyes, he was alone. That’s it. I’m hallucinating.
Pain radiated up and down his strained limbs and Dean’s eyes drifted shut once more. God he hurt. Even his hair hurt. Small coughs continued to rack his body, sending him swinging lightly, though even that pulled like hell at his arms and shoulders.
“Hey,” a voice whispered. Chin resting against his chest, Dean opened bleary eyes to focus on the not-really-there boy once again. “Here.”
It was a bottle of water, gripped tightly in small hands, lifted in offering toward the captive. It looked real enough to make Dean’s mouth water, but just like the boy, it wasn’t. Even if it had been real, suspended far too high to reach the container, the act proved pointless.
“That's -” Dean coughed, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. On any other day, talking to someone who wasn’t there would have him questioning his mental state. But, hell, hours ago he’d been talking to a horse, so why the hell not? “Th-that’s... n-nice.”
The not-really-a-boy shook the water, expectantly and Dean’s brow furrowed. Were hallucinations supposed to be this… persistent and annoying? The ‘kid’, too far away to reach him, acted like he could just hop down whenever he wanted.
Still, he went on to answer, “I...can't exactly reach.” Dean’s eyes drooped. It hurt too much to think, between the pounding in his head, the weight inside his chest, his agonized muscles. Maybe if he could just rest a moment, get the pain under control…“But… th-thanks anyway,” he panted.
Eyes closed, Dean willed his breaths to stay shallow and even. Fugly’d be back and he needed to be able to hear him over his own loud, wheezing breaths. The bone chilling cold of the cave left his teeth clacking noisily together, though his hands felt none of it. They were numb where the ropes were drawn tight enough to cut off his circulation.
Something touched his chin and Dean jerked in surprise. He opened his eyes but otherwise didn’t move. Just too damn tired.
“Mister,” the boy’s soft voice whispered into the darkness, sympathetic and a bit urgent. He pressed the hard plastic opening of the water bottle to Dean’s lower lip. “Here. Drink.”
Dean grunted in his haze of pain and exhaustion. The hallucination was so strong he could practically smell the fresh liquid and it filled him with want. Lack of strength kept him still, however, and his head dropped, chin lax against his chest, his eyes falling closed, lids too heavy to do more.
The boy sighed and placed a hand under Dean’s chin and lifted enough to get the opening of the bottle back to his mouth. Pressing it tight to his lower lip he tried again, “Please.”
Dean’s eyes opened, gazing wearily at him. This close, the kid’s eyes imploring and beseeching, Dean felt a renewed surge of fear. “You’re… real?” No, no, no... please don’t let him be real. Because real meant this boy, this child was in danger too. Real meant he shouldn’t be here now, helping him...
Brow scrunched, the boy nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.” Again he pressed the bottle to flesh and begged, “Drink. Please.”
Every instinct told him not to. This was the worst place for this kid to be. Tell him to run, leave. Get as far away from him as possible. But, dammit, he needed the water. Needed the help this kid could give him.
Need driving him, Dean didn’t nod. Instead, he bent his head weakly toward the container while the boy lifted his chin. The bottle upended, the first splash of water hit his tongue and Dean heard himself groan in relief. The taste became a wall of sensation that made his head spin with need and want. No further urging was necessary.
Beyond thirsty, he pressed forward, anxiously, greedily, gulping at the liquid. With a desire he’d never known he wanted to crawl inside the container. He closed his lips over the bottle opening and was soon hollowing his cheeks as he took long and grateful pulls; eyes closed, Dean felt his head swoon in the darkness.
“Ease up,” the boy urged. “Mister…”
The words didn’t really register. He continued forward, trying to get closer to the bottle, wanting more. Then, realizing it was being pulled away, panic shot through him. He bent in pursuit, refusing to stop…
“That’s all there is,” the youth announced. He wrenched the container out of Dean’s mouth, teeth scraping against the plastic. Dean, however, head swooning, lost in need, continued, searchingly. “Mister, it’s all gone.”
Finally, Dean came back to himself. Pulling back he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he managed, his head fairly spinning in quenched relief. It was euphoric the way waves of gooseflesh shot down his back.
More scrabbling and Dean opened his eyes in time to see the boy edging toward the exit, peering cautiously around the corner. “Wait.” Dean knew he sounded desperate but this kid was his chance for freedom, because it didn't appear Sam would make it. “Wh-what's your n-n-name? Mine's Dean.”
The boy stuttered to a stop but stilled. One foot already out and the other in, he cast Dean sideways, uncertain glances. “Look, I can't stay. It'll hear. It'll come back.”
“It,” Dean stated simply. “You mean the knock-kneed, g-gangly, sickly looking dude with the strength of a f-five men and who can mimic any voice it hears? That the 'it' you're talking about?”
“I -,” the boy’s lower lip started trembling. “It's got my parents, my s-sister. I...”
Dean took pity on the boy. “What's your name? C-c-can't keep just c-c-calling you kid.” The shivering became more pronounced.
The boy looked nervously around a moment then, “I'm Kyle.”
“C-cool. I’m Dean.” Tremors were a constant thing but this one rocked his body so hard he winced at the pull on his arms and shoulders. In a constant effort to keep at least some blood flow in his extremities, every so often he’d taken to flexing his fingers and ankles. This time, his hands wouldn’t move. Dammit.
Kyle must’ve noticed the look and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Dumbest ass question he’d heard all day, but Dean blew it off, “Oh, just hangin’ round, ya know. Tryin’ t’get c-comfortable.”
Well, he’d meant to blow it off. Hadn’t meant the sarcasm - well, he’d meant it but just not meant for Kyle to hear it, and if the kid’s expression was any indicator, he did. “So,” Dean quickly tried to cover, “h-how old are you Kyle? Ten? Eleven?”
Looking only slightly less sulky, Kyle answered, "Nine."
“Really?” he hoped his surprised grin didn’t look as pained as he felt. “Well, c-c-coulda fooled me.” It was a lie but he needed this boy to think and act beyond his years. “I mean, g-g-getting away from that thing; takes a pretty brave guy t’do that.”
“I’m not brave.” Kyle’s head dropped. “I was out in the woods, playing when it got my family.” A tear slipped from his face to plop onto the dusty ground. “I hid when I heard my Mom scream. It hurt my Da- ” he choked off into a sob.
“Hey, you’re here n-now aren’t you?” Dean gritted out. It wasn’t an idle compliment; this time he meant it. “You’re brave m-man, don’t ever feel d-d-different.” The boy shrugged his small shoulders. “So, how’d you end up here?”
“I followed it. But it moved so fast…”
“Yeah, don’t I know it,” Dean said mostly to himself. “Look,” he grunted when the pressure on his arms momentarily rocked his pain threshold. “Y-ya gotta find a w-way to cut me loose. Once I'm down, I'll kill that thing -”
“No,” Kyle whispered angrily and took a step back. At Dean’s questioning look, he continued, “You don't understand. I saw it drag my family in the tunnels, but I don’t know where it’s keeping them. If you kill it, I'll never find’m.”
A scraping noise caught both their attention and Kyle turned wide-eyed toward the opening. “Oh no...”
“Kyle, listen,” Dean said trying anxiously to get the boy’s attention. Having heard it too, and seeing that the boy was ready to bolt. “I can help, just climb back on that rock and untie me.” But the kid was looking at the exit, inching toward it. “No, no, no, Kyle -”
“You don’t understand.” Kyle shook his head. “It’s my responsibility,” he whispered anxiously.
“Hey,” Dean whispered edgily, enough to garner Kyle’s attention again. “I get that.” He fought back a desperate need to cough. “I have a b-b-brother and like you, I feel responsible for him.” Desperation was edging into his voice. “Listen, I will find your family. Just ge-”
The scraping sounded much closer. Kyle stiffened then dropped to a crouch. “I gotta go.” And he was gone.
“NO!” Dean practically shouted. The fervent call only succeeded in sending him deep into another coughing fit, this one worse than the others.
Somewhere in the suffocating, in the wheezing and pathetic attempts to draw breath, Dean heard the scraping replaced by a low, guttural growl. Somewhere in that attempt to control his breathing while he dangled there, chest heaving, shivering, he understood why the kid ran. Hell, he'd love nothing more than to do the same.
While his body convulsed, his chest agonized and his head swam, something suddenly tore viciously into his side. The shock of this knife-like pain polarized his senses. The coughs caught in his throat and he managed to look down.
The wendigo's half dead, empty eyes met his.
Out of habit, he tried to ball his hands into fists, preparing to fight, despite the fact that they were secured above his head and he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. The bindings around his wrists were so tight that instead of fingers, they felt like ten water balloons strapped to the end of his arms.
Pressure suddenly began to build in his gut, warmth that coursed through his body, the anticipation of the heat of battle that dissolved the bone chilling cold. Hanging there, he stared, helplessly back at pure evil.
The wendigo’s hungry eyes stared gleefully up at its captive, a feral grin, macabre and grotesque, pulling at its thin flesh. Dean swallowed knowing it would feast slowly, gluttonously on its live prey, promising intense pain.
They were more like deep, colorless pits than eyes, surrounded by rotted flesh that hugged what remained of muscle and skeletal remnants. Razor like teeth flashed as its lips parted; it snarled, drool falling from gray teeth in gooey strings.
The source of his agony, Dean realized as he gazed downward, was pressed to his side. One nail of the wendigo's claws was buried in his skin. Blood, his blood, flowed freely, pooling at the waistband of his denim jeans.
The nail wiggled and Dean gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. Jaw clenched, he huffed out, “You’ll have to do be-better th-than that you son of a-”
Dean's breath caught. The wendigo’s sharp nail was moving. Dean’s back arched.
It was a slow, torturous drag as razor-like claw tore into flesh, dragged across, ripping, splitting his skin.
Raising his eyes, Dean looked away, focusing inward. The effort to remain quiet shook his body, but he felt the sticky wetness of blood as it flowed in the wake of breached flesh and poured freely down his rib cage.
Unimpressed by his stoic display, the claw dug deeper, moving through tissue. When it struck bone and Dean’s vision grayed. His breath caught and he bit his lip to keep quiet. Somewhere in the agony noticed the earlier pressure was now unrelenting; heat, suddenly magnified, claiming his attention. The cutting, the building heat, the pain, it all seemed to go on forever…
Then, just as quickly, it stopped.
Dean's vision slowly cleared. In effort to avoid another painful bout of coughing, he fought to keep his breaths shallow and even. When he was fairly sure he wouldn't pass out, he looked down.
The wendigo had laid bare a long gash just along his ribcage, nearly deep enough to expose bone.
In his haze of pain, Dean caught the smell of something burnt, but it faded, consumed by the overwhelming, putrid, death-like stench of the wendigo. Dean’s head rocked back and he held his breath to avoid gagging. A triumphant sneer tilted one side of the creature’s angular face and it raised one claw up, just far enough for Dean to see.
It was the same razor-sharp claw it had used to slice him. Dark fluid oozed down either side - it was his blood, Dean’s blood - and bits of his own flesh clung to the tip.
The digit was pushed closer to Dean's face and the hunter recoiled. “Dude...,” Dean coughed quietly, that pressure still radiating through his body. He wondered if it had poisoned him somehow. “Anyone ever tell you 'snot nice to brag?”
The wendigo leered, holding his captive’s gaze. Then, Dean watched as it put the appendage in its mouth, and sucked gleefully.
“’K,” Dean grimaced, trying to stave off another fit of coughing, “now you're...” it was getting harder to breath, “you're just trying to make me sick...er.”
The claw came out if its mouth with a sickening pop and Dean felt his stomach turn. He dropped his head back, trying to collect himself. After a moment he realized that except for the whistling sound of his congested lungs the small cave had gone utterly quiet.
It was a stupid thing to hope but he did. The sawing of his lungs might’ve covered the sounds of its exit. But if it was gone, after someone else - Dean suddenly had to know and looked down. The damn thing was still there, and worse, it was creepily still, staring in morbid fascination at Dean's eviscerated side.
A single ‘what the fuck’ moment passed through Dean’s mind before the wendigo, as if to answer, licked its lips and bent its head. Tongue extended grotesquely, saliva dropping from the tip, it moved inexorably toward the blood running down his side.
“Oh hell no!” Dean was all motion. Panicked and freaked, he bucked and twisted with all he had.
The force of adrenaline crashed into him like a tsunami. Dean felt his back arch with the intensity of it. The edges of his vision grayed, his breath stopped. The pressure was overwhelming, the heat suffusing his body, chasing away consciousness. That burning smell again…
The roaring in his ears was like a freight train, almost drowning out the loud scream, no; it was more like a piercing screech. It wailed and echoed off the walls of the small alcove prison, ricocheting in Dean’s head.
Dean’s body suddenly jerked and he was weightless, falling. The blackness swallowing him whole.
Then, the ground slammed into him, and the impact drove the air from his lungs. Facedown, his world quickly narrowed to a frantic need to gather his next breath, unaware of the smoldering bits of rope raining down all around him.
“Shit…” he grunted. After a moment, he rolled to his back, forcing his eyes open. Lightheaded, still struggling to breath, his sight continued to dip and ooze. “This… part… of plan, Cas?” he panted.
Lying on his back, exhausted and hurting, a curtain of grey slowly lowered, shrouding his sight. Then, eyes rolling back in his head, he let the ocean of pain and weariness drag him under completely.
Sam and Nathaniel moved at a good clip through the narrow tunnels, the flashlight's beam illuminating all that lay ahead and around. There'd been a frightening stretch of time when they had found nothing - actually, nearly two hours of nothing, and Sam had been near panic.
Then they'd found the blood trail.
On bended knee, Nathaniel had studied the dark lines, and the deep groves next to them. It was evidence something, or someone, had been dragged.
“Definitely went this way,” Nathaniel looked up at Sam. “Judging by how the sand is angled out and to the left. We head that direction," he said, pointing to the left most tunnel.
“You’re sure.” It wasn’t a question. Sam didn’t look at him, just pointed the beam in the direction indicated, heart in his throat. He wanted this to be right but after two agonizing hours of nothing he wanted more to be sure.
Wisely, the younger man said nothing, choosing instead to tap Sam’s shoulder and beckon him onward. Sam sighed but nodded and once again the two were off.
Somewhere beneath the surface of his unconscious mind, Dean heard something move around him. The wendigo. Fuck.
"...M sorry..." A small, familiar voice faded in and out. "Gotta... up mister..." Something tapped his face lightly, the voice was stronger now. "You promised... wake up."
It just felt too good laying there. Ok, it hurt like hell, but not moving, he was sure, was infinitely better than the alternative. Then drops of water began dripping tantalizingly into his mouth - that did it.
The water sent white sparks exploding behind closed eyes and he lifted his head greedily for more. Liquid flooded his mouth and he groaned in equal parts bliss and agony, because lifting his head hurt like a bitch.
"Easy," the voice soothed, then, "No more for now." Dean's head was gently lowered to rest on the hard surface.
Dean panted; that damned wheezing again, it sawed into the silence, like nails on a chalk board. He wasn't sure but he was practically positive it was worse than before.
"I didn't mean to hurt you but... I'm sorry, but there was so much blood."
Fully conscious now, Dean opened his eyes a crack. Kyle sat staring at him, anxious eyes filled with worry. Then, he took stock of himself; he was stretched out on the cavern floor, the unforgiving ground pressed against his aching back.
Above him, a wood beam lay parallel, the remains of a thick rope in tatters still dangling.
Something touched his torn side and memory slammed home. Wendigo!. He bolted upright. Or tried to. “F-” Dean sucked in a breath, teeth clenched around the pain. It was a pitiful attempt, but he managed to scramble back just a little.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just checking the bandage.”
“Wh - ” Deans eyes wide and panicked, searched the darkness. “Where- ?” Mind still fuzzy, he couldn’t’ seem to string the words into a complete question.
Kyle caught on. “It’s gone,” he supplied hurriedly. “Been gone for about a half hour, I think. You shouldn’t move. You’ll bleed more.”
Dean’s eyes slid closed. Exhausted, he lay there, waiting for the agony screaming in his side to abate. Didn't really matter though because he hurt all over; this was just one more pain to add to the already growing list. Lying here wasn't going to change anything.
“Kyle…” Dean whispered when he finally found his breath. One tentative hand moved to the bulk of material covering his otherwise naked torso.
“Don’t mess with that. Took forever to do.”
Curious, Dean looked down and in the blue light of a cell phone that Kyle held he could see a makeshift bandage wrapped around his midsection.
When he shifted just a bit too much, he hissed, “Son of a b-” glanced quickly at the boy and amended, “gun.” There was something oddly familiar about the cloth binding his wound. “Where'd you get this...?”
“From over there,” Kyle pointed, aiming the glowing cell's light across the room, toward a stack of clothing piled against the far wall.
Dean twisted, hissing when the slight motion sent daggers of pain through his midsection. Even in the slight glow of the cell he could see the small stack of clothing that consisted of his green coat, boots, button down shirt. Only thing he couldn't see was...
“Aaah, man," he whined, glancing down to lightly finger what used to be his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, now serving as bandage. "'S is my favorite shirt."
“I'm sorry,” Kyle said meekly, his voice quivering ever so slightly.
Even with imperfect light, Dean saw the boy was near to tears. “Hey," he said, cuffing the boy lightly on the chin. “So happens... this is my favorite blood too so...” Dean grinned as Kyle looked up at him, “'s all good.”
That seemed to help; a small smile played on the youths face. “You want some more water?”
Dean waved the question off weakly. “Nah, I'll wait a bit.” Through bleary, and what Dean was pretty damn sure were feverish eyes, he studied the boy. “So, what made you change your mind?”
Kyle was quiet a moment. “Can you really find my parents? My sister?”
“Yea. I think so,” Dean nodded. It was painful swallowing against the fuzz that clogged his throat, he realized he was still shivering. How long could a person shiver before their joints just gave up and their bones just... rattled apart?
“You’re burning up,” Kyle said pressing one of his small cool hands his forehead. Dean coughed and Kyle pulled his hand away. “And, you look awful.”
“Good.” Dean coughed a laugh and cracked a grin at the kid. “’Cause I'd hate to think…” he coughed, “I felt this crappy and didn't look it.”
“So," Kyle started again after a moment, "how'd the ropes get burned like that?”
Dean dragged his eyes open. “Huh?”
Kyle sat gazing at something in his left hand, but the absurdity of the question left Dean staring at him as if he'd grown a second head - and in his line of work, that was not all that unlikely a possibility.
When he was sure there was only one Kyle-head, Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. “What’d you say?”
“The ropes.” Kyle picked up a few twine remnants. “They're charred. See?”
Dean looked at the blackened ends - frayed, not cut. “You mean you didn't...?”
Kyle shook his head. “I came back, smelled something burning. Made sure it was gone first, then... as I got closer heard something drop - you I think - when I came in, you were lying here.”
“I...” Dean really didn't know what to say, and his head just ached too much to consider the possibilities because to his mind, there weren't any. “Huh,” he finally answered. “Dunno.”
“You're sick,” Kyle sniffed out. “I shoulda cut you down before it -”
“Nah," Dean grunted as he worked to pull himself into a seated position. “There wasn’t time before anyway.”
It was a lie of sorts. He had the gift, whatever the hell that was, and if he’d even gotten one hand free… Then again, he had no real idea how to use it, some details he realized he’d just not gotten before heading off on this half-cocked, dumbass plan.
Dean looked at what served as a source of light - the cell phone. He waved a hand. "That how you're finding your way ‘round in here?"
Kyle nodded."It's all I had."
“Pretty smart thinking,” Dean sighed. It wasn't much of a flashlight but it would have to do for the time being.
Kyle’s small shoulders shrugged. “Not sure how much longer the battery will last.”
“Well,” Dean said taking shallow breath, “I’m not doing anybody any good sitting on my as - ” he looked at Kyle’s wide eyes, “ - keester.” God, being around kids was hard. One hand against the cave wall for support he pushed himself up and stumbled to a wavy stand.
The world spun. “Woah,” Dean’s eyes slammed shut. Following the hand still holding to the cave, he followed blindly to lean his head against the stone, hoping to ride it out rather than fall.
“Mister - Dean?”
Dean waved, “Just… gimme a sec.” Free hand clutched at his midsection in support of the bandage he knew wasn’t tight. The blood that trickled down his side, snaking down his hip told him as much.
Unable to do much about the constant throbbing in his head, his arms, his side - hell, his everything, he realized he could do something about the unbearable cotton in his mouth. Buy more time. Might even help.
“I'll take some of that water now,” Dean panted dizzily. The water bottle momentarily split into two waters, and Dean waited ‘til it went back to one before reaching out.
"Sure." Kyle handed it to him.
Balance still tenuous, leaned his full body against the wall now and pressed the opening to his mouth. The water had barely touched his lips when he froze. The bandage, his jacket, the water, they were all his, so maybe...
“Kyle,” Dean grimaced. The bottle lowered, he pivoted on unsteady feet and squinted at the garments heaped against the wall. "Help me over there."
Quietly, the boy stepped forward and Dean placed a trembling hand on his slight shoulder for balance, he told himself. Each laborious step, however, left him breathing louder and harder; each mouthful of air more ineffective than the previous. To his utter embarrassment, Dean could feel himself leaning heavier on Kyle, the muscles of his legs starving for oxygen that just would not reach them in time.
Even with the support, Dean stumbled, but Kyle moved up close and wrapped his scrawny arms around his waist. Great, the hunter thought bitterly, coughing up a glob of phlegm, I’m being held like some blushing prom date.
There was no denying he was sick, again, but the blood loss had done him no favors. Feeling weak as a new-born kitten, he warred mentally against the self-doubt; not at all certain he was up to taking on a wendigo, let alone rescue Kyle's family.
“Ya kn-know,” Dean huffed. “Wendigos with a blood fetish? I didn’t need that. I really just-” bending over, he reached for his jacket, but with his head below his heart, the world tipped. “Woah.”
The ground rose up from nowhere, shifting all around him like a water mattress. His full weight was more than Kyle could bear so Dean, no stranger to wounds that left one dizzy and unsteady, pushed back. As a result, the cave floor slammed into his ass, not his head. Well, that was something. At least.
Knees bent so he could prop his elbows atop, he folded his arms and lowered his head, forehead resting on his forearms. Eyes closed, he fought off yet another dizzy spell. “Look through my coat," he panted and coughed. “See if you can find-”
“This?”
Dean lifted his head. Kyle turned on the flashlight, the beam illuminating the wall.
“Yahtzee,” Dean grinned. Their eyes locked and for a second Kyle's face lit up, then it was gone. The boy’s gaze went to the exit, his face drawn down in pinched, distant concern.
The boy didn't say anything but Dean knew where his heart and head were. The longer this took the less likely he'd find them - if he found them - alive.
Kyle looked around hesitantly, like he didn’t know what to say or do next. Dean figured he probably knew what and it was probably something like, You promised! Now get off your ass, you dick, and find my family! - only, minus all the swearing.
“Well, c’mon,” Dean said, letting the kid off the hook. Reaching out he grabbed the wall to steady his next attempt at vertical. “Let’s get this party started alrea-,” he doubled over, a series of harsh coughs shaking him from head to toe.
“You alright?” Kyle’s small voice asked.
“Peachy,” Dean wheezed, dizzy and breathless. Leaning against the side of the cave, he cracked one eye open to find Kyle’s worried face peering back. “Right,” he straightened and waved the boy forward. “C’mon, let’s find your family.”
-~*~-
PART 5
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey, it's still Sunday in Texas, so, I'm on time!
If you've seen where I missed something, because I tweek after my beta's, yes I do. Mess up all their hard work. Anyway, just let me know, I'll fix what's broke, nail it back into place. Or, convexly, if nothin's broke, and you see something you like, I can handle that too.
AUTHOR: jackfan2
CATEGORY: Gen
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, Castiel, OC's
WORDS: 5,034
GENRE: Humor/Hurt/Comfort
RATING: T, or PG13 for swearing
TIMELINE: Season 4
BETAS: mad_server & adrenalineshots
SUMMARY: Dean is whisked away by the angels for an urgent rescue mission,leaving Sam clamoring to find him. Between a dubious gift and a bat-shit horse, angelic blessings and hell's curses can sometimes be frighteningly similar, and all disastrous for Dean.
-~*~-
THE GIFT: Part 4
-~*~-
Dean felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds. Any moment, it would fall from his shoulders, if those fucking little midgets didn’t stop slamming back and forth inside his skull with pickaxes and hammers. The agony was overwhelming and he groaned in misery…
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
That throaty rasp no sooner rumbled past his sore throat than it morphed into an uncontrollable cough. The fight to breathe was on and his body shook and contorted with the effort. That effort ignited a fire across his shoulders, up his arms.
It was like suffocating. Choking on the gobs of crap trying to push from his chest and wheezing gasps of air to starving lungs, Dean wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his aching torso and fold into himself. Only he couldn’t.
As feeling returned, he realized his shoulders and arms hurt like hell. When his body swayed uncontrollably, he knew something was very wrong.
The effort was immense but he soon forced his head back and pried open watery eyes. Slowly, painfully, his situation swam lazily into view.
Blood cut a trail down his arms from where ropes chafed and cut into his wrists. That same rope secured his hands overhead at the wrists, leading to a beam high above. Suspended and vulnerable he hung there, the tips of his boots swinging freely several feet from the ground.
“Shit…” he breathed out, eyes watering before they closed. It was hard enough to get air through congested lungs with both feet planted, arms close, but to be stretched like this…
“You alright mister?” a voice called from the dark.
Dean’s eye snapped open and he froze. The shock, the oddity of the voice was enough to quell his coughing and he was able to right himself enough to squint in the direction he'd heard the sound. In the murky darkness of the cave he blinked in surprise - it was a kid!
After a few nervous backward glances, the kid edged closer, feet shuffling into the dirt floor. While older than the little girl he’d found earlier, he was still young and his clothes hung from his frail frame. They too were every bit as dirty and torn.
Eyeing Dean sympathetically, he whispered harshly, “I can get you water if you need it, but you gotta stay quiet.”
Dean wanted to answer, even if it was just his sick mind was playing tricks on reality, but instead dissolved into another fit of coughing. Strung up, dangling, the pressure on his already restricted airways was tripled. Even these small coughs pushed against the lack of air, and upon subsiding, left him lightheaded and dizzy.
“Hang on,” the boy whispered harshly, cutting through his hazy mind.
When Dean opened his eyes, he was alone. That’s it. I’m hallucinating.
Pain radiated up and down his strained limbs and Dean’s eyes drifted shut once more. God he hurt. Even his hair hurt. Small coughs continued to rack his body, sending him swinging lightly, though even that pulled like hell at his arms and shoulders.
“Hey,” a voice whispered. Chin resting against his chest, Dean opened bleary eyes to focus on the not-really-there boy once again. “Here.”
It was a bottle of water, gripped tightly in small hands, lifted in offering toward the captive. It looked real enough to make Dean’s mouth water, but just like the boy, it wasn’t. Even if it had been real, suspended far too high to reach the container, the act proved pointless.
“That's -” Dean coughed, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. On any other day, talking to someone who wasn’t there would have him questioning his mental state. But, hell, hours ago he’d been talking to a horse, so why the hell not? “Th-that’s... n-nice.”
The not-really-a-boy shook the water, expectantly and Dean’s brow furrowed. Were hallucinations supposed to be this… persistent and annoying? The ‘kid’, too far away to reach him, acted like he could just hop down whenever he wanted.
Still, he went on to answer, “I...can't exactly reach.” Dean’s eyes drooped. It hurt too much to think, between the pounding in his head, the weight inside his chest, his agonized muscles. Maybe if he could just rest a moment, get the pain under control…“But… th-thanks anyway,” he panted.
Eyes closed, Dean willed his breaths to stay shallow and even. Fugly’d be back and he needed to be able to hear him over his own loud, wheezing breaths. The bone chilling cold of the cave left his teeth clacking noisily together, though his hands felt none of it. They were numb where the ropes were drawn tight enough to cut off his circulation.
Something touched his chin and Dean jerked in surprise. He opened his eyes but otherwise didn’t move. Just too damn tired.
“Mister,” the boy’s soft voice whispered into the darkness, sympathetic and a bit urgent. He pressed the hard plastic opening of the water bottle to Dean’s lower lip. “Here. Drink.”
Dean grunted in his haze of pain and exhaustion. The hallucination was so strong he could practically smell the fresh liquid and it filled him with want. Lack of strength kept him still, however, and his head dropped, chin lax against his chest, his eyes falling closed, lids too heavy to do more.
The boy sighed and placed a hand under Dean’s chin and lifted enough to get the opening of the bottle back to his mouth. Pressing it tight to his lower lip he tried again, “Please.”
Dean’s eyes opened, gazing wearily at him. This close, the kid’s eyes imploring and beseeching, Dean felt a renewed surge of fear. “You’re… real?” No, no, no... please don’t let him be real. Because real meant this boy, this child was in danger too. Real meant he shouldn’t be here now, helping him...
Brow scrunched, the boy nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.” Again he pressed the bottle to flesh and begged, “Drink. Please.”
Every instinct told him not to. This was the worst place for this kid to be. Tell him to run, leave. Get as far away from him as possible. But, dammit, he needed the water. Needed the help this kid could give him.
Need driving him, Dean didn’t nod. Instead, he bent his head weakly toward the container while the boy lifted his chin. The bottle upended, the first splash of water hit his tongue and Dean heard himself groan in relief. The taste became a wall of sensation that made his head spin with need and want. No further urging was necessary.
Beyond thirsty, he pressed forward, anxiously, greedily, gulping at the liquid. With a desire he’d never known he wanted to crawl inside the container. He closed his lips over the bottle opening and was soon hollowing his cheeks as he took long and grateful pulls; eyes closed, Dean felt his head swoon in the darkness.
“Ease up,” the boy urged. “Mister…”
The words didn’t really register. He continued forward, trying to get closer to the bottle, wanting more. Then, realizing it was being pulled away, panic shot through him. He bent in pursuit, refusing to stop…
“That’s all there is,” the youth announced. He wrenched the container out of Dean’s mouth, teeth scraping against the plastic. Dean, however, head swooning, lost in need, continued, searchingly. “Mister, it’s all gone.”
Finally, Dean came back to himself. Pulling back he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he managed, his head fairly spinning in quenched relief. It was euphoric the way waves of gooseflesh shot down his back.
More scrabbling and Dean opened his eyes in time to see the boy edging toward the exit, peering cautiously around the corner. “Wait.” Dean knew he sounded desperate but this kid was his chance for freedom, because it didn't appear Sam would make it. “Wh-what's your n-n-name? Mine's Dean.”
The boy stuttered to a stop but stilled. One foot already out and the other in, he cast Dean sideways, uncertain glances. “Look, I can't stay. It'll hear. It'll come back.”
“It,” Dean stated simply. “You mean the knock-kneed, g-gangly, sickly looking dude with the strength of a f-five men and who can mimic any voice it hears? That the 'it' you're talking about?”
“I -,” the boy’s lower lip started trembling. “It's got my parents, my s-sister. I...”
Dean took pity on the boy. “What's your name? C-c-can't keep just c-c-calling you kid.” The shivering became more pronounced.
The boy looked nervously around a moment then, “I'm Kyle.”
“C-cool. I’m Dean.” Tremors were a constant thing but this one rocked his body so hard he winced at the pull on his arms and shoulders. In a constant effort to keep at least some blood flow in his extremities, every so often he’d taken to flexing his fingers and ankles. This time, his hands wouldn’t move. Dammit.
Kyle must’ve noticed the look and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Dumbest ass question he’d heard all day, but Dean blew it off, “Oh, just hangin’ round, ya know. Tryin’ t’get c-comfortable.”
Well, he’d meant to blow it off. Hadn’t meant the sarcasm - well, he’d meant it but just not meant for Kyle to hear it, and if the kid’s expression was any indicator, he did. “So,” Dean quickly tried to cover, “h-how old are you Kyle? Ten? Eleven?”
Looking only slightly less sulky, Kyle answered, "Nine."
“Really?” he hoped his surprised grin didn’t look as pained as he felt. “Well, c-c-coulda fooled me.” It was a lie but he needed this boy to think and act beyond his years. “I mean, g-g-getting away from that thing; takes a pretty brave guy t’do that.”
“I’m not brave.” Kyle’s head dropped. “I was out in the woods, playing when it got my family.” A tear slipped from his face to plop onto the dusty ground. “I hid when I heard my Mom scream. It hurt my Da- ” he choked off into a sob.
“Hey, you’re here n-now aren’t you?” Dean gritted out. It wasn’t an idle compliment; this time he meant it. “You’re brave m-man, don’t ever feel d-d-different.” The boy shrugged his small shoulders. “So, how’d you end up here?”
“I followed it. But it moved so fast…”
“Yeah, don’t I know it,” Dean said mostly to himself. “Look,” he grunted when the pressure on his arms momentarily rocked his pain threshold. “Y-ya gotta find a w-way to cut me loose. Once I'm down, I'll kill that thing -”
“No,” Kyle whispered angrily and took a step back. At Dean’s questioning look, he continued, “You don't understand. I saw it drag my family in the tunnels, but I don’t know where it’s keeping them. If you kill it, I'll never find’m.”
A scraping noise caught both their attention and Kyle turned wide-eyed toward the opening. “Oh no...”
“Kyle, listen,” Dean said trying anxiously to get the boy’s attention. Having heard it too, and seeing that the boy was ready to bolt. “I can help, just climb back on that rock and untie me.” But the kid was looking at the exit, inching toward it. “No, no, no, Kyle -”
“You don’t understand.” Kyle shook his head. “It’s my responsibility,” he whispered anxiously.
“Hey,” Dean whispered edgily, enough to garner Kyle’s attention again. “I get that.” He fought back a desperate need to cough. “I have a b-b-brother and like you, I feel responsible for him.” Desperation was edging into his voice. “Listen, I will find your family. Just ge-”
The scraping sounded much closer. Kyle stiffened then dropped to a crouch. “I gotta go.” And he was gone.
“NO!” Dean practically shouted. The fervent call only succeeded in sending him deep into another coughing fit, this one worse than the others.
Somewhere in the suffocating, in the wheezing and pathetic attempts to draw breath, Dean heard the scraping replaced by a low, guttural growl. Somewhere in that attempt to control his breathing while he dangled there, chest heaving, shivering, he understood why the kid ran. Hell, he'd love nothing more than to do the same.
While his body convulsed, his chest agonized and his head swam, something suddenly tore viciously into his side. The shock of this knife-like pain polarized his senses. The coughs caught in his throat and he managed to look down.
The wendigo's half dead, empty eyes met his.
Out of habit, he tried to ball his hands into fists, preparing to fight, despite the fact that they were secured above his head and he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. The bindings around his wrists were so tight that instead of fingers, they felt like ten water balloons strapped to the end of his arms.
Pressure suddenly began to build in his gut, warmth that coursed through his body, the anticipation of the heat of battle that dissolved the bone chilling cold. Hanging there, he stared, helplessly back at pure evil.
The wendigo’s hungry eyes stared gleefully up at its captive, a feral grin, macabre and grotesque, pulling at its thin flesh. Dean swallowed knowing it would feast slowly, gluttonously on its live prey, promising intense pain.
They were more like deep, colorless pits than eyes, surrounded by rotted flesh that hugged what remained of muscle and skeletal remnants. Razor like teeth flashed as its lips parted; it snarled, drool falling from gray teeth in gooey strings.
The source of his agony, Dean realized as he gazed downward, was pressed to his side. One nail of the wendigo's claws was buried in his skin. Blood, his blood, flowed freely, pooling at the waistband of his denim jeans.
The nail wiggled and Dean gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. Jaw clenched, he huffed out, “You’ll have to do be-better th-than that you son of a-”
Dean's breath caught. The wendigo’s sharp nail was moving. Dean’s back arched.
It was a slow, torturous drag as razor-like claw tore into flesh, dragged across, ripping, splitting his skin.
Raising his eyes, Dean looked away, focusing inward. The effort to remain quiet shook his body, but he felt the sticky wetness of blood as it flowed in the wake of breached flesh and poured freely down his rib cage.
Unimpressed by his stoic display, the claw dug deeper, moving through tissue. When it struck bone and Dean’s vision grayed. His breath caught and he bit his lip to keep quiet. Somewhere in the agony noticed the earlier pressure was now unrelenting; heat, suddenly magnified, claiming his attention. The cutting, the building heat, the pain, it all seemed to go on forever…
Then, just as quickly, it stopped.
Dean's vision slowly cleared. In effort to avoid another painful bout of coughing, he fought to keep his breaths shallow and even. When he was fairly sure he wouldn't pass out, he looked down.
The wendigo had laid bare a long gash just along his ribcage, nearly deep enough to expose bone.
In his haze of pain, Dean caught the smell of something burnt, but it faded, consumed by the overwhelming, putrid, death-like stench of the wendigo. Dean’s head rocked back and he held his breath to avoid gagging. A triumphant sneer tilted one side of the creature’s angular face and it raised one claw up, just far enough for Dean to see.
It was the same razor-sharp claw it had used to slice him. Dark fluid oozed down either side - it was his blood, Dean’s blood - and bits of his own flesh clung to the tip.
The digit was pushed closer to Dean's face and the hunter recoiled. “Dude...,” Dean coughed quietly, that pressure still radiating through his body. He wondered if it had poisoned him somehow. “Anyone ever tell you 'snot nice to brag?”
The wendigo leered, holding his captive’s gaze. Then, Dean watched as it put the appendage in its mouth, and sucked gleefully.
“’K,” Dean grimaced, trying to stave off another fit of coughing, “now you're...” it was getting harder to breath, “you're just trying to make me sick...er.”
The claw came out if its mouth with a sickening pop and Dean felt his stomach turn. He dropped his head back, trying to collect himself. After a moment he realized that except for the whistling sound of his congested lungs the small cave had gone utterly quiet.
It was a stupid thing to hope but he did. The sawing of his lungs might’ve covered the sounds of its exit. But if it was gone, after someone else - Dean suddenly had to know and looked down. The damn thing was still there, and worse, it was creepily still, staring in morbid fascination at Dean's eviscerated side.
A single ‘what the fuck’ moment passed through Dean’s mind before the wendigo, as if to answer, licked its lips and bent its head. Tongue extended grotesquely, saliva dropping from the tip, it moved inexorably toward the blood running down his side.
“Oh hell no!” Dean was all motion. Panicked and freaked, he bucked and twisted with all he had.
The force of adrenaline crashed into him like a tsunami. Dean felt his back arch with the intensity of it. The edges of his vision grayed, his breath stopped. The pressure was overwhelming, the heat suffusing his body, chasing away consciousness. That burning smell again…
The roaring in his ears was like a freight train, almost drowning out the loud scream, no; it was more like a piercing screech. It wailed and echoed off the walls of the small alcove prison, ricocheting in Dean’s head.
Dean’s body suddenly jerked and he was weightless, falling. The blackness swallowing him whole.
Then, the ground slammed into him, and the impact drove the air from his lungs. Facedown, his world quickly narrowed to a frantic need to gather his next breath, unaware of the smoldering bits of rope raining down all around him.
“Shit…” he grunted. After a moment, he rolled to his back, forcing his eyes open. Lightheaded, still struggling to breath, his sight continued to dip and ooze. “This… part… of plan, Cas?” he panted.
Lying on his back, exhausted and hurting, a curtain of grey slowly lowered, shrouding his sight. Then, eyes rolling back in his head, he let the ocean of pain and weariness drag him under completely.
Sam and Nathaniel moved at a good clip through the narrow tunnels, the flashlight's beam illuminating all that lay ahead and around. There'd been a frightening stretch of time when they had found nothing - actually, nearly two hours of nothing, and Sam had been near panic.
Then they'd found the blood trail.
On bended knee, Nathaniel had studied the dark lines, and the deep groves next to them. It was evidence something, or someone, had been dragged.
“Definitely went this way,” Nathaniel looked up at Sam. “Judging by how the sand is angled out and to the left. We head that direction," he said, pointing to the left most tunnel.
“You’re sure.” It wasn’t a question. Sam didn’t look at him, just pointed the beam in the direction indicated, heart in his throat. He wanted this to be right but after two agonizing hours of nothing he wanted more to be sure.
Wisely, the younger man said nothing, choosing instead to tap Sam’s shoulder and beckon him onward. Sam sighed but nodded and once again the two were off.
Somewhere beneath the surface of his unconscious mind, Dean heard something move around him. The wendigo. Fuck.
"...M sorry..." A small, familiar voice faded in and out. "Gotta... up mister..." Something tapped his face lightly, the voice was stronger now. "You promised... wake up."
It just felt too good laying there. Ok, it hurt like hell, but not moving, he was sure, was infinitely better than the alternative. Then drops of water began dripping tantalizingly into his mouth - that did it.
The water sent white sparks exploding behind closed eyes and he lifted his head greedily for more. Liquid flooded his mouth and he groaned in equal parts bliss and agony, because lifting his head hurt like a bitch.
"Easy," the voice soothed, then, "No more for now." Dean's head was gently lowered to rest on the hard surface.
Dean panted; that damned wheezing again, it sawed into the silence, like nails on a chalk board. He wasn't sure but he was practically positive it was worse than before.
"I didn't mean to hurt you but... I'm sorry, but there was so much blood."
Fully conscious now, Dean opened his eyes a crack. Kyle sat staring at him, anxious eyes filled with worry. Then, he took stock of himself; he was stretched out on the cavern floor, the unforgiving ground pressed against his aching back.
Above him, a wood beam lay parallel, the remains of a thick rope in tatters still dangling.
Something touched his torn side and memory slammed home. Wendigo!. He bolted upright. Or tried to. “F-” Dean sucked in a breath, teeth clenched around the pain. It was a pitiful attempt, but he managed to scramble back just a little.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was just checking the bandage.”
“Wh - ” Deans eyes wide and panicked, searched the darkness. “Where- ?” Mind still fuzzy, he couldn’t’ seem to string the words into a complete question.
Kyle caught on. “It’s gone,” he supplied hurriedly. “Been gone for about a half hour, I think. You shouldn’t move. You’ll bleed more.”
Dean’s eyes slid closed. Exhausted, he lay there, waiting for the agony screaming in his side to abate. Didn't really matter though because he hurt all over; this was just one more pain to add to the already growing list. Lying here wasn't going to change anything.
“Kyle…” Dean whispered when he finally found his breath. One tentative hand moved to the bulk of material covering his otherwise naked torso.
“Don’t mess with that. Took forever to do.”
Curious, Dean looked down and in the blue light of a cell phone that Kyle held he could see a makeshift bandage wrapped around his midsection.
When he shifted just a bit too much, he hissed, “Son of a b-” glanced quickly at the boy and amended, “gun.” There was something oddly familiar about the cloth binding his wound. “Where'd you get this...?”
“From over there,” Kyle pointed, aiming the glowing cell's light across the room, toward a stack of clothing piled against the far wall.
Dean twisted, hissing when the slight motion sent daggers of pain through his midsection. Even in the slight glow of the cell he could see the small stack of clothing that consisted of his green coat, boots, button down shirt. Only thing he couldn't see was...
“Aaah, man," he whined, glancing down to lightly finger what used to be his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, now serving as bandage. "'S is my favorite shirt."
“I'm sorry,” Kyle said meekly, his voice quivering ever so slightly.
Even with imperfect light, Dean saw the boy was near to tears. “Hey," he said, cuffing the boy lightly on the chin. “So happens... this is my favorite blood too so...” Dean grinned as Kyle looked up at him, “'s all good.”
That seemed to help; a small smile played on the youths face. “You want some more water?”
Dean waved the question off weakly. “Nah, I'll wait a bit.” Through bleary, and what Dean was pretty damn sure were feverish eyes, he studied the boy. “So, what made you change your mind?”
Kyle was quiet a moment. “Can you really find my parents? My sister?”
“Yea. I think so,” Dean nodded. It was painful swallowing against the fuzz that clogged his throat, he realized he was still shivering. How long could a person shiver before their joints just gave up and their bones just... rattled apart?
“You’re burning up,” Kyle said pressing one of his small cool hands his forehead. Dean coughed and Kyle pulled his hand away. “And, you look awful.”
“Good.” Dean coughed a laugh and cracked a grin at the kid. “’Cause I'd hate to think…” he coughed, “I felt this crappy and didn't look it.”
“So," Kyle started again after a moment, "how'd the ropes get burned like that?”
Dean dragged his eyes open. “Huh?”
Kyle sat gazing at something in his left hand, but the absurdity of the question left Dean staring at him as if he'd grown a second head - and in his line of work, that was not all that unlikely a possibility.
When he was sure there was only one Kyle-head, Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. “What’d you say?”
“The ropes.” Kyle picked up a few twine remnants. “They're charred. See?”
Dean looked at the blackened ends - frayed, not cut. “You mean you didn't...?”
Kyle shook his head. “I came back, smelled something burning. Made sure it was gone first, then... as I got closer heard something drop - you I think - when I came in, you were lying here.”
“I...” Dean really didn't know what to say, and his head just ached too much to consider the possibilities because to his mind, there weren't any. “Huh,” he finally answered. “Dunno.”
“You're sick,” Kyle sniffed out. “I shoulda cut you down before it -”
“Nah," Dean grunted as he worked to pull himself into a seated position. “There wasn’t time before anyway.”
It was a lie of sorts. He had the gift, whatever the hell that was, and if he’d even gotten one hand free… Then again, he had no real idea how to use it, some details he realized he’d just not gotten before heading off on this half-cocked, dumbass plan.
Dean looked at what served as a source of light - the cell phone. He waved a hand. "That how you're finding your way ‘round in here?"
Kyle nodded."It's all I had."
“Pretty smart thinking,” Dean sighed. It wasn't much of a flashlight but it would have to do for the time being.
Kyle’s small shoulders shrugged. “Not sure how much longer the battery will last.”
“Well,” Dean said taking shallow breath, “I’m not doing anybody any good sitting on my as - ” he looked at Kyle’s wide eyes, “ - keester.” God, being around kids was hard. One hand against the cave wall for support he pushed himself up and stumbled to a wavy stand.
The world spun. “Woah,” Dean’s eyes slammed shut. Following the hand still holding to the cave, he followed blindly to lean his head against the stone, hoping to ride it out rather than fall.
“Mister - Dean?”
Dean waved, “Just… gimme a sec.” Free hand clutched at his midsection in support of the bandage he knew wasn’t tight. The blood that trickled down his side, snaking down his hip told him as much.
Unable to do much about the constant throbbing in his head, his arms, his side - hell, his everything, he realized he could do something about the unbearable cotton in his mouth. Buy more time. Might even help.
“I'll take some of that water now,” Dean panted dizzily. The water bottle momentarily split into two waters, and Dean waited ‘til it went back to one before reaching out.
"Sure." Kyle handed it to him.
Balance still tenuous, leaned his full body against the wall now and pressed the opening to his mouth. The water had barely touched his lips when he froze. The bandage, his jacket, the water, they were all his, so maybe...
“Kyle,” Dean grimaced. The bottle lowered, he pivoted on unsteady feet and squinted at the garments heaped against the wall. "Help me over there."
Quietly, the boy stepped forward and Dean placed a trembling hand on his slight shoulder for balance, he told himself. Each laborious step, however, left him breathing louder and harder; each mouthful of air more ineffective than the previous. To his utter embarrassment, Dean could feel himself leaning heavier on Kyle, the muscles of his legs starving for oxygen that just would not reach them in time.
Even with the support, Dean stumbled, but Kyle moved up close and wrapped his scrawny arms around his waist. Great, the hunter thought bitterly, coughing up a glob of phlegm, I’m being held like some blushing prom date.
There was no denying he was sick, again, but the blood loss had done him no favors. Feeling weak as a new-born kitten, he warred mentally against the self-doubt; not at all certain he was up to taking on a wendigo, let alone rescue Kyle's family.
“Ya kn-know,” Dean huffed. “Wendigos with a blood fetish? I didn’t need that. I really just-” bending over, he reached for his jacket, but with his head below his heart, the world tipped. “Woah.”
The ground rose up from nowhere, shifting all around him like a water mattress. His full weight was more than Kyle could bear so Dean, no stranger to wounds that left one dizzy and unsteady, pushed back. As a result, the cave floor slammed into his ass, not his head. Well, that was something. At least.
Knees bent so he could prop his elbows atop, he folded his arms and lowered his head, forehead resting on his forearms. Eyes closed, he fought off yet another dizzy spell. “Look through my coat," he panted and coughed. “See if you can find-”
“This?”
Dean lifted his head. Kyle turned on the flashlight, the beam illuminating the wall.
“Yahtzee,” Dean grinned. Their eyes locked and for a second Kyle's face lit up, then it was gone. The boy’s gaze went to the exit, his face drawn down in pinched, distant concern.
The boy didn't say anything but Dean knew where his heart and head were. The longer this took the less likely he'd find them - if he found them - alive.
Kyle looked around hesitantly, like he didn’t know what to say or do next. Dean figured he probably knew what and it was probably something like, You promised! Now get off your ass, you dick, and find my family! - only, minus all the swearing.
“Well, c’mon,” Dean said, letting the kid off the hook. Reaching out he grabbed the wall to steady his next attempt at vertical. “Let’s get this party started alrea-,” he doubled over, a series of harsh coughs shaking him from head to toe.
“You alright?” Kyle’s small voice asked.
“Peachy,” Dean wheezed, dizzy and breathless. Leaning against the side of the cave, he cracked one eye open to find Kyle’s worried face peering back. “Right,” he straightened and waved the boy forward. “C’mon, let’s find your family.”
-~*~-
PART 5
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hey, it's still Sunday in Texas, so, I'm on time!
If you've seen where I missed something, because I tweek after my beta's, yes I do. Mess up all their hard work. Anyway, just let me know, I'll fix what's broke, nail it back into place. Or, convexly, if nothin's broke, and you see something you like, I can handle that too.