SPN FIC: SAM, Rated PG-13 for mild language/Pimping of spn_las
Author: landrews
Title: SAM
Fandom: SPN
Character(s): Dean POV
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
A/N: Originally written for spn_las Round One, Challenge Two. Prompt was: Lost Moments. Someone actually voted it worst story out of 38 entries, so would like constructive criticism (as always!). I didn't change anything else, but I did re-instate the last line, which was accidently dropped in the Challenge post.
Word Count: 1000 words exactly, which is the upper limit :-)
SAM
He scrapes dead leaves away from his face. His hand weighs twenty pounds. Snorting, he rolls over onto his back. The rest of him wakes up and groans in protest. His left wrist yells loudest. He's cold. Struggles up so he's sitting, left arm tucked to his ribs in an attempt to quiet it, one foot under the other thigh, that leg seriously prickling pins and needles. He bites his lip instead of yelling.
He's surrounded by close-growing trees, all whispery as they lean over looking at him. The flat leaves of a spindly bush tickle his cheek. He bats it away and then rubs his hand up and down his thigh, both warming it and speeding circulation to his leg. His jeans are filthy with black dirt. There's dried blood, he thinks, on the back of his hand. He swipes at an itchy spot at his temple. Yeah, that'd be blood. The shadows are deep, but he can practically feel the day breaking open. There's distant bird call. He's damp with dew and the air is chilled. He has no idea where he is. Or why. Every thought, aside from move, seems too distant to catch. And like way too much work to try.
When he thinks he can stand, he does. He hobbles three steps. Stops. Turns. Turns again and stumbles onward past a dogwood sapling and onto a deer trail. Hesitates. Turns right. Walks.
His leg feels fine, but now something's rubbing a hole through his skin. He reaches back and tugs at his jacket and shirt, fumbling with something tucked into the back of his jeans. Stopping, he pulls it free. There's a gun in his hand. The frown that forms between his brows makes the skin at his temple pull at the same time fireworks light off in his head, blinding him. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and waits, his stomach flopping. He will not fall.
The trail becomes a path. He follows it, pressing his left wrist against his chest with the gun he's holding in his right hand. He's tired. His head beats in time with his heart, a dull ache radiating from behind his eyes and engulfing his cheekbones.
There's a car waiting in a little unpaved clearing with two deep ruts curving away. It's long and black and he's pretty sure it's his because his chest loosens when he sees it and he can finally draw a deep breath, which he didn't know he needed until then.
He lays the gun colt on the hood and paws at his jeans pocket. Keys. Grabbing the gun, he transfers it to the bench seat and slides in beside it shotgun. “Yeah,” he says. It comes out a croak he can't recognize. There's a name that's staying just that far away from the tip of his tongue. He cranks the engine over. A cacophony of noise resolves itself into a song he knows. He just can't remember it right now. “Driver picks the music...”
He slams the car into reverse and swings it around before he remembers there's a first aid kit. Under the seat. He slaps the car back into park and fumbles the smaller kit out from under geekboy's seat. There's water, too. His head gives him shit, but it's just firecrackers now, instead of the whole shebang.
He chugs the water, then cracks the kit and there's a SAM Splint right on top. He stares at the name. SAM. He unrolls it and straightens it out with awkward passes of his right hand, folding it over on itself twice. As best he can, he forms the required curves, then presses it to the underside of his left forearm, gritting his teeth as the bones in his wrist shift. He uses up an open roll of purple co-flex to keep the splint in place.
SAM. He knows that name. He scoots forward and sure enough, there's a cell phone in his back pocket. He stares at it. Scrolls through the contacts. Hesitates at DAD. Wide, calloused, capable hands, the back of a dark head as he drives... this car.
His stomach churns.
Finds SAM.
After three rings, Sam's voice kicks in, asking him to leave a message. His heart lurches. Shaggy-headed-wild-laughter-crybaby-terrible-singer-angry-as-a-black-dog-Sam comes flooding in on him so hard he gasps. A beep shreds his brain into sparkles. Jerking the phone away, he looks at the display. Sam is calling. He cautiously thumbs the call button again, because he still doesn't...
“Dean,” Sam says, sounding surprised “What's up?”
Dean. Yeah. That's right. He's Dean. Sam's big brother. He sighs, glad he didn't hit DAD for this fuck-up.
“Dean? You okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” he rasps. And he is now. “Sammy. I'm fine. Just a little dry. Y'know. Waiting on a slow-ass bartender. Thought I'd call, find out how your... classes are.”
“It's a little early for a bar, Dean.”
“Naw. I was up all night.” He sinks into the Impala's embrace. The heater's starting to blow a little bit of warmth onto his cold, wet boots. “Got lost in the damn woods. I'm in Milwaukee, they like beer for breakfast here.”
Dean smiles at Sam's deep bark of laughter. His eyes slip closed.
“You need eggs with your beer, Dean, and a bed. I'm fine.” There's a shushing sound as Sam covers the speaker and murmurs to someone else. His voice jumps loud and clear into Dean's ear, startling him. “I've got to go, Dean. Eat. Sleep.”
“Roger-wilco,” Dean says. “See 'ya, Sammy.”
Dean pries his eyes open and lays the phone down next to his Colt 1911; bought for ninety bucks off a hunter in Abilene. He's in some godforsaken state forest near Roan Mountain, Tennessee, and there's a pipe gate three hundred yards down the waiting ruts. There's a shitty blacktop will get him to19E, though not without pain, since there's no aspirin when he checks.
Diner, first. Then ER.
Strangely content, Dean eases his baby into drive.
FIN
A/N II: Based on the experience of a friend and SAM Splint for real!
VOTING FOR THE CHALLENGE FICS AT spn_las IS OPEN TO EVERYONE ON THE NETS, NOT JUST COMMUNITY MEMBERS. ALL THE FICS ARE POSTED ANONYMOUSLY EXCEPT TO MOD, UNTIL THE RESULTS ARE POSTED. EXCEPT TO MOD, ALL THE VOTERS REMAIN ANONYMOUS FOREVER. SO FEEL FREE TO GO VOTE. THE ONLY REQUIREMENTS ARE THAT YOU READ ALL THE FICS (100-1000 words) AND GIVE YOUR REASON FOR CHOOSING THE BEST FIC AND THE WORST FIC. THIS IS A WRITING CONTEST, SO SHIPS AND CHARACTER FAVORITISM ARE DISALLOWED AS REASONS. YOUR NEXT CHANCE TO VOTE AT spn_las IS SEPT. 15- SEPT. 19 at 5:00 EST. :-) BTW! THERE ARE LOTS OF LAST AUTHOR STANDING COMMUNITIES INCLUDING WHEDONVERSE AND ORIGINAL FICS, GO TO spn_las AND CHECK OUT ALL THE LINKS. MAYBE YOU"LL WANT TO JOIN IN :-)
Title: SAM
Fandom: SPN
Character(s): Dean POV
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
A/N: Originally written for spn_las Round One, Challenge Two. Prompt was: Lost Moments. Someone actually voted it worst story out of 38 entries, so would like constructive criticism (as always!). I didn't change anything else, but I did re-instate the last line, which was accidently dropped in the Challenge post.
Word Count: 1000 words exactly, which is the upper limit :-)
SAM
He scrapes dead leaves away from his face. His hand weighs twenty pounds. Snorting, he rolls over onto his back. The rest of him wakes up and groans in protest. His left wrist yells loudest. He's cold. Struggles up so he's sitting, left arm tucked to his ribs in an attempt to quiet it, one foot under the other thigh, that leg seriously prickling pins and needles. He bites his lip instead of yelling.
He's surrounded by close-growing trees, all whispery as they lean over looking at him. The flat leaves of a spindly bush tickle his cheek. He bats it away and then rubs his hand up and down his thigh, both warming it and speeding circulation to his leg. His jeans are filthy with black dirt. There's dried blood, he thinks, on the back of his hand. He swipes at an itchy spot at his temple. Yeah, that'd be blood. The shadows are deep, but he can practically feel the day breaking open. There's distant bird call. He's damp with dew and the air is chilled. He has no idea where he is. Or why. Every thought, aside from move, seems too distant to catch. And like way too much work to try.
When he thinks he can stand, he does. He hobbles three steps. Stops. Turns. Turns again and stumbles onward past a dogwood sapling and onto a deer trail. Hesitates. Turns right. Walks.
His leg feels fine, but now something's rubbing a hole through his skin. He reaches back and tugs at his jacket and shirt, fumbling with something tucked into the back of his jeans. Stopping, he pulls it free. There's a gun in his hand. The frown that forms between his brows makes the skin at his temple pull at the same time fireworks light off in his head, blinding him. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and waits, his stomach flopping. He will not fall.
The trail becomes a path. He follows it, pressing his left wrist against his chest with the gun he's holding in his right hand. He's tired. His head beats in time with his heart, a dull ache radiating from behind his eyes and engulfing his cheekbones.
There's a car waiting in a little unpaved clearing with two deep ruts curving away. It's long and black and he's pretty sure it's his because his chest loosens when he sees it and he can finally draw a deep breath, which he didn't know he needed until then.
He lays the gun colt on the hood and paws at his jeans pocket. Keys. Grabbing the gun, he transfers it to the bench seat and slides in beside it shotgun. “Yeah,” he says. It comes out a croak he can't recognize. There's a name that's staying just that far away from the tip of his tongue. He cranks the engine over. A cacophony of noise resolves itself into a song he knows. He just can't remember it right now. “Driver picks the music...”
He slams the car into reverse and swings it around before he remembers there's a first aid kit. Under the seat. He slaps the car back into park and fumbles the smaller kit out from under geekboy's seat. There's water, too. His head gives him shit, but it's just firecrackers now, instead of the whole shebang.
He chugs the water, then cracks the kit and there's a SAM Splint right on top. He stares at the name. SAM. He unrolls it and straightens it out with awkward passes of his right hand, folding it over on itself twice. As best he can, he forms the required curves, then presses it to the underside of his left forearm, gritting his teeth as the bones in his wrist shift. He uses up an open roll of purple co-flex to keep the splint in place.
SAM. He knows that name. He scoots forward and sure enough, there's a cell phone in his back pocket. He stares at it. Scrolls through the contacts. Hesitates at DAD. Wide, calloused, capable hands, the back of a dark head as he drives... this car.
His stomach churns.
Finds SAM.
After three rings, Sam's voice kicks in, asking him to leave a message. His heart lurches. Shaggy-headed-wild-laughter-crybaby-terrible-singer-angry-as-a-black-dog-Sam comes flooding in on him so hard he gasps. A beep shreds his brain into sparkles. Jerking the phone away, he looks at the display. Sam is calling. He cautiously thumbs the call button again, because he still doesn't...
“Dean,” Sam says, sounding surprised “What's up?”
Dean. Yeah. That's right. He's Dean. Sam's big brother. He sighs, glad he didn't hit DAD for this fuck-up.
“Dean? You okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” he rasps. And he is now. “Sammy. I'm fine. Just a little dry. Y'know. Waiting on a slow-ass bartender. Thought I'd call, find out how your... classes are.”
“It's a little early for a bar, Dean.”
“Naw. I was up all night.” He sinks into the Impala's embrace. The heater's starting to blow a little bit of warmth onto his cold, wet boots. “Got lost in the damn woods. I'm in Milwaukee, they like beer for breakfast here.”
Dean smiles at Sam's deep bark of laughter. His eyes slip closed.
“You need eggs with your beer, Dean, and a bed. I'm fine.” There's a shushing sound as Sam covers the speaker and murmurs to someone else. His voice jumps loud and clear into Dean's ear, startling him. “I've got to go, Dean. Eat. Sleep.”
“Roger-wilco,” Dean says. “See 'ya, Sammy.”
Dean pries his eyes open and lays the phone down next to his Colt 1911; bought for ninety bucks off a hunter in Abilene. He's in some godforsaken state forest near Roan Mountain, Tennessee, and there's a pipe gate three hundred yards down the waiting ruts. There's a shitty blacktop will get him to19E, though not without pain, since there's no aspirin when he checks.
Diner, first. Then ER.
Strangely content, Dean eases his baby into drive.
FIN
A/N II: Based on the experience of a friend and SAM Splint for real!
VOTING FOR THE CHALLENGE FICS AT spn_las IS OPEN TO EVERYONE ON THE NETS, NOT JUST COMMUNITY MEMBERS. ALL THE FICS ARE POSTED ANONYMOUSLY EXCEPT TO MOD, UNTIL THE RESULTS ARE POSTED. EXCEPT TO MOD, ALL THE VOTERS REMAIN ANONYMOUS FOREVER. SO FEEL FREE TO GO VOTE. THE ONLY REQUIREMENTS ARE THAT YOU READ ALL THE FICS (100-1000 words) AND GIVE YOUR REASON FOR CHOOSING THE BEST FIC AND THE WORST FIC. THIS IS A WRITING CONTEST, SO SHIPS AND CHARACTER FAVORITISM ARE DISALLOWED AS REASONS. YOUR NEXT CHANCE TO VOTE AT spn_las IS SEPT. 15- SEPT. 19 at 5:00 EST. :-) BTW! THERE ARE LOTS OF LAST AUTHOR STANDING COMMUNITIES INCLUDING WHEDONVERSE AND ORIGINAL FICS, GO TO spn_las AND CHECK OUT ALL THE LINKS. MAYBE YOU"LL WANT TO JOIN IN :-)