FIC: Someone Who Can Save A Life
Written for the following prompt on the OhSam birthday comment-fic meme
“I wanna see Sam rescued from a vamps nest by his brother. I don't care how long they've had him, but I want extreme blood loss and Dean doing everything he can by himself - leaving Sam in a nest of blankets in the backseat as he steals some blood etc. Sam out of it but still apologising that he's bleeding all over Dean, that Dean's having to break into a hospital, that Dean had to save him, that he got blood on the Impala's leather etc.”
It was my first time joining in a comment-fic meme and I had so much fun writing this!
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 1,195
Summary: They’re doing this on purpose, they tell him, drinking enough blood to keep him on the edge of unconsciousness but they won’t let him die, not yet.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or any of the characters in this story.
Someone Who Can Save A Life
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, lost in a haze of pain and fear, and there’s so much blood, he doesn’t know how he’s still alive. And he’s cold, so cold, and tired. They keep coming back for him, to drink, to feed, more blood taken from his already weak body. They’re doing this on purpose, they tell him, drinking enough blood to keep him on the edge of unconsciousness but they won’t let him die, not yet.
“Please…” Sam whimpers, and then bites his lip to stop himself from begging.
He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, just that he wants this to stop. He hates being so weak, pathetic, how stupid he was to get caught in the first place, Dean’s gonna be angry. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. There’s commotion now, yelling, and Sam forces his heavy head to move, look up, and the blurry shape bursting through the door can only be his brother.
“Sam?”
He must have lost some time, because suddenly Dean is right there, kneeling in front of him, brushing his fingers gently over the rough scabs and fresher wounds on Sam’s arms.
“Sam? Can you hear me? Look at me, Sammy,” Dean’s panicking, but Sam can only blink tiredly, wishing the room would come back into focus.
And then Dean’s cutting through the ropes around Sam’s wrists and ankles and chest, leaving nothing to support him and Sam slumps forward.
“Whoa, easy,” says Dean, catching him, and Sam lets his forehead rest against Dean’s shoulder, “Gonna get you out of here now, alright?”
“M’sorry,” Sam whispers, because he’s smearing blood on Dean’s favourite leather jacket.
“It’s alright, Sam, you’re ok.”
The room spins as Dean helps him to his feet and Sam closes his eyes. His legs feel like rubber. Then there’s the Impala, waiting in the shadows like she always does, and Dean awkwardly opens the door while still holding Sam up, and eases him inside.
“M’sorry,” Sam says again, because he can feel blood running from the cuts on his arms onto the Impala’s seat, and Dean hates getting blood on the Impala’s seat.
“You’re gonna be fine, Sam,” Dean assures him.
He’s wrapping Sam’s wounded arms with some sort of material now, taping it firmly in place with duct tape, careful not to catch Sam’s skin with it.
“Get you something better, soon, Sammy, this is just temporary,” Dean says.
There are blankets, lots of them, soft and warm, and Sam doesn’t even care how Dean got so many blankets, because it’s been too long in dark and cold and metal and pain. He’s tired, and his arms are burning under the makeshift bandages while the rest of him shivers with cold, and he’s so weak he can’t even move. Then they’re driving, and Dean’s swearing at the other cars on the road, because they’re not going fast enough or getting out of his way, and Sam recognizes fear in his brother’s voice.
“Sorry,” he mumbles from his cocoon of blankets, because it’s his fault that Dean’s driving the Impala too fast, not safe, shouldn’t be.
Dean snaps out another curse and yanks the steering wheel to the left.
“It’s ok, gonna take care of you, Sam, just hang in there,” he says.
Dean’s angry, and Sam doesn’t really know why, though it’s probably because he had to rescue Sam, again, and now Sam’s a shivering mess in the backseat, and there’s blood on Dean’s jacket and the seat.
“M’sorry,” he croaks, again, and then everything fades out.
It’s dark again, but it’s also warm and soft, and the voice floating out in the darkness is familiar. It’s a bed, and he’s lying on it with a blanket over him, and there’s something pinching at his arm, and that’s Dean’s voice explaining something about cars and engines and whatever.
“Shhdpp…” Sam slurs, feeling like his tongue is a hunk of sandpaper is his dry mouth.
The chatter instantly stops and there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Sam? You with me?”
Sam opens his eyes now, blinks Dean into focus.
“Thsssy.”
Sam’s thankful for Dean’s exceptional translation skills when Dean helps him sit up and stuffs pillows behind his back and hands him a bottle of water. The liquid loosens his tongue and he licks his dry lips.
“Long ‘s I out?” he asks, sounding better this time.
“Couple of hours,” Dean says, and he looks searchingly at Sam, “You lost a lot of blood, man.”
Sam knows that. He still feels weak, but his head is clearer now and he looks down at his arms, both wrapped with tidy white bandages, an IV line running blood into the crook of his left elbow. He does a double take then, because maybe he’s still kind of foggy.
“Dean, wha’s… Don’ ‘ember…?” he trips over the words, huffs out his frustration.
Dean hesitates just a second before he answers.
“I, uh, Bobby’s got quite a collection, so, you know…” he offers, and it’s kinda pathetic how bad at lying he is to his brother, considering how often he lies to everyone else.
Sam lets his gaze wander around the room, a generic motel room with worn carpet and psychedelic wallpaper that doesn’t go well with the colour of the kitchen bench. He remembers hazily shadows and warm blankets and Dean’s hand on his face. Hang in there, Sammy, I’ll be right back. He remembers seeing a big building, a hospital maybe, too bright and blurry compared to the shadows of the Impala, Dean must have parked in the shadows again, and the black car blends into the darkness, and he snuggles into the blankets and wonders where Dean is. And then Dean was back, saying it’s ok, Sam, it’s ok, stay with me as he tugged off the makeshift bandages.
“Stole blood fr’m a hosp’tal?” Sam asks now, incredulously and only slightly slurred, his mind finally piecing the images together.
Dean half smiles and makes exaggerated shushing motions with his hands.
“Dude, keep it down,” he says, “The walls are thin as paper.”
Sam doesn’t want to know how Dean managed that feat. Stealing things is unfortunately common for them - along with breaking in, vandalising walls and floors with sigils and marks, and of course lying, but stealing blood from a hospital? He’s suddenly lurching to the side and Sam startles awake, flailing in panic as Dean grabs him, surprised because he doesn’t remember falling asleep. He hates losing time like that.
“Easy, Sam, don’t need you getting a concussion on top of all this,” Dean says gently, and his hands hover as Sam lies down, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, closing his eyes, already feeling sleep pulling him under again, “Stay?”
“Yeah,” Dean responds, “I’m right here. Get some sleep, Sammy. You’re gonna need it, man, coz when you get better you’re cleaning the blood off the backseat, and I want it spotless.”
There’s only relief in Dean’s voice and the corner of Sam’s mouth lifts slightly, too tired to really smile.
“Jerk,” Sam mumbles, and he’s asleep before he can hear Dean’s comeback.
END
“I wanna see Sam rescued from a vamps nest by his brother. I don't care how long they've had him, but I want extreme blood loss and Dean doing everything he can by himself - leaving Sam in a nest of blankets in the backseat as he steals some blood etc. Sam out of it but still apologising that he's bleeding all over Dean, that Dean's having to break into a hospital, that Dean had to save him, that he got blood on the Impala's leather etc.”
It was my first time joining in a comment-fic meme and I had so much fun writing this!
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 1,195
Summary: They’re doing this on purpose, they tell him, drinking enough blood to keep him on the edge of unconsciousness but they won’t let him die, not yet.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or any of the characters in this story.
Someone Who Can Save A Life
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, lost in a haze of pain and fear, and there’s so much blood, he doesn’t know how he’s still alive. And he’s cold, so cold, and tired. They keep coming back for him, to drink, to feed, more blood taken from his already weak body. They’re doing this on purpose, they tell him, drinking enough blood to keep him on the edge of unconsciousness but they won’t let him die, not yet.
“Please…” Sam whimpers, and then bites his lip to stop himself from begging.
He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, just that he wants this to stop. He hates being so weak, pathetic, how stupid he was to get caught in the first place, Dean’s gonna be angry. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. There’s commotion now, yelling, and Sam forces his heavy head to move, look up, and the blurry shape bursting through the door can only be his brother.
“Sam?”
He must have lost some time, because suddenly Dean is right there, kneeling in front of him, brushing his fingers gently over the rough scabs and fresher wounds on Sam’s arms.
“Sam? Can you hear me? Look at me, Sammy,” Dean’s panicking, but Sam can only blink tiredly, wishing the room would come back into focus.
And then Dean’s cutting through the ropes around Sam’s wrists and ankles and chest, leaving nothing to support him and Sam slumps forward.
“Whoa, easy,” says Dean, catching him, and Sam lets his forehead rest against Dean’s shoulder, “Gonna get you out of here now, alright?”
“M’sorry,” Sam whispers, because he’s smearing blood on Dean’s favourite leather jacket.
“It’s alright, Sam, you’re ok.”
The room spins as Dean helps him to his feet and Sam closes his eyes. His legs feel like rubber. Then there’s the Impala, waiting in the shadows like she always does, and Dean awkwardly opens the door while still holding Sam up, and eases him inside.
“M’sorry,” Sam says again, because he can feel blood running from the cuts on his arms onto the Impala’s seat, and Dean hates getting blood on the Impala’s seat.
“You’re gonna be fine, Sam,” Dean assures him.
He’s wrapping Sam’s wounded arms with some sort of material now, taping it firmly in place with duct tape, careful not to catch Sam’s skin with it.
“Get you something better, soon, Sammy, this is just temporary,” Dean says.
There are blankets, lots of them, soft and warm, and Sam doesn’t even care how Dean got so many blankets, because it’s been too long in dark and cold and metal and pain. He’s tired, and his arms are burning under the makeshift bandages while the rest of him shivers with cold, and he’s so weak he can’t even move. Then they’re driving, and Dean’s swearing at the other cars on the road, because they’re not going fast enough or getting out of his way, and Sam recognizes fear in his brother’s voice.
“Sorry,” he mumbles from his cocoon of blankets, because it’s his fault that Dean’s driving the Impala too fast, not safe, shouldn’t be.
Dean snaps out another curse and yanks the steering wheel to the left.
“It’s ok, gonna take care of you, Sam, just hang in there,” he says.
Dean’s angry, and Sam doesn’t really know why, though it’s probably because he had to rescue Sam, again, and now Sam’s a shivering mess in the backseat, and there’s blood on Dean’s jacket and the seat.
“M’sorry,” he croaks, again, and then everything fades out.
It’s dark again, but it’s also warm and soft, and the voice floating out in the darkness is familiar. It’s a bed, and he’s lying on it with a blanket over him, and there’s something pinching at his arm, and that’s Dean’s voice explaining something about cars and engines and whatever.
“Shhdpp…” Sam slurs, feeling like his tongue is a hunk of sandpaper is his dry mouth.
The chatter instantly stops and there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Sam? You with me?”
Sam opens his eyes now, blinks Dean into focus.
“Thsssy.”
Sam’s thankful for Dean’s exceptional translation skills when Dean helps him sit up and stuffs pillows behind his back and hands him a bottle of water. The liquid loosens his tongue and he licks his dry lips.
“Long ‘s I out?” he asks, sounding better this time.
“Couple of hours,” Dean says, and he looks searchingly at Sam, “You lost a lot of blood, man.”
Sam knows that. He still feels weak, but his head is clearer now and he looks down at his arms, both wrapped with tidy white bandages, an IV line running blood into the crook of his left elbow. He does a double take then, because maybe he’s still kind of foggy.
“Dean, wha’s… Don’ ‘ember…?” he trips over the words, huffs out his frustration.
Dean hesitates just a second before he answers.
“I, uh, Bobby’s got quite a collection, so, you know…” he offers, and it’s kinda pathetic how bad at lying he is to his brother, considering how often he lies to everyone else.
Sam lets his gaze wander around the room, a generic motel room with worn carpet and psychedelic wallpaper that doesn’t go well with the colour of the kitchen bench. He remembers hazily shadows and warm blankets and Dean’s hand on his face. Hang in there, Sammy, I’ll be right back. He remembers seeing a big building, a hospital maybe, too bright and blurry compared to the shadows of the Impala, Dean must have parked in the shadows again, and the black car blends into the darkness, and he snuggles into the blankets and wonders where Dean is. And then Dean was back, saying it’s ok, Sam, it’s ok, stay with me as he tugged off the makeshift bandages.
“Stole blood fr’m a hosp’tal?” Sam asks now, incredulously and only slightly slurred, his mind finally piecing the images together.
Dean half smiles and makes exaggerated shushing motions with his hands.
“Dude, keep it down,” he says, “The walls are thin as paper.”
Sam doesn’t want to know how Dean managed that feat. Stealing things is unfortunately common for them - along with breaking in, vandalising walls and floors with sigils and marks, and of course lying, but stealing blood from a hospital? He’s suddenly lurching to the side and Sam startles awake, flailing in panic as Dean grabs him, surprised because he doesn’t remember falling asleep. He hates losing time like that.
“Easy, Sam, don’t need you getting a concussion on top of all this,” Dean says gently, and his hands hover as Sam lies down, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, closing his eyes, already feeling sleep pulling him under again, “Stay?”
“Yeah,” Dean responds, “I’m right here. Get some sleep, Sammy. You’re gonna need it, man, coz when you get better you’re cleaning the blood off the backseat, and I want it spotless.”
There’s only relief in Dean’s voice and the corner of Sam’s mouth lifts slightly, too tired to really smile.
“Jerk,” Sam mumbles, and he’s asleep before he can hear Dean’s comeback.
END