Something to Sink My Teeth Into
Something to Sink My Teeth Into
Summary: The bites are viscous, jagged ovals that ooze blood and, a few of them, pus, ringed with deep purple bruises and the bright red flare of infection.
A/N: Written for the OhSam comment fic meme. Prompt at the end.
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The bites are viscous, jagged ovals that ooze blood and, a few of them, pus, ringed with deep purple bruises and the bright red flare of infection.
The old house smells of mold and piss, a metallic tang caught in the back of Dean's throat. The floorboards are sticky, undoubtedly with spilled beer from the dozens of abandoned bottles that litter the place.
Dean estimates that the vamps have been gone just over a day, long enough for him to unravel the clues of their twisted game, leaving their parting gift to fester, letting delirium set in on top of the wounds. Dean is surprised (and so fucking grateful) that they didn't just kill Sam. Maybe they thought it would take longer for Dean to find him, that he'd arrive to a corpse bearing all the signs of a painful, drawn-out death. Yeah, that would be just like vampires. They're one of the worst kinds of monster, not only snatching people for food but for revenge, slaves, and entertainment. Just hearing that hunters were in town was enough encouragement for the nest to have some 'fun' with their unsuspecting target. Dean and Sam hadn't even had a clue that there were vamps here. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Story of our lives, huh, kiddo,” Dean murmurs as he gently tilts Sam's head up and shines his flashlight at the ragged bite marks on either side of his neck.
Sam's face scrunches against the brightness, eyes opening into slits.
“Dean,” he mouths. No sound comes out and just the effort looks painful. Dean brushes a hand lightly over Sam's tangled hair, feels the heat of fever, before reaching for his bag.
“Yeah, it's me, Sammy.” His hand closes around the water bottle and he pulls it out, quickly twisting the cap off. “Here, drink this. It'll help.”
Sam's lost a lot of blood, probably more that the nest needed to satiate themselves. Dean hears what they're trying to say loud and clear - Sam was the entertainment and sucking him almost dry for Dean to find was part of the fun.
He holds the bottle to Sam's lips, doubtful that the kid could hold it even if his hands weren't tied above his head, and helps him drink until his strength gives out. A slosh of water darkens a stripe down the front of Sam's dusty t-shirt before Dean has a chance to pull the bottle away.
“Good work, Sammy,” he says, distracted already as he swaps the bottle for his knife. “Stay still while I work on these ropes.”
He doesn't expect an answer and he doesn't get one. Sam's eyes watch wearily, head tipped back against the wall, as Dean saws carefully through the bindings.
“'m sorry.”
Did Dean hear that right? He pauses, follows the trail of bites down Sam's arm, to his neck, to his face, but his eyes are closed again, nothing in his expression but pain.
“Sorry for what?” Dean frowns.
“'et'n cau'...”
“Getting caught?” Dean deciphers uncertainly. “You don't need to apologize for that. Shit happens... and it mostly seems to happen to you. Probably my fault if it's anyone’s.”
Sam shakes his head and a sickly green tinge spreads across his pale face. Uh-oh.
“No more moving, Sammy. Just let me get you free, then you can apologize for anything you want, deal?” He doesn't wait for a reply, goes back to cutting the last few stubborn strands of rope instead, careful not to nick Sam's wrist. Sam groans when Dean gets it free and starts lowering the arm. He can imagine the strain of locked muscles forced into movement. He's been in this position too many times himself to not know about the pain that radiates from shoulder, to neck, to chest, to pretty much everywhere. Usually he'd try to massage out the cramps, get the blood moving so the resulting fire of pins and needles isn't as intense, but Sam's arms are a mess of scabs and bruises and oozing infections, and Dean doesn't want to make it worse. He especially doesn't want to start anything bleeding again because Sam doesn't have much left to spare.
“Almost done.” Sam's arm is dead weight, cold and peculiarly rubbery. Dean hopes like hell that there isn't any permanent damage but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He still needs to get Sam's other hand free and get the kid out of here, cleaned up, topped up and tucked up.
“You want some more water?”
Sam hums something that sounds like 'no' (well, actually it sounds more like 'nhhh' but Dean gets the gist of it) which is worrying because the kid is rocking some serious dehydration on top of everything else and he's too out of it to realize how messed up he is.
“Okay, it's okay. Gonna get you all fixed up, Sammy, just as soon as I can get you out of here.” The second rope seems to take longer, the slow lowering of Sam's arm more agonizing than the first. He's pretty sure that Sam's crying by the end of it - or would be if there was enough fluid in him to produce tears - but that's not something Dean needs to point out. Instead he gives Sam a minute and then makes him drink more water, which threatens to make an immediate reappearance but somehow manages to stay put, and has another quick look at the wounds, which are bad but they'll have to wait 'til the motel to be cleaned properly - first priority is filling up the tank those fucking vamps siphoned - and finally, he pulls Sam to his feet.
Immediately, what little colour was left in Sam's face (mostly green) drains, his legs buckle and somehow, Dean has just enough time to haul Sam over his shoulder before the kid goes down completely.
XXX
Cold, is the first thing Sam's aware of, which confuses him because the second thing he notices is the pile of blankets wrapped around him, what seems like every emergency blanket they keep in the trunk. It should be enough to warm him up but he feels like he's frozen from the inside out. He puzzles over it for a moment but he's too tired, and then the third thing smacks some greater awareness into him.
Dean is gone.
He tries to sit up but the rush of panic leaves him lightheaded and queasy and he has to close his eyes until the Impala stops spinning. The Impala? Yes, he's in the Impala, tucked up in the backseat in the massive lump of blankets which seem impossibly heavy.
Dean is gone but he was here. Sam doesn't remember the trip to the car but he remembers Dean's eyes, slanted with concern, and calloused hands touching his face, a glint of a flashlight beam on a knife as it sawed through ropes above his head.
The vampires invade his memory next and the bites begin to ache, the pain steadily rising in intensity now that he's been reminded of it.
Sam sucks in a moan through his teeth and looks for something to distract him, for Dean. There's a giant red cross on the building they're parked in front of. Sam stares at it in muddled confusion and feels something wet and sticky drip down his neck, onto...
The seats! The fucking leather upholstery that Dean loves so much and here Sam is bleeding all over it. No wonder Dean left. Maybe if he cleans it up, Dean will come back...
He's barely moved an inch (which is enough for black fuzz to start creeping into the edges of his vision) when he hears a door open, then Dean's voice asking what the hell he thinks he's doing.
Sam slumps back into the seat. He doesn't know what he's doing, not really, but he feels awful, in a billion different ways.
“Bleeding,” he manages to croak out miserably.
“You are? Shit, thought that had stopped.”
Sam tries to get up again, or at least shift so the blood won't drip on the seat but Dean puts on his stern voice.
“Stop it, you'll make it worse,” he snaps, and Sam feels horribly like crying.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. Dean's face appears above him, leaning over the front bench seat, all squinted eyes and down turned mouth, and a hand holding a towel touches the torn skin of his neck. It hurts.
“It's not your fault you're bleeding,” Dean says gruffly. “But, if you keep moving around, it will be, so quit it, okay?”
“The seats,” Sam tries to protest but Dean barely gives the blood splatter a second glance.
“I'll clean it up later. Don't worry about it.”
Sam is worried about it but it's become obvious that there's nothing he can do about it.
Dean's face vanishes but Sam hears him starting the Impala and saying something about getting gone before security busts them.
“Security?” Sam asks uncertainly, then he remembers the big red cross and it clicks. “Y' robbed a blood bank?” The Impala is moving. “Dean, no. People need that.”
Green eyes flash in the rear view mirror. “People like you, Sammy. You need it. You're running so low you're not thinking straight.”
He isn't? “Sorry,” he mumbles again, not even sure what he's apologizing for anymore. He's so cold, and dizzy, and tired, and hurt-y. Hurt-y? That's not even a word, Sam thinks vaguely as he slips back into sleep, secure in the knowledge that Dean is here and he can think straight enough for the both of them.
END
PROMPT: 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 apologizing 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. :)