Into The Woods
Into The Woods
Summary: This time, Sam is the hunted. Benders Fic.
A/N: I still exist! It's been far too long since I actually finished a story but finally, here one is. Set during the Season One episode The Benders.
XXX
There's a stitch tearing a hole in Sam's side. He crashes through the undergrowth, stumbling over rocks and tree roots, his lungs burning, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Sweat stings at the scratches caused by the branches and thorns that leap from the darkness to tear at his clothes and skin. His jagged breathing is loud in his ears but not loud enough to drown out the sounds of his pursuers. They move faster than Sam would have expected for men their size. It's obvious that they know these woods the same way Sam knows the Impala, every detail tattooed in his memory, and they're close, far too close. Every time he thinks he's lost them, they reappear, closer, taking shortcuts known only to them, firing pot shots from afar and hollering taunts that Sam barely hears over his rising panic.
He splashes through a puddle of rainwater, skidding on slick leaves, almost tripping over a submerged root, and somehow, in the moment it takes to right himself, as he sucks in a strained breath, he hears the twang of a crossbow, the whistle of a bolt whipping through the air. He throws himself to the ground, landing painfully on the forest floor, banging his knees and elbows on rocks and branches. His hands sink into the mud when he tries to push himself up, scrambling to his feet only for his left leg to buckle beneath him the moment he puts his weight on it. He crumbles back to the forest floor, confused, and it's only when his second attempt to get his footing fails that he notices the bolt embedded in his calf.
Without thinking, Sam reaches out and pulls. The bolt slides free with less resistance than he expects and for a moment he stares, numb with disbelief, at the small hole in his jeans, the way the torn denim is starting to darken in the moonlight, and then the pain catches up with him. Hot streaks branch out from the point of impact, coiling up his leg, a throbbing, bone-deep, burning ache burrowing at the centre. Sam folds over, barely stifling a wail by shoving his fist in his mouth, biting until he tastes blood. He drops the bolt in the dirt, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries desperately to breath around the pain.
It's the whooping he hears behind him that gets him moving again, the breaking twigs and rustling leaves that accompanies the heavy tread of his pursuers in the not-so-distant distance. They know they've hit him, Sam can tell by the excitement in their voices, though they're not yet close enough to make out specific words, and although the pain is still fresh and consuming, it's no match for the fear that wells up inside Sam at the sound of their yells.
Using the low-hanging branches of a nearby tree for assistance, Sam drags himself from the mud, clawing his way upright. Each movement is excruciating and the slightest weight on his injured leg feels like being shot all over again but he forces himself to limp forward a step. Then another and another and God, it hurts so much. His vision starts to grey, darkness creeping towards the centre of his line of sight. The world takes on a dizzying tilt as Sam registers the warm trickle of blood down the back of his calf and, without quite knowing how it happens, he finds himself on the forest floor again, blinking at a pile of mulch.
He feels like he's moving in slow motion as he clumsily pushes himself upright. Everything seems strangely surreal, even the sound of his breathing and the pain in his leg has ebbed away. He's so tired.. He leans heavily against a tree, the bark rough under his fingers, and tries to collect himself.
Something thuds against the tree, half a foot from his hand, and Sam's eyes catch on a crossbow bolt, quivering in the darkness, embedded in the bark.
They're playing with him. Sam has no doubt that if the Benders wanted to finish this, it would have been a kill shot. No, they're enjoying the chase too much. They want him to run.
Faced with no other option, Sam tries, limping through the dense undergrowth. He won't be fast enough, he knows it within the first few steps. His leg burns and threatens to give out completely, every rock and tree root tries to trip him, his feet slide on moss and damp leaves and twice he only just manages to catch himself on branches before he goes down, certain that getting up again will be impossible. Tears blur his vision, making the moonlight sparkle, and time loses meaning as it stretches on and on with the forest. The night feels like it will never end: there is nothing but the trees looming in the darkness and the sounds of his pursuers growing ever so slowly nearer, closing in, and Sam's limping scramble through the bushes can't possibly beat their experienced enthusiasm.
How many other people have been forced into this forest like prey to be hunted down and slaughtered? Are there ghosts among these trees? Sam's thoughts are turning muddled. He can smell the rusty scent of blood soaking the lower leg of his jeans, squishing his sock in his boot. He clambers over a fallen tree, slapping vaguely at the twining branches that reach out like boney fingers to snag his clothes and hair, and fights off a wave of dizziness as he sets his weight back on his injured leg. He stumbles forward, around the huge trunk of an old oak tree, and suddenly he's falling. The abrupt slope of the terrain takes him by surprise in his exhaustion and the carpet of damp leaves moves beneath him like an avalanche. He flails for something to grasp and finds only empty air, goes down hard on hip and elbow, barely stifling a surprised yelp as he continues to slide, knocking his limbs on rocks and tree stumps, scraping his arms and fingers raw as he scrambles to slow his decent, unable to find any purchase on the leafy, moss-slick slope. His injured leg bangs against something and the pain is blinding and then the fall ends with a final dizzying rush as he tumbles over a small bank and hits level ground with a thud that knocks the air from his lungs.
The pain is so huge that Sam feels tiny beneath it, smothered and suffocating. Blood drips into his eyes, courtesy of a fresh gash above his eyebrow, acquired at some point during the fall. Head spinning, gasping for breath, Sam blinks the blood away and looks back at the trail of broken foliage and scuffed dirt that marks his erratic path down the slope, up and up to the huge tree he remembers rounding, it's roots hanging like dangling tentacles over the drop, and feels his stomach sink as he sees the two shadowy shapes beside it.
They haven't seen him yet, he can tell by the way they stand that they're searching the darkness at the bottom of the cliff, but it's only a matter of time. There's no cover where he lies and the moon is too bright to hope for the night to shelter him for long. He turns his gaze on the endless stretch of trees ahead of him and has to swallow down despair. It's barely twenty feet to the tree-line but it may as well be forever. The second he moves he'll give away his position. The Benders are faster than him, armed and uninjured. Even if he makes it, it will only prolong this twisted game of cat and mouse. The temptation to just pass out and let it end is overwhelming. He's too tired. His leg hurts too much. He misses Jess.
A shout from the top of the slope lets him know that his reprieve is over and it's pure terror that drives him to his feet. His system flushes with adrenaline in preparation for the desperate dash, his vision tunnelling to a gap between trees, but he's barely gone two steps before the next crossbow bolt hits him like a punch and knocks him back to the ground.
The blow stuns the air out of him again. He tries to draw breath and feels a tight pull in his chest. His hand moves to his side as if in a dream and he feels warmth spill over his fingers. The Benders hoot in bloodthirsty glee, crashing down the slope, hollering to each other, calling dibs on certain body parts. Sam holds back the urge to retch. He can't get up. His legs refuse to listen to his brains commands and his arms shake uncontrollably when he tries to drag himself. The blood on his hands is black in the moonlight, smearing the leaves and stones beneath his scrabbling fingers.
The Benders aren't merciful enough to make it quick. Instead of the anticipated crossbow bolt to the head - maybe he won't even feel it - a boot plants itself on his leg, right where the first bolt impacted his calf, and the agony draws a scream from his lips before he can stop himself. An explosion of pain in his side chokes it off and he writhes in the dirt, trying to curl around the pain, pinned beneath the Bender's foot, gasping and gagging. His fingers find something sharp poking out the front of his t-shirt and he realises with a lurch of nausea that it's the tip of the crossbow bolt. It's gone straight through him, angled downwards, jutting out just below his ribcage, dark and sticky with blood. Sam wonders how many organs it tore through. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll bleed to death internally before they start hacking him apart.
The Bender on his leg is panting in exertion but he manages a taunting laugh at Sam's distress.
“This one got further than most,” the Bender comments. Sam can hear the other Bender approaching, stomping heavily towards him, and the world is flaring red with pain, bright and sharp and dizzying. Sam's fingers claw uselessly at the mud beneath him. He can't breathe. His heart is racing, like it's trying to fit a lifetime of beats into the next few moments, and cold has begun to settle over him like a heavy blanket when the Bender replies with Dean's voice.
“I'm not surprised,” Dean says conversationally. “I never could beat Sam in a race after he hit that last growth spurt.”
Sam would be sure that he was imagining things - a misfiring spark in a dying brain - if not for the Bender on his leg reacting as well, shifting his weight to turn, renewed tension to his movement. Neither of them gets the chance to shake off their surprise before a shot gun blast - close range, messy - knocks the Bender off his feet. Sam gets a glimpse of the pulp that used to be his pursuer's face before familiar hands are dragging the body out of the way, replacing the gory sight with a much more welcome one.
“Hiya, Sammy.” Dean drops to his knees in the dirt and blood and probably bits of brain. “Don't move, okay? You with me?”
Dean's voice is forced calm, a volcano of fear rumbling below the surface, but his hands are steady and gentle. Sam stares at him in disbelief, stunned speechless by the abrupt turn of events and then by the rush of blood that bubbles up his throat. He coughs and it splatters over Dean's jeans. Dean starts talking desperately to someone who's nothing more than an approaching blur over his shoulder and the forest swims in a sea of swirling greens and browns, the moonlight fractal-ling in dizzying spirals. Sam hears the cracking of a radio, a woman's voice speaking low and fast, and Dean, saying his name, telling him to hold on, and then nothing.
XXX
Sam's memories of the hospital are blurred by morphine and hazy with anaesthetic, punctuated by the sharp scent of disinfectant and the squeak of rubber shoes on linoleum floors. He's pretty sure he spends most of his time there unconscious, less sure about whether waking up choking and unable to breathe was a dream or not, and certain that the ceiling was white because he spent a lot of time staring at it while drugged up to his eyeballs. Everything else is a confusing whirl of doctors and nurses and a whole lot of Dean talking about everything under the sun. Sam zones in and out of one-sided conversations about which of Sam's nurses is the hottest, a rattling noise the Impala has started making, a sheriff named Kathleen who Dean apparently partnered with to take down the Benders and once, on a quiet morning before the ward awoke, a raw desperate plea for Sam to get better. Sam remembers feeling terrible somewhere under the heavy weight of medication but it's more vague and ephemeral than most of the ghosts he's hunted. Nothing becomes clear and solid until he wakes up in the back seat of a moving car, packed in with pilfered motel comforters and stolen hospital pillows. The Impala's engine hums steadily, the radio turned down low, and Dean's fingers tap an impatient beat on the steering wheel as the miles disappear behind them.
The pain is sharper along with everything else but whatever drugs are still in his system have reduced it to a tight pull in his chest, an ache higher up on his back, and a dull throb from his leg. Sam's fingers crawl beneath the thin hospital scrubs he's wearing and find a swath of bandages in place of the crossbow bolt he remembers jutting obscenely from his flesh. He shudders at the memory.
Dean's tapping stops and Sam opens his eyes to see Dean's looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. They light up the moment Dean realises that he's awake, an automatic smile crinkling the bridge of Dean's nose, which makes Sam feel warm and fuzzy in a way that has nothing to do with medication.
“Finally,” Dean says. “I get needing beauty sleep and all but still, no amount of shut eye is gonna make that -” Dean gestures to Sam's face and fakes a shudder “-any prettier.”
Sam scowls because doing anything else seems too hard and, of course, it just makes Dean's smile widen.
“Jerk,” he mutters, in lieu of a thank you for the last-minute rescue.
“Bitch,” Dean returns, and manages to make it sound like I love you.
END