Clowns to the left of me
“Sam?”
He shifts.
“Sammy?”
It’s cold.
“How are you holding up?”
He turns his head, frowns.
Holding up?
“Sam.”
Something touches his shoulder and he shifts his weight to the side, turning his face in the direction of the voice. His eyes are closed and it’s dark.
When did he close his eyes?
“Sam.”
The voice belongs to his father, it’s closer now. He sounds worried.
What-
Suddenly Sam’s eyes fly open and he chokes out a surprised moan, completely overwhelmed by the blindingly white stab of agony that shoots through his body without warning. It’s his leg, his leg is on fire! He tries to pull it out, twists desperately to get it free, but it’s stuck somehow, he can’t move it. He gulps in a breath, and cries out again when the pain intensifies, becoming so mind-numbing he is on the verge of blacking out. It’s only the sharp, familiar voice of his father right next to him, right in his ear, that manages to ground him long enough to take another shaky breath.
“Sam, open your eyes, look at me!”
Something warm curls around his neck, squeezes, none too gently, providing a barely recognizable counter-sensation to the agonizing hurt in his leg. It’s enough to keep him focused, even if that focus is shaky at best.
“Come on, Sammy, open your eyes…”
He dimly notices that something is off with his father’s voice, but he doesn’t really care, concentrates on wheezing in another gulp of air… and another.
“Sam, look at me, focus.”
It’s an order now and the familiar tone gives him that extra-kick he needs to force his eyes open. They tear up at once, blurring his sight, and he feels warm tears trail across his chilled skin. There’s a face, inches from his own. He goes cross-eyed when he tries to focus on it and that sets off a second source of pain in his body, his head starts to protest so harshly he squeezes his eyes shut. He knows who it is, anyway, although, right now, he doesn’t care, it hurts so bad-
“Sam, I need you to open your eyes, stay with me…”
His head is so heavy he can barely move it, but then the warmth at his neck tightens and his head is tipped back until it rests against something solid. His father’s voice is still close, too close- for a second he feels crowded and tries to pull back. But he has no room to move, whatever his head is resting against is blocking him from behind.
“You were drifting. I think you blacked out on me for a second… How’s the pain?”
It’s too much information in too short a time, too much to focus on, so he concentrates on the question at the end. He doesn’t have to think long about the answer to that, it’s too much, the pain is too much. If they don’t do something against it, and soon, he will black out and he will go down, even if his instincts are screaming at him that this is not a good idea.
“Are you with me?”
“Yeah…” It’s more a breathy grunt than actual speech, but he gets it out. His dad squeezes his neck again.
“How’s the pain?”
It’s bad, really, really bad, but that’s not what he is supposed to say.
“’t only hurts when I laugh…”
‘Don’t laugh, moron.’ That’s what Dean would say, to distract him, get his mind off the pain. But this isn’t Dean, it’s his dad and with him he’s not supposed to joke about injuries on a hunt. Or after a hunt. Or any time in between.
“’m fine, it’s good...”
He finally manages to open his eyes again, to prove his point, and blinks at the blurry face in front of him. His father looks back at him, checking his eyes for signs of a concussion. And, judging by how his sight stays out of focus no matter how often he tries to blink it clear, he strongly suspects he’s going to find them. Signs. For that concussion.
His head is killing him.
He’s tired.
It’s so fucking cold in here.
“Think you can hold yourself up for a second?”
He is… standing. He’s standing? He shouldn’t be standing, he’s too dizzy, too tired to be doing anything but lying down and resting. He frowns unhappily, looks at his dad, opens his mouth to tell him about all the reasons he should not be standing… and falls silent. Memories crawl to the surface of his mind, slowly, reluctantly, as if his brain doesn’t want him to know.
There was a hunt… in a barn. A spirit-poltergeist? ‘Easy as pie’, Dean had said. It was easy, at first, nothing out of the ordinary. But then the shadows had moved and… eyes, red eyes, staring at them, at Dean, from the darkness. Something metallic, glinting in the twilight. No time to shout a warning, just had to move, get Dean out of the way-
Sam had been hit. Something long and sharp - very, very sharp - had slammed into his leg. It didn’t even hurt that much at first, he wasn’t sure if he’d felt anything at all. Could have been shock; or, maybe, Sam was just too focused on getting Dean out of the way. And it was a good thing he had… since his midget of a brother was so goddamned short it would have hit him somewhere vital and even more painful. And, yeah, he might be exaggerating a bit with the midget thing, but, whatever. Dean getting hurt while he could do something about it? So not happening.
Even if that meant getting in the way of a flying pitchfork and catching it with his thigh.
Dean had been so angry at him, furious even. He’d started swearing about what a dumb move that had been and how Sam was not supposed to put himself into danger- that was Dean’s job. Dean hadn’t said it out loud, that last part, but it was all there, in his eyes. He’d saved Dean’s life and they both knew it. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat and without hesitating- though maybe he’d try to get his leg clear this time.
Their dad was silent after the attack, looking at Sam with a strange expression in his eyes but he didn’t have enough time to figure out what was wrong. He’d been a little busy dealing with the fact that there was now a farm implement growing out of his leg. The ghost had thrown a pitchfork at Dean’s back… and now one of the wide, rusty metal tines was buried in his leg. He leaned back, against the rough wooden wall, fighting not to fall as the pain began to burn its way through the muscle- when the ghost screamed. Before anybody could react it rushed at them, grabbing a hold of the pitchfork and driving it into the wooden wall behind him.
Sam blacked out after that. When he came too a few seconds later, his dad was there, holding him upright and talking at him, ordering him to wake up.
I didn’t know ghosts could have red eyes.
He remembers thinking that, over and over again, until Dad’s tired voice had finally registered and Sam opened his eyes to his father’s coaxing, patting his face and telling him to look at him. Wake up, son.
Now he really wishes he had ignored that particular order.
The ghost was still there. That in itself wasn’t weird or scary, it was more what it was doing that was special:
The spirit of Edward Michael Hannigan, farmer by day and twisted murderer by night, was still holding the pitchfork in place, leaning into the handle, wedging it in. Which translated into a constant pressure against his leg. And meant that Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t sit, couldn’t relax, couldn’t take the weight off of his goddamned leg- and the motherfucking ghost never moved, didn’t say anything, it just stood there, frozen in place, it’s red eyes fixed on Sam’s face. It was almost surreal- like he’d been watching a horror movie and paused the film to go for a snack.
Dean and Dad had tried everything to make it leave- Dean screamed at it, cursed at it, shot at it, tried to decapitate it with an iron bar. Which, if you know a little about the metaphysics of ghosts, was pretty funny actually. Sam hadn’t been surprised that it didn’t work.
Dad had tried to banish it; he went through his diary and dug up a ritual that would have sent most supernatural beings back to their grave without much of a fight. It didn’t work, nothing worked. They ended up laying down a salt circle around him, the thickest one he’s ever seen to wall him off from the ghost. So far Sam can’t tell if the salt did anything, since the ghost isn’t doing anything but holding the pitchfork and glaring at him. Or looking in his general direction, it’s hard to tell.
“Sam, I need you to stay awake, you’re drifting again.”
His father’s voice pulls him back into the present. It takes him too long to focus, again, and his eyes don’t quite make it.
“’m fine…” he mumbles, trying hard to keep his voice above a whisper and as steady as he can. To prove his point he lifts his head and shifts his weight slightly.
And discovers only a heartbeat later that his pinned leg doesn’t agree with movement; the injured muscles seize up in protest, sending a vicious stab of pain through the limb. Then he’s falling, and for a second he can feel the pressure of the metal tine tearing at his muscle as gravity threatens to pull him free, and take most of the flesh from his leg at the same time, but he can’t stop, he has no balance left- There’s a black hole where his dad was and fire is burning through his leg, stealing his breath away. Someone starts shouting at him to keep breathing and he thinks that’s a good advice, he just can’t remember how. His lungs are freezing and the fire keeps burning and he’s too scared to find out what will happen if they meet. And so he takes the only way out, for once, and stops fighting to stay awake.
And then he’s gone.
*** *** ***
He feels warm. For a moment that’s all there is. He relishes in that sensation, he wasn’t warm before. He doesn’t want that to change and keeps quiet.
Unfortunately, his body chooses that moment to slowly wake up, limb by limb. He doesn’t mind, at first, his arms do feel uncomfortably heavy, but they are not hurting and he’s absolutely fine with that. His legs are another story, the right leg starts to cramp as soon as he flexes it and his left thigh flares to life with a stab of pain that pushes him toward a level of awareness that makes it impossible to ignore his surroundings. He can’t stop the groan that forces itself out, and frowns, moving his head slightly, tensing when there’s a low rumble next to his ear.
“Sam.”
Sam blinks, is totally confused for a moment, has no idea where he is or what he is doing there. But his reality catches up with him and he remembers, he remembers the hunt, the ghost, the fork, the injury, pain, leg-wound slowly bleeding him dry, his family searching for a solution-
And he remembers his dad. Dad’s still there, right in front of him, holding him because he can’t lie down and something bad will happen if he falls down…
“Sammy.”
The earth moves.
“Dammit, kid, you’re getting too heavy to hold up, wake up!”
His dad sounds stressed, out of breath even. The earth moves again, or at least whatever is supporting his head and a familiar scent catches his attention, it smells of leather and something warm, familiar.
“Sam.”
His father snaps at him and he flinches, forces his eyes open and blinks. And realizes his head is pillowed on his dad’s shoulder and he isn’t standing anymore, his legs are no longer supporting him which means his father has been holding him upright for however long he had been out.
Shit.
He forces himself to take a deep breath and tries to get his thoughts together to tell his dad he’s okay. He isn’t, but that’s not the point, all that matters now is the fact that he somehow has to take his own weight and help save his own ass. Leg. Whatever.
Sam knows this, but all he manages to get out is a tired groan and a whispered, “’m warm.”
Well, at least now he is officially awake again. Mostly.
The world-shoulder-moves again. “Sam, can you look at me?”
Of course he can, he just has to figure out how to move his head first. It’s harder than he remembers and he feels dizzy, his vision sliding in and out of focus. He manages to squint at his father’s face and studies the tense features; sweat is trickling down his dad’s temple, across his clenched jaw. And Sam knows it’s his fault, he’s too big for anyone, even his dad, to hold up for very long. Sam knows he’s become a liability… and shame burns in his chest, waking him up.
“Are you with me? How’s the leg?”
Dad’s asked that before. It’s really a stupid question if you think about it- he’s dizzy, stuck to a wall like a butterfly pinned on velvet, and he swears to God there’s some demonic version of a sledgehammer inside his head trying to bash his brains out from the inside. And his Dad has to see that, no way he’s not seeing it. But there are rules, as long as you’re not knocking on heaven’s door you are okay… so that the others can concentrate on saving your ass.
Leg, dammit, leg!
“I’m fine.” Sam says, teeth clenching as he tries to take some of his weight back.
They both know he isn’t, you’d have to be blind not to see it, but there’s no alternative and so his dad nods slightly. “You think you can stand on your own for a moment?”
His dad wouldn’t ask him to do that if it wasn’t absolutely necessary and even though Sam has no idea how to manage it he nods slowly, trying to get his answer out with a little more conviction than he feels.
“I’m good, get me up.”
It takes them some shifting and moving, slowly, to get him upright. His good leg immediately protests against his weight and his bad one simply shrieks. He has to bite back a moan of pain. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, but he pushes his palms against the wall behind him for balance and fights hard not to show how much it hurts. His dad watches him worriedly, seems reluctant to finally let go of him, but eventually Sam forces himself to give a small smile and pushes himself away from the support.
Sweet Jesus, it hurts.
His father takes a step away and straightens his back, rotating his shoulders and going through a few quick stretching movements, no doubt trying to loosen up some tight muscles. All the while Sam can feel him watching, ready to catch him should he need it. And within seconds Sam’s sure he’s about to pitch forward as both of his legs cramp up on him, making it hard to keep his balance. But he grits his teeth, and leans his head back against the rough wood, and locks his good knee. If his dad needs a minute, Sam’s going to do his best to give it to him.
“I need to take a look at the wound.” his dad says.
Yeah, great, the wound. Almost forgot about it. Sam gives a tight nod and blinks around the barn lazily. Nothing has changed so far, the red eyes are still glaring, the pitchfork is still in place and he feels like crap. His dad has lost his jacket at some point and it takes him forever to realize it’s now covering his chest. That’s why he is feeling warm right now.
“Thanks…”
He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, too tired to keep them open if he doesn’t have to. For some reason his father misinterprets that and he pats his cheek.
“Hey, no sleeping, Sammy. Stay awake.”
He wasn’t going to, his eyes are just too heavy and he really doesn’t want to look at red-eyed fuck staring at him anymore. But Sam groans something in reply and forces his own eyes open, blinks at the ceiling. It’s dark and dirty, of course it is, nobody would bother to clean it, not with all the hay and other stuff you can still smell on the cold air.
“I’m awake…” he mumbles, just to say anything, and for a moment there’s silence.
He likes silence. It’s nice to be able to listen to the sounds around you when there’s no music blasting through your brain. Dean loves music, it’s everywhere he goes, like it’s following him. And if he’s not in the car he’s humming, always humming stuff under his breath. Metallica when he’s nervous, calms him down he says, Zeppelin when he’s waiting for something to happen, AC/DC when he’s watching girls on the street. He’s never silent, it’s not something he does. Ever.
But Dean isn’t there, he’s… somewhere, doing… something, he can’t remember where he is or what he is doing.
Dad is never silent, either. But it’s different with him. He likes music, but you don’t necessarily go deaf when you’re riding in the car with him. Not that Sam does that often. Not anymore.
They used to sing in the car when they were still kids, Dean and him. They knew all of the tapes by heart. They had a game, Dad would give them a line and whoever was able to sing the next one won. It was something they were both good at, Dean ‘cause he loved the songs and him because of that memory thing he has going. Sometimes. Not now, it seems.
There’s this one song Sam remembers real well, though, the one they’d sing over and over again until their dad told them to shut up. He doesn’t remember the name and the words don’t want to come to him, but he knows they’re there, somewhere, just out of reach…
He can feel a yawn building… a lazy sleepiness growing. He thinks he’s getting sleepy. Blood loss will do that to you, your blood pressure drops and… and…
“Sam?”
Something warm brushes across his forehead and stays there and he has no idea why his eyes are closed again.
“Sam, the wound started bleeding again, I need to-“
Sam opens his eyes and stares at his father-and Sam can see his lips move, but his voice disappears.
Can you die of blood loss? Sam is pretty sure you can, actually, would make a lot of sense if you could.
His dad is looking at him as if he’s asking him a question and Sam finds himself nodding slowly, even if he has no idea what he’s saying. His father frowns and the frown stays on his face- but Dad is always frowning. Or looking grim. Or tired. He doesn’t smile a lot, maybe he should-
Everything around him turns kind of grey all of a sudden, something is crushing his leg and it hurts so bad he can hear himself shout in pain and he doesn’t care, he just wants it to stop! He chokes on the little breath he has left and feels his good leg crumble beneath him. He falls forward and through the unbelievingly hot haze of red pain he can feel something steady and warm catching him, keeping him upright.
FIRE, his leg is burning, please please please make it stop, he can’t breathe!
“… look at me, Sammy, open your eyes, look at me…”
He doesn’t know how but he does, blinking up at his father dizzily.
“That’s it, kiddo, stay awake…”
There’s two dads now, both of them looking equally worried.
“Come on, Sammy, you have to stay awake, I don’t know how long I can hold you up if you pass out on me…”
“’Clowns to the left of me’…” he mumbles, a little breathless, and he has no idea where that comes from. His dad looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. Maybe he has, Sam thinks giddily, he should probably check. Weirder shit has happened.
“What?” His dad asks, distracting him before he can reach for his neck. A hand is placed on his chest and he is pushed back against the wall, slowly, but he can feel that movement all the way down to his toes. It feels like some sort of fiery liquid that surges through Sam’s veins and pools down into his leg. And his world turns white. Again. He can’t breathe for a moment and trying to focus his thoughts is like trying to force jello through a strainer; slow, sticky and messy.
“The game… in the car…” Sam finally gasps, wondering when it got so fucking hard to get the words out, it feels like his jaw is locked so tightly around the words he can hear his teeth protest. “The game… what’s the next line?” He’s panting now, trying to think about anything but the pain, on how he just wants to cut the fucking leg off ‘cause he really, really doesn’t want it anymore, not if it’s hurting like that.
His father is watching him and Sam’s pretty sure he thinks he’s delusional. Maybe he is, maybe he is no longer thinking straight, but he doesn’t care, not anymore, he can’t care, he just wants. It. To. STOP.
His not-so-bad leg gives up again. He starts sagging and he reaches out, tries to get a hold on something, anything to keep him from falling. His father swears and moves toward him, he has no idea how but suddenly the only thing that’s keeping him from going down once and for all is his dad. Dad’s breath is warm against his neck as he curses at no one in particular and leans him back against the wall. His head falls back against it and then he’s staring at the ceiling again. Still dirty.
“You okay?”
His dad’s voice is strained, he’s breathing almost as hard as Sam and that… doesn’t really surprise him. They’ve both been fighting to keep him upright for too long now and Sam knows he’s not exactly a light-weight or easy to handle like this. He tries to say something, he doesn’t even know what, but it doesn’t really matter, he can’t get the words out. He closes his eyes, trying to find the energy to give it another try.
“’Jokers to the right’…” his dad says, and for a moment he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him.
“What-“ he tries, proud that it comes out almost audible.
“Your game, ‘clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right’… that’s the line.” Dad sounds closer now, though Sam has no idea why, he hasn’t moved. He has enough brain power left to feel surprised his dad’s playing along so easily, but he realizes he must be looking pretty bad if his father jumps at the first thing to hold his attention.
And then he suddenly remembers the next line and for some twisted reason he starts laughing. Or maybe he’s gasping for breath.
“’Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.’”
He doesn’t know how but he gets the line out in one clearly understandable sentence. His dad stiffens against him and too late does he realize that he could have taken him seriously and completely the wrong way. He didn’t mean it like that, he’s not trying to pick a fight with him, not now. In fact, Sam’s rarely been happier to have his dad at his side. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to rearrange his words into something that resembles an apology.
But before he can, there’s a soft chuckle against his ear and Dad sounds so much like Dean at that moment that Sam almost moves his head to check if they’ve somehow switched places. “That you are, Sammy, that you are…” Dad says and Sam can hear the grin in his voice. A soft squeeze at Sam’s neck reassures him further… then his dad shifts again, rearranging Sam’s arms across his shoulders.
“Think you can stay awake?”
Actually, no, Sam knows he can’t, as much as he wants to, as much as he knows Dad needs him to help him, Sam knows he won’t make it. The world is spinning, he’s feeling too hot to be shivering and yet he is. He’s never been this hurt before.
No, that’s not true, Sam has been hurt before, worse than this, even. But there’s always been a hospital after shock and adrenaline had worn off. Or at least painkillers and a warm bed in the motel. He’s never had to stay awake this long with something lodged in any part of his body and no chemicals to take the edge off of it. Nobody should have to do that, it only makes you feel tired and weak.
The two dads flicker and sometimes they merge into one. The multi-fathers are looking around the barn, as if they’re searching for a way out, and Sam prays that they find one. But that hope is crushed when a single Dad turns back, that special frown wrinkling his brow. The, ‘we’re fucked’, frown. Not good.
“Sam?” And Sam can see the worry in his father’s eyes… the worry for him. “Breathe, Sammy.”
He drifts away from the pain. He doesn’t pass out, not really, not this time, but everything just sort of dulls, disappears, his vision tunnels until there’s nothing but the blue of his dad’s shirt. The next moments are hazy, his father is talking to him urgently, telling him to do something. He tries to listen to him, but the words don’t make any sense at first, it’s only the sound of the voice that calms him down a little.
“… time now, he knows where the grave is, won’t take long anymore. You’re gonna be out of here, soon, son, trust me, we’ll get you out, you just need to hold on, stay with me…”
He is holding, he’s still there.
It’s warm again, at Sam’s neck. And his head. Dad’s voice is getting closer. It’s warm when he’s talking. He likes warm.
Sam’s eyes are still open when it happens- the ghost is screaming, suddenly, its mouth opens and there’s sound and his dad is trying to shift, to get between him and the thing. The red eyes focus on him. Sam wants to flinch back because they are burning again, burning with the same rage he’d seen earlier in them, burning with an intensity that almost chokes him for a second. He wants to get back from it, but he can’t, he can’t move and he gasps for breath. It glares at him and it says something, but then it dissolves into rust, the same rust he’d seen on the pitchfork and that can’t be good, no way can this be good, but before he can do anything about it… it’s gone, just like that.
“He’s found it, it’s gone, Dean’s burned it, it’s gone now, hang in there-“
He is, he is hanging. Or standing. God, Sam hopes he’s standing. It’s important that he keeps standing.
“-gonna be here any minute now, you’re doing good, Sammy, you’re good-“
He’s not doing anything, really, but he’s not telling his dad that.
“-it, keep breathing, just stay with me, you hear me, just hang in there, Sammy, listen to me-“
Okay.
He is.
Still here.
Hanging. No, standing.
Still here.
“-‘s he?”
Dean. Dean?
“-good, help me get-“
“-moving, don’t know how long-“
Warm.
“-out, that’s it, get-“
No longer standing.
“-can rest now, Sammy.”
Okay…
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.
Stealers Wheel
‘Stuck in the middle with you’