FILLED: Aim, Shoot, Repeat Pt. 3authoressnebulaMay 4 2011, 02:28:22 UTC
No matter what Dean tried to do, he couldn't get the blood off of his hands.
Oh, he'd washed enough times, when he'd finally realized it was going to take them awhile to get news back to him about Sam. He'd lathered, rinsed, soaped himself up enough to make himself the top choice for any soap commercial. But there were always a tiny spot, here or there, and he'd have to wash all over again. His fingers were getting prunish, and still the blood wouldn't come off.
Blood. Sam. Dean shut his eyes tight. His fingers clung to the sides of the ceramic white sink, and he let his head hang. Anything to not think about Sam dying in the parking lot.
"Did what, Sam?"
"Saved you."
Even as he'd coughed up blood, even as more blood had gushed through Dean's fingers, making them slippery and stained, Sam had smiled. Blood coating his teeth, tears unheeded rolling down his cheeks, and he'd smiled.
"Saved you."
He'd known. Somehow, he'd known that the guy from the diner would show up with a gun. He'd told Dean not to go down to the parking lot on his own, and Dean had done it anyways. And now Sam was paying the ultimate price.
But it was Wednesday. Wednesdays were the safe days. So how the hell did Sam know that this Wednesday wasn't?
When the kid woke up, they were talking. Dean clutched the sides of the sink tight, then let them go and lifted his head. His own eyes were red-rimmed, had been for hours. Ever since the paramedics had arrived and taken Sam away, shouting at one another while Dean had screamed for Sam to come back. It hadn't done any good; Sam's eyes had slipped closed, and so far, hadn't opened since. So far as Dean knew. He could be conscious now.
He could be dead now.
Another red spot on his hands taunted him, and with a growl Dean turned the water back on, emptying out almost half of the soap container into his hands. Lather, rinse, repeat. Kill Dean, lose Dean, repeat.
Except not this time.
"Saved you."
And Dean wished he was dead. Anything beat watching Sam gasp for air, helplessly staring as Sam coughed up blood onto the cement, unable to tear his gaze away as Sam slowly slipped away.
The door opened while he was furiously scrubbing his hands. "Sir?" the man said, and Dean looked up. "Are you here with Sam Salinger?"
Dean forgot about the blood on his hands and followed the nurse out.
+++++++
Cold. Cold and wrong. Cold and dark and wrong. A low-pitched sound near one of his ears. Static in the background. Pain everywhere, from his toenails to the hairs on his head.
What the hell had happened?
Dean. Dean had been screaming. There'd been shadows surrounding him. Cal with a gun. Dean screaming. Oh god, had he let Dean die? Hadn't he saved him in time?
He struggled against the fog that seemed to hold him down, keep him away from Dean. He had to find Dean. He could save Dean, just this once, he knew he could. He wasn't giving up now. Not with all those months of loneliness, of wishing he was dead too but unable to give up the hope of getting Dean back.
A light touch in one of his hands caused him to stop fighting. A whisper in his ear let him relax. It's all right, Sammy. I'm here. You're gonna be fine.
FILLED: Aim, Shoot, Repeat Pt. 4 - ENDauthoressnebulaMay 4 2011, 02:43:36 UTC
When Sam could sense things again, the feelings of wrong and cold weren't as strong anymore. There was light, way more light, and something burning through his nostrils. He focused on his muscles and slowly lifted his eyelids.
The room was a light blue, paint that had seen better days. There was a curtain that hung around one corner of his bed, and a door to his right stood closed. The entire room smelled like cleaning supplies, the strong ones. Hospital.
Dean.
Something caught his hand before he was even able to try sitting up, making him shift his focus to the left. Dean was right there, alive and looking a little worse for the wear, but alive. Sam could handle the worse for wear and the multiple day shadows under his eyes and on his jaw. When was the last time Dean had seen a razor? Or a bed?
"Hey, sleeping beauty," Dean said, voice filled with relief. "About time you decided to wake up. Had the doctors worried for awhile." Translation: You had me worried for too long. "How are you feeling?"
Everything slowly came back. The canula looped around his ears and currently feeding cool oxygen through his nose, the IV taped to the back of his hand. The soreness radiating from his chest.
Cal. The gun. Saving Dean.
"Doc says if that guy had shot any higher, it would've hit you in the heart," Dean said, swallowing hard. "Definitely would've hit me in my heart. But it didn't, because you were there. You knew."
He'd known. Known for months. Replayed the scene a million and one times in his head. But in the moment when it had counted, Sam had pulled through.
"You're telling me how you knew later," Dean said, pulling Sam's focus back to the present. Dean leaned in closer, and up close, he looked even worse than he had before. His face was pale, and he looked exhausted. The lines in his forehead spoke of stress and worry from the past who knew how many days. "But I want you to promise me, right here, right now, that you won't do this again, Sam. That you won't try and save me like this."
For the second time, Sam felt something slam into his chest. This time, it wasn't a bullet. "Wha-?" His voice, hoarse from disuse, was barely able to make a sound before Dean was continuing.
"I'm done in a few months, Sam. But you? You can keep going. I want you to keep going. Not...not this."
No. No no no no no. "Dean, no," Sam struggled to choke out. "Can't...can't do this without you."
"Yes you can-"
"No."
Dean stopped and stared at him. Sam swallowed hard, tears burning in his eyes. "No," he repeated, his throat sore with each pass of air over the abused flesh. But damn if he wasn't saying this now. "That's...I lost you. Months, Dean. I can't...I'm saving you. I have to."
They would both be saved, or they would both go down. It wasn't happening any other way. It couldn't.
Dean tightened his grip around Sam's hand. "Fine," he said at last. "But...but not like this. God, Sammy, please."
Sam said nothing, but he finally gave a small nod. He'd keep himself alive, too. For the both of them.
Re: FILLED: Aim, Shoot, Repeat Pt. 4 - ENDphreakycatMay 4 2011, 03:39:14 UTC
Perfect! What a fitting and awesome fill for my vague prompt! For some reason I didn't even think of the whole Mystery Spot/Deal thing, but now that I've read this it seems perfect and obvious. LOL This was AWESOME! Thank you so much for sacrificing your productivity for my humble prompts. ;)
Re: FILLED: Aim, Shoot, Repeat Pt. 4 - ENDcarocaliMay 11 2011, 04:47:23 UTC
Mystery Spot! I LOVE that you did this! That shot in the parking lot on Wednesday was worse than everything. And Sam's face! How wonderful that you gave Sam the chance to save Dean.
Re: FILLED: Aim, Shoot, Repeat Pt. 4 - ENDcrazybeagleMay 13 2011, 06:32:32 UTC
Oh oh oh... Heartbreaking and gorgeous in so many ways. (It's 2:30 AM, I can't give you anything more substantial than that.) It just killed me that the first thing that naturally occurred to Sam to do was the hardest thing for Dean to witness and the one that seemed most pointless in light of the deal. Beautifully done. And the last line.... >sob< BUT HE DIDN'T. OH SAMMY.
Oh, he'd washed enough times, when he'd finally realized it was going to take them awhile to get news back to him about Sam. He'd lathered, rinsed, soaped himself up enough to make himself the top choice for any soap commercial. But there were always a tiny spot, here or there, and he'd have to wash all over again. His fingers were getting prunish, and still the blood wouldn't come off.
Blood. Sam. Dean shut his eyes tight. His fingers clung to the sides of the ceramic white sink, and he let his head hang. Anything to not think about Sam dying in the parking lot.
"Did what, Sam?"
"Saved you."
Even as he'd coughed up blood, even as more blood had gushed through Dean's fingers, making them slippery and stained, Sam had smiled. Blood coating his teeth, tears unheeded rolling down his cheeks, and he'd smiled.
"Saved you."
He'd known. Somehow, he'd known that the guy from the diner would show up with a gun. He'd told Dean not to go down to the parking lot on his own, and Dean had done it anyways. And now Sam was paying the ultimate price.
But it was Wednesday. Wednesdays were the safe days. So how the hell did Sam know that this Wednesday wasn't?
When the kid woke up, they were talking. Dean clutched the sides of the sink tight, then let them go and lifted his head. His own eyes were red-rimmed, had been for hours. Ever since the paramedics had arrived and taken Sam away, shouting at one another while Dean had screamed for Sam to come back. It hadn't done any good; Sam's eyes had slipped closed, and so far, hadn't opened since. So far as Dean knew. He could be conscious now.
He could be dead now.
Another red spot on his hands taunted him, and with a growl Dean turned the water back on, emptying out almost half of the soap container into his hands. Lather, rinse, repeat. Kill Dean, lose Dean, repeat.
Except not this time.
"Saved you."
And Dean wished he was dead. Anything beat watching Sam gasp for air, helplessly staring as Sam coughed up blood onto the cement, unable to tear his gaze away as Sam slowly slipped away.
The door opened while he was furiously scrubbing his hands. "Sir?" the man said, and Dean looked up. "Are you here with Sam Salinger?"
Dean forgot about the blood on his hands and followed the nurse out.
+++++++
Cold. Cold and wrong. Cold and dark and wrong. A low-pitched sound near one of his ears. Static in the background. Pain everywhere, from his toenails to the hairs on his head.
What the hell had happened?
Dean. Dean had been screaming. There'd been shadows surrounding him. Cal with a gun. Dean screaming. Oh god, had he let Dean die? Hadn't he saved him in time?
He struggled against the fog that seemed to hold him down, keep him away from Dean. He had to find Dean. He could save Dean, just this once, he knew he could. He wasn't giving up now. Not with all those months of loneliness, of wishing he was dead too but unable to give up the hope of getting Dean back.
A light touch in one of his hands caused him to stop fighting. A whisper in his ear let him relax. It's all right, Sammy. I'm here. You're gonna be fine.
Sam let himself slide back under.
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The room was a light blue, paint that had seen better days. There was a curtain that hung around one corner of his bed, and a door to his right stood closed. The entire room smelled like cleaning supplies, the strong ones. Hospital.
Dean.
Something caught his hand before he was even able to try sitting up, making him shift his focus to the left. Dean was right there, alive and looking a little worse for the wear, but alive. Sam could handle the worse for wear and the multiple day shadows under his eyes and on his jaw. When was the last time Dean had seen a razor? Or a bed?
"Hey, sleeping beauty," Dean said, voice filled with relief. "About time you decided to wake up. Had the doctors worried for awhile." Translation: You had me worried for too long. "How are you feeling?"
Everything slowly came back. The canula looped around his ears and currently feeding cool oxygen through his nose, the IV taped to the back of his hand. The soreness radiating from his chest.
Cal. The gun. Saving Dean.
"Doc says if that guy had shot any higher, it would've hit you in the heart," Dean said, swallowing hard. "Definitely would've hit me in my heart. But it didn't, because you were there. You knew."
He'd known. Known for months. Replayed the scene a million and one times in his head. But in the moment when it had counted, Sam had pulled through.
"You're telling me how you knew later," Dean said, pulling Sam's focus back to the present. Dean leaned in closer, and up close, he looked even worse than he had before. His face was pale, and he looked exhausted. The lines in his forehead spoke of stress and worry from the past who knew how many days. "But I want you to promise me, right here, right now, that you won't do this again, Sam. That you won't try and save me like this."
For the second time, Sam felt something slam into his chest. This time, it wasn't a bullet. "Wha-?" His voice, hoarse from disuse, was barely able to make a sound before Dean was continuing.
"I'm done in a few months, Sam. But you? You can keep going. I want you to keep going. Not...not this."
No. No no no no no. "Dean, no," Sam struggled to choke out. "Can't...can't do this without you."
"Yes you can-"
"No."
Dean stopped and stared at him. Sam swallowed hard, tears burning in his eyes. "No," he repeated, his throat sore with each pass of air over the abused flesh. But damn if he wasn't saying this now. "That's...I lost you. Months, Dean. I can't...I'm saving you. I have to."
They would both be saved, or they would both go down. It wasn't happening any other way. It couldn't.
Dean tightened his grip around Sam's hand. "Fine," he said at last. "But...but not like this. God, Sammy, please."
Sam said nothing, but he finally gave a small nod. He'd keep himself alive, too. For the both of them.
And he'd save Dean or die trying.
~Nebula
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Heartbreaking and gorgeous in so many ways.
(It's 2:30 AM, I can't give you anything more substantial than that.)
It just killed me that the first thing that naturally occurred to Sam to do was the hardest thing for Dean to witness and the one that seemed most pointless in light of the deal. Beautifully done.
And the last line....
>sob<
BUT HE DIDN'T.
OH SAMMY.
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