comment fic meme!
Following the results of the poll we took last month (don't make it easy on us or anything, guys, haha!), we've decided to hold a comment fic meme once every three months. This gives everyone time to write and prompt to their heart's content, and allows us mods to keep up with y'all. And we're starting right now!
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How the poltergeist managed to lock Dean in the basement and Sam in the attic, Sam has no idea. All he knows is that there’s a whole bunch of boxes over his only exit, and his legs are trapped under a massive pile of fallen clothes and knick-knacks.
They’d gotten ready to leave that afternoon in a haze of Dayquil, Tylenol, and ice packs, Dean muttering about Sam’s girlish sickness the whole time. As if it was even Sam’s fault that he was sick. He’d tried to stay back at the motel, curled up in a ball under a heap of blankets with a trash can at his side, but Dean just pulled shoes onto his little brother’s feet and shoved him out the door.
“Sam! Sam, you there?”
Dean’s voice is coming from -- everywhere.
“Answer me! There’s an intercom up there somewhere, I need you to find it and --” Dean cuts off in a passionate yell, and there’s a blast of shotgun fire. Sam tries in vain to reach around for the intercom button, but he’s smashed in a corner, and he can’t really get up.
“Sam? Are you alright? Sammy?” His legs finally come free, and he’s able to stumble around. He can even see the intercom machine. It’s right in front of him, with a big red button that’s covered in blood and there’s a raven on top of it and there’s blood everywhere and he doesn’t want to press it and --
“Sammy! I can’t get outta here to come rescue your pansy ass, so you’d better get yourself into this basement before I run outta shells.” He can’t deny Dean when he uses the Dad voice, all gruff command and stern intent. Oddly enough, though, the surface of the machine is slick and dry, not gooey as he’d been expecting.
“Dean, there’s -- there’s a raven, and there’s blood, and I don’t -- I can’t --” he mutters as his hand slips down to his side. Something’s banging at the walls, coming closer and closer to him.
“Did you hit your head? Doesn’t matter right now. Just come down here and we’ll hightail it home, alright? I’ve got the hair, if you’ve got the doll,” Dean reminds him.
“No, I didn’t find -- I didn’t see it. There aren’t any dolls, there’s just a raven and little girl clothes and -- I don’ feel good, Dean.” He leans over, pukes on his shoes, wipes off his mouth.
“You didn’t find it? I guess we’ll have to come back later, because you do not sound like you’re in tip top shape. How you feelin’? Still feverish?” Sam obediently presses the back of his hand against his forehead.
“I don’t know. I wanna go home. Gonna take a nap, I’ll talk to you later.” His lips turn to jelly as he speaks, and the last few words are hopelessly mumbled. Since he can’t really hear Dean’s protests, if there are any, he decides that it would totally be okay to lay down right now and find the raven -- no, the doll -- was it a raven doll? -- he’s gonna look for whatever it is later.
He hasn’t even hit the floor yet when he hears Dean bellowing, “Sammy! You stay awake, come down here and get me! Don’t you go to sleep on me!” Dean’s being really loud, when Sam just wants to sleep and pretend there isn’t a dirty-looking little girl staring him down from across the attic.
“G’way, little girl. It’s naptime.”
The boxes all fly into the air, and Sam realizes that he really needs to go through the hole in the floor before the boxes are on it again.
He can hear Dean’s voice yelling at him through the walls, down the stairs, in the living room. “Dean, you’re everywhere. Stop that, it’s fucking confusing,” he demands, but Dean just keeps yelling stupid things like “make sure you have your gun” and of course Sam has his gun, he always does.
There’s another intercom mounted into the nearest wall, and he mashes his hand against the call button. “Dean, where are you? You sound like you’re everywhere, but all I see is the puppy. That’s not you, right?” Nothing makes sense. The world swirls around him, and reality slips out through the drain under Sam’s feet.
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“Sam, I need you to get downstairs, right now. The basement’s on your right, there’s a big brown door. Do you see it?” Dean’s put on his momma bird mask, Sam can tell. It’s a good complement to Sam’s bitchface. That’s what Dean says, anyways.
His head swivels over to the right, but there are two brown doors cut out of the wall. “Which one is it?”
“There’s only one door on that wall.”
“No, there’s two, and one of them has little flowers and one of them has leaves. Is it flowers or leaves?” He thinks that it’s the one with the leaves on it, because the flowered door is fuzzed over and hazy.
When he tries to open it, his hands smacks into the wall. He reaches out again, right where the doorknob is. “Sam, just open the goddamn door, that bitch is coming back, she’s -- Sam, get your ass down here!”
He decides to try the flower door, and it opens. Down the stairs -- he has to be careful, there’s people sitting on some of them, he thinks -- and he sees Dean curled up in the corner, leg at an odd angle and pinned under a filing cabinet.
“There you are. Damn, my leg hurts. Think you can get me out of here?” Dean asks, with a weak, pained smile. Sam tries to approach and pull the cabinet away, but a shadow peels off the wall and blocks his way.
“Come on, what’s the hold up?” Dean sounds grumpy now, probably because his leg hurts.
“Someone’s in the way. Like, a … like a person, but not really a person.” He sees several more of them, all standing in a line and swaying slowly from side to side.
Dean groans from under the cabinet, and he sounds even more pained than before. “Sam, there’s nothing there. Just please come over here and get this thing off my damn chest, will you?”
“Are they … there?” Sam asks, hesitant and nervous and woozy all at the same time. One by one, the shadows danced back into the wallpaper and faded away into the darkness. “No, wait, they’re not … they’re … they’re not real.” He smiles and nods. Suddenly, he’s much more sure of what’s going on. It’s pretty clear, in fact.
Sam is dreaming.
“No, Sam, no, you’re not dreaming, you’re in the basement of some dead chick’s house and you need to get me out from under this hunk of metal because she is standing right behind you,” Dean whispers. Breath rushes in and out of his lungs, betraying his calm face and cocky grin -- if Dean is upset, maybe there is something going on.
An icy cold hand grips his shoulder, throwing him against the wall. “Sam!” Dean bellows, as his head smashes into the wall. Large patches of flickering black fly across his vision, and he’s dizzier than he’s ever been, and all of a sudden he is violently sick all over his chest.
He loses himself for a moment, the shadows covering his vision, and then --
“Sam! Come on, Sam, you gotta get up, we need to get out of here,” Dean hollers, and then he’s grunting and groaning with effort and the filing cabinet screams under the stress of Dean pushing on it, and Dean moans loudly as it crashes back down onto him. “I can’t lift this thing, you gotta get up and help me, come on, come on --”
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“Oh, thank God. Alright, come with me, we gotta go, now.” Dean’s breathing all heavy, and Sam wants to ask what’s wrong but the shadows are spinning in front of his face and he can barely keep one foot in front of its brother, let alone form the words to ask what’s wrong.
“We’re gonna be fine. There’s a back door over here that we can go through, just follow me.” All of his weight is draped across Dean’s slumped and shaking shoulders. That just doesn’t seem fair, since Dean is the one who’s been unable to breathe due to pounds of metal crushing his ribs. Sam tries to struggle away, because he can certainly walk on his own, but Dean just grabs onto his wrist and keeps him in place.
It must have been cold down in the basement; Dean’s skin is blessedly icy against Sam, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s been so hot, cooling down makes him sleepy again. Dean’s having none of that, though, insisting in Sam’s ear, “You can sleep when we get in the car. All you gotta do is walk through this door, and the car’s parked right outside. Jesus, you’re burning up. I knew this was a terrible idea.”
Shadows follow them as they amble down the narrow alley driveway, and one of them is shaped just like a little girl. Sam jumps -- they were hunting a little girl, and she was after them, trying to hurt Dean -- he grips tightly to his brother’s shoulder and moans, because he can’t tolerate the world spinning around him as swiftly as it is.
At least the little girl melts away into the pavement as they approach the Impala. Drizzles of blood fall down the sewers like so much rain and muck, and despite his exhaustion, Sam flinches away and tries to scurry back toward the house.
“No, no, just stay with me for a few more seconds. Stay with me, Sam,” Dean growls in his ear. His head bobs in what Sam thinks might have started as a nod, but ends with his chin smeared against his chest, jaw slack. “Okay. We’re at the car. I’m gonna get you sitting down in the backseat, so you can sleep.”
Sam makes a move to sprawl out against the familiar, well-worn leather bench, but the raven is perched in the center, its beak wide open in a terrifying avian grin. “No no no. Dean, there’s a -- fuck, I can’t tell if -- I can’t.”
Dean just pushes him, and he tumbles into the Impala, keening as he goes. “Just go to sleep, and I’ll wake you up when we get back.”
Sam sleeps.
--
He tosses and turns in bouts of dreamless slumber and nightmarish lucidity. Several times, he hears Dean’s voice bellowing at him, and cannot help but smile, because he’s got someone to follow back through the steaming fog to reality.
--
Sam clings to his big brother, riding out the tide of fire that ebbs and flows atop his mattress, shaking with the fear that he will be left alone amongst the flames.
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“I hauled your gargantuan ass into the Impala, out of the Impala, into this room, into the bathroom, and into bed, all without breaking a sweat. I swear, they should give me some sort of Olympic medal for that shit.” Dean pauses to laugh, but the sound is choked and strained. “Why didn’t you tell me it was that bad, you asshole? You clocked out at 104.7, which is so beyond the realm of covering up it’s not even close to funny. You should have told me--”
A smear of a giggle oozes out of the corner of Sam’s dry, cottony mouth and puddles on his stained t-shirt. “Dude, I told you so many times that I wanted to stay home. You called me Samantha, and said that only pansy girls got the flu. You cannot even attempt to pin this on me,” Sam insists, as his hand connects with a glass of lukewarm water and brings it to his lips, hands trembling with exertion.
“Whatever, man. As soon as you’ve kicked this My Little Pony, rainbow-spewing nonsense, we’ve still gotta go clean out that poltergeist.” For a moment, it seems as if Dean’s hands will reach for Sam’s head, card through his baby brother’s hair as they did so often when they were younger.
The tender moment is shattered when Sam lets out a tremendous, retching cough that sets all his joints to aching simultaneously. Dean’s common sense returns to him in a flash, and he shoves his traitorous fingers into his pockets, propelling himself out into the kitchen to ‘fetch Her Royal Highness some tomato and rice soup, with an ice cube if she asks very sweetly’.
Sam pretends he’s not imagining a soft body at his side, curly blonde hair brushing against his cheek, warming up his icy bones and chasing away the chill that’s settled below his sternum. She’s gone, anyways.
Still, Dean returns with a bowl of carefully chilled soup and a spoon, only to find Sam slumbering peacefully, arms twined around a pillow and murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Jess’ under his breath. If Dean were feeling particularly cruel, he’d shake Sam awake, prod him into eating, call him a few more names before letting him drift back off. Isn’t it time the kid got to have a happy dream, though?
Dean leaves the soup on the nightstand, and lets Sam continue his sojourn from the world.
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And the hallucinations are awesome. Ravens, people, extra doors. Still, he figures it out in the end!
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It's hard to know wht's real and what's not. Even when I KNEW that pillow wasn't really there, I kept reaching for it. Although, I was pretty sure the melting gift-bag was a hallucination, since it was floating in midair and changing from green to purple as it melted. :P
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Gotta admit though, I totally laughed out loud at “G’way, little girl. It’s naptime.” LOLOL.
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Doesn't Sammy always need a good snuggle? Poor guy. We fans sure do love to torture him! Thanks for reading :D
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Scary, funny, and tender all at once, that's not an easy trick o pull off. Wicked hallucinations! I had trouble sorting out what was real. (That's not a bad thing.)
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