I Got You
Title: I Got You
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean overtones
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Mentioned violence, hurt!Dean (is that really a warning?)
Spoilers: None.
Summary: After two days, Sam finds where there keeping him. After two days, Sam finds him beaten and bloody.
Word count: 3, 600 +/-
Author's Notes: My first one for my 10_hurt_comfort prompt table. Prompt is number one-- torture. I fear this may be lacking a little in the comfort area-- I'll do my best to make up for it with my next fic! Hope you enjoy! *g*
The place reeked - there was a crushing, overbearing stench that poisoned the cold night air. It smelled like blood and guts and sweat. But when you’d smelt as much torture and death as Sam had, you’d know that what was under the air mattered more than what was in it. Fear, desperation, hatred and a blind, underwhelming sense of helplessness that didn’t permeate the air, instead underlined it. Existed only in the aftertaste.
Sam crouched down slightly, running silently along the warehouse, careful of the cracked windows. He was fighting hard to keep his grappling emotions under control. He hadn’t boxed them, just caged them. It was the best he could do tonight; the best he could do when he didn’t know if Dean was de-if Dean was okay.
Sam breathed in deeply, pausing under the last window to slow his breathing.
He knew they were only human. And, like humans, what they couldn’t explain made them fucking angry. They couldn’t explain what Sam and Dean had killed, and they couldn’t explain Sam and Dean.
That or they were just goddamn psychos.
Sam breathed in deeply, cooling some of the rage. He took gun out of his belt, checked that it was loaded and cocked it, holding it beside him. There were only two guys-huge, burly deer hunters. He didn’t care if they were human (loose fucking definition), Sam was going to end them. Taking in a few more deep breaths, Sam slipped around the corner to the back entrance.
There was a door to the side that was unlocked, beside a small, unused docking bay. Sam tightened his grip on the gun and stepped up the few steps to the door. It was hard to see in the dark; the cold side of the moon casting shadows down upon the world. A chill that had nothing to do with the wintry cold ran down Sam’s spine as he reached out and touched the doorhandle.
Silently and gently, so silently and gently, Sam twisted the handle down, grimacing at the slight creaking noise it made. He opened it just enough so that he could slip in. He didn’t close the door behind him.
It was heavy inside, stretching on near endlessly, with barely noticeable light glinting down from the high ceiling - the gun he was holding in his right hand barely sparkled in it. Sam glanced up on instinct, looking past the rooftop sky to a room on a higher level, accessible by a ladder only. He licked his lips and brought his eyes back down, checking for anyone. He didn’t dare call out Dean’s name, no matter how much he wanted to. He took a careful step forwards once he’d assessed that there was no one there, as though testing the water, as though he might fall through the floor. The air was thicker inside, warmer, more bloodthirsty and desperate with passing time pumping through like bad vibes.
There were only boxes, thought Sam, boxes and cracks in the concrete floor, and large dust kitties, along with pages upon pages of paper littering the ground. He made his way through the mess, always careful to remain as quiet as possible, all the while searching for a vague hint, a hope, of Dean.
Time passed quickly as he made his way to the front of the large building. Boxes were stacked higher here and Sam wasn’t interested to find what was in them. He looked down at the floor, scanning through the forgotten pages and dust kitties.
Silence was creeping up on Sam, loud and soft in his ear. Loving, almost. Foreboding.
Sam shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground until - fuck. Was that blood? He hurried over to a mound of boxes towards the front entrance- agonisingly slowly, he needed to feed the silence. When he finally reached the offending stain a gust of hurt and worry ran hot through Sam’s throat. He reached down gingerly, picking up Dean’s necklace from the small pool of blood. He held it up in his shaky hand, between his thumb and forefinger. The amulet was cold, the blood dry.
A burning feeling of despair ran through Sam, hot enough to leave scars if he didn’t put some ice on it. Sam bit his lip against the feeling and closed his fist around the necklace. He’d keep it safe for Dean. Dean would want it when Sam found him. Alive and safe and missing his amulet.
Alive and safe and fucking missing.
Sam shoved the necklace into his pants’ side pocket, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He glanced back down at the (Dean’s) blood. It had been cold and dry on the amulet-old. Maybe a day or two. No more, Dean had gone missing two days ago (two long and disgustingly painful days).
Sam shook memories of frantic searching and worried haziness and running from his head. He needed to focus. Falling apart wasn’t going to help him find his brother. Nodding as though agreeing with himself, Sam turned around, looking for more (he swallowed painfully) blood.
He knew without looking they would lead him to the room sticking out on its own level.
Sam breathed in the warm, bitter air, and moved forwards swiftly. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time, not when - not when Dean could be up there. Mere feet up and away from him. Sam swallowed, holding the gun tightly in his hand as he began to ascend the wooden ladder. He ached with anticipation as he climbed up. When the sweetly metallic taste of blood filled the air. Sam almost shuddered when the tangible fear all around him roused basic instincts inside of Sam-to run. Just leave this place and not come back because it was not safe.
But Sam ignored it, continuing up the wooden ladder.
He took in a few shallow breaths once he was up on the overhanging landing. He held up the gun; the object feeling like an extension of his own arm, of himself. Bracing himself, he pulled open the door, revealing a small office. Sam let his eyes adjust to the dark.
All thoughts fell from his mind like his gun hitting the ground when he spotted Dean slumped in a chair over in the corner, covered in blood. Relief flooded through Sam’s entire body, as though it were replacing Sam’s blood cells. “Dean!”
Sam was at his brother’s side in a second, huge hands grasping at Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes were closed, blood dripping down his face from his hairline-it dissolved into the gag cutting into his mouth. Sam’s hand immediately went to Dean’s neck, his heart pounding, as he fumbled for a pulse.
And (thank you God, thank you God, thank you God), he found a faint one.
Sam got to work undoing the knotted fabric gag immediately, his fingers clumsy with worry. He almost laughed with relief when he got the gag off Dean, letting it fall to the floor.
“Dean,” he whispered frantically, trying to wake his brother. His hands came back bloody. God, he just wanted to see what they’d done to him, but he knew he couldn’t stomach it at that moment, not when they might come back, not when Dean’s pulse might not strengthen. “Dean-god, Dean, it’s me. It’s Sam. Wake up. Please, please, please wake up, Dean.”
Sam’s voice resounded around the room-desperate and cutting. He shook Dean again, this time a little bit harder. “C’mon, baby, wake up.” He felt a little thrill at that word, knowing Dean would never let Sam call him that under normal circumstances.
Sam was aware that his eyes were stinging, threatening hot tears. Fuck. He couldn’t just stay here, hoping to wake him. Sam bent down, and grabbed the knife from his boot. He set to work immediately on the ropes clawing at Dean’s legs. Must’ve been out when they tied him up, thought Sam, or hasn’t woken - Dean could get out of these in a second.
Much of Dean’s pants were soaked in blood, Sam realised as he worked. It darkened the material and leaked onto the floor fluidly. Sam was going to kill those fuckers.
He threw the rope across the room once he was done, glad to be rid of it. It made a wet sound when it hit the wall.
Sam jerked when Dean made a noise-a light gasp, as though waking up from a bad dream. He spun around as Dean starting shaking violently, beginning to struggle-but not violently. Sam didn’t want to grab him in case he’d been injured, but shit. Sam held out his hands, touching Dean on the shoulders lightly. Dean flinched away, letting out a grunt of pain as he did so. “Fuck - Dean, it’s me. It’s Sam.”
Dean stilled for a moment, his breathing heavy and wheezing. “Sam?” he said, his voice hoarse-gurgling.
“Yeah, Dean-Jesus. I untied you. Can you move?”
Dean made to stand but fell back into the chair immediately, violent coughs wracking his body between yips of pain (Sam wouldn’t call them whimpers for Dean’s sake). When Dean looked back up at Sam, dark blood was leaking from his mouth, glinting in the light falling through the window. “Kinda l’te t’the party, S’m...” he said-tried to say, right arm falling across his chest. It looked uncomfortably like he was holding himself together.
“What did they do?” Sam demanded, “where does it hurt?” He stepped forwards reached out to touch Dean’s face.
Dean batted his hand away with his right hand - his good one, Sam realised weakly - the movement making his brother cringe in on himself. “D’n worry, S’m.” Dean’s voice was weak, hurt, around that gurgling sound as though he was speaking around water (blood).
Anger flared inside of Sam. “Dean-”
“M’fine, Sam, j’st gimme ‘minute.” Dean moved slightly, as though trying to illustrate his point, but his eyes widened his pain. He did a commendable effort forcing his coughs back, though.
His brother was a dirty liar. “Fuck you, Dean, you’re-you’re-” gonna die if I don’t get you out of here. Sam couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t. Not -
“M’what?” asked Dean. Sam could barely hear his choking voice.
“A dirty liar.” Sam stepped forwards, angling himself so he could get a hold of Dean’s waist, before hoisting his brother up as gently as he could. Dean yelped, pain clear in his frightened voice. His left hand hung lamely at his side, but he grabbed the arm that Sam wasn’t supporting him with and held it tightly. Sam could feel the wet blood on his brother’s hand.
“Fuck,” groaned Dean. He sounded hazy.
“It’s okay, Dean, I’ll get you out of here. It’s alright,” but even as Sam said it he could feel Dean going limp in his arm. “Dean? God, Dean.”
Dean gasped out shallow, hurt breaths in reply, blood dribbling from his mouth. Fuck. He had to get Dean out of here.
He made it out onto the landing with Dean pretty much collapsed in his arms without any trouble. Sam was doing his best not to press against his brother’s chest too hard, or crush his arm. The ladder was going to be a goddamn challenge, though. “Dean,” Sam said quietly, gingerly trying to rouse his injured brother. “Dean. I just need you to help me for a second, buddy.”
Dean stirred slightly. “Wha-”
Sam wasn’t prepared when Dean started fighting against him, weak limbs thrashing uselessly against Sam’s heavy body. Sam pretended his brother’s hurt sounds didn’t affect him. “Dean, Dean - it’s okay. It’s Sam.”
“Sam,” Dean repeated, before falling victim to another coughing fit - uselessly trying to get in oxygen as he choked. Sam winced when he felt hot tears against his arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam turned Dean around to assess his brother’s injuries quickly. God, they needed to get out of here, but Sam needed to figure out how they were gonna get down that goddamn ladder. When Dean spoke again, blood was dripping from Dean’s mouth-a light flow running along the contour of his chin. “I ‘unno if-”
“You’ll fucking make it,” snarled Sam, holding his brother’s waist as he studied him. Dean’s left arm was definitely broken-the bruising around the forearm and wrist looking almost black in the weak light. Sam’s stomach dropped as he kept up his evaluation. Dean’s body was wet with patches of blood-shallow cuts that were sometimes deceitful about their depths running over his arms and probably his stomach. There was that head wound; blood was still running freely from it, dripping down Dean’s face, leaving flecks of red across his cheeks. Bruising that stretched across his forehead accompanied the stream of blood.
Sam reached out weakly, Dean’s brutal (purposeful) injuries making him feel sick to the stomach, to touch his brother’s chest. Dean’s eyes shot open and he flinched violently, making Sam suspect broken ribs. Possibly a punctured lung, too-judging by the fact he was coughing up blood.
“What did they do to you?” asked Sam, his voice hushed, horrified.
Dean sighed wearily, his eyes slipping shut. Sam watched him try to swallow, but when he spoke the gurgling sound was still there-what Dean said Sam could understand clear as day, though. “F’cking... b’seball bat, man.”
Sam stared at Dean, his face blank. He clenched his jaw as an insatiable bloodlust attacked him, burning through his organs. He swallowed it at hard as he could, strengthening his grip on his brother. He had to get Dean to a hospital; first priority. “God. How much does it hurt to move?”
The way Dean paled (even paler) answered Sam’s question way more efficiently than words could. Dean narrowed his eyes. “C’n move.”
“Down a ladder. With a broken arm.”
“Fuck. Yes,” uttered Dean, shifting out of Sam’s grip slowly, cautiously-because he was hurting that much, thought Sam, his heart sinking.
As soon as Sam stopped supporting Dean, allowed Dean to move, his brother was folding in on himself, yipping (whimpering) in pain again. The coughs started a second later, hoarse wracking coughs that must hurt like a son of a bitch. “Stop, Dean,” said Sam, putting his hand on his brother’s back. “Calm down. Breathe.”
“M’ - try - Jesus,” murmured Dean.
“I’ll go down the ladder first,” said Sam, rubbing (what he hoped were) soothing circles on Dean’s back, “you come down after me, I’ll hold you around the waist and help you the rest of the way down. Save the passing out for when we reach the bottom, okay? Can you do that?”
“Bitch,” groaned Dean. “Sm’ I -”
“You can. I’ll help you.” Sam out his arm around Dean’s waist again, his brother’s body hot against his hand, leading him slowly towards the narrow ladder. His heart was hammering against his chest. “Okay,” said Sam as he removed his arm from Dean’s waist.
Sam began his descent down the ladder slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on Dean above him, making damn sure that his brother wasn’t going to collapse again. “Okay,” he said, when there was enough room on the ladder for Dean to start coming down. “Slowly. Don’t overdo it.”
“Mm,” agreed Dean, his voice weary. Sam prayed to God that he wasn’t going to pass out again.
Dean moved slowly, gingerly-his movements delayed and slow. He let out some barely-concealed gasps of pain as he started climbing down the ladder. Sam could see the tendons popping in his good arm as he held tightly onto the rungs of the ladder. As soon as he was close enough, Sam wrapped a strong arm around his middle, helping him down the rest of the way.
By the time they reached the concrete floor, Dean’s eyes were drifting closed again. “Dean-do you know if... if they are coming back?” asked Sam.
“Done,” whispered Dean, damn near choking on the word.
“Hey,” said Sam, remembering his brother’s head wound and cursing himself for letting Dean drift off earlier. “Don’t sleep. You... you might have a concussion.”
“Hurts.”
Sam clenched his jaw again. “Yeah, Dean, I’m taking you out to the car, then I’ll get you to the hospital.”
“No, I... s’it far?”
Worry was tearing Sam’s insides to pieces. “No.”
“Okay,” said Dean, again allowing Sam to lead him. Sam was careful as he helped Dean through the warehouse, but he had to shake him constantly to keep him awake.
Dean’s feet scuffled against the floor as they shuffled through the building. Their small noises of pain and reassurance echoed through the empty warehouse like whispers. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed when Dean slumped against him again. “C’mon, Dean,” said Sam, “not much further.”
“M’think...”
“Dean?”
“Bleedin’, ‘think,” said Dean softly.
“Fuck,” said Sam. How the hell could he not have noticed that? “Where are you bleeding? Dean?”
Dean’s movements were slow, heavy with pain as he moved his right arm from its place across his chest and broken arm to the hem of his shirt. He lifted it up, revealing a deep, bloody knife wound on his lower abdomen. “Hmm,” said Dean.
“Fuck!” said Sam, his hand immediately moving from Dean’s waist to his stomach. The wound was bleeding steadily and, God, at this rate Dean was going to die of blood loss before anything else. “Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Sam as he slipped an arm around Dean’s middle, forcing him to walk faster.
“Couldn’... couldn’ really - feel,” muttered Dean.
"Jesus. Just press your good hand against it."
Sam had never had a great amount of control over his emotions. And he almost revelled in the white rage that was suddenly pulsing through his system. He was so torn between the need to get Dean to the hospital and the fervent desire to find and kill the men who’d fucking tortured his brother.
The trees were bitter skeletons outside. Cold winds nipped at Sam’s skin once they were finally out. He moved as fast as he could along the building, towards the Impala, while half-carrying Dean.
“Nearly there, Dean. Nearly there. We’ll make it,” said Sam as he felt the fight drain from Dean’s body.
“I got you.”
-
“It was a good thing you got here as fast of you did, Mr Van Halen, any longer and I’m not sure he would have made it.”
Sam felt sick to his stomach. “How is he? Can I see him now?”
“He’s resting. We’ve stitched up his knife wound, his head wound and treated him for internal bleeding, a punctured lung and several broken ribs. He has been given some non-narcotic pain relievers. ”
“Jesus,” said Sam, feeling tears stinging his eyes. “Will he... will he be okay?”
“He should be okay, he’ll need to stay here for two weeks or so, but I don’t recommend any strenuous activity for about six to eight weeks afterwards... I’ll go over all this again when we discharge him.”
Sam nodded. “Can I see him?”
“Would you like to go alone, or -”
“Yes.”
“He is down the end of this hall on the left, room 47.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, and he meant it. He turned around quickly and strode down the hall way. That hospital smell of disinfectant and sickness had dimmed during the excruciating hours Sam had been waiting to see if Dean was okay, but as he walked the stench was making itself known again. Sam could have used his time wisely, he knew-tracking the men that had done this, and showing them not to mess with him or Dean. But there was a pain in his chest - a pain that was dulling, but still there - and he needed to know that Dean was all right. Couldn’t leave him because of that.
Finally, finally Sam entered Dean’s room. His eyes immediately flew to his brother, who was lying in the hospital bed, eyes half-closed. Dean’s skin was a dusky colour that made the freckles on his face and bruises around his eyes stand out. “Dean,” said Sam, a little hoarsely.
Dean’s eyes shot open. “Sammy,” he croaked out.
Sam was over by his bed in a second, flattening the sheets and fluffing the edge Dean’s pillow. When he stepped back, Dean rolled his eyes at him, but didn’t say anything. “How are you feeling?” asked Sam lightly.
“Peachy,” said Dean. “Remote?”
Sam handed him the remote on his bedside table. He stood for awhile, watching Dean flick through the channels, watching the TV’s glow reflect in Dean’s eyes. “Gon’ sit down, ‘what?” asked Dean, coughing a few times.
Sam sat down at the end of Dean’s bed, careful not to bump his brother. “They were the guys from the bar, the ones that were watching us, weren’t they?”
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Sam, I -”
“Were they?”
Dean held back some coughs. “Yeah,” he whispered, the word coming out airy and thin.
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’... b’careful.”
Sam reached out to rub his brother’s stomach, carefully avoiding where the cleaned and stitched knife wound was under the sheets. “I won’t let this happen again,” he swore.
Dean sighed and sunk deeper into the pillows. “Put’n a punch f’me.”
Sam trailed his large hand down Dean’s leg and stood. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, standing up and walking over to the door. He turned to look at Dean, whose eyes were following Sam’s movements. “Sleep.”
Dean nodded, looking away, his eyes closing.
Sam understood the silent promise for what it was.
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean overtones
Disclaimers: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Mentioned violence, hurt!Dean (is that really a warning?)
Spoilers: None.
Summary: After two days, Sam finds where there keeping him. After two days, Sam finds him beaten and bloody.
Word count: 3, 600 +/-
Author's Notes: My first one for my 10_hurt_comfort prompt table. Prompt is number one-- torture. I fear this may be lacking a little in the comfort area-- I'll do my best to make up for it with my next fic! Hope you enjoy! *g*
The place reeked - there was a crushing, overbearing stench that poisoned the cold night air. It smelled like blood and guts and sweat. But when you’d smelt as much torture and death as Sam had, you’d know that what was under the air mattered more than what was in it. Fear, desperation, hatred and a blind, underwhelming sense of helplessness that didn’t permeate the air, instead underlined it. Existed only in the aftertaste.
Sam crouched down slightly, running silently along the warehouse, careful of the cracked windows. He was fighting hard to keep his grappling emotions under control. He hadn’t boxed them, just caged them. It was the best he could do tonight; the best he could do when he didn’t know if Dean was de-if Dean was okay.
Sam breathed in deeply, pausing under the last window to slow his breathing.
He knew they were only human. And, like humans, what they couldn’t explain made them fucking angry. They couldn’t explain what Sam and Dean had killed, and they couldn’t explain Sam and Dean.
That or they were just goddamn psychos.
Sam breathed in deeply, cooling some of the rage. He took gun out of his belt, checked that it was loaded and cocked it, holding it beside him. There were only two guys-huge, burly deer hunters. He didn’t care if they were human (loose fucking definition), Sam was going to end them. Taking in a few more deep breaths, Sam slipped around the corner to the back entrance.
There was a door to the side that was unlocked, beside a small, unused docking bay. Sam tightened his grip on the gun and stepped up the few steps to the door. It was hard to see in the dark; the cold side of the moon casting shadows down upon the world. A chill that had nothing to do with the wintry cold ran down Sam’s spine as he reached out and touched the doorhandle.
Silently and gently, so silently and gently, Sam twisted the handle down, grimacing at the slight creaking noise it made. He opened it just enough so that he could slip in. He didn’t close the door behind him.
It was heavy inside, stretching on near endlessly, with barely noticeable light glinting down from the high ceiling - the gun he was holding in his right hand barely sparkled in it. Sam glanced up on instinct, looking past the rooftop sky to a room on a higher level, accessible by a ladder only. He licked his lips and brought his eyes back down, checking for anyone. He didn’t dare call out Dean’s name, no matter how much he wanted to. He took a careful step forwards once he’d assessed that there was no one there, as though testing the water, as though he might fall through the floor. The air was thicker inside, warmer, more bloodthirsty and desperate with passing time pumping through like bad vibes.
There were only boxes, thought Sam, boxes and cracks in the concrete floor, and large dust kitties, along with pages upon pages of paper littering the ground. He made his way through the mess, always careful to remain as quiet as possible, all the while searching for a vague hint, a hope, of Dean.
Time passed quickly as he made his way to the front of the large building. Boxes were stacked higher here and Sam wasn’t interested to find what was in them. He looked down at the floor, scanning through the forgotten pages and dust kitties.
Silence was creeping up on Sam, loud and soft in his ear. Loving, almost. Foreboding.
Sam shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground until - fuck. Was that blood? He hurried over to a mound of boxes towards the front entrance- agonisingly slowly, he needed to feed the silence. When he finally reached the offending stain a gust of hurt and worry ran hot through Sam’s throat. He reached down gingerly, picking up Dean’s necklace from the small pool of blood. He held it up in his shaky hand, between his thumb and forefinger. The amulet was cold, the blood dry.
A burning feeling of despair ran through Sam, hot enough to leave scars if he didn’t put some ice on it. Sam bit his lip against the feeling and closed his fist around the necklace. He’d keep it safe for Dean. Dean would want it when Sam found him. Alive and safe and missing his amulet.
Alive and safe and fucking missing.
Sam shoved the necklace into his pants’ side pocket, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He glanced back down at the (Dean’s) blood. It had been cold and dry on the amulet-old. Maybe a day or two. No more, Dean had gone missing two days ago (two long and disgustingly painful days).
Sam shook memories of frantic searching and worried haziness and running from his head. He needed to focus. Falling apart wasn’t going to help him find his brother. Nodding as though agreeing with himself, Sam turned around, looking for more (he swallowed painfully) blood.
He knew without looking they would lead him to the room sticking out on its own level.
Sam breathed in the warm, bitter air, and moved forwards swiftly. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time, not when - not when Dean could be up there. Mere feet up and away from him. Sam swallowed, holding the gun tightly in his hand as he began to ascend the wooden ladder. He ached with anticipation as he climbed up. When the sweetly metallic taste of blood filled the air. Sam almost shuddered when the tangible fear all around him roused basic instincts inside of Sam-to run. Just leave this place and not come back because it was not safe.
But Sam ignored it, continuing up the wooden ladder.
He took in a few shallow breaths once he was up on the overhanging landing. He held up the gun; the object feeling like an extension of his own arm, of himself. Bracing himself, he pulled open the door, revealing a small office. Sam let his eyes adjust to the dark.
All thoughts fell from his mind like his gun hitting the ground when he spotted Dean slumped in a chair over in the corner, covered in blood. Relief flooded through Sam’s entire body, as though it were replacing Sam’s blood cells. “Dean!”
Sam was at his brother’s side in a second, huge hands grasping at Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes were closed, blood dripping down his face from his hairline-it dissolved into the gag cutting into his mouth. Sam’s hand immediately went to Dean’s neck, his heart pounding, as he fumbled for a pulse.
And (thank you God, thank you God, thank you God), he found a faint one.
Sam got to work undoing the knotted fabric gag immediately, his fingers clumsy with worry. He almost laughed with relief when he got the gag off Dean, letting it fall to the floor.
“Dean,” he whispered frantically, trying to wake his brother. His hands came back bloody. God, he just wanted to see what they’d done to him, but he knew he couldn’t stomach it at that moment, not when they might come back, not when Dean’s pulse might not strengthen. “Dean-god, Dean, it’s me. It’s Sam. Wake up. Please, please, please wake up, Dean.”
Sam’s voice resounded around the room-desperate and cutting. He shook Dean again, this time a little bit harder. “C’mon, baby, wake up.” He felt a little thrill at that word, knowing Dean would never let Sam call him that under normal circumstances.
Sam was aware that his eyes were stinging, threatening hot tears. Fuck. He couldn’t just stay here, hoping to wake him. Sam bent down, and grabbed the knife from his boot. He set to work immediately on the ropes clawing at Dean’s legs. Must’ve been out when they tied him up, thought Sam, or hasn’t woken - Dean could get out of these in a second.
Much of Dean’s pants were soaked in blood, Sam realised as he worked. It darkened the material and leaked onto the floor fluidly. Sam was going to kill those fuckers.
He threw the rope across the room once he was done, glad to be rid of it. It made a wet sound when it hit the wall.
Sam jerked when Dean made a noise-a light gasp, as though waking up from a bad dream. He spun around as Dean starting shaking violently, beginning to struggle-but not violently. Sam didn’t want to grab him in case he’d been injured, but shit. Sam held out his hands, touching Dean on the shoulders lightly. Dean flinched away, letting out a grunt of pain as he did so. “Fuck - Dean, it’s me. It’s Sam.”
Dean stilled for a moment, his breathing heavy and wheezing. “Sam?” he said, his voice hoarse-gurgling.
“Yeah, Dean-Jesus. I untied you. Can you move?”
Dean made to stand but fell back into the chair immediately, violent coughs wracking his body between yips of pain (Sam wouldn’t call them whimpers for Dean’s sake). When Dean looked back up at Sam, dark blood was leaking from his mouth, glinting in the light falling through the window. “Kinda l’te t’the party, S’m...” he said-tried to say, right arm falling across his chest. It looked uncomfortably like he was holding himself together.
“What did they do?” Sam demanded, “where does it hurt?” He stepped forwards reached out to touch Dean’s face.
Dean batted his hand away with his right hand - his good one, Sam realised weakly - the movement making his brother cringe in on himself. “D’n worry, S’m.” Dean’s voice was weak, hurt, around that gurgling sound as though he was speaking around water (blood).
Anger flared inside of Sam. “Dean-”
“M’fine, Sam, j’st gimme ‘minute.” Dean moved slightly, as though trying to illustrate his point, but his eyes widened his pain. He did a commendable effort forcing his coughs back, though.
His brother was a dirty liar. “Fuck you, Dean, you’re-you’re-” gonna die if I don’t get you out of here. Sam couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t. Not -
“M’what?” asked Dean. Sam could barely hear his choking voice.
“A dirty liar.” Sam stepped forwards, angling himself so he could get a hold of Dean’s waist, before hoisting his brother up as gently as he could. Dean yelped, pain clear in his frightened voice. His left hand hung lamely at his side, but he grabbed the arm that Sam wasn’t supporting him with and held it tightly. Sam could feel the wet blood on his brother’s hand.
“Fuck,” groaned Dean. He sounded hazy.
“It’s okay, Dean, I’ll get you out of here. It’s alright,” but even as Sam said it he could feel Dean going limp in his arm. “Dean? God, Dean.”
Dean gasped out shallow, hurt breaths in reply, blood dribbling from his mouth. Fuck. He had to get Dean out of here.
He made it out onto the landing with Dean pretty much collapsed in his arms without any trouble. Sam was doing his best not to press against his brother’s chest too hard, or crush his arm. The ladder was going to be a goddamn challenge, though. “Dean,” Sam said quietly, gingerly trying to rouse his injured brother. “Dean. I just need you to help me for a second, buddy.”
Dean stirred slightly. “Wha-”
Sam wasn’t prepared when Dean started fighting against him, weak limbs thrashing uselessly against Sam’s heavy body. Sam pretended his brother’s hurt sounds didn’t affect him. “Dean, Dean - it’s okay. It’s Sam.”
“Sam,” Dean repeated, before falling victim to another coughing fit - uselessly trying to get in oxygen as he choked. Sam winced when he felt hot tears against his arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam turned Dean around to assess his brother’s injuries quickly. God, they needed to get out of here, but Sam needed to figure out how they were gonna get down that goddamn ladder. When Dean spoke again, blood was dripping from Dean’s mouth-a light flow running along the contour of his chin. “I ‘unno if-”
“You’ll fucking make it,” snarled Sam, holding his brother’s waist as he studied him. Dean’s left arm was definitely broken-the bruising around the forearm and wrist looking almost black in the weak light. Sam’s stomach dropped as he kept up his evaluation. Dean’s body was wet with patches of blood-shallow cuts that were sometimes deceitful about their depths running over his arms and probably his stomach. There was that head wound; blood was still running freely from it, dripping down Dean’s face, leaving flecks of red across his cheeks. Bruising that stretched across his forehead accompanied the stream of blood.
Sam reached out weakly, Dean’s brutal (purposeful) injuries making him feel sick to the stomach, to touch his brother’s chest. Dean’s eyes shot open and he flinched violently, making Sam suspect broken ribs. Possibly a punctured lung, too-judging by the fact he was coughing up blood.
“What did they do to you?” asked Sam, his voice hushed, horrified.
Dean sighed wearily, his eyes slipping shut. Sam watched him try to swallow, but when he spoke the gurgling sound was still there-what Dean said Sam could understand clear as day, though. “F’cking... b’seball bat, man.”
Sam stared at Dean, his face blank. He clenched his jaw as an insatiable bloodlust attacked him, burning through his organs. He swallowed it at hard as he could, strengthening his grip on his brother. He had to get Dean to a hospital; first priority. “God. How much does it hurt to move?”
The way Dean paled (even paler) answered Sam’s question way more efficiently than words could. Dean narrowed his eyes. “C’n move.”
“Down a ladder. With a broken arm.”
“Fuck. Yes,” uttered Dean, shifting out of Sam’s grip slowly, cautiously-because he was hurting that much, thought Sam, his heart sinking.
As soon as Sam stopped supporting Dean, allowed Dean to move, his brother was folding in on himself, yipping (whimpering) in pain again. The coughs started a second later, hoarse wracking coughs that must hurt like a son of a bitch. “Stop, Dean,” said Sam, putting his hand on his brother’s back. “Calm down. Breathe.”
“M’ - try - Jesus,” murmured Dean.
“I’ll go down the ladder first,” said Sam, rubbing (what he hoped were) soothing circles on Dean’s back, “you come down after me, I’ll hold you around the waist and help you the rest of the way down. Save the passing out for when we reach the bottom, okay? Can you do that?”
“Bitch,” groaned Dean. “Sm’ I -”
“You can. I’ll help you.” Sam out his arm around Dean’s waist again, his brother’s body hot against his hand, leading him slowly towards the narrow ladder. His heart was hammering against his chest. “Okay,” said Sam as he removed his arm from Dean’s waist.
Sam began his descent down the ladder slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on Dean above him, making damn sure that his brother wasn’t going to collapse again. “Okay,” he said, when there was enough room on the ladder for Dean to start coming down. “Slowly. Don’t overdo it.”
“Mm,” agreed Dean, his voice weary. Sam prayed to God that he wasn’t going to pass out again.
Dean moved slowly, gingerly-his movements delayed and slow. He let out some barely-concealed gasps of pain as he started climbing down the ladder. Sam could see the tendons popping in his good arm as he held tightly onto the rungs of the ladder. As soon as he was close enough, Sam wrapped a strong arm around his middle, helping him down the rest of the way.
By the time they reached the concrete floor, Dean’s eyes were drifting closed again. “Dean-do you know if... if they are coming back?” asked Sam.
“Done,” whispered Dean, damn near choking on the word.
“Hey,” said Sam, remembering his brother’s head wound and cursing himself for letting Dean drift off earlier. “Don’t sleep. You... you might have a concussion.”
“Hurts.”
Sam clenched his jaw again. “Yeah, Dean, I’m taking you out to the car, then I’ll get you to the hospital.”
“No, I... s’it far?”
Worry was tearing Sam’s insides to pieces. “No.”
“Okay,” said Dean, again allowing Sam to lead him. Sam was careful as he helped Dean through the warehouse, but he had to shake him constantly to keep him awake.
Dean’s feet scuffled against the floor as they shuffled through the building. Their small noises of pain and reassurance echoed through the empty warehouse like whispers. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed when Dean slumped against him again. “C’mon, Dean,” said Sam, “not much further.”
“M’think...”
“Dean?”
“Bleedin’, ‘think,” said Dean softly.
“Fuck,” said Sam. How the hell could he not have noticed that? “Where are you bleeding? Dean?”
Dean’s movements were slow, heavy with pain as he moved his right arm from its place across his chest and broken arm to the hem of his shirt. He lifted it up, revealing a deep, bloody knife wound on his lower abdomen. “Hmm,” said Dean.
“Fuck!” said Sam, his hand immediately moving from Dean’s waist to his stomach. The wound was bleeding steadily and, God, at this rate Dean was going to die of blood loss before anything else. “Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Sam as he slipped an arm around Dean’s middle, forcing him to walk faster.
“Couldn’... couldn’ really - feel,” muttered Dean.
"Jesus. Just press your good hand against it."
Sam had never had a great amount of control over his emotions. And he almost revelled in the white rage that was suddenly pulsing through his system. He was so torn between the need to get Dean to the hospital and the fervent desire to find and kill the men who’d fucking tortured his brother.
The trees were bitter skeletons outside. Cold winds nipped at Sam’s skin once they were finally out. He moved as fast as he could along the building, towards the Impala, while half-carrying Dean.
“Nearly there, Dean. Nearly there. We’ll make it,” said Sam as he felt the fight drain from Dean’s body.
“I got you.”
-
“It was a good thing you got here as fast of you did, Mr Van Halen, any longer and I’m not sure he would have made it.”
Sam felt sick to his stomach. “How is he? Can I see him now?”
“He’s resting. We’ve stitched up his knife wound, his head wound and treated him for internal bleeding, a punctured lung and several broken ribs. He has been given some non-narcotic pain relievers. ”
“Jesus,” said Sam, feeling tears stinging his eyes. “Will he... will he be okay?”
“He should be okay, he’ll need to stay here for two weeks or so, but I don’t recommend any strenuous activity for about six to eight weeks afterwards... I’ll go over all this again when we discharge him.”
Sam nodded. “Can I see him?”
“Would you like to go alone, or -”
“Yes.”
“He is down the end of this hall on the left, room 47.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, and he meant it. He turned around quickly and strode down the hall way. That hospital smell of disinfectant and sickness had dimmed during the excruciating hours Sam had been waiting to see if Dean was okay, but as he walked the stench was making itself known again. Sam could have used his time wisely, he knew-tracking the men that had done this, and showing them not to mess with him or Dean. But there was a pain in his chest - a pain that was dulling, but still there - and he needed to know that Dean was all right. Couldn’t leave him because of that.
Finally, finally Sam entered Dean’s room. His eyes immediately flew to his brother, who was lying in the hospital bed, eyes half-closed. Dean’s skin was a dusky colour that made the freckles on his face and bruises around his eyes stand out. “Dean,” said Sam, a little hoarsely.
Dean’s eyes shot open. “Sammy,” he croaked out.
Sam was over by his bed in a second, flattening the sheets and fluffing the edge Dean’s pillow. When he stepped back, Dean rolled his eyes at him, but didn’t say anything. “How are you feeling?” asked Sam lightly.
“Peachy,” said Dean. “Remote?”
Sam handed him the remote on his bedside table. He stood for awhile, watching Dean flick through the channels, watching the TV’s glow reflect in Dean’s eyes. “Gon’ sit down, ‘what?” asked Dean, coughing a few times.
Sam sat down at the end of Dean’s bed, careful not to bump his brother. “They were the guys from the bar, the ones that were watching us, weren’t they?”
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Sam, I -”
“Were they?”
Dean held back some coughs. “Yeah,” he whispered, the word coming out airy and thin.
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’... b’careful.”
Sam reached out to rub his brother’s stomach, carefully avoiding where the cleaned and stitched knife wound was under the sheets. “I won’t let this happen again,” he swore.
Dean sighed and sunk deeper into the pillows. “Put’n a punch f’me.”
Sam trailed his large hand down Dean’s leg and stood. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, standing up and walking over to the door. He turned to look at Dean, whose eyes were following Sam’s movements. “Sleep.”
Dean nodded, looking away, his eyes closing.
Sam understood the silent promise for what it was.