A Hole Lotta Trouble 6/8?
FIC: A Hole Lotta Trouble 6/8?
Author: Supernatural Mommy
Characters: Wee!Sammy, Wee!Dean, John, and maybe a surprise OC later
Warnings: PG-ish; Kids in peril, naughty language. Don't think there's anything else major.
Disclaimor: I don't own 'em *pity* but if I did, I'd love the stuffing out of little Sammy and Dean
Summary: What happens with the boys and John are separated in the middle of a supposedly "routine" hunt? Does anything ever work out routinely for the Winchesters? Um ... no?
Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay and hope this makes up for it!
Chapter 6
The slip-slide of his cheek through muddy grass was his first sign that not all was right with his world. John shook his head with a groan, before the pain spiking through his temple forced him to stop. Instead, he used heavy arms to push himself up and carefully away from the damp earth.
Head hanging like a separate entity, he concentrated fiercely on his sole goal: getting upright. His aching body didn’t really want to follow his commands, but he had lots of experience overriding his body’s needs. His head spun, his behind sinking slowly into the muddy grass as his muscles quivered at the effort of sitting up.
If only his brain would stop that annoying spinning now … sh*t!
He sure as h*ll didn’t have time to play the amnesiac here, he was in a crapload of trouble, and his boys … ah, man, his boys!
“Dean. Sammy.” He flinched at his whispered, p*ss-poor, exhalation of worry. He didn’t have time for this.
He blinked his eyes, breathing in and out to disassociate himself from the pain. After a few moments, he was able to push the worst of the pain to the back of his mind to deal with after his boys were safe. He shrugged, rotated his head, and finally applied himself to the task at hand.
He blinked the tree line into focus, searching his split-second’s worth of memory to help decide which direction to take. Body heavy with fatigue and pain, he heaved himself to standing.
A not so steady stumble to the left, and then to the right, and he found wasn’t any closer to deciding which direction to take. And he didn’t have time for this, d*mnit! His boys were out there, and that creature …
That creature had done something, something specific … John closed his eyes, kneading his sore temple as he clung to a mere snapshot’s worth of Intel hiding within his beaten brain. His eyes snapped open, and then narrowed.
In sudden clarity, he remembered that the monster scented the air just before disappearing into the forest. It was classic strategy: predator scenting his prey.
He knew which direction to take now, but was having a hard time convincing his sore body to become predator itself rather than prey.
There was no other option.
His sons were the prey, and only another predator could take this monster out. He growled as he entered the woods, unknowingly mimicking the beast’s previous movements. No evil SOB was gonna take his kids out, not on his watch.
He quickened his pace, pain all but forgotten and exhaustion giving way to adrenaline-powered energy. His lungs expanded, the exhilaration of the hunt upon him as his eyes sparkled dangerously, taking in every nuance of the creature’s path before him.
He was the predator, and God help anything that got in his way.
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“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic … sure, sure, sure … I can, I can do … this. Not panicking. This is me … not panicking …” He blinked, swallowed, tried to focus on what he had to …
What was he doing?
Oh, yeah … not panicking.
Dean shook his head slightly, licking his lips as he pushed a wadded up shirt tightly against his mid-section. He’d pulled the shirt from his backpack just minutes before, and it was already half-soaked in blood … his blood.
He leaned forward, wincing at the sharp spike of pain, and worked his flannel shirt carefully off his shoulders, gathering the sleeves in each hand. Falling heavily back against the dirt wall, he tied off the sleeves, centering the knot over the blood-soaked shirt. Even though it hurt, like shit! - so freakin’ bad - he tied it off as tightly as he could, knowing pressure was his friend.
He swallowed, hating how dry his mouth felt. His own injury addressed well enough, Dean twisted painstakingly around to eye his little brother. His hand rose, fingers moving without conscious thought and caught in the act of lifting those shaggy bangs from Sam’s closed eyes. Dark lashes clung wetly to rosy cheeks, lines of pain and fatigue trailing away from his eyes. He could feel the heat radiating from Sammy, and bit his lip in worry.
His brother’s eyes had floated closed a minute before, and Dean was reluctant to wake him. He had to be in so much freakin’ pain to be reacting this way. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want Sam awake while Dean tried to deal with it.
At the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking that this was Sam, and he couldn’t not talk to him. His brother liked Dean talking to him, followed him around like he didn’t have nothing better to do than entertain his sorry … he was going to hell. He was not thinking about that while Sammy shivered beside him, God only knew how hurt..
Sam still shivered, still panted, as if unconsciously he still needed to alleviate his pain. Dean decided enough was enough. He carefully peeled his leather coat away from Sam’s torso, lying it gently over his legs instead.
Sam twitched and moaned; Dean flinched and moved on to the blanket he had just laid over Sammy, bringing it down to rest across Sam’s legs as well. He again reached up, delicately brushing the damp strands of hair away from his brother’s forehead. And Sammy probably couldn’t hear him, but …
“Hey Sammy, you know I’m getting’ kind of lonely down here waiting for you to wake up from your beauty sleep.” He finished his exam of Sam’s face and neck and moved his hands on either side of his brother’s head, feeling for lumps and anything … like that right there. He brought one hand back, verifying the dampness he felt was indeed blood.
“Dude, you know, I’m starting to feel neglected here. You know, you’re not the only one bleeding, and you should totally be talking back and telling me all kinds of geeky things about which injuries are worse and crap.” He huffed, frustrated at his limited ability to help Sam. So far, the blood and lump back there would indicate a probable concussion, scrapes and bruises along the right side of Sammy’s face only skin-deep. He moved on.
“’D I ever tell you about the first time I got a concussion? No? I was maybe about as old as you. Didn’t happen ‘cause of something as important as this, though.” He shook his head, smiling a little as he rotated first the left and then the right shoulder … and there would be a dislocation? Or maybe just a nasty bruise, tear, something. It didn’t rotate smoothly, like his dad showed him. So something was wrong.
“So, where was I? Oh, yeah … um, my first concussion was back in Michigan, remember that Billy Crawford? No … you wouldn’t remember him, I don’t think. Anyway … he … um …” He moved down the left arm, laying it back beside Sam. “He didn’t like me much, had some stick up his butt about me all because I beat his *ss at dodgeball in gym class. He waited … and, you know what?”
He moved on to the right arm, noticing right away that swelling started at the elbow, continuing down the arm and through the wrist all on that right side. Crap. It was either broken or really messed up some other way. He’d have to figure it … okay, the elbow wasn’t the actual problem, but one of the small bones under it.
Ouch, Sammy.
Looked like two closed breaks, one in the lower part of the arm, and the other … he leaned closer to carefully hold up the wrist … the other break looked like it was right before the wrist. Some pretty impressive bruises were already purpling along the lower part of his right arm.
“So, anyway, this dick Billy … huh, dickBilly …” he laughed. “Stupid *sshole was waiting for me with a baseball bat and a couple buddies around the back of the motel … ‘member we had to come around the back of that one to get to our room, ‘cause it was on the back?”
“Anyway, he knocked me out and ran, like the pussy he was, and I limped back to the room. I think I puked, like, four times on the way there.” He shook his head, clearing the memory. What was he doing talking about crappy crap memories anyway?
“Well, hope you stay asleep long enough for me to splint this good. Think I might have some Tylenol or something too.” He dug around in his pack, frowning when he couldn’t find his gummy worms. He was gonna give them to Sam, try and perk him up whenever he came to. Damnit. Where’d they go?
He huffed, moving his change of clothes around to grasp at his med kit instead. He grabbed the rulers out of his pack too. Then he eyed Sammy uncertainly.
How could he do this? He needed to immobilize two breaks, but the one was really close to the elbow. First, he tore strips from his spare shirt and then lined up the ruler underneath Sammy’s lower arm.
D*mn, Sam, my Aerosmith shirt, you sooo owe me.
After wrapping the strips around the impromptu splint, he opted to bind Sammy’s arm to his torso by carefully easing the arm into a ninety degree bend, using the last of his shirt to bind the arm to his torso. He nodded to himself; He’d done the best he could there.
He reversed the thermal blanket, the other blanket he’d added, and then tucked his leather coat even tighter around Sammy’s shoulders. For the first time, he moved the blanket completely away from Sam’s legs, and he was completely unprepared for this level of nastiness.
It looked like Sam had tried to do a little bit of first aid at some point. But damn …
Blood-soaked gauze did little to hide an open break. Sammy had ripped his jeans already, baring the entirety of the injury. And what an injury it was. Dean swallowed, taking in the bit of white sticking up through the skin. Bones just weren’t supposed to do that. That’s all he was saying.
No wonder the kid was hurting so bad. Dean didn’t blame him. There was only one way he knew to handle this, and damn it this wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to have to do this.
He took a deep breath.
Okay, he could do this.
He didn’t have another shirt though.
He carefully navigated around Sammy’s body, going to the other side and opening his pack, before realizing all the contents were wedged beside Sam for some reason. His eyes narrowed, then widened as he grinned softly.
“Guess you knew you were gonna get those anyways, huh?” He picked up the pilfered bag of gummy worms, setting it aside to study the remnants of Sam’s pack. Shirt, shirt, shirt … Huh. He looked back into the pack and dug deep inside to pull out the ratty t-shirt Sammy’d packed.
Just as well it was a piece of crap, cause he was slicing it to ribbons anyway. He wished he could actually get some enjoyment out of this. But Sam wasn’t waking, and Dean sure as heck wasn’t gonna make him face this anytime soon, concussion be damned. He’d give him a little bit of time in lala land first. He was an awesome big brother, obviously.
Ten minutes and countless breaks to control his need to heave later, and Sam’s legs were tied together with the strips of cotton that once constructed some small town fair from a few years ago. It was the only way Dean knew to stabilize that huge an injury.
Next … he rearranged himself and moved again to the other side of his brother, fully pulling aside the blood-soaked gauze pads and flinging them to the side. He reached into his pack and pulled out one water bottle. He broke the seal and flushed the wound as best he could with the fluid. With the seal intact, it should be almost as sanitized as anything else could be. He could just make out the glossy remnants of Neosporin all over the edges, and hoped to hell that Sam had been careful in applying it. He didn’t want to introduce any germs, so opted instead to simply pack more gauze loosely around and on top of the wound.
He had an ace bandage, and used that to hold the gauze loosely in place, actually wrapping the stretchy fabric around both legs.
Light was almost gone, echoes of sunlight casting stray ribbons of light haphazardly around the hole. The dim light told lies; made it seem as if his brother was only sleeping and he was only relaxing on a brisk fall evening. The dim light and chilly air made the early evening feel peaceful, somehow.
But Dean, well, he sure wasn’t a poet or nothing. To him, it was just shy of cold and almost too dark to see the enemy. And his brother was in desperate need of help.
Dean looked up at the top of the hole, the night sky barely discernable from the edges of the dirt wall, and he worried his lip. He needed to figure out how they would be able to get out of here.
He looked over at Sammy and sighed. They had to get out of here. He hated to interrupt his little brother’s ignorance of their crappy situation, but …
“Come on princess. Wakey, wakey.”