Supernatural -- "Among Us" (Sam & Gabriel gen)
Title: Among Us
Author: wonderfoal
Obligatory disclaimer: Supernatural....me no own, please no sue?
Word count: ~4100
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Summary: Sam was supposed to be safe in the car as his brother and father hunt a werewolf, but trouble has a way of finding him. Luckily for Sam, he has a (guardian) angel looking out for him.
Characters: Sam, Gabriel
Warnings: hurt!Sam, violence
Notes: So... I may or may not have a thing for hurt!Sam *cough-cough* Sam is 15.
Date: Friday, January 14, 2011
Stupid stupid stupid.
Sam wanted to curse himself, but he didn’t have the breath to spare. He pulled his hand away from the wound and saw hints of intestine easing through the torn muscle. With a grunt, he held it tighter and struggled to put one foot in front of the other.
His only chance now was finding help. Dean and their dad were somewhere in those woods - if he could just find them-
Sam’s foot tripped over a protruding root and he stumbled onto the ground with a pained ‘oof.’ The wound in his gut didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it should have. Sam wondered if his mind had blocked it out in favor of the agonizing stripes down his back courtesy of a monster’s claws.
I can’t die here, he told himself.
With a groan and sheer willpower, he rose to his knees, hand still cradled protectively over the open and bleeding wound in his belly. It was just skin and muscle - he was pretty sure the delicate organs within were unharmed. Not that it would matter much if they fell out of his body.
Rising to his knees was as far as his body would take him. He couldn’t stand, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. Slowly, he braced himself with his free left hand and started crawling across the ground. There was a campground not too far away. He knew that it was empty - had been for days due to strange disappearances, but there was a good chance that there was a working phone nearby.
Dad hadn’t wanted to park on the grounds, even though they were vacant, and was instead tucked away in one of the remote picnic areas up the road. He’d run a good distance while with the beast - already the packed gravel of the small lot was behind him and he was slowly inching across the dead grass and crunching through dried leaves.
The whole thing was stupid. Sam should never have been on this hunting trip. He had a history test on Monday, one he’d been dreading for two weeks. Mr. Lester put an insane amount of detail into his tests, finding the most obscure, trivial facts from the textbook in an effort to demoralize his students. Sam’s fellow classmates were holding a study session after school Friday in an effort to prepare, and Sam had promised to attend. It was a commitment he'd be unable to follow through, and he hadn't even been able to call and apologize for missing it. Dad had all but dragged him to the car in his hurry to get started.
Sam was fifteen, and his Dad was finally okay with leaving him on his own while he and Dean went off on a hunt. Sam much preferred being left alone in the rented house or motel room than being left behind in the car, and that was still what had happened this time. Old Mrs. Anderson from across the street had become very interested in Sam and the amount of care - or lack thereof - his father provided him. She’d made no secret her opinion about John Winchester’s abilities as a parent, and more than once Sam had seen her watching him through her curtains, waiting for the right incentive to contact the local authorities.
His dad still might have left him alone, even though the trip was going to take most of the weekend, but it had fallen on an unfortunate date. It was only two days after the grim anniversary of Mary Winchester’s death, and though John was more irritable, he also wanted his kids close to his side.
In Sam’s case, that meant sitting in the Impala with locked doors. He was no stranger to studying while his family went hunting. He curled up in the back seat, flashlight gripped tightly in one hand and opened textbook in his lap. Dad and Dean had disappeared shortly after parking, giving Sam the same tired instructions he’d heard every other time this had happened.
Don’t leave the car.
Keep the doors locked.
Keep a weapon within reach at all times.
Are you listening to me, Sam?
Stay in the car.
Stupid, he cursed himself now. Dad had always said Sam’s lack of obedience would make him sorry one day. It looked like that day was here.
He knew he should have listened, shouldn’t have questioned his dad’s words. He’d been mid-chapter reading about the crusades when he’d heard the branches snapping, the leaves crunching under someone’s feet. He’d dropped the book and hurried to cut the light off. Dad and Dean didn’t make that kind of commotion, not even when returning from a job well done.
Only seconds later a man burst through the trees, looking pale and frightened. He was bleeding from his shoulder and his clothes were ripped. He looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. Sam felt his judgment slip, felt his fingers loosen around the gun.
“You’ve got to help me!” the man cried as he spotted Sam. It was dark but Sam was close to a window. He staggered to the Impala and slapped his bloody hand against the glass. “Please! There’s a monster in the woods!”
“You’ve seen it?!” Sam asked, alarmed. The park was comprised of a lot of trees and two main camping areas. So far, all of the victims had been from the western side. Both sides had been closed because of the investigation, but none had been taken from the eastern side. That was why John had parked the car there, had left Sam in what he had thought was safety.
“Oh, God, it looked like a human, but its face, and its hands!” He staggered against the door and Sam reached to open the latch. He couldn’t leave the poor man out alone. “Please, my wife’s out there!” he begged and Sam opened the door.
They’d hunted werewolves before. Sam knew how to kill one. And he had a gun and two silver bullets on hand, packed just in case his Dad changed his mind and took him on the actual hunt. They were coming in handy now.
“I’ll help you,” he promised. “Where is she?”
“Thank you, thank you,” the man sobbed, one hand going to Sam’s shoulder. “She’s this way,” he said and started back in the direction from which he came. Sam followed at his heels, hand steady on the gun and looking around for any sign of the monster’s presence.
They were maybe five hundred yards from the car when the man stopped. Sam looked around the area, surveying the clearing for any sign of the wife. The werewolf could have eaten her by now, but there would still be body parts. “What is it?” he asked, raising the gun up in case the monster appeared. The clearing wasn’t very big, maybe roughly a circle and twenty feet in diameter.
“Do you see her?” he asked, and looked up in the trees, just to be sure. The last thing he wanted was a dead body falling on him; even if it wasn’t a werewolf’s style, he wanted to be prepared. “Mister?” he asked and turned to look. The man hadn’t answered him, and Sam was starting to get a bad feeling.
The man was gone and in his place was a large, shaggy brown dog. It snarled at him and lunged before Sam could move. Sam fell hard on the ground, the gun knocked out of his hand before he could move and skittering away through the underbrush.
Sam struggled against his opponent, but the dog - skinwalker, he thought in dismay, only recognizing it but not knowing much about them - was quick and strong. Claws tore at his belly and it lunged, only to meet Sam’s steel-toed boot in its face. The dog landed away from him and Sam scrambled to his knees, hands digging through the forest floor in search of the missing weapon. He’d barely moved three feet before he felt a hard weight land on his back and pushed him to the ground.
The air whooshed out of his lungs and he felt a burning fire as more claws raked down his back. That wasn’t a wound meant to kill, it was a wound meant to hurt. Skinwalkers knew what they were doing while in their other form, unlike some other humanoid monsters. Sam tried to buck him off, but it was futile. The dog was heavy on his back, and the pain in his gut was competing with the pain in his back, making spots of blackness swim before his eyes.
The skinwalker eased away from him and Sam turned on his back, staring up at the predator staring down at him. He was about to die, could see no way of getting out of this alive. He was away from the car, just like his father had warned him against. Something nasty was about to have him for supper, and, even more distressing, he would be leaving his family behind. What if Dean and Dad never found him? What if the skinwalker left no evidence behind? Would they think he ran away again? Would Dean hate him for abandoning his family?
Sam slid backwards, hands grappling against the ground in an effort to raise himself upright. Something heavy thumped against his chest and with a sudden clarity he remembered the silver knife there that he kept in his pocket. Dean had given it to him for his birthday earlier that year, but he’d never had occasion to use it. He had stuck it in his coat pocket as an afterthought, and now it was the only hope he had.
The skinwalker was still watching him, and its eyes glinted with dark amusement. Sam had seen dogs before, and knew that they could look happy if they wanted to, look angry if they were mad. He’d never known a dog could look evil. It was a predator sure of its prey. Hell, it had probably known Sam was a hunter before he ever talked to him, had wanted the joy of hunting the hunter.
Without warning, careful not to show any signs of his intentions, Sam retrieved the knife from his coat pocket and lunged at the dog. As soon as it saw him moving, the dog was in action, jumping into the air and snapping at Sam’s face. He twisted away, brought the knife into a wild arc as the pain flared in his back. The blow connected, he felt the drag of the blade across skin and heard the answering yelp as silver worked its magic.
Blood dripped from a cut on its shoulder, but that wouldn’t be enough. Pushing himself past the pain, Sam lunged again, striking the dog across the face, making it howl in rage. He wasn’t lucky enough to dodge the blow and a heavy paw smacked against his arm, sharp claws cutting into the flesh and muscle. Sam staggered under the pain, arm falling to his side.
He still stood a chance, but at the moment, his foot slipped on dead leaves made slick by the last rainfall. Sam floundered for balance and fell to his knees with a painful jarring motion. The dog leaped into the air and fell upon him, but Sam was quicker. He brought the blade up and shoved it through his muzzle and into his brain. The dog whimpered and fell heavily against the ground.
Sam slid the knife out and didn’t waste any time. He plunged it into the heart, then again for good measure. Task done, he collapsed against the ground. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pains of his body were soaring to attention.
Sam hurt all over. His arm was sporting a nasty gash that ripped muscle and skin but blessedly left the main blood vessels intact. His back was in searing agony and he could feel the sticky wet blood drying against his shirt and skin. It flared in agony with each breath he took, but it wasn’t his main concern. What worried him the most was the hole in his side that was bleeding heavily and hurt so bad he was dizzy with it. He peeked at the wound and could see inside his body, and that was when he knew he was going to die.
There wasn’t any point in going back to the Impala. Dad and Dean were hunting a werewolf - a werewolf that most likely had been the skinwalker he’d just killed. They thought he was safe in the car and wouldn’t see any need to come back until dawn when they couldn’t find the damned thing. Sam wished he had a cell phone, but they had decided he didn’t need one. He couldn’t have one at school, and otherwise he was with Dean, so there had been no point.
There’s a point now, he thought morosely, but his family wouldn’t have the opportunity to see their mistake before it was too late.
So, the Impala was out, but there was still another option, another hope. There were payphones at the facilities on the campground. Sam had seen it when his dad had been scoping the place out. He had spare change in his pocket, enough to call Dad, or at least an ambulance. Some injuries the Winchesters could handle on their own, but guts spilling out wasn’t one of them. He needed a hospital and he needed it now. Pressing his wounded hand against the hole in his belly, he started in the direction of the campsite.
Two hours later, he was either really close or really lost. He couldn’t tell the difference, and at this stage it probably wouldn’t matter anymore. He’d been reduced to crawling on his knees, unable to get up after tripping on a root. He edged along the ground in what he hoped was the right direction, but all he had for navigation was the full moon over head. His flashlight, like his gun, had disappeared in the scuffle with the skinwalker. It was getting darker, and Sam worried that was from his blood loss, shock from the injury to his abdomen. His head was heavy and he was cold.
Only determination and Winchester stubbornness was keeping him going at this point. He knew his wounds were bad, but there was always a chance if he could just make it to civilization.
Sam closed his eyes and tried to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. It was running into his eyes, making them sting and blurring his vision. He blinked slowly to rid his eyes of the unwanted moisture, and when he opened them again saw his salvation. Up ahead was the light from the campground, glowing a pale orange color. He’d never seen anything so wonderful.
With an extra burst of determination, he pushed his endurance to the max and staggered to his feet, willing his body forward one step at a time. He managed two steps before tumbling down the short but steep cliff face.
When Sam came to again, he wondered how he was still alive. His head ached. His whole body ached. He slowly flexed his fingers, which were the only body parts in his vision and then tightened his hand into a fist.
It was still dark outside. He could still see the pale moon, and he knew his brother and father were still out there in the woods somewhere, unaware that the youngest member of their family was about to leave them.
Sam pushed himself onto his knees and felt his heart skip at the sight of his body. He was bruised and dirty, blood still dripping through his clothes. A loop of intestine stretched from his belly and trailed along the ground in a shiny, dirty heap. Sam nearly vomited at the sight¸ wondered how he wasn’t dead yet.
Keep it together, he told himself. It’s not over yet.
With a grunt, he gently pulled his viscera to him and looked around. The campsite was closer now. His tumble down the hill had sent him rolling, thankfully in the right direction. He couldn’t make it to his feet, but he could crawl there.
The journey was hard, but he eventually reached the first of the campsites, marked by a stone lot number in the ground. Fortune was finally smiling on him, for despite the ordinance shutting the place down, there were still campers. Sam saw the tent, the light inside sending silhouettes against the fabric. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t get the sound from his lips. His tongue was thick in his mouth, not listening to his commands to move it.
Sam pushed forward and pulled the tent flap aside, etiquette be damned - he could apologize later. Sam fell in through the entrance and moaned at what he saw. It was empty. The battery-powered lantern glowed in the middle of the tent, showing three sleeping bags, all empty. There were no signs of life.
Belatedly, it occurred to him that the skinwalker could have been camped there, which was more troubling considering the three bags. Sam dismissed it from the part of his brain that was still trying to process things rationally. It was more likely they were unlucky campers who’d been the skinwalker’s lunch.
Sam sagged against the forest floor. It had been so hard to get to the campsite, and now his energy was drained. The payphones were up ahead, but he couldn’t move an inch. Everything hurt, his guts were spilling out of his body, and he knew it was finally time to give in. He closed his eyes and firmly ordered himself not to cry. Dean couldn’t see him with tear tracks streaking through the mud on his face.
Sam had only closed his eyes for a minute when an acorn hit him in the face. He opened his eyes and saw a squirrel standing in front of his head. Another was by its side, also holding an acorn. They were scampering back and forth, chucking nuts at him and squeaking.
Sam blinked, wondering if he were hallucinating. Another acorn landed on the tip of his nose and he jerked away. “Ow,” he gasped, more from reaction than anything else. The pain of a tree nut hitting his face was nothing compared to his other injuries.
Sam looked around, noticing that the sky was getting lighter. His Dad and Dean would call it quits soon on the futile werewolf hunt. They’d head back to the Impala, wouldn’t find Sam there. They’d go looking, and -
He bit off that train of thought. He couldn’t control what would happen after his death. He looked down at his mangled body and then looked away. The loop of intestine was drying out in his hand, even with the warm blood still oozing from his body. He hadn’t stopped bleeding since the attack, so at least his family would have an easy trail to follow to find his body.
Another acorn hit his face and he swatted at the squirrels with his good hand. They chittered unhappily and Sam grunted as yet another nut hit his nose. This was his tragic death scene and it was bad enough without small woodland creatures attacking him, too. He skimmed his hands over the forest floor, feeling for anything to use to throw at them, to drive them away.
His hand felt crumpled paper and he raised it up to see a wad of candy wrappers. Hershey’s Miniatures, his brain thought sluggishly. “Litter,” he choked. It was the kind of thing Dean would do - bring candy on a camping trip and then leave the wrappers everywhere.
“Relax, would ya? They’re biodegradable.” It was a man’s voice, but not someone he recognized. The squirrels started squealing and then scattered away in terror.
Sam jerked at the presence of a new voice and glanced around for the stranger. The world was getting dimmer, and his body had finally stopped hurting. He knew what that meant, and it wasn’t good. “Help,” he choked.
A man stepped into Sam’s field of vision. He was about Sam’s height, thin and lean, even though he was fully grown and Sam was just fifteen. He looked down at Sam with an unreadable face. “Sammy Winchester. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
You know me? He wanted to ask, but he had neither the breath nor the energy for it.
“I know of you,” the man said with a smirk. He fished a 100 Grand candy bar from his shirt pocket and took his time peeling away the plastic.
You’re reading my mind, Sam realized.
The man - or monster - took a bite of his candy, the caramel inside leaving a trail behind that fell against his lips. “I knew you were the smart one,” he said.
Sam didn’t know who or what he was, but he was his only hope of survival. He looked at him, meeting his eyes and locking onto his gaze. He pooled all of his fear, his desperation into that look and pleaded. Please help me.
The man looked unmoved, but he crouched beside Sam anyway. Sam could feel the heat from his body. “I shouldn’t,” he said casually and then took a bite from the candy bar. A bit of the caramel fell off of it and landed on Sam’s cheek.
Please, he asked again. I don’t want to die.
The man frowned. “I could hide you,” he mused aloud, unheeding of Sam’s request. “They’d never find the body, never be able to use you.” He met Sam’s stare evenly, then finally looked away. “It would be better for everyone if you just disappeared now.”
Sam could barely understand his words, he just knew one thing. I don’t want to leave my brother. My family…
“Remember that in a few years,” he snorted a laugh. "All right, Sammy," he said, "It's not like I don't already know how it's going to end anyway." He paused. "Prove me wrong, would you?" He raised one hand upward and snapped.
Sam startled awake to find himself in the backseat of the car, textbook open on his lap. He didn’t remember falling asleep, had wanted to stay up as long as he could to study. He had a killer math test next week and his dad had dragged him on this stupid werewolf hunting trip.
He glanced out the window to see the sky turning gray and a flush of pink against the horizon. Dad and Dean would be at the car soon. There was no use hunting a werewolf in broad daylight.
Sam yawned behind his hand and stretched his body as best he could in the cramped seat. The book tumbled off of his legs and he bent to retrieve it. “Where’s my flashlight?” he wondered aloud, voice sounding oddly rough and dry. He looked at the floorboard and then under the seat, but the flashlight was missing. Dad was going to be so pissed.
Sam looked around and saw that his gun was missing too. He’d kept it beside his seat, just in case, and now it was gone. He could already imagine the tongue-lashing his father was going to give him.
He was oddly tired, even though he must have slept most of the night. He yawned again and startled when Dean rapped his knuckles against the door. Sam leaned forward and unlocked his side, then his dad’s. He could see Dad just a few steps behind him. Neither looked very happy.
“Did you get the ‘wolf?” he asked, fighting another yawn.
“He was a no-show,” Dean groused. “What a wasted night.”
“We’ll have to catch him next time,” Dad said as he started the car. “As long as there’s a food source, we know he’ll be in the area.”
Sam inwardly cursed. Even though that meant another month at the same school, it also meant another night like last night, sitting in the car and trying to study by flashlight - flashlight, he remembered with a grimace. Just wait until Dad finds out about the things going missing. Funny how it had already almost slipped from his mind.
Dean was looking back at him, face curious. “You feel like sharing, Sammy?”
“What?” he asked, startled from his thoughts.
“You’re holding out on me, man.” Without warning, Dean, stuck a finger out and rubbed it against his cheek. He held up his prize, a glob of amber brown. He popped it into his mouth. “Caramel,” he said with a sigh. “I guess you had yourself a regular little party while we were gone, huh? Homework, candy, up all night…” he chuckled.
Sam’s hand went to his cheek and he felt the residue of candy there. Where had that come from? His other hand went down to his belly and gripped it tight without explanation. Something felt weird. He was forgetting something, something important.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, amusement turned into a frown. “You okay?”
Sam couldn't explain what was bothering him, couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened during the night. He smiled weakly at his brother. “Sure thing, Dean.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
... I am actually thinking about sequeling this (set during Stanford or later). O_o
Author: wonderfoal
Obligatory disclaimer: Supernatural....me no own, please no sue?
Word count: ~4100
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Summary: Sam was supposed to be safe in the car as his brother and father hunt a werewolf, but trouble has a way of finding him. Luckily for Sam, he has a (guardian) angel looking out for him.
Characters: Sam, Gabriel
Warnings: hurt!Sam, violence
Notes: So... I may or may not have a thing for hurt!Sam *cough-cough* Sam is 15.
Date: Friday, January 14, 2011
Stupid stupid stupid.
Sam wanted to curse himself, but he didn’t have the breath to spare. He pulled his hand away from the wound and saw hints of intestine easing through the torn muscle. With a grunt, he held it tighter and struggled to put one foot in front of the other.
His only chance now was finding help. Dean and their dad were somewhere in those woods - if he could just find them-
Sam’s foot tripped over a protruding root and he stumbled onto the ground with a pained ‘oof.’ The wound in his gut didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it should have. Sam wondered if his mind had blocked it out in favor of the agonizing stripes down his back courtesy of a monster’s claws.
I can’t die here, he told himself.
With a groan and sheer willpower, he rose to his knees, hand still cradled protectively over the open and bleeding wound in his belly. It was just skin and muscle - he was pretty sure the delicate organs within were unharmed. Not that it would matter much if they fell out of his body.
Rising to his knees was as far as his body would take him. He couldn’t stand, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. Slowly, he braced himself with his free left hand and started crawling across the ground. There was a campground not too far away. He knew that it was empty - had been for days due to strange disappearances, but there was a good chance that there was a working phone nearby.
Dad hadn’t wanted to park on the grounds, even though they were vacant, and was instead tucked away in one of the remote picnic areas up the road. He’d run a good distance while with the beast - already the packed gravel of the small lot was behind him and he was slowly inching across the dead grass and crunching through dried leaves.
The whole thing was stupid. Sam should never have been on this hunting trip. He had a history test on Monday, one he’d been dreading for two weeks. Mr. Lester put an insane amount of detail into his tests, finding the most obscure, trivial facts from the textbook in an effort to demoralize his students. Sam’s fellow classmates were holding a study session after school Friday in an effort to prepare, and Sam had promised to attend. It was a commitment he'd be unable to follow through, and he hadn't even been able to call and apologize for missing it. Dad had all but dragged him to the car in his hurry to get started.
Sam was fifteen, and his Dad was finally okay with leaving him on his own while he and Dean went off on a hunt. Sam much preferred being left alone in the rented house or motel room than being left behind in the car, and that was still what had happened this time. Old Mrs. Anderson from across the street had become very interested in Sam and the amount of care - or lack thereof - his father provided him. She’d made no secret her opinion about John Winchester’s abilities as a parent, and more than once Sam had seen her watching him through her curtains, waiting for the right incentive to contact the local authorities.
His dad still might have left him alone, even though the trip was going to take most of the weekend, but it had fallen on an unfortunate date. It was only two days after the grim anniversary of Mary Winchester’s death, and though John was more irritable, he also wanted his kids close to his side.
In Sam’s case, that meant sitting in the Impala with locked doors. He was no stranger to studying while his family went hunting. He curled up in the back seat, flashlight gripped tightly in one hand and opened textbook in his lap. Dad and Dean had disappeared shortly after parking, giving Sam the same tired instructions he’d heard every other time this had happened.
Don’t leave the car.
Keep the doors locked.
Keep a weapon within reach at all times.
Are you listening to me, Sam?
Stay in the car.
Stupid, he cursed himself now. Dad had always said Sam’s lack of obedience would make him sorry one day. It looked like that day was here.
He knew he should have listened, shouldn’t have questioned his dad’s words. He’d been mid-chapter reading about the crusades when he’d heard the branches snapping, the leaves crunching under someone’s feet. He’d dropped the book and hurried to cut the light off. Dad and Dean didn’t make that kind of commotion, not even when returning from a job well done.
Only seconds later a man burst through the trees, looking pale and frightened. He was bleeding from his shoulder and his clothes were ripped. He looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. Sam felt his judgment slip, felt his fingers loosen around the gun.
“You’ve got to help me!” the man cried as he spotted Sam. It was dark but Sam was close to a window. He staggered to the Impala and slapped his bloody hand against the glass. “Please! There’s a monster in the woods!”
“You’ve seen it?!” Sam asked, alarmed. The park was comprised of a lot of trees and two main camping areas. So far, all of the victims had been from the western side. Both sides had been closed because of the investigation, but none had been taken from the eastern side. That was why John had parked the car there, had left Sam in what he had thought was safety.
“Oh, God, it looked like a human, but its face, and its hands!” He staggered against the door and Sam reached to open the latch. He couldn’t leave the poor man out alone. “Please, my wife’s out there!” he begged and Sam opened the door.
They’d hunted werewolves before. Sam knew how to kill one. And he had a gun and two silver bullets on hand, packed just in case his Dad changed his mind and took him on the actual hunt. They were coming in handy now.
“I’ll help you,” he promised. “Where is she?”
“Thank you, thank you,” the man sobbed, one hand going to Sam’s shoulder. “She’s this way,” he said and started back in the direction from which he came. Sam followed at his heels, hand steady on the gun and looking around for any sign of the monster’s presence.
They were maybe five hundred yards from the car when the man stopped. Sam looked around the area, surveying the clearing for any sign of the wife. The werewolf could have eaten her by now, but there would still be body parts. “What is it?” he asked, raising the gun up in case the monster appeared. The clearing wasn’t very big, maybe roughly a circle and twenty feet in diameter.
“Do you see her?” he asked, and looked up in the trees, just to be sure. The last thing he wanted was a dead body falling on him; even if it wasn’t a werewolf’s style, he wanted to be prepared. “Mister?” he asked and turned to look. The man hadn’t answered him, and Sam was starting to get a bad feeling.
The man was gone and in his place was a large, shaggy brown dog. It snarled at him and lunged before Sam could move. Sam fell hard on the ground, the gun knocked out of his hand before he could move and skittering away through the underbrush.
Sam struggled against his opponent, but the dog - skinwalker, he thought in dismay, only recognizing it but not knowing much about them - was quick and strong. Claws tore at his belly and it lunged, only to meet Sam’s steel-toed boot in its face. The dog landed away from him and Sam scrambled to his knees, hands digging through the forest floor in search of the missing weapon. He’d barely moved three feet before he felt a hard weight land on his back and pushed him to the ground.
The air whooshed out of his lungs and he felt a burning fire as more claws raked down his back. That wasn’t a wound meant to kill, it was a wound meant to hurt. Skinwalkers knew what they were doing while in their other form, unlike some other humanoid monsters. Sam tried to buck him off, but it was futile. The dog was heavy on his back, and the pain in his gut was competing with the pain in his back, making spots of blackness swim before his eyes.
The skinwalker eased away from him and Sam turned on his back, staring up at the predator staring down at him. He was about to die, could see no way of getting out of this alive. He was away from the car, just like his father had warned him against. Something nasty was about to have him for supper, and, even more distressing, he would be leaving his family behind. What if Dean and Dad never found him? What if the skinwalker left no evidence behind? Would they think he ran away again? Would Dean hate him for abandoning his family?
Sam slid backwards, hands grappling against the ground in an effort to raise himself upright. Something heavy thumped against his chest and with a sudden clarity he remembered the silver knife there that he kept in his pocket. Dean had given it to him for his birthday earlier that year, but he’d never had occasion to use it. He had stuck it in his coat pocket as an afterthought, and now it was the only hope he had.
The skinwalker was still watching him, and its eyes glinted with dark amusement. Sam had seen dogs before, and knew that they could look happy if they wanted to, look angry if they were mad. He’d never known a dog could look evil. It was a predator sure of its prey. Hell, it had probably known Sam was a hunter before he ever talked to him, had wanted the joy of hunting the hunter.
Without warning, careful not to show any signs of his intentions, Sam retrieved the knife from his coat pocket and lunged at the dog. As soon as it saw him moving, the dog was in action, jumping into the air and snapping at Sam’s face. He twisted away, brought the knife into a wild arc as the pain flared in his back. The blow connected, he felt the drag of the blade across skin and heard the answering yelp as silver worked its magic.
Blood dripped from a cut on its shoulder, but that wouldn’t be enough. Pushing himself past the pain, Sam lunged again, striking the dog across the face, making it howl in rage. He wasn’t lucky enough to dodge the blow and a heavy paw smacked against his arm, sharp claws cutting into the flesh and muscle. Sam staggered under the pain, arm falling to his side.
He still stood a chance, but at the moment, his foot slipped on dead leaves made slick by the last rainfall. Sam floundered for balance and fell to his knees with a painful jarring motion. The dog leaped into the air and fell upon him, but Sam was quicker. He brought the blade up and shoved it through his muzzle and into his brain. The dog whimpered and fell heavily against the ground.
Sam slid the knife out and didn’t waste any time. He plunged it into the heart, then again for good measure. Task done, he collapsed against the ground. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pains of his body were soaring to attention.
Sam hurt all over. His arm was sporting a nasty gash that ripped muscle and skin but blessedly left the main blood vessels intact. His back was in searing agony and he could feel the sticky wet blood drying against his shirt and skin. It flared in agony with each breath he took, but it wasn’t his main concern. What worried him the most was the hole in his side that was bleeding heavily and hurt so bad he was dizzy with it. He peeked at the wound and could see inside his body, and that was when he knew he was going to die.
There wasn’t any point in going back to the Impala. Dad and Dean were hunting a werewolf - a werewolf that most likely had been the skinwalker he’d just killed. They thought he was safe in the car and wouldn’t see any need to come back until dawn when they couldn’t find the damned thing. Sam wished he had a cell phone, but they had decided he didn’t need one. He couldn’t have one at school, and otherwise he was with Dean, so there had been no point.
There’s a point now, he thought morosely, but his family wouldn’t have the opportunity to see their mistake before it was too late.
So, the Impala was out, but there was still another option, another hope. There were payphones at the facilities on the campground. Sam had seen it when his dad had been scoping the place out. He had spare change in his pocket, enough to call Dad, or at least an ambulance. Some injuries the Winchesters could handle on their own, but guts spilling out wasn’t one of them. He needed a hospital and he needed it now. Pressing his wounded hand against the hole in his belly, he started in the direction of the campsite.
Two hours later, he was either really close or really lost. He couldn’t tell the difference, and at this stage it probably wouldn’t matter anymore. He’d been reduced to crawling on his knees, unable to get up after tripping on a root. He edged along the ground in what he hoped was the right direction, but all he had for navigation was the full moon over head. His flashlight, like his gun, had disappeared in the scuffle with the skinwalker. It was getting darker, and Sam worried that was from his blood loss, shock from the injury to his abdomen. His head was heavy and he was cold.
Only determination and Winchester stubbornness was keeping him going at this point. He knew his wounds were bad, but there was always a chance if he could just make it to civilization.
Sam closed his eyes and tried to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. It was running into his eyes, making them sting and blurring his vision. He blinked slowly to rid his eyes of the unwanted moisture, and when he opened them again saw his salvation. Up ahead was the light from the campground, glowing a pale orange color. He’d never seen anything so wonderful.
With an extra burst of determination, he pushed his endurance to the max and staggered to his feet, willing his body forward one step at a time. He managed two steps before tumbling down the short but steep cliff face.
When Sam came to again, he wondered how he was still alive. His head ached. His whole body ached. He slowly flexed his fingers, which were the only body parts in his vision and then tightened his hand into a fist.
It was still dark outside. He could still see the pale moon, and he knew his brother and father were still out there in the woods somewhere, unaware that the youngest member of their family was about to leave them.
Sam pushed himself onto his knees and felt his heart skip at the sight of his body. He was bruised and dirty, blood still dripping through his clothes. A loop of intestine stretched from his belly and trailed along the ground in a shiny, dirty heap. Sam nearly vomited at the sight¸ wondered how he wasn’t dead yet.
Keep it together, he told himself. It’s not over yet.
With a grunt, he gently pulled his viscera to him and looked around. The campsite was closer now. His tumble down the hill had sent him rolling, thankfully in the right direction. He couldn’t make it to his feet, but he could crawl there.
The journey was hard, but he eventually reached the first of the campsites, marked by a stone lot number in the ground. Fortune was finally smiling on him, for despite the ordinance shutting the place down, there were still campers. Sam saw the tent, the light inside sending silhouettes against the fabric. He tried to call for help, but couldn’t get the sound from his lips. His tongue was thick in his mouth, not listening to his commands to move it.
Sam pushed forward and pulled the tent flap aside, etiquette be damned - he could apologize later. Sam fell in through the entrance and moaned at what he saw. It was empty. The battery-powered lantern glowed in the middle of the tent, showing three sleeping bags, all empty. There were no signs of life.
Belatedly, it occurred to him that the skinwalker could have been camped there, which was more troubling considering the three bags. Sam dismissed it from the part of his brain that was still trying to process things rationally. It was more likely they were unlucky campers who’d been the skinwalker’s lunch.
Sam sagged against the forest floor. It had been so hard to get to the campsite, and now his energy was drained. The payphones were up ahead, but he couldn’t move an inch. Everything hurt, his guts were spilling out of his body, and he knew it was finally time to give in. He closed his eyes and firmly ordered himself not to cry. Dean couldn’t see him with tear tracks streaking through the mud on his face.
Sam had only closed his eyes for a minute when an acorn hit him in the face. He opened his eyes and saw a squirrel standing in front of his head. Another was by its side, also holding an acorn. They were scampering back and forth, chucking nuts at him and squeaking.
Sam blinked, wondering if he were hallucinating. Another acorn landed on the tip of his nose and he jerked away. “Ow,” he gasped, more from reaction than anything else. The pain of a tree nut hitting his face was nothing compared to his other injuries.
Sam looked around, noticing that the sky was getting lighter. His Dad and Dean would call it quits soon on the futile werewolf hunt. They’d head back to the Impala, wouldn’t find Sam there. They’d go looking, and -
He bit off that train of thought. He couldn’t control what would happen after his death. He looked down at his mangled body and then looked away. The loop of intestine was drying out in his hand, even with the warm blood still oozing from his body. He hadn’t stopped bleeding since the attack, so at least his family would have an easy trail to follow to find his body.
Another acorn hit his face and he swatted at the squirrels with his good hand. They chittered unhappily and Sam grunted as yet another nut hit his nose. This was his tragic death scene and it was bad enough without small woodland creatures attacking him, too. He skimmed his hands over the forest floor, feeling for anything to use to throw at them, to drive them away.
His hand felt crumpled paper and he raised it up to see a wad of candy wrappers. Hershey’s Miniatures, his brain thought sluggishly. “Litter,” he choked. It was the kind of thing Dean would do - bring candy on a camping trip and then leave the wrappers everywhere.
“Relax, would ya? They’re biodegradable.” It was a man’s voice, but not someone he recognized. The squirrels started squealing and then scattered away in terror.
Sam jerked at the presence of a new voice and glanced around for the stranger. The world was getting dimmer, and his body had finally stopped hurting. He knew what that meant, and it wasn’t good. “Help,” he choked.
A man stepped into Sam’s field of vision. He was about Sam’s height, thin and lean, even though he was fully grown and Sam was just fifteen. He looked down at Sam with an unreadable face. “Sammy Winchester. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”
You know me? He wanted to ask, but he had neither the breath nor the energy for it.
“I know of you,” the man said with a smirk. He fished a 100 Grand candy bar from his shirt pocket and took his time peeling away the plastic.
You’re reading my mind, Sam realized.
The man - or monster - took a bite of his candy, the caramel inside leaving a trail behind that fell against his lips. “I knew you were the smart one,” he said.
Sam didn’t know who or what he was, but he was his only hope of survival. He looked at him, meeting his eyes and locking onto his gaze. He pooled all of his fear, his desperation into that look and pleaded. Please help me.
The man looked unmoved, but he crouched beside Sam anyway. Sam could feel the heat from his body. “I shouldn’t,” he said casually and then took a bite from the candy bar. A bit of the caramel fell off of it and landed on Sam’s cheek.
Please, he asked again. I don’t want to die.
The man frowned. “I could hide you,” he mused aloud, unheeding of Sam’s request. “They’d never find the body, never be able to use you.” He met Sam’s stare evenly, then finally looked away. “It would be better for everyone if you just disappeared now.”
Sam could barely understand his words, he just knew one thing. I don’t want to leave my brother. My family…
“Remember that in a few years,” he snorted a laugh. "All right, Sammy," he said, "It's not like I don't already know how it's going to end anyway." He paused. "Prove me wrong, would you?" He raised one hand upward and snapped.
Sam startled awake to find himself in the backseat of the car, textbook open on his lap. He didn’t remember falling asleep, had wanted to stay up as long as he could to study. He had a killer math test next week and his dad had dragged him on this stupid werewolf hunting trip.
He glanced out the window to see the sky turning gray and a flush of pink against the horizon. Dad and Dean would be at the car soon. There was no use hunting a werewolf in broad daylight.
Sam yawned behind his hand and stretched his body as best he could in the cramped seat. The book tumbled off of his legs and he bent to retrieve it. “Where’s my flashlight?” he wondered aloud, voice sounding oddly rough and dry. He looked at the floorboard and then under the seat, but the flashlight was missing. Dad was going to be so pissed.
Sam looked around and saw that his gun was missing too. He’d kept it beside his seat, just in case, and now it was gone. He could already imagine the tongue-lashing his father was going to give him.
He was oddly tired, even though he must have slept most of the night. He yawned again and startled when Dean rapped his knuckles against the door. Sam leaned forward and unlocked his side, then his dad’s. He could see Dad just a few steps behind him. Neither looked very happy.
“Did you get the ‘wolf?” he asked, fighting another yawn.
“He was a no-show,” Dean groused. “What a wasted night.”
“We’ll have to catch him next time,” Dad said as he started the car. “As long as there’s a food source, we know he’ll be in the area.”
Sam inwardly cursed. Even though that meant another month at the same school, it also meant another night like last night, sitting in the car and trying to study by flashlight - flashlight, he remembered with a grimace. Just wait until Dad finds out about the things going missing. Funny how it had already almost slipped from his mind.
Dean was looking back at him, face curious. “You feel like sharing, Sammy?”
“What?” he asked, startled from his thoughts.
“You’re holding out on me, man.” Without warning, Dean, stuck a finger out and rubbed it against his cheek. He held up his prize, a glob of amber brown. He popped it into his mouth. “Caramel,” he said with a sigh. “I guess you had yourself a regular little party while we were gone, huh? Homework, candy, up all night…” he chuckled.
Sam’s hand went to his cheek and he felt the residue of candy there. Where had that come from? His other hand went down to his belly and gripped it tight without explanation. Something felt weird. He was forgetting something, something important.
“Sammy?” Dean asked, amusement turned into a frown. “You okay?”
Sam couldn't explain what was bothering him, couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened during the night. He smiled weakly at his brother. “Sure thing, Dean.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
... I am actually thinking about sequeling this (set during Stanford or later). O_o