how can I be lost (if I've got nowhere to go?)
Comment-fic fill for leah_elizabeth over on ohsam. Like all of my fills, it kind of got away from me a little - it ended up being 2,460 words long and nothing like I intended it to be. Hope you like it anyways!
how can I be lost?
(if I’ve got nowhere to go)
The thing is, when Sam gets hurt, Dean gets grouchy.
Sam knows he’s not the only one to notice it. Their dad used to fondly roll his eyes, tell his oldest son in no short terms to back off, and the two of them would share an exasperated eye roll. Once - when Sam had ignored his brother’s warnings about taking things easy after a particularly bad case of the flu, and had nearly fainted in a diner - a waitress had been so shocked by Dean’s grumpy attitude that she’d called him a few choice names and tipped a drink over him.
It had made Sam laugh, but Dean had been horrified at the woman’s reaction. The truth was, he didn’t get grouchy because Sam was a ‘damn inconvenience’ or any of the things he like to mutter under his breath, he was just worried. Like an irritable momma bear, though if Sam ever called him that he’d probably end up with nair in his shampoo all over again.
So it’s not really a surprise that when a hunt goes wrong and Sam gets separated from his brother and father in the woods for an entire night, during a snowstorm no less, Dean’s already bitching before he reaches Sam’s side.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He snaps. “Making the damn thing chase you like that? For goodness sakes, Sammy, do you not understand the reason that we came out here in the first place? That black dog is a killer. You're lucky we even found you!”
Sam glowers at him, wishes he could feel his fingers just so he could wave his gun in his brother’s face, but the truth is it’s taking pretty much all of his energy just to stay on his feet. His jacket had been shredded during his sprint through the woods, and when the hood had snagged on a branch and nearly cost Sam his life, he’d had no choice but to wriggle backwards out of the thing and abandon it.
That had been, according to Sam’s watch, fifteen hours before. He figures the only reason that he hasn’t frozen to death right now is because he likes to layer up, and the three shirts and two hoodies he’s wearing have somehow been enough to keep a little of the chill off him, and walking had kept him warm enough to survive. Just.
“S-s-saved your ass,” He mumbles instead, unable to help the sigh of relief from escaping him when Dean’s finally close enough that - if it were at all possible, and it isn’t - Sam could reach out and touch him. His older brother closes his glove-covered hands around Sam’s arms, wet from melting snow, and Sam feels safe for the first time since he’d seen the shadow head straight for his brother.
“Where’s your jacket?” John asks. Sam blinks blearily and registers his father’s presence for the first time. John’s frowning, studying Sam carefully like he might suddenly sprout fur and a tail and start howling at the moon.
Sam can’t work up the energy to answer him, just leans further into his brother’s touch.
“I think he’s hypothermic,” Dean’s saying, tipping Sam’s head up so that their eyes meet. Sam knows he should say something, but he can’t bring himself to do much more than stand there and breathe and blink at his brother like he’s dumb. He’s not - he scored the highest score on his maths and science tests last semester. “Shit, Dad. We gotta get him to the hospital.”
“N-no insurance.” Sam mumbles, tries to burrow closer to his brother’s chest and whines like a wounded animal when Dean’s hand on his shoulder stops him.
Behind Dean their dad’s nodding, dumping his backpack onto the floor for a brief second in order to wriggle free of one of the two jackets he’s wearing. Sam watches as he slips the backpack back on, and smiles at the crunching noise of the snow under his father’s boots.
Seconds later, his father drops his jacket over Sam’s shoulders and Sam sighs, relaxing into the familiar smell and the faint warmth it provides.
“Sam. Sammy.” Sam blinks, focuses his eyes back on Dean and nods stiffly to let his brother know that he’s concentrating. “We need to get back to the car, okay? You think you can walk that far?”
Sam doesn’t honestly think he can. He can’t feel his legs, and he’d fallen a few times before he’d found Dean and Dad. He’s pretty sure that the last time, he’d passed out for a while before the thought of his father and brother had him stumbling back to his feet once more.
“I know that seems really hard right now,” Dean’s telling him, and Sam can see from his brother’s face that Dean hates this. “But you’ll be warmer walking than you will be if I carry you.”
Sam wants to tell Dean that he’d not cold, that he hasn’t been cold for a while now, but somehow he thinks that would be the wrong thing to say.
He nods.
*
It feels like hours later that the Impala and their father’s truck come into sight. Sam’s propped up between his brother and father and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this tired before, not in fourteen years of long nights and hard-earnt battle scars.
He’s not even sure that what he’s doing can technically be counted as walking anymore, knows that without his brother and father supporting him from either side he’d have run out of steam a long time ago.
The Impala seems impossibly far, and Sam feels his knees buckle, feels the world swim around him and for a second he’s sure he’s going to pass out.
Dean’s arm shoots out and braces his chest, stopping him from tipping forwards, and holds him upright until his head clears. Sam breathes deep for a few second, lifts his foot and takes a faltering step forwards, and this time the world really does disappear for a few seconds.
Dad’s hissing something in his ear, and Dean’s calling his name, slapping gently on his face. He doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes, is content just to let himself drift, and then the floor dips out from under him and it’s the feeling of moving that has him opening his eyes.
He expects it to be Dean (Dean’s always the one that picks him up when he falls, who puts band aids on the cuts and stitches him shut when he bleeds. Dad frowns and drinks and shouts), but it’s Dad’s voice rumbling through the chest he’s leaning against, and he figures that his dad’s jacket must have fallen off at some point because it’s wrapped around his chest now.
“-blankets in the trunk. All of them.”
Sam wonders what that means, but can’t find the energy to do much more than lay there, and then his father’s passing him to Dean, and he’s in the Impala and he feels his sore muscles relax as the overwhelming sensation of home filters through his senses.
There’s too many hands on him, taking off his clothes until he’s wearing only two t-shirts and his boxers (why are they taking them off? Don’t they know that he’s cold?) and then he’s being wrapped in blankets and Dean’s there and he drifts.
*
“-still out, dad. His lips look less blue, but he’s still barely shivering.”
Dean’s voice seems to rumble through Sam, and he rides it the way he’d ride a wave, lifting and dropping and lilting. It’s a pleasant sensation, one that the younger hunter associates with warm beds and safety and love.
“Alright, then.” Another voice says, further away. Gruff. His dad, Sam realises. “Then we’ve got no choice. Hospital it is.”
Sam forces his eyes open, feels himself shiver, and can’t help but roll further into the warmth pressed against him. The warmth jumps, and when it’s chest moves, Dean’s voice spills out.
“Sammy? You with me, kiddo?”
Sam doesn’t really know where he is, he just knows that his body hurts, like pins and needles all over only ten times work, and when he opens his mouth to tell Dean, all that comes out is a high-pitched whine.
“Easy, Sammy,” Dean mutters, and a hand smoothes over his hair. “Just take it easy, Tiger. We’re gonna get you all warmed up, you hear me?”
Sam forces himself to nod, curls further into Dean’s chest and finally forces his eyes open. It feels like they’re stuck together, and for a horrible moment Sam thinks they might have frozen shut, and then his eyes register a dark red - the color of Dean’s t-shirt - and the rest of the world falls into place.
They’re lying in the back seat of the Impala, and Sam’s got a pillow under his head and blankets wrapped around him and Dean’s arms are holding him tight to his big brother’s chest. He’s cold, and his head hurts, and the last thing he remembers is the blind panic of watching a black dog run straight at his big brother - knowing that Dean had no time to pull his gun, knowing that he himself was at completely the wrong angle for a killing shot.
“D-d-dean,” He forces out. “You ‘kay?”
He wishes he had the energy to pull back and check, to see for himself that his brother was whole and unharmed, but it’s all he can do just to lie there and shiver every so often.
“I’m fine, Sammy.” He snorts. “You’re the one that took on a black dog by yourself and spent fifteen hours wandering around in the middle of a snow storm without a jacket.”
There’s anger in his voice, but Sam knows that it’s not aimed at him. Dean’s more likely to blame himself than anyone else, so Sam painstakingly frees one arm from the blankets and - with the grace and coordination of a drunk - pats his brother on the hand.
“Not y’r fault.” He slurs, and wonders if he is drunk, because his tongue struggles with the words and his head is pounding with every beat of Dean’s heart against his temple. In the front seat, he can just about hear the faint twangs of a Metallica song. For some reason, his sudden inability to remember the words seems intensely frightening.
Metallica was the soundtrack of his childhood. Blaring through the speakers as they tore down miles and miles of highways and back roads, being hummed to him when he was a whiny toddler overdue for a nap. Their dad singing in the shower, though he’ll go to his grave denying it; Dean, whispering the words to himself as he cleans the guns or runs laps. Sam probably knew the words before he knew his own name, wonders distantly if his first word was a lyric.
Above him, Dean chuckles.
“Your first word was Dean,” He tells Sam, and the younger boy feels himself get tucked in tighter, arm lifted and carefully placed back under the blankets. “Not part of a Metallica song, dude. It was all you said for months, just shouted my name constantly. Was kind of annoying, actually.”
Sam grumbles something that even he doesn’t understand, feels himself start to shiver in earnest.
“D’n?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam frowns, the world fading out on him again. “I really don’t feel good.”
*
The next time Sam wakes up, he’s warm and lying on something soft and the pins and needles throughout his body has dulled to a pleasant tingling in his fingers and toes. There’s a TV running in the background, and a long line of warmth pressed against his back where he’s curled up on his side.
His mind is foggy, but not in the drugged to the gills kind of way that normally makes him feel panicky and sick, and he’s wearing a warm hoodie and soft sweatpants that he doesn’t remember changing into.
He frowns, wondering how he got here, and blinks his eyes open.
He’s not surprised to find himself in a motel room, not even surprised to find he doesn’t recognise it. From the way he’s lying, all he can see is the wall and the door to the bathroom, standing slightly ajar. Hesitantly, he starts to roll over, eager to find out what’s going on.
“Sammy?” The voice comes from next to him, and if the sudden movement hadn’t made his head spin, Sam thinks he might have jumped. As it is, he forces his body to roll all the way onto the other side - eyes clamped shut - and can’t help but let out a whine of discomfort at the movement.
“Easy, Sammy,” Dean chides gently, running a hand through his brother’s hair. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy, relaxing. You’re not gonna help yourself by forcing things.”
Sam blinks his eyes open, and comes face-to-face with a dark blue t-shirt. He recognises it as the one that Dean saves for sleeping in, soft and thin from being washed so many times.
“Hi,” He mumbles. From somewhere above him, Dean laughs, and then an arm slips underneath him and he’s being gently propped upright, settled against Dean’s chest like a sleepy kitten. He doesn’t protest, curls into it and lets his hand tangle in the fabric of the soft shirt.
“Hey yourself,” Dean says teasingly, quirks an eyebrow. “How you feeling?”
Sam shrugs. “Been better. Been a hell of a lot worse.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean smiles, tucking his arm around his little brother a little tighter. “You’re bound to feel like shit for a while. By the time we got you to the hospital your temp was down to twenty-seven.”
“Huh,” Sam blinks. “Wait, hospital?”
“Like we were gonna drag you back to the motel when you were busy trying to die all over the place?” The older boy snorts. “Hell, no. We took you there, let them pump you full of some warm liquids for a few hours and then broke you out. You don’t remember?”
Sam doesn’t; the last thing he remembers is the faintest impression of being in the Impala, of being bundled up and hearing Dean’s heartbeat as he drifted out again.
Dean takes his brother’s silence for the answer that it is. “No big deal. You were pretty out of it, muttering about Dad singing in the shower and Metallica lyrics being your first word and all kinds of crazy crap.”
“Dad does sing in the shower.” Sam tells his brother petulantly.
Across the room, John lifts his head from his bed (Sam had assumed he was sleeping, apparently not) and glares half-heartedly.
“I do not sing in the shower!"