#3 - meddlesome
[One thing was for sure - if he planned to survive this situation, he was going to have to move. There was no way that he could risk overbalancing or awaking from a sudden bout of unconsciousness only to tip over and kill himself like a complete moron. Dean would never forgive him if he brained himself falling down a flight of stairs.]
Sam didn’t know where he was.
He had a vague recollection of falling and hearing something snap (he hoped it wasn’t a leg, because he liked having the use of both of those), and then nothing. The ground beneath him was hard and unforgiving, sharp ridges and deep gouges making the surface uneven and uncomfortable to lie on; not to mention that he was feeling, could feel his body shivering in a distant sort of fashion that warned him that he probably wasn’t too far from hypothermia.
That was worrying enough - even though Sam was sixteen now, his brother and father seemed to worry over him excessively. It was highly unlikely that either of them would sit around doing nothing whilst Sam froze to death on a hard concrete (because he recognised that sensation, now, cool beneath his fingertips) floor.
Reluctantly, the teenager forced himself to open his eyes, wincing when the light from a naked bulb hanging over his head threatened to blind him. He twisted his neck to the side, hoping to feel the reassuring sensation of concrete beneath his cheek and found nothing but air, snapping his eyes open to reveal that he was lying at the top of what appeared to be a flight of stone stairs.
That was all he managed to register before the movement caught up with him and his world momentarily disappeared in a surge complete agony radiating from the side of his head that - unfortunately - he’d just pressed against the floor. It was a long few moments before he could open his eyes once more, and he was surprised that he hadn’t been sick.
It quickly became apparent that he was lucky that he hadn’t shifted when he’d woken; from what he could gather without moving, he was balanced right on the edge of the steps, a hairs-breadth away from tipping over the edge and meeting his doom at the hands of the staircase. The stairs themselves were vicious looking things; uneven and jagged at the edges, too small to catch yourself if you started to fall and winding down and down in a fashion that made Sam sick to his stomach just thinking about.
One thing was for sure - if he planned to survive this situation, he was going to have to move. There was no way that he could risk overbalancing or awaking from a sudden bout of unconsciousness only to tip over and kill himself like a complete moron.
Dean would never forgive him if he brained himself falling down a flight of stairs.
The sixteen-year-old spent a long moment considering his options. The stairs were too deep and too narrow to try and prop himself up on, so the most logical option was to roll further onto the landing - the main issue with that being that even the thought of movement had made him aware of a blistering pain in his left leg. A roll to safety meant resting his entire body’s weight on it, even if it was for just a few seconds, and Sam just wasn’t sure that was possible.
Which left only one plan - to prop himself up with one hand on the stairs and do his best to drag himself sideways. Perhaps not the most sensible of plans, when one slip could mean reintroducing the injured side of his head to the edge of the stair, but he was kind of out of options.
Holding his breath, he painstakingly placed his hand on the floor and lifted his body a few inches. The pain was immediate, so intense that he couldn’t see, could hardly breathe through it, but somehow he moved solely on instinct - guiding his body onto the landing just in time for his arm to buckle and the world to go dark.
A sharp burst of pain in his leg roused him from his second bout of unconsciousness with a cry.
It was unlike nothing he’d ever felt before, sharp and splintering, spreading throughout his whole body and leaving him feel like he was on fire - the his skin was being singed and burnt. Someone was muttering next to his ear, running a soothing hand over his chest, but Sam couldn’t make out words over the rush in his ears, the rapid sound of his own pulse and his frantic, gasping breaths.
Panicking for the first time, he forced his eyes open once more and came face-to-face with the pale, bloodstained face of his brother. Dean’s eyes seemed impossibly bright in his face, filled with tears that threatened to spill over at a moment’s notice.
“I’m sorry, Sammy.” He was muttering, and though Sam couldn’t hear the words he could see them fall from his brother’s lips. “I’m sorry. We’re gonna get help, I promise, but Dad’s gotta bind your leg - you’re losing too much blood.”
Sam blinked dazedly, realising for the first time that the staircase was lighter than he remembered - either his father or his dad had taped flashlights to the walls, illuminating the landing entirely. From the inside, it looked like the walls of some kind of castle or old, haunted mansion - stone walls to match the floors and a wooden handrail that looked ancient.
Strangely, it reminded Sam of something from Scooby Doo, and he half-expected Daphne or Fred to emerge, or someone to shake a box of Scooby snacks.
“Did we-“ The words came out in a painful rasp, and Sam’s body dissolved into coughs that had the world disappearing again for a few seconds before he could continue. “Did what we came for? Kill the…”
He trailed off, unsure what it was that they’d come to hunt, but Dean nodded his head nonetheless.
“Yeah, we ganked the ghost. Not before he launched into some rant about meddlesome kids messing up his property and broke the floorboards you were standing on, though.” His grin fell short of its usual brightness, and he ran his fingers through Sam’s hair once more. “We could hear your leg snap from up there, dude. I… I thought it was your neck.”
Sam blinked again.
“Sorry,” He forced out, feeling the drowsiness start to take hold of him once more, the fire in his leg dulling to a pleasant warmth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Not your fault, man,” Dean told him gently, but Sam was already slipping aware, distantly registering the moment that his brother’s voice became sharp and panicked.
He was too far gone to care.
The third time he awoke, thankfully, was a lot more pleasant. For one, the surface underneath him was actually comfortable - a soft mattress rather than cold concrete - and he was just the right side of warm, rather than shivering so hard that he’d half feared that his bones would jump right of his skin. The eerie silence of the stairwell and his brother’s panicked voice had given way to a symphony of steady beeps and clicks that he knew instinctively meant hospital.
“Sam?” His brother’s voice queried. “You finally waking up, bro?”
The sixteen-year-old considered letting himself drift back to sleep, but he recognised the neutral tone of his brother’s voice as trying to cover up worry, so forced himself to rouse. Opening his eyes was even harder than he remembered, and he was almost convinced that it was impossible when they finally gave way to a blurry picture of the world around him - including the dark blur that could be nothing other than his brother’s head.
It took a few minutes to clear his eyes, and one of them remained a little fuzzy around the edges, but it was manageable. Dean was watching him patiently, waiting for him to get his bearings - it always took him longer when he was sick or injured than when he was healthy, something which Dean knew in the same way he knew that the smell of strawberries in the morning could make Sam puke, or that he wouldn’t drink orange juice before he slept.
“You in there?” He asked finally, offering Sam a small smile. The words came across as slightly slurred (though he knew that was more likely to be his hearing than Dean’s speech) but understandable, and he offered a weak thumbs up in response.
Dean’s grin grew a little and he leant over to the side of Sam’s bed, retrieving a tumbler of water with a straw sticking out of the top. The liquid was refreshingly cool, and the sensation of it sliding down his throat was possibly the closest thing to heaven that Sam had ever felt - so much so that he was more than willing to overlook the fact that it had the Disney mermaid on the side of it. Finally, he pulled back and settled back against his pillows, feeling his muscles relax.
“How long was I out?” He asked, forcing the words past the still-lingering discomfort in his throat.
“Two weeks,” Dean told him carefully. Sam blinked, unsure as to what he was hearing, and Dean offered him a tight smile. “Turns out that while Dad and I were panicking about your leg, we should really have been worrying about how hard you hit your head. There was some swelling on your brain, so the doctor gave you some drugs to keep you unconscious while it reduced.”
“Oh,” Sam offered in response, slightly dazed. “Where’s Dad?”
“Clean up duty,” Dean smiled. “We left your blood all over the place, and haven’t really left here since then. When he heard that you were stable enough for them to take you off the meds, he figured that he could go and clean up and be back in time for you to finally open those baby blues. He clearly forgot that you always find some way to scupper our best plans.”
“It’s a talent.” Sam laughed, before his eyes fell once again on the water container. Dean followed his gaze and made to pick it up, but Sam shook his head. “No, just…why The Little Mermaid.”
Dean rubbed the back of his neck as if embarrassed, a shy grin on his face.
“Well, I asked for Scooby Doo, but they didn’t have any…” At Sam’s frown, he developed further. “When you first passed out, you kept mumbling quotes from the film. No idea why, but… The Little Mermaid was the closest they had. Besides, Ariel’s a princess and so are you.”
“Funny.” Sam snorted, resting further back against the pillows. “Wait, how did you know her name, anyways?”
Dean blushed deeper. “The woman at the gift store told me, alright!”
It was clearly a lie, and Sam found himself chuckling happily, content with the knowledge that he was safe with his brother, and nothing more was going to happen to him. He was free to relax and enjoy their time together, and, well, that was almost worth the head injury and broken leg.
#2 - Parent. | #4 - Bound.