starbright73 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starbright73) wrote2008-09-20 06:20 pm
starbright73) wrote2008-09-20 06:20 pm
Fic: His Father's Son (3/7)
Title: His Father's Son (3/7)
Author: *bright
Rating: Gen. PG-13
Spoilers: None, pre-series.
Character: Sam, Dean, John
Category: Limp!Sam, angst, h/c. Teen!Sam gets hurt.
Summary: A road-trip, a hunt gone wrong and the Winchesters' exploration of their family's dynamic.
Author's note: I wrote this just because hurting Sam is fun! And then I wanted to explore the Sam and John dynamic that was never fully dealt with on the show. This one was intended to be a short one-shot; the bugger grew out of my hands. Not beta'd. The original character have nothing to do with accidental namesakes. Was unable to come up with a nifty title *sighs*
Words: around 34.000
Disclaimer: Me own zip and nada, ‘cept an over active imagination. Everything belongs to Kripke & Co.
Part I
Part II
Part III
The moment the red fabric flashed before his eyes, Sam knew he had made a mistake. He managed to get a hand in between his skin and the electrical cord before it looped tightly around his neck and he was pulled forward, door slamming shut behind him. A dim figure, with the Confederate flag draped around it, hovered in his left visual field. The vision cleared to reveal a tattered uniform and rotting flesh, with multiple stab and gunshot wounds, still seeming to bleed and soil the shroud hung on a former soldier's bony shoulders.
Sam's blinding fear turned into steely, cold determination. If he was going to die, he'd take the evil son of a bitch with him.
From that moment, his instincts took over and his vision tunneled in on the blowtorch he'd spotted on the bench underneath the rack holding various equipment hung on thin steel pegs. The moment he started moving towards the bench, the cord tightened around his neck, a dull pop proceeding the pain that shot through his wrist and exploded in his spine, making his anger flare. He'd seen Dean use a blowtorch on old cars and he knew exactly what to do.
He lunged for the handle, fisting his free hand around it and yanked it off the bench when hammers and saws started flying his way. There was no pain anymore, just an anger so deep it guided him, without conscious thought. He pressed the button, freeing the scintilla and the kerosene.
The dusty air crackled with the fire, sending the shrouded figure glowing faintly yellow in a cloud of burning particles. Saw-blades ripped at Sam's clothes, cutting the fabric and digging into his skin. A hammer hit Sam's temple hard enough to have the world tilt on him and he found himself flat on his stomach on the unforgiving stony pavement. He inhaled through gritted teeth, never getting enough air. His focus faltered, blood ran down his temple, smelling sickly sweet and foreboding. His fingers twitched, latching back onto the lever.
The faded flag moved over the cobblestone and Sam's fingers trembled when he pressed the lever to send the flame flashing along the floor. A patch of spilled oil ignited and burned bluish and bright. Flames reared to life and licked up the red fabric. A sharp sound of screeching metal and breaking wood exploded in his skull and he was pressed down hard. Sharp nails dug into his back, his vision started to fade with the wave of pain that forced what little air he had left, out of his lungs in a garbled cry.
The room was suddenly lit up with flames that seemed to dance mid-air, embracing the flag, when Sam's eyes finally closed.
John didn't remember how he got to the now closed door, didn't realize it wouldn't open despite his frantic pulling. He fought for his son's life, straining every muscle in the futile effort of desperate tugging at the handle that squeaked in protest. Dean was a this side, his breath hitching while he repeatedly slammed the shovel at the window by the door. It wouldn't break and Dean was illuminated by the flickering light from inside, revealing the panic on his face. Nothing seemed to really register, until a hard crash was followed by a bright reddish light that wailed as it ripped through the room, colliding with the walls before it vanished out of sight.
The shovel went through the class, sending sharp splinters to John's skin as the door finally gave and he lunged himself into the room now alight with streaks of fire running over the stone floor and up the legs of the wooden bench.
Dean was already inside, tripping over debris, falling to his knees and pushing forward, panting his brother's name.
Sam was buried under a metal plate with holes, the kind John had used to hang tools on. Only one foot sticking out from under it. A broad cabinet had fallen across the metal and perched in an odd angle that indicated that his son was being squeezed to death by its weight.
“Sammy? Oh God!”
Dean voice carried over to him and pulled John out of his petrified state.
“He alive?” John scrambled for the fire-extinguisher on the wall, moving forward to reach the threatening flames.
“Jesus Sammy. Let me get this off you so you can breathe! Gonna get you out of here, promise. Just keep breathing for me. You can do this Sammy, I'll get you outta here! Sam, please!”
Dean's ramble was laden with panic, his fingers working frenetically at something around Sam's neck. He was clearly in a state of shock, fumbling and shivering where he sat hunched by Sam's left shoulder, the only part John was able to see.
“Dean! Take this and kill the fire! Now!”
“No dad! Sam can't breathe , I need to get this -.”
“Now Dean!” John ordered and Dean got to his feet, face streaked with blood from the glass shreds, eyes wide and black with fear. But he did as told, letting the foam cover the floor and suffocate the flames. John didn't have the heart to tell him that there was probably enough chemicals in the room to cause an explosion. He just needed help to get Sam from under the weight in order to carry him out.
His view being freed, he noted the electrical cord twined around Sam's neck. The wrist Sam had managed to stick between the cord and his skin hung in an odd angle, bone penetrating the skin and the slack hand hiding most o his face. John didn't even know if Sammy was breathing or not, he only knew that the cord had to come off, now! The knife he always carried cut through the cord immediately, freeing Sam's hand that slid down to the floor. Sam was on his stomach, face turned to the left and he looked dead, except for the blood running from his nose to pool under the ashen chin. John's fingers searched for a pulse and found it, weak and fast, but still there.
Outside the woman was half-sobbing into her cell, alerting 911 about an accident, stumbling over the words in a high-pithed voice.
The flames were only glimmering at the far end of the room now, not close enough to take his son.
“Dean! I want you to sit with Sam while I get this weight off him.” He hadn't quite finished the sentence before fore Dean was on his knees at Sam's side, fingers threading in the sandy hair, now matted with blood.
The smoke smarted John's eye when he rose to get to the cupboard and lift it off his youngest. He knew he needed to get them all out before they'd succumb to smoke-inhalation.
He leaned over the cabinet, trying to lift it but it was too heavy. “Get over here and help!” he hollered at the man standing in the doorway, the flashlight shivering in his hand.
“Take the metal too, we need to get him out now!” John hoped that the shiver in his voice didn't alert Dean to how terrified he really was. Dean needed someone to lean on right now. When Tom was in place, his hands under the metal plate and the cabinet, John looked over at him. “This is heavy, you need to push with all you've got. If you let it fall back on Sam, you'll kill him!”
Tom nodded.
“Now! John barked and took leverage with his feet planted on the floor. The cabinet rose slowly, and Sam's body arched off the floor. Dean's whimpered: 'Dad, no no no', but there was no time for John to ask why, he had to get this off Sam, or his son would die. And then Sam fell back to the floor and the weight in their hands lessened drastically. With one last heave, John got the cabinet and metal rack to fall against the opposite wall.
When John turned to his sons, Dean's voice was garbled and he leaned in over Sam, with wordless coughing sounds, like from a wounded animal, escaping him.
Dean's hands were on Sam's coat, blood seeping through fingers that pressed down over the hole in the fabric. John turned to watch the metal and saw two long metal pegs sticking out, dripping with his son's blood.
The world dimmed around him, making him sway on his feet before resolve kicked in like an electrical shock to his system.
He leaned over Dean gripping his coat by the shoulders and pulling him up to his feet. “Tom, take him out of here!”
“No!” Dean coughed, struggling to get back to his place by Sam.
“Now Tom!” John pushed Dean towards the door and Tom, watching how the man snaked an arm around his son's middle and dragged him outside.
John was already on his knees beside Sam. Lifting and turning him into his lap. Sam was like dead weight, boneless in his hold with blood streamed over his face from a wound on his temple. The fire had taken new hold on the particle boards on the walls, flames roaring back to life and sending heat scorching John's skin and smoke smarting his eyes.
Sirens wailed in the distance and John draped his arms around Sam in an embrace.
“It's okay, Sammy. You're not gonna die in here, son, I promise. You just hang on a couple of seconds and we'll be out.” Draping Sam's arms around his neck and hooking his arm under the long, coltish legs, he lifted Sam off the floor.
“I'm sorry, Sammy, I know it's hurting you but you gotta trust me with this. It's all I can do for you right now, kiddo. Should have done so much more, I know that, Sammy. You just hang on so I can try and make it up to you, okay Sam?. ”
The thickness of the air had him fight to breathe and he didn't even dare to think about how Sam was handling the smoke. He wasn't even sure his son was breathing any longer, he was so still. Sam was heavy, even if he looked like nothing but skin and bones. The smell of smoke and blood mingled with the distinct scent of gun oil from his old military coat, the one Sam had been wearing despite it being too wide for him. He started walking out, only aware of his son's stillness in his arms.
“The fire's not gonna have you, Sammy. If you have to let go, you'll do it in my arms, son. I love you, Sammy. Please make it through this so we can patch things up. I need you to pull through this, son.“ He kissed his son's cheek, like he hadn't done since Sammy was a toddler. Sam's cheek was slick with blood and tear drops. Then he reached fresher air; blue lights flashed and sirens stopped wailing as green clad figures rushed toward him. His son was taken from his arms when he fell to his knees, coughing.
Dean's chest was aching, rips of pain seared through him with every breath, like a wild cat was trying to rip out his lungs. Tom was still holding on to him, while he coughed till his eyes teared and he was unable to see the doorway with the billowing smoke. The night was no longer still; sirens cut trough it, getting closer by the second and Dean had never been more grateful for the wails of emergency vehicles speeding through the night.
When the squad car and the first ambulance pulled into the yard, his breaths were already running more freely and he fought to get away from the man holding him. When his eyes finally cleared, he saw dad, fighting to get through the smoke-filled doorway, with Sam in his hold. There was no time to lose, he needed to help dad and Sammy.
An officer appeared before him and Dean coughed and tried to shove him off his path. Strong arms clinched him to his place while the uniformed man fired a battery of questions to Tom. Dean tried desperately to see what was happening by the barn door.
Tom started talking breathlessly. Dean only got snippets of what he was saying: 'hired them to help out, the young kid was getting a shovel and all hell broke loose, never seen anything like it, he was all torn up, lying under a cabinet, crushed'. Dean's eyes were trained on the EMTs taking Sam from dad's arms, laying him on a gurney. One cutting off his clothes while another was sticking a tube into his brother's throat. Dean's fingers dug into the arms of the man blocking him, trying again to shove him out of the way.
“Dean was in there too, you gotta get him some oxygen! There are chemicals in there! I thought the whole place was gonna blow up before John got the kid out of there.” Tom's voice droned on while a paramedic appeared at Dean's side and pushed an oxygen mask over his face. Dean grabbed the paramedic, shoving him to the side and craned his head to see Sam and dad. Dad was being helped away from the door, a mask was placed on his face and a third EMT carried the oxygen tank and dragged dad away from Sam. Dad's hand reached out for Sam but he was brusquely pushed back when yet another figure appeared at Sam's gurney.
Dean was not about to leave Sam all alone. He pulled the mask off his face and turned to the paramedic. “I need to get to Sammy!”
“Not now son,” the elderly man replied. “I'm going to take you to the rig and have you sit down. You need to clear the smoke from your lungs before you keel over. Tom, you better tag along too, not looking too good yourself! Nate, I need some help here!”
Sam was being turned to his side, strapped in place while air was pumped into his lungs and IV-tubes were inserted in his arms and neck. Dean could hear the loud voices calling for blood because the kid was bleeding out and he was in respiratory distress and throwing PVC's. Dean had no idea what half of it meant but the rushed moves of the personnel and their strained faces were indicative enough for Dean to understand that Sam was just as badly off as he had feared. Everything was so muddled up in Dean's brain that he didn't understand half of what was happening. Orders flew in the air, mixed with the sounds of the running engines and the roar of the fire now being tamed by firemen. He wasn't able to divert his eyes from Sam on the gurney; what was visible of his face was smeared with blood and his skin was so ghastly white. Almost bluish. His chest was now exposed to the chill and it looked so frail, and only one side was moving slightly. The paramedics that were handling his brother all had gloves smeared with the blood pulsing out of his little brother. Too much blood. How could anybody survive that kind of blood-loss? The metal pegs had penetrated his little brother, been driven right into him with force.
The world started whirling slowly before Dean's eyes. He sucked in air, needing to stay clear headed and understand what was happening, just in case Sam needed his help. Dean wanted Sam to open his eyes and call out for him. Call him a jerk. Laugh at him for nearly fainting, like a fucking chick. Make an accusatory bitch-face at him, anything!
When Sam's head was tilted back and a neck-brace put on him, it reminded Dean of the cord around Sammy's neck. He threw the oxygen mask to the ground and started pushing toward the gurney, wanting to just see Sammy up close. Convince himself that Sam was alive, that there was hope still. His heart was pounding in his throat, his legs felt shaky and useless when he arrived close enough to see that Sam's eyelids were closed with cotton tape.
Bile rose and burned in his throat, his heart threatening to explode inside his chest and he fell to his knees, swallowing convulsively.
Somebody lifted him up and dragged him to the side, forcing him down to sit on the metal stairs of the second rig.
“Dean? I'm Nate, we're going to transport your brother now You and your father will take be taken to the hospital with this ambulance as soon as we get your brother on the road. You need to be checked out in the ER. We'll let you know how your brother is faring when we get him evaluated. It may take hours because he needs exploratory surgery. Wait here until we get your brother out of here
and then someone will help you get settled for transport. Your father is talking to the Doc, he'll join you in a while.
“It's Sam,” Dean croaked.
“Excuse me?” The medic sounded confused.
“His name is Sam and he doesn't like to be called Sammy. Just Sam.”
“I'll remember that,” the man said in a soft voice. “You should rest now and we'll take you in asap. Want to lie down?”
Dean shook his head and watched Sammy, covered in an orange quilt, being lifted into the other ambulance. The EMTs following the gurney inside were carrying multiple bags of fluids and blood. The doors closed on Sam and the sirens cut through every fibers in Dean's body when his eyes followed the rig's speedy launch off the yard.
“Sammy!” He exhaled, the memory of the pale face haunting him. He looked down on his hands, still soiled with his brother's blood. The image of Sam on the floor, an electric cord pulled tight around his neck, the wrist broken and nestled in an odd angle against his face, was like etched to his retinas. He'd give anything to have Sam live; his own life was nothing in comparison and if he could trade places with Sam right now, he'd do it in a blink of an eye. He'd willingly join a monastery if that meant Sam would live. He'd give away the Impala, sell his soul, anything. “God, please!” he mumbled, desperate for a higher power to see his brother through this. He didn't believe there was a god, didn't think he ever had. But he prayed all the same, just in case somebody was listening.
“Son, time to go! We have to get to Sam.”
His father's voice was hoarse and raw, naked pain lingering between the words and Dean rose as on cue when dad's hand curled around his shoulder.
“Yessir.”
John had become a master at keeping his emotions in check, pushing them to the back and focusing on what needed to be done. Sam was one of the few that had an uncanny ability to creep under his skin and have him lose that precious control. Ever since he was a little, Sammy seemed to look right through him and find his weakest spots. John was absolutely certain that his son knew all about him while he felt he knew next to nothing about Sam. The kid hid in plain view; the openness he exhibited at times was only an illusion. John knew that Sam was something of a mystery, always had been. And the things he was learning were scaring him. Not of Sam, but for him. His son seemed a very gentle soul and that contrasted so darkly with what John was discovering that he sometimes felt like going insane. He wouldn't believe any of it, if it weren't for what happened to Mary.
Now, he just didn't know any longer.
And not knowing was the hardest thing.
Like now, sitting by Dean's side in the ambulance, watching his eldest slumped forward, eyes trained on his own hands, soiled with his brother's blood. He had no idea how to console Dean now, no idea what to do to make this better. John was one that fixed things, set them straight. But what was happening now was beyond his powers. It felt just like the night Mary had -.
“As soon as they check you out at the ER, I'm getting us some food, Dean. You must be starving.” John spoke, soberly tuning in on what was fixable.
Dean's head jerked up and looked at him with stunned surprise. His mouth opened, eyes wide with disbelief and anger. John noticed that Dean's hands fisted, hard. Bit then the ambulance swerved into the ambulance bay, siren shutting down and Dean stood up, took three long but wobbly strides to the lateral door and jerked at the door-handle.
John sat there. Petrified of what he was going to meet inside. A stern doctor that announced that Sammy had died en route? A secretary that had found out that the Kulicks insurance didn't cover Sam like Louise had told the EMTs and that they needed to find another hospital for his son? That his son was brain-dead, on life-support and he needed to let them pull the plug?
When the driver finally opened the door from the outside and reached in to steady Dean, John rose to his feet to follow his son inside and get him the help he needed. Dean was all scratched up from the glass-splinters. Dean's face was fixable. That was what he had to concentrate on now.
He walked up to flank Dean, gripping his upper arm, helping the paramedic to make him slow down.
“Son, somebody's gonna look at your cuts. Just slow down. Will you?”
Dean stopped in his tracks, slowly turning around with eyes blazing with anger. His jaw muscles working and his hands fisting when he searched for words.
“Dad! Sam's not going to be alone with this! I'll be with him every step of the way.”
John was taken back with the resentment and ire that Dean directed at him. He let go of his hold, took a step back and told the paramedic to take them to Sam Winchester.
When the two men started walking, John fell back and cold sweat ran down his back.
He couldn't put this on Dean's shoulders, not this time. But he was not sure be would be able to hold it together and Dean would see what a man John Winchester really was; a coward.
Author: *bright
Rating: Gen. PG-13
Spoilers: None, pre-series.
Character: Sam, Dean, John
Category: Limp!Sam, angst, h/c. Teen!Sam gets hurt.
Summary: A road-trip, a hunt gone wrong and the Winchesters' exploration of their family's dynamic.
Author's note: I wrote this just because hurting Sam is fun! And then I wanted to explore the Sam and John dynamic that was never fully dealt with on the show. This one was intended to be a short one-shot; the bugger grew out of my hands. Not beta'd. The original character have nothing to do with accidental namesakes. Was unable to come up with a nifty title *sighs*
Words: around 34.000
Disclaimer: Me own zip and nada, ‘cept an over active imagination. Everything belongs to Kripke & Co.
Part I
Part II
Part III
The moment the red fabric flashed before his eyes, Sam knew he had made a mistake. He managed to get a hand in between his skin and the electrical cord before it looped tightly around his neck and he was pulled forward, door slamming shut behind him. A dim figure, with the Confederate flag draped around it, hovered in his left visual field. The vision cleared to reveal a tattered uniform and rotting flesh, with multiple stab and gunshot wounds, still seeming to bleed and soil the shroud hung on a former soldier's bony shoulders.
Sam's blinding fear turned into steely, cold determination. If he was going to die, he'd take the evil son of a bitch with him.
From that moment, his instincts took over and his vision tunneled in on the blowtorch he'd spotted on the bench underneath the rack holding various equipment hung on thin steel pegs. The moment he started moving towards the bench, the cord tightened around his neck, a dull pop proceeding the pain that shot through his wrist and exploded in his spine, making his anger flare. He'd seen Dean use a blowtorch on old cars and he knew exactly what to do.
He lunged for the handle, fisting his free hand around it and yanked it off the bench when hammers and saws started flying his way. There was no pain anymore, just an anger so deep it guided him, without conscious thought. He pressed the button, freeing the scintilla and the kerosene.
The dusty air crackled with the fire, sending the shrouded figure glowing faintly yellow in a cloud of burning particles. Saw-blades ripped at Sam's clothes, cutting the fabric and digging into his skin. A hammer hit Sam's temple hard enough to have the world tilt on him and he found himself flat on his stomach on the unforgiving stony pavement. He inhaled through gritted teeth, never getting enough air. His focus faltered, blood ran down his temple, smelling sickly sweet and foreboding. His fingers twitched, latching back onto the lever.
The faded flag moved over the cobblestone and Sam's fingers trembled when he pressed the lever to send the flame flashing along the floor. A patch of spilled oil ignited and burned bluish and bright. Flames reared to life and licked up the red fabric. A sharp sound of screeching metal and breaking wood exploded in his skull and he was pressed down hard. Sharp nails dug into his back, his vision started to fade with the wave of pain that forced what little air he had left, out of his lungs in a garbled cry.
The room was suddenly lit up with flames that seemed to dance mid-air, embracing the flag, when Sam's eyes finally closed.
John didn't remember how he got to the now closed door, didn't realize it wouldn't open despite his frantic pulling. He fought for his son's life, straining every muscle in the futile effort of desperate tugging at the handle that squeaked in protest. Dean was a this side, his breath hitching while he repeatedly slammed the shovel at the window by the door. It wouldn't break and Dean was illuminated by the flickering light from inside, revealing the panic on his face. Nothing seemed to really register, until a hard crash was followed by a bright reddish light that wailed as it ripped through the room, colliding with the walls before it vanished out of sight.
The shovel went through the class, sending sharp splinters to John's skin as the door finally gave and he lunged himself into the room now alight with streaks of fire running over the stone floor and up the legs of the wooden bench.
Dean was already inside, tripping over debris, falling to his knees and pushing forward, panting his brother's name.
Sam was buried under a metal plate with holes, the kind John had used to hang tools on. Only one foot sticking out from under it. A broad cabinet had fallen across the metal and perched in an odd angle that indicated that his son was being squeezed to death by its weight.
“Sammy? Oh God!”
Dean voice carried over to him and pulled John out of his petrified state.
“He alive?” John scrambled for the fire-extinguisher on the wall, moving forward to reach the threatening flames.
“Jesus Sammy. Let me get this off you so you can breathe! Gonna get you out of here, promise. Just keep breathing for me. You can do this Sammy, I'll get you outta here! Sam, please!”
Dean's ramble was laden with panic, his fingers working frenetically at something around Sam's neck. He was clearly in a state of shock, fumbling and shivering where he sat hunched by Sam's left shoulder, the only part John was able to see.
“Dean! Take this and kill the fire! Now!”
“No dad! Sam can't breathe , I need to get this -.”
“Now Dean!” John ordered and Dean got to his feet, face streaked with blood from the glass shreds, eyes wide and black with fear. But he did as told, letting the foam cover the floor and suffocate the flames. John didn't have the heart to tell him that there was probably enough chemicals in the room to cause an explosion. He just needed help to get Sam from under the weight in order to carry him out.
His view being freed, he noted the electrical cord twined around Sam's neck. The wrist Sam had managed to stick between the cord and his skin hung in an odd angle, bone penetrating the skin and the slack hand hiding most o his face. John didn't even know if Sammy was breathing or not, he only knew that the cord had to come off, now! The knife he always carried cut through the cord immediately, freeing Sam's hand that slid down to the floor. Sam was on his stomach, face turned to the left and he looked dead, except for the blood running from his nose to pool under the ashen chin. John's fingers searched for a pulse and found it, weak and fast, but still there.
Outside the woman was half-sobbing into her cell, alerting 911 about an accident, stumbling over the words in a high-pithed voice.
The flames were only glimmering at the far end of the room now, not close enough to take his son.
“Dean! I want you to sit with Sam while I get this weight off him.” He hadn't quite finished the sentence before fore Dean was on his knees at Sam's side, fingers threading in the sandy hair, now matted with blood.
The smoke smarted John's eye when he rose to get to the cupboard and lift it off his youngest. He knew he needed to get them all out before they'd succumb to smoke-inhalation.
He leaned over the cabinet, trying to lift it but it was too heavy. “Get over here and help!” he hollered at the man standing in the doorway, the flashlight shivering in his hand.
“Take the metal too, we need to get him out now!” John hoped that the shiver in his voice didn't alert Dean to how terrified he really was. Dean needed someone to lean on right now. When Tom was in place, his hands under the metal plate and the cabinet, John looked over at him. “This is heavy, you need to push with all you've got. If you let it fall back on Sam, you'll kill him!”
Tom nodded.
“Now! John barked and took leverage with his feet planted on the floor. The cabinet rose slowly, and Sam's body arched off the floor. Dean's whimpered: 'Dad, no no no', but there was no time for John to ask why, he had to get this off Sam, or his son would die. And then Sam fell back to the floor and the weight in their hands lessened drastically. With one last heave, John got the cabinet and metal rack to fall against the opposite wall.
When John turned to his sons, Dean's voice was garbled and he leaned in over Sam, with wordless coughing sounds, like from a wounded animal, escaping him.
Dean's hands were on Sam's coat, blood seeping through fingers that pressed down over the hole in the fabric. John turned to watch the metal and saw two long metal pegs sticking out, dripping with his son's blood.
The world dimmed around him, making him sway on his feet before resolve kicked in like an electrical shock to his system.
He leaned over Dean gripping his coat by the shoulders and pulling him up to his feet. “Tom, take him out of here!”
“No!” Dean coughed, struggling to get back to his place by Sam.
“Now Tom!” John pushed Dean towards the door and Tom, watching how the man snaked an arm around his son's middle and dragged him outside.
John was already on his knees beside Sam. Lifting and turning him into his lap. Sam was like dead weight, boneless in his hold with blood streamed over his face from a wound on his temple. The fire had taken new hold on the particle boards on the walls, flames roaring back to life and sending heat scorching John's skin and smoke smarting his eyes.
Sirens wailed in the distance and John draped his arms around Sam in an embrace.
“It's okay, Sammy. You're not gonna die in here, son, I promise. You just hang on a couple of seconds and we'll be out.” Draping Sam's arms around his neck and hooking his arm under the long, coltish legs, he lifted Sam off the floor.
“I'm sorry, Sammy, I know it's hurting you but you gotta trust me with this. It's all I can do for you right now, kiddo. Should have done so much more, I know that, Sammy. You just hang on so I can try and make it up to you, okay Sam?. ”
The thickness of the air had him fight to breathe and he didn't even dare to think about how Sam was handling the smoke. He wasn't even sure his son was breathing any longer, he was so still. Sam was heavy, even if he looked like nothing but skin and bones. The smell of smoke and blood mingled with the distinct scent of gun oil from his old military coat, the one Sam had been wearing despite it being too wide for him. He started walking out, only aware of his son's stillness in his arms.
“The fire's not gonna have you, Sammy. If you have to let go, you'll do it in my arms, son. I love you, Sammy. Please make it through this so we can patch things up. I need you to pull through this, son.“ He kissed his son's cheek, like he hadn't done since Sammy was a toddler. Sam's cheek was slick with blood and tear drops. Then he reached fresher air; blue lights flashed and sirens stopped wailing as green clad figures rushed toward him. His son was taken from his arms when he fell to his knees, coughing.
Dean's chest was aching, rips of pain seared through him with every breath, like a wild cat was trying to rip out his lungs. Tom was still holding on to him, while he coughed till his eyes teared and he was unable to see the doorway with the billowing smoke. The night was no longer still; sirens cut trough it, getting closer by the second and Dean had never been more grateful for the wails of emergency vehicles speeding through the night.
When the squad car and the first ambulance pulled into the yard, his breaths were already running more freely and he fought to get away from the man holding him. When his eyes finally cleared, he saw dad, fighting to get through the smoke-filled doorway, with Sam in his hold. There was no time to lose, he needed to help dad and Sammy.
An officer appeared before him and Dean coughed and tried to shove him off his path. Strong arms clinched him to his place while the uniformed man fired a battery of questions to Tom. Dean tried desperately to see what was happening by the barn door.
Tom started talking breathlessly. Dean only got snippets of what he was saying: 'hired them to help out, the young kid was getting a shovel and all hell broke loose, never seen anything like it, he was all torn up, lying under a cabinet, crushed'. Dean's eyes were trained on the EMTs taking Sam from dad's arms, laying him on a gurney. One cutting off his clothes while another was sticking a tube into his brother's throat. Dean's fingers dug into the arms of the man blocking him, trying again to shove him out of the way.
“Dean was in there too, you gotta get him some oxygen! There are chemicals in there! I thought the whole place was gonna blow up before John got the kid out of there.” Tom's voice droned on while a paramedic appeared at Dean's side and pushed an oxygen mask over his face. Dean grabbed the paramedic, shoving him to the side and craned his head to see Sam and dad. Dad was being helped away from the door, a mask was placed on his face and a third EMT carried the oxygen tank and dragged dad away from Sam. Dad's hand reached out for Sam but he was brusquely pushed back when yet another figure appeared at Sam's gurney.
Dean was not about to leave Sam all alone. He pulled the mask off his face and turned to the paramedic. “I need to get to Sammy!”
“Not now son,” the elderly man replied. “I'm going to take you to the rig and have you sit down. You need to clear the smoke from your lungs before you keel over. Tom, you better tag along too, not looking too good yourself! Nate, I need some help here!”
Sam was being turned to his side, strapped in place while air was pumped into his lungs and IV-tubes were inserted in his arms and neck. Dean could hear the loud voices calling for blood because the kid was bleeding out and he was in respiratory distress and throwing PVC's. Dean had no idea what half of it meant but the rushed moves of the personnel and their strained faces were indicative enough for Dean to understand that Sam was just as badly off as he had feared. Everything was so muddled up in Dean's brain that he didn't understand half of what was happening. Orders flew in the air, mixed with the sounds of the running engines and the roar of the fire now being tamed by firemen. He wasn't able to divert his eyes from Sam on the gurney; what was visible of his face was smeared with blood and his skin was so ghastly white. Almost bluish. His chest was now exposed to the chill and it looked so frail, and only one side was moving slightly. The paramedics that were handling his brother all had gloves smeared with the blood pulsing out of his little brother. Too much blood. How could anybody survive that kind of blood-loss? The metal pegs had penetrated his little brother, been driven right into him with force.
The world started whirling slowly before Dean's eyes. He sucked in air, needing to stay clear headed and understand what was happening, just in case Sam needed his help. Dean wanted Sam to open his eyes and call out for him. Call him a jerk. Laugh at him for nearly fainting, like a fucking chick. Make an accusatory bitch-face at him, anything!
When Sam's head was tilted back and a neck-brace put on him, it reminded Dean of the cord around Sammy's neck. He threw the oxygen mask to the ground and started pushing toward the gurney, wanting to just see Sammy up close. Convince himself that Sam was alive, that there was hope still. His heart was pounding in his throat, his legs felt shaky and useless when he arrived close enough to see that Sam's eyelids were closed with cotton tape.
Bile rose and burned in his throat, his heart threatening to explode inside his chest and he fell to his knees, swallowing convulsively.
Somebody lifted him up and dragged him to the side, forcing him down to sit on the metal stairs of the second rig.
“Dean? I'm Nate, we're going to transport your brother now You and your father will take be taken to the hospital with this ambulance as soon as we get your brother on the road. You need to be checked out in the ER. We'll let you know how your brother is faring when we get him evaluated. It may take hours because he needs exploratory surgery. Wait here until we get your brother out of here
and then someone will help you get settled for transport. Your father is talking to the Doc, he'll join you in a while.
“It's Sam,” Dean croaked.
“Excuse me?” The medic sounded confused.
“His name is Sam and he doesn't like to be called Sammy. Just Sam.”
“I'll remember that,” the man said in a soft voice. “You should rest now and we'll take you in asap. Want to lie down?”
Dean shook his head and watched Sammy, covered in an orange quilt, being lifted into the other ambulance. The EMTs following the gurney inside were carrying multiple bags of fluids and blood. The doors closed on Sam and the sirens cut through every fibers in Dean's body when his eyes followed the rig's speedy launch off the yard.
“Sammy!” He exhaled, the memory of the pale face haunting him. He looked down on his hands, still soiled with his brother's blood. The image of Sam on the floor, an electric cord pulled tight around his neck, the wrist broken and nestled in an odd angle against his face, was like etched to his retinas. He'd give anything to have Sam live; his own life was nothing in comparison and if he could trade places with Sam right now, he'd do it in a blink of an eye. He'd willingly join a monastery if that meant Sam would live. He'd give away the Impala, sell his soul, anything. “God, please!” he mumbled, desperate for a higher power to see his brother through this. He didn't believe there was a god, didn't think he ever had. But he prayed all the same, just in case somebody was listening.
“Son, time to go! We have to get to Sam.”
His father's voice was hoarse and raw, naked pain lingering between the words and Dean rose as on cue when dad's hand curled around his shoulder.
“Yessir.”
John had become a master at keeping his emotions in check, pushing them to the back and focusing on what needed to be done. Sam was one of the few that had an uncanny ability to creep under his skin and have him lose that precious control. Ever since he was a little, Sammy seemed to look right through him and find his weakest spots. John was absolutely certain that his son knew all about him while he felt he knew next to nothing about Sam. The kid hid in plain view; the openness he exhibited at times was only an illusion. John knew that Sam was something of a mystery, always had been. And the things he was learning were scaring him. Not of Sam, but for him. His son seemed a very gentle soul and that contrasted so darkly with what John was discovering that he sometimes felt like going insane. He wouldn't believe any of it, if it weren't for what happened to Mary.
Now, he just didn't know any longer.
And not knowing was the hardest thing.
Like now, sitting by Dean's side in the ambulance, watching his eldest slumped forward, eyes trained on his own hands, soiled with his brother's blood. He had no idea how to console Dean now, no idea what to do to make this better. John was one that fixed things, set them straight. But what was happening now was beyond his powers. It felt just like the night Mary had -.
“As soon as they check you out at the ER, I'm getting us some food, Dean. You must be starving.” John spoke, soberly tuning in on what was fixable.
Dean's head jerked up and looked at him with stunned surprise. His mouth opened, eyes wide with disbelief and anger. John noticed that Dean's hands fisted, hard. Bit then the ambulance swerved into the ambulance bay, siren shutting down and Dean stood up, took three long but wobbly strides to the lateral door and jerked at the door-handle.
John sat there. Petrified of what he was going to meet inside. A stern doctor that announced that Sammy had died en route? A secretary that had found out that the Kulicks insurance didn't cover Sam like Louise had told the EMTs and that they needed to find another hospital for his son? That his son was brain-dead, on life-support and he needed to let them pull the plug?
When the driver finally opened the door from the outside and reached in to steady Dean, John rose to his feet to follow his son inside and get him the help he needed. Dean was all scratched up from the glass-splinters. Dean's face was fixable. That was what he had to concentrate on now.
He walked up to flank Dean, gripping his upper arm, helping the paramedic to make him slow down.
“Son, somebody's gonna look at your cuts. Just slow down. Will you?”
Dean stopped in his tracks, slowly turning around with eyes blazing with anger. His jaw muscles working and his hands fisting when he searched for words.
“Dad! Sam's not going to be alone with this! I'll be with him every step of the way.”
John was taken back with the resentment and ire that Dean directed at him. He let go of his hold, took a step back and told the paramedic to take them to Sam Winchester.
When the two men started walking, John fell back and cold sweat ran down his back.
He couldn't put this on Dean's shoulders, not this time. But he was not sure be would be able to hold it together and Dean would see what a man John Winchester really was; a coward.