Fic: Of Snow and Seatbelts
Posted for the second Dean-focused H/C meme over at hoodie_time in answer to the prompt: Dean shot by a human in the woods, Sam needs to get them out before he bleeds to death.
I've already done messed-up Sam and awesome Dean this week, so this prompt demanded the reverse.
It was the third hunt they'd taken on in two weeks, driving straight from one to the next sometimes without pausing for sleep in between. Sam feared his spine would become permanently curved from spending more nights than not curled up in the backseat of the Impala, a space barely half as long as he was tall. He'd warned Dean they were both burning out, but Dean pursued the hunt as though the forces of Hell were chasing him. With Seals bursting like popcorn kernels, Sam couldn't even convince himself it was a good time for a rest, let alone his near-obsessed brother.
Perhaps he should have.
The engine starting broke into Sam's uneasy sleep, and he sat up, rubbing his neck as he peered over the front seat. "Where are we going now?" he asked, trying to sound annoyed rather than plaintive.
"Meadville, Pennsylvania. Looking into some disappearances in the woods outside of town."
A newspaper smacked into his face.
"It's a little dark for reading." Sam pointed out sarcastically.
A flashlight followed more slowly.
"Okay, five missing persons in three months, and a little biography of number five. We got anything else? History?"
"Can't exactly get the world's best wireless signal out here. We'll look into it when we get there."
"And how are we going to get a room in Meadville? My last credit card stopped working yesterday, and you better not think I'm going to iron our suits on the engine block."
"I should be able to pick up new cards at a PO box in Columbus."
"And if they aren't there?" Sam demanded.
"We'll come up with something."
"Can I at least get in the front seat?"
****************************
Less than 24 hours later, the brothers tramped through State Game Lands Number 213, jackets pulled shut against a raw, windy March night. The snow pack was close to melted, but some remained under the trees, and the pile in the parking lot was still taller than a man.
"One more time, why do we have to do this tonight? I could be sleeping in a real bed right now. And it's not like we even know what we're looking for here."
Sam was drawing in a breath for another round of complaining when he realized he'd lost his audience.
Dean had stopped and was looking around in surprise, one hand to his shoulder. Between his fingers, red blood spread rapidly.
First things first.
"What hit you?" Sam asked, scanning the area rapidly. Aside from a raccoon slipping behind a nearby tree, he saw absolutely nothing of note. Eyes still moving, he pulled Dean off the trail and into a small hollow. Dean still appeared stunned, so Sam pulled out a penlight and, carefully shielding it with one hand, pulled Dean's clothes open and peered at the injury.
"Bullet," Sam whispered. "No exit wound."
Dean's confused frown deepened. "Thought so. But I didn't hear a gun."
Sam blinked. "I didn't either." He peered at the wound again. It looked fairly shallow, and the angle was all wrong for a man who'd been shot while standing. The bullet had come from above, somehow.
Somebody fired his gun at the moon. Fucking asshole.
Still, they probably weren't in any further danger from the fucking asshole, so Sam dug out the medical kit.
"Just wrap it up." Dean ordered woozily. "You can pull out the bullet later."
An inch higher, and Sam would have been willing to simply haul him back to the motel and dig it out there. Three inches lower, and Dean would have been dead instantly. As it was, he'd probably survive with help, but there was no way Sam would going digging with forceps that close to the brachial artery.
Every instinct screamed against bringing a bullet wound to the authorities, but... Dean Winchester was dead. And then some. And for once, they could tell the truth about how it happened--they didn't have a clue who shot him or why, and it really might have been an accident.
So. Hospital then.
Still, they'd walked almost three miles away from the car. Sam had put on a lot of muscle the past year or so, but he couldn't carry Dean that far. Not in any reasonable time, and not in any position that wouldn't make the wound worse. The temperature had dropped, and the snow on the edge of the path had hardened again. The cold would accelerate shock and blood loss, which meant he had even less time to get Dean to help, and... Sam stopped and stared at the icy trail.
Building a stretcher from a pair of saplings and the emergency blanket was a pretty basic Winchester skill. This time, Sam added a layer of duct tape over the lower third of the blanket, and pulled the strap off his duffle and attached it to the front.
Despite the hasty pressure bandage he'd applied, Dean had gone alarmingly white by the time it was finished.
"Sammy? Why're you chopping down trees?" He asked vaguely.
"Just making a sled for you."
"Don't want to go sledding."
"It's just until we get back to the car."
Sam gently transferred his dazed brother to the litter and tied him in place, then slid the strap over his chest. It fit comfortably and left Sam's arms free to wield a weapon.
Dean continued to protest softly. "I can walk! My legs are fine. Hey, what's with the seatbelt?"
Sam tugged the litter onto the snow-covered side of the trail and began pulling. The tape-covered blanket slid smoothly over the snow, even with a grown man's weight on top, and the faint sliding noises seemed to fall into rhythm with the muttered complaints from the peanut gallery.
It had taken the brothers an hour to hike in. Between fighting the weight of the litter and trying to avoid bumps, it took almost two for Sam to get back to the car. He imagined that with every step, he could hear another drop of Dean's blood falling, soaking into the blanket and running down it into the snow.
As the minutes ticked past, the complains grew fainter, until, a mile from the car, Dean finally fell silent altogether. Alarmed, Sam set the stretcher down and checked for a pulse. It was too faint and too fast, but still present.
With Dean unconscious, at least he would no longer feel the jolting. Sam picked up the pace, but almost immediately began feeling anxious again. He had no way of monitoring Dean's condition from the end of the litter, but stopping to examine him was time they couldn't afford to lose.
Finally, he set the stretcher down and rearranged the "seatbelt" so that Dean's uninjured left arm hung free. Then he picked the stretcher back up and grabbed the loose wrist, setting his index finger on the pulse point. Thus reassured, he moved on. Faster.
The tires screeched as Sam left the parking lot, phone in one hand, Dean laid out in the back.
"Yeah, I need directions to the nearest hospital. I'm bringing in a gunshot victim. And I don't have sirens on my car, so if you could ask the cops to please not pull me over, that would be awesome..."
I've already done messed-up Sam and awesome Dean this week, so this prompt demanded the reverse.
It was the third hunt they'd taken on in two weeks, driving straight from one to the next sometimes without pausing for sleep in between. Sam feared his spine would become permanently curved from spending more nights than not curled up in the backseat of the Impala, a space barely half as long as he was tall. He'd warned Dean they were both burning out, but Dean pursued the hunt as though the forces of Hell were chasing him. With Seals bursting like popcorn kernels, Sam couldn't even convince himself it was a good time for a rest, let alone his near-obsessed brother.
Perhaps he should have.
The engine starting broke into Sam's uneasy sleep, and he sat up, rubbing his neck as he peered over the front seat. "Where are we going now?" he asked, trying to sound annoyed rather than plaintive.
"Meadville, Pennsylvania. Looking into some disappearances in the woods outside of town."
A newspaper smacked into his face.
"It's a little dark for reading." Sam pointed out sarcastically.
A flashlight followed more slowly.
"Okay, five missing persons in three months, and a little biography of number five. We got anything else? History?"
"Can't exactly get the world's best wireless signal out here. We'll look into it when we get there."
"And how are we going to get a room in Meadville? My last credit card stopped working yesterday, and you better not think I'm going to iron our suits on the engine block."
"I should be able to pick up new cards at a PO box in Columbus."
"And if they aren't there?" Sam demanded.
"We'll come up with something."
"Can I at least get in the front seat?"
****************************
Less than 24 hours later, the brothers tramped through State Game Lands Number 213, jackets pulled shut against a raw, windy March night. The snow pack was close to melted, but some remained under the trees, and the pile in the parking lot was still taller than a man.
"One more time, why do we have to do this tonight? I could be sleeping in a real bed right now. And it's not like we even know what we're looking for here."
Sam was drawing in a breath for another round of complaining when he realized he'd lost his audience.
Dean had stopped and was looking around in surprise, one hand to his shoulder. Between his fingers, red blood spread rapidly.
First things first.
"What hit you?" Sam asked, scanning the area rapidly. Aside from a raccoon slipping behind a nearby tree, he saw absolutely nothing of note. Eyes still moving, he pulled Dean off the trail and into a small hollow. Dean still appeared stunned, so Sam pulled out a penlight and, carefully shielding it with one hand, pulled Dean's clothes open and peered at the injury.
"Bullet," Sam whispered. "No exit wound."
Dean's confused frown deepened. "Thought so. But I didn't hear a gun."
Sam blinked. "I didn't either." He peered at the wound again. It looked fairly shallow, and the angle was all wrong for a man who'd been shot while standing. The bullet had come from above, somehow.
Somebody fired his gun at the moon. Fucking asshole.
Still, they probably weren't in any further danger from the fucking asshole, so Sam dug out the medical kit.
"Just wrap it up." Dean ordered woozily. "You can pull out the bullet later."
An inch higher, and Sam would have been willing to simply haul him back to the motel and dig it out there. Three inches lower, and Dean would have been dead instantly. As it was, he'd probably survive with help, but there was no way Sam would going digging with forceps that close to the brachial artery.
Every instinct screamed against bringing a bullet wound to the authorities, but... Dean Winchester was dead. And then some. And for once, they could tell the truth about how it happened--they didn't have a clue who shot him or why, and it really might have been an accident.
So. Hospital then.
Still, they'd walked almost three miles away from the car. Sam had put on a lot of muscle the past year or so, but he couldn't carry Dean that far. Not in any reasonable time, and not in any position that wouldn't make the wound worse. The temperature had dropped, and the snow on the edge of the path had hardened again. The cold would accelerate shock and blood loss, which meant he had even less time to get Dean to help, and... Sam stopped and stared at the icy trail.
Building a stretcher from a pair of saplings and the emergency blanket was a pretty basic Winchester skill. This time, Sam added a layer of duct tape over the lower third of the blanket, and pulled the strap off his duffle and attached it to the front.
Despite the hasty pressure bandage he'd applied, Dean had gone alarmingly white by the time it was finished.
"Sammy? Why're you chopping down trees?" He asked vaguely.
"Just making a sled for you."
"Don't want to go sledding."
"It's just until we get back to the car."
Sam gently transferred his dazed brother to the litter and tied him in place, then slid the strap over his chest. It fit comfortably and left Sam's arms free to wield a weapon.
Dean continued to protest softly. "I can walk! My legs are fine. Hey, what's with the seatbelt?"
Sam tugged the litter onto the snow-covered side of the trail and began pulling. The tape-covered blanket slid smoothly over the snow, even with a grown man's weight on top, and the faint sliding noises seemed to fall into rhythm with the muttered complaints from the peanut gallery.
It had taken the brothers an hour to hike in. Between fighting the weight of the litter and trying to avoid bumps, it took almost two for Sam to get back to the car. He imagined that with every step, he could hear another drop of Dean's blood falling, soaking into the blanket and running down it into the snow.
As the minutes ticked past, the complains grew fainter, until, a mile from the car, Dean finally fell silent altogether. Alarmed, Sam set the stretcher down and checked for a pulse. It was too faint and too fast, but still present.
With Dean unconscious, at least he would no longer feel the jolting. Sam picked up the pace, but almost immediately began feeling anxious again. He had no way of monitoring Dean's condition from the end of the litter, but stopping to examine him was time they couldn't afford to lose.
Finally, he set the stretcher down and rearranged the "seatbelt" so that Dean's uninjured left arm hung free. Then he picked the stretcher back up and grabbed the loose wrist, setting his index finger on the pulse point. Thus reassured, he moved on. Faster.
The tires screeched as Sam left the parking lot, phone in one hand, Dean laid out in the back.
"Yeah, I need directions to the nearest hospital. I'm bringing in a gunshot victim. And I don't have sirens on my car, so if you could ask the cops to please not pull me over, that would be awesome..."