fic: Below
Title: Below
Summary: Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.
Word Count: 1783
Author's Note: I have almost 2000 extra words written for this and saved to my computer so maybe there'll be a part 2.
Sam is nearly thirteen and a half when something is lurking in the depths of a lake outside of a small town in South Dakota. The lake is wide and still, the surface a barely rippling blackness, and there's nothing but the gentle rustle of trees and the chirp of crickets as Dad pushes the boat away from the shore. Dean rows, Dad aims his rifle, Sam leans over the edge, the flashlight in his hand barely puncturing the murky depths. It's freezing this late in October and there's a gentle mist blanketing the water.
"See anything?" Dad asks, and Dean can see Sam's lips thinning.
"I can't see," Sam says, frowning at his dad's back. "There's a fog coming in."
John pointedly ignores him. Sam folds his arms across his chest and stares down at the water. Dean watches like a bystander watching an oncoming car crash, he knows the damage that's about to be done and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He's been playing mediator for a couple of years now, since Sam turned eleven and decided he hated everything their dad said or did. He's getting tired of being stuck in the middle.
"I've got a biology test tomorrow," Sam mutters, and judging by the way Dad's shoulders stiffen he must have heard it, too.
"Three people have died already," John says.
"I know, but - "
"But what?" Dad asks, finally turning around to face Sam. "What could possibly be more important?"
Dean watches quietly, breath catching the cold air in a whirl of smoke. It's quiet for a moment, but it seems that even Sam knows when to surrender, at least for now. "Nothing, sir," he grumbles, leaning back over the edge of the boat, tracing the torch's line of light across the lake's surface. The silence that follows might just be worse than raised voices and harsh words.
They're sitting there on the sleepy waters until the sun is just a speck peaking over the horizon. There are no birds paddling on the lake surface, not even a fly buzzing across.
Dad sighs and says, "Let's head back to shore. We'll come back in the morning."
Beside him, Dean hears Sam's soft breath of relief. The moon is already high in the sky, gloomy white among the pinpricks of stars, casting everything in its soft glow. The boat rocks the three of them gently, water licking the sides of the boat. It's peaceful, despite the tension between John and Sam, more so than any of them are used to.
When Dean grabs the oars, one is stuck firmly like the water is dried cement. It's yanked so hard and sudden out of his grip that he's nearly plunged into the impossibly black lake along with it. There's barely a ripple, just the smooth surface, wet and black like oil. Dad cocks his gun and Dean reaches to grab a hold of Sam's jacket. He barely has a chance to grip onto him before the boat is jerked, then tipped, and all three of them are plunged into the freezing waters. Dean is dazed for a moment, floating there in the darkness, so dark that he wouldn't know the sky from the bottom of the lake if it weren't for the rush of bubbles rising upward.
He kicks to the surface, heart pounding with the shock of the cold, and he spits out a mouthful of muddy water. Dad is there, treading water and spitting mud about a meter away, but Dean can't see Sam.
"Sammy!" his voice is choked off by the chill that envelopes him. His hands and feet are completely numb and he can barely get a breath in, but it doesn't stop him from thrashing around like a hooked fish, heart rate rising the longer Sam is out of his sight. Any lesson his dad ever taught him about keeping calm under pressure has drifted from his head like a balloon cut from its string.
There's a small, wet cough behind him and Dean spins to find Sam a few feet away, swimming gingerly towards them, whiter than milk and shivering like a leaf in the wind, but unhurt. That's what's important.
"That's it," Dean says, teeth chattering under a numb smile. He kicks and pushes himself forward. "Keep coming, Sammy. I'll meet you halfway, okay? You okay?"
Sam shudders as he paddles, turning a little pale in his lips, but he nods miserably nonetheless. Dean can hear the heavy splashes of Dad on his tail. He's an arm's reach from grabbing his brother. Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.
Dean doesn't think, he dives. It's blacker than black under the water, he kicks his legs hard, no clue whether he's going down or up, arms spread wide. He catches something thin and slimy between his fingers, just a handful of lake weed. He breaths out half a lungful of air and lets himself drift upwards. He hits the surface with his mouth open wide, air filling his chest again. Just then, Dad's head breaks the water with a heavy gulp.
His eyes widen when he sees that Sam isn't with Dean, then he's flipping himself back downwards with a heavy spray of water kicked up by his feet.
Dean dives down one more time and comes up with nothing but a mouthful of muddy water and a rising terror in his heart. He doesn't know how long it's been, but it's longer than anyone, especially a thirteen year old kid, would be able to hold their breath. He's growing sluggish, he can feel the exhaustion in his limbs, knows he won't be able to keep it up much longer, but he doesn't have a choice.
"Dean," Dad gasps, trying to keep his head above water.
Dean dives back under. Down, down down. His chest aches, begs for more air, but Dean keeps swimming. He reaches out, fingers trailing the jagged rocks on the lake bed. It's becoming unbearable, the tightness in his lungs. He's beginning to suffocate, he should head back for air, but Dean knows that if he doesn't find Sam now, he never will.
He grasps, finds nothing but fistfuls of water, scrapes his fingertips on rocks, startles a fish or two. His chest feels like it might cave in, he's getting heavier, feet dragging in the muddy floor of the lake. He reaches out and finds something soft, drifting like weeds in the flow of the water. Hair. He reaches out and finds cold skin and a set of fingers, then a nose and a mouth. Dean grips a hold of whatever he can and kicks upwards.
The extra weight pulls him down, but Dean's legs fight the water as hard as they can. His lungs are screaming, his mouth is tempted to open and suck in the water. He holds Sam tight, still kicking, but slower and slower as his muscles strain and give up on him.
Something grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him upwards. He meets the the surface, the cold air stinging his wet cheeks as he coughs up a dribble of water. He can see a little under the moonlight, can see Sam's pale blue face where it drops boneless against his shoulder. The two of them drift along. Dean blinks wearily and finds Dad, a firm fist still in Dean's jacket as he drags them both to the shore.
Sam is still and pale on the beach, wet sand sticks to his hair and turns it white. He looks like he's - but no. He can't be.
Dad has his hands pressed together, fingers linked, as he presses down on Sam's chest with rib-cracking strength. Sam's head wobbles a little with the impact, but his eyes don't open, he doesn't open his mouth and breathe. Dean is so full of weariness, he doesn't think his own legs could hold him up, he crawls across the sand and speaks, breathless and wheezing, into Sam's ear.
"Don't you dare."
Because Sam always takes Dean's threats seriously. If Dean says Sam can't die, Sam won't.
"Come on, Sam!" Dad barks, pounding and pounding his fists, trying to beat Sam back to life.
The strange thing is, Dean never sees his dad cry. Dad doesn't let him. Right now, there are salty tears rolling down Dad's cheeks and his chest is heaving with aching sobs. He's slowing down... but he can't. Sammy will die if he stops.
"Dad," Dean says, and his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. "Dad, stop crying. Sam's fine. He's going to be fine, just keep going. Dad!"
Dad stops, hands uncurling, fingers splaying out over Sam's still chest. Dean finds his last reserves of strength and lunges forward, knocking Dad back. Dean resumes his position, fingers knotted, elbows locked, and he pushes down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...
"Fuck you, Sam. Open your goddamn eyes and breathe!"
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...
"You hear me, bitch? Stop messing around!"
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...
"Dean," Dad says.
"No. You shut up," Dean spits back.
Dean keep going, and going, and going, and going. He doesn't know how long it's been since they fell into the lake, since Sam vanished under the water, since Dean pulled him back up, until he starts breathing again. Sam shudders suddenly, chest convulsing, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish. Dean quickly flips him onto his side and rubs his back as a seemingly endless amount of sludgy water comes spilling from Sam's mouth.
He's breathing on his own once he's finished, gasping in great lungfuls of air, too spent to even open his eyes. Dean pulls him up, the kid's heavy and drenched with water, grains of sand sticking to every bit of him. He sinks into Dean's chest, head flopping back into the crook of Dean's elbow, and he breathes.
Dean presses his face into Sam's wet hair, sand sticking to his nose and chin. He pats Sam's cheek, but he doesn't wake, just breathes and coughs, breathes and coughs. His lips are still blue, skin still whiter than white. Dean holds him tighter than he ever has, decides he might never let go. Dad is crawling, stumbling across the sand towards them, eyes red and mouth hanging open. He places a hand over Sam's chest and drops his head with a heavy sigh. Dean had never seen his dad look so scared. And he's never felt such terror in his life, not since the night his mother died.
He stops a moment and feels as Sam's chest swells and deflates under him. In and out, in and out, in and out.
Summary: Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.
Word Count: 1783
Author's Note: I have almost 2000 extra words written for this and saved to my computer so maybe there'll be a part 2.
Sam is nearly thirteen and a half when something is lurking in the depths of a lake outside of a small town in South Dakota. The lake is wide and still, the surface a barely rippling blackness, and there's nothing but the gentle rustle of trees and the chirp of crickets as Dad pushes the boat away from the shore. Dean rows, Dad aims his rifle, Sam leans over the edge, the flashlight in his hand barely puncturing the murky depths. It's freezing this late in October and there's a gentle mist blanketing the water.
"See anything?" Dad asks, and Dean can see Sam's lips thinning.
"I can't see," Sam says, frowning at his dad's back. "There's a fog coming in."
John pointedly ignores him. Sam folds his arms across his chest and stares down at the water. Dean watches like a bystander watching an oncoming car crash, he knows the damage that's about to be done and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He's been playing mediator for a couple of years now, since Sam turned eleven and decided he hated everything their dad said or did. He's getting tired of being stuck in the middle.
"I've got a biology test tomorrow," Sam mutters, and judging by the way Dad's shoulders stiffen he must have heard it, too.
"Three people have died already," John says.
"I know, but - "
"But what?" Dad asks, finally turning around to face Sam. "What could possibly be more important?"
Dean watches quietly, breath catching the cold air in a whirl of smoke. It's quiet for a moment, but it seems that even Sam knows when to surrender, at least for now. "Nothing, sir," he grumbles, leaning back over the edge of the boat, tracing the torch's line of light across the lake's surface. The silence that follows might just be worse than raised voices and harsh words.
They're sitting there on the sleepy waters until the sun is just a speck peaking over the horizon. There are no birds paddling on the lake surface, not even a fly buzzing across.
Dad sighs and says, "Let's head back to shore. We'll come back in the morning."
Beside him, Dean hears Sam's soft breath of relief. The moon is already high in the sky, gloomy white among the pinpricks of stars, casting everything in its soft glow. The boat rocks the three of them gently, water licking the sides of the boat. It's peaceful, despite the tension between John and Sam, more so than any of them are used to.
When Dean grabs the oars, one is stuck firmly like the water is dried cement. It's yanked so hard and sudden out of his grip that he's nearly plunged into the impossibly black lake along with it. There's barely a ripple, just the smooth surface, wet and black like oil. Dad cocks his gun and Dean reaches to grab a hold of Sam's jacket. He barely has a chance to grip onto him before the boat is jerked, then tipped, and all three of them are plunged into the freezing waters. Dean is dazed for a moment, floating there in the darkness, so dark that he wouldn't know the sky from the bottom of the lake if it weren't for the rush of bubbles rising upward.
He kicks to the surface, heart pounding with the shock of the cold, and he spits out a mouthful of muddy water. Dad is there, treading water and spitting mud about a meter away, but Dean can't see Sam.
"Sammy!" his voice is choked off by the chill that envelopes him. His hands and feet are completely numb and he can barely get a breath in, but it doesn't stop him from thrashing around like a hooked fish, heart rate rising the longer Sam is out of his sight. Any lesson his dad ever taught him about keeping calm under pressure has drifted from his head like a balloon cut from its string.
There's a small, wet cough behind him and Dean spins to find Sam a few feet away, swimming gingerly towards them, whiter than milk and shivering like a leaf in the wind, but unhurt. That's what's important.
"That's it," Dean says, teeth chattering under a numb smile. He kicks and pushes himself forward. "Keep coming, Sammy. I'll meet you halfway, okay? You okay?"
Sam shudders as he paddles, turning a little pale in his lips, but he nods miserably nonetheless. Dean can hear the heavy splashes of Dad on his tail. He's an arm's reach from grabbing his brother. Sam's there one second, then he's pulled down so fast there's barely a ripple in his wake.
Dean doesn't think, he dives. It's blacker than black under the water, he kicks his legs hard, no clue whether he's going down or up, arms spread wide. He catches something thin and slimy between his fingers, just a handful of lake weed. He breaths out half a lungful of air and lets himself drift upwards. He hits the surface with his mouth open wide, air filling his chest again. Just then, Dad's head breaks the water with a heavy gulp.
His eyes widen when he sees that Sam isn't with Dean, then he's flipping himself back downwards with a heavy spray of water kicked up by his feet.
Dean dives down one more time and comes up with nothing but a mouthful of muddy water and a rising terror in his heart. He doesn't know how long it's been, but it's longer than anyone, especially a thirteen year old kid, would be able to hold their breath. He's growing sluggish, he can feel the exhaustion in his limbs, knows he won't be able to keep it up much longer, but he doesn't have a choice.
"Dean," Dad gasps, trying to keep his head above water.
Dean dives back under. Down, down down. His chest aches, begs for more air, but Dean keeps swimming. He reaches out, fingers trailing the jagged rocks on the lake bed. It's becoming unbearable, the tightness in his lungs. He's beginning to suffocate, he should head back for air, but Dean knows that if he doesn't find Sam now, he never will.
He grasps, finds nothing but fistfuls of water, scrapes his fingertips on rocks, startles a fish or two. His chest feels like it might cave in, he's getting heavier, feet dragging in the muddy floor of the lake. He reaches out and finds something soft, drifting like weeds in the flow of the water. Hair. He reaches out and finds cold skin and a set of fingers, then a nose and a mouth. Dean grips a hold of whatever he can and kicks upwards.
The extra weight pulls him down, but Dean's legs fight the water as hard as they can. His lungs are screaming, his mouth is tempted to open and suck in the water. He holds Sam tight, still kicking, but slower and slower as his muscles strain and give up on him.
Something grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him upwards. He meets the the surface, the cold air stinging his wet cheeks as he coughs up a dribble of water. He can see a little under the moonlight, can see Sam's pale blue face where it drops boneless against his shoulder. The two of them drift along. Dean blinks wearily and finds Dad, a firm fist still in Dean's jacket as he drags them both to the shore.
Sam is still and pale on the beach, wet sand sticks to his hair and turns it white. He looks like he's - but no. He can't be.
Dad has his hands pressed together, fingers linked, as he presses down on Sam's chest with rib-cracking strength. Sam's head wobbles a little with the impact, but his eyes don't open, he doesn't open his mouth and breathe. Dean is so full of weariness, he doesn't think his own legs could hold him up, he crawls across the sand and speaks, breathless and wheezing, into Sam's ear.
"Don't you dare."
Because Sam always takes Dean's threats seriously. If Dean says Sam can't die, Sam won't.
"Come on, Sam!" Dad barks, pounding and pounding his fists, trying to beat Sam back to life.
The strange thing is, Dean never sees his dad cry. Dad doesn't let him. Right now, there are salty tears rolling down Dad's cheeks and his chest is heaving with aching sobs. He's slowing down... but he can't. Sammy will die if he stops.
"Dad," Dean says, and his voice is unexpectedly hoarse. "Dad, stop crying. Sam's fine. He's going to be fine, just keep going. Dad!"
Dad stops, hands uncurling, fingers splaying out over Sam's still chest. Dean finds his last reserves of strength and lunges forward, knocking Dad back. Dean resumes his position, fingers knotted, elbows locked, and he pushes down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...
"Fuck you, Sam. Open your goddamn eyes and breathe!"
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...
"You hear me, bitch? Stop messing around!"
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...
"Dean," Dad says.
"No. You shut up," Dean spits back.
Dean keep going, and going, and going, and going. He doesn't know how long it's been since they fell into the lake, since Sam vanished under the water, since Dean pulled him back up, until he starts breathing again. Sam shudders suddenly, chest convulsing, mouth gaping open and closed like a fish. Dean quickly flips him onto his side and rubs his back as a seemingly endless amount of sludgy water comes spilling from Sam's mouth.
He's breathing on his own once he's finished, gasping in great lungfuls of air, too spent to even open his eyes. Dean pulls him up, the kid's heavy and drenched with water, grains of sand sticking to every bit of him. He sinks into Dean's chest, head flopping back into the crook of Dean's elbow, and he breathes.
Dean presses his face into Sam's wet hair, sand sticking to his nose and chin. He pats Sam's cheek, but he doesn't wake, just breathes and coughs, breathes and coughs. His lips are still blue, skin still whiter than white. Dean holds him tighter than he ever has, decides he might never let go. Dad is crawling, stumbling across the sand towards them, eyes red and mouth hanging open. He places a hand over Sam's chest and drops his head with a heavy sigh. Dean had never seen his dad look so scared. And he's never felt such terror in his life, not since the night his mother died.
He stops a moment and feels as Sam's chest swells and deflates under him. In and out, in and out, in and out.