Alive
Title: Alive
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: The first time Sam really needs stitches is also the first time Dad can't do the stitches himself. Sam doesn't care that he's sixteen and supposed to be tough. He really, really doesn't.
Written for the Hurt/Comfort Comment Fic Meme on ohsam. (Yup. Hurt!Sam. Not even a hint of Hurt!Dean or plot. Also, yay for good-daddy!John. Don't judge me, I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time.)
Sam thinks he should be objecting to this. All of it. Being in the backseat and his head cradled in Dad’s lap and Dean looking over his shoulder as he’s driving which just can’t be the safe thing to do.
Sam thinks - doesn’t --
Sam thinks.
The world fizzles out and for a minute everything is just black (cold. Why’s he so cold?). When he comes back, he's staring up at the ceiling. There’s a bright light, right in the middle of the dark wood and it stays there, burned into his mind, even when he screws his eyes shut tight.
He can hear them moving around him, opening doors, running the shower, pulling shut their shit-brown curtains. It all blends together and Sam just keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to slow down again.
His throat feels dry and rough like sandpaper. He needs something to drink. He needs…Dad should… Sam swallows to get his voice working again, but it makes him cough and coughing sends pain burning up his chest and deep down into his belly.
He thinks he must have made a sound because suddenly Dean is cursing and Dad is telling him to calm down and Sam isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.
He tries to tell them sorry. Sorry he didn’t see the black dog coming, didn’t hold on to his gun, didn’t - maybe he didn’t do anything. Maybe that’s the problem. He told them he didn’t want to go with them, but they didn’t listen, they never listen, never let him back out and God, Sam hurts.
“Sammy.”
Sam blinks his eyes open. His mattress dips and he rolls to the side and he doesn’t care, Sam buries his face in his father’s jeans until the room isn’t quite so bright anymore.
“Sammy,” Dad says again and Sam remembers that he’s Sam. Sam, not Sammy, but he doesn’t really remember why. “Sammy, you gotta move your hands, kiddo.”
Sam tries to tell him sorry. There’s blood on the sheets, next to Dad’s leg and it can’t all be Sam’s and he’s just…he’s -
“C’mon, Sammy, move your hands.”
Sam’s hands are wet. Sam’s hands are cramped up in his shirt and they’re wet and warm and oh God, Sam remembers the claws. The black dog’s claws and teeth and how he was ripped open and so sure he was going to die.
Someone puts a wet cloth onto Sam’s neck (Dean. Gotta be Dean. Dean didn’t get hurt.) and Sam tries to uncurl his fingers even though some part of him is screaming to stop, screaming to keep holding himself together.
They take his hands, put his arms down by his sides and work his shirt up over his head. It’s like he’s getting ripped open all over again. Sam wants to scream, but his throat is raw and he ends up clamping down on a hoarse groan.
“Fuckin’…” Dean whispers and stops, like he can’t even wrap his head around the state of Sam’s chest.
Sam tries to look, but he can’t figure out a way to lift his head without tearing his insides apart.
They dab at his chest on his left side, just below and above his ribs on his left side which isn’t really where they pain is worst. Sam thinks that can’t be right. He tries to file it away for later analysis, but the thought floats away before he can really grasp it.
They’re talking. Dean and Dad, and Sam tries to tune in because it sounds like they’re fighting and Dean and Dad don’t really fight, and Sam picks up bits and pieces that don’t make much sense.
“Stitches” and “no” and “hand’s all fucked to hell” and then they’re all the way across the room, Dad is yelling in Dean’s face and Dean looks like he’s shivering, shaking his head. It’s weird how Sam’s brain isn’t picking up much of what they’re saying, too focused on the buzzing that’s clogging up his ears.
He dips his head away from them because focusing hurts. The towel on his neck slides down far enough so Sam can lick a couple of drops of water from his cheek.
Sam blinks and when he opens his eyes again, Dad and Dean have switched places, Dean on his left, Dad on the right and Sam is dimly aware that he’s missed out on a significant amount of time.
“I’m gonna…” Dean sounds like his throat is all messed up, too tight for words. He’s got a needle in his hand and suddenly…suddenly.
“No,” Sam gasps. “No, I want Dad.”
He doesn’t even care. He’s sixteen. Him and Dad, they haven’t had a civil conversation that lasted longer than five seconds in months, but he doesn’t care.
“Move your hands,” Dad says and Sam doesn’t know when he got them pressed against his abdomen again. He can feel the blood now, cracking open when he bends his fingers, caked under his nails.
Dean moves Sam’s chin, pushes something between his teeth and Sam can’t dry swallow, not with his throat filled with dread and then there’s a cup pressed against his lips and Dean pours water into his mouth and Sam gulps it down like he hasn’t had anything to drink in years.
“It’s not that bad,” Dad says, twisting his hand into Sam’s hair. It’s clumsy, a little too rough. Sam wonders if that’s because it’s his left hand or just because it’s Dad. “Not as bad as it looks, anyway. Dean’s gonna stitch you right up.”
“I want you.” Sam knows he’s whining but…but just…God damnit, fuck, Sam wants.
It’s like when he was seven. Or maybe eight. However old he was when he had a birthday in Alabama. It was way too hot for May and Sam cut his hand on a rock when Dean took him swimming to the pond by their cabin. He was going through a phase, thought he couldn’t see blood without passing out, so Dean put his arms around him and hugged him to his chest, so his left arm was pinned between them and he talked into Sam’s ear while Dad did his stitches and damnit, Sam wants that now.
Now, Dean says, “cryin’ little bitch,” and Dad growls his name, which is as much of a threat as they ever need, but it loosens something in Sam’s chest and makes him almost want to giggle, the way Dean can’t pass up an opportunity to call him names.
Sam tries to call him a jerk, but he’s all light headed all of a sudden and doesn’t remember how.
“The dog chewed on my hand,” Dad says and Sam nods because he can see that, see how Dad’s shirt is stiff with blood, almost all the way up to his elbow. “So Dean’s gonna do your stitches and you’re gonna be fine. You got five cuts. We’re gonna need to disinfect them first. Do you want the belt?”
Sam’s eyes fly back open and he whips his head around so fast it makes the entire room spin.
“No,” he almost shouts.
He’s trying. He really is, he’s trying not to mess things up any worse, trying to let them fix him, he’s - he’s shivering and then Dad’s hand tightens and pulls on Sam’s hair and Sam remembers Dad meant a belt for his teeth, to bite down on, God, Sam's acting like an idiot. He feels stupid, tries to say he’s sorry, but his tongue is too heavy and thinking is too much like walking through snow that’s piled up all the way up to your knees.
Then Dean says "cheers!" and suddenly Sam’s got a bottle pushed between his teeth. The whiskey tastes sharp and rough and burns going down. Sam tries not to cough too much because even the shivering hurts the gashes in his chest so bad he can't even think about it. Then Dean pulls the bottle away and tips it over, pours alcohol into the wounds and it burns, it tears so much, Sam wants to crawl out of his skin. His throat is raw but he screams. Dean’s got one hand pressed against Sam’s upper chest, Dad’s good hand is circled around Sam’s wrists. He can’t get away, can’t make it stop, oh God, he can’t do this, it’s too much, he -
Sam waits for the blackout, but it doesn’t come, so he just holds on, yells and shouts his way to his line in the sand. He stumbles over it and keeps on going until he comes out gasping on the other side.
The shivering is almost too much to handle now. He’s cold and trembling and his brother’s and father’s hands are there, their grips unsure on Sam’s clammy skin.
“Good boy,” Dad whispers into his hair. His voice sounds off, Sam thinks but he’s too worn out to pin it down.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees and this Sam can figure out. This is Dean with his voice pitched too deep, the way he thinks makes him sound like Dad when he’s trying to be tough. “Yeah, good job.”
Sam blinks the sweat out of his eyes. His breathing is labored and too fast, his chest hurts every time he draws in air.
“You want another pill?”
That’s Dad. Sam shudders when he tries to answer. His breath hitches and for a moment it’s like he can’t breathe at all. So he shakes his head, then nods because he doesn’t care about being tough right now, all he wants is for the pain to go away and deal with the possible liver damage later.
Dean feeds him another pill. Sam tastes dirt on his fingers. Dirt and whiskey and Sam’s blood.
“Okay,” Dean says, more to himself than anything else. He picks up his needle and dread washes over Sam like a bucket of cold water. “Rock’n’roll.”
He doesn’t do that bullshit counting thing that Dad sometimes does when he’s popping Dean’s shoulder back in, where he says he’ll count to three and then does it way before that, anyway. Sam’s a little grateful for that, just because no counting at all gives him zero chance of tensing up beforehand.
The first one isn’t too bad, all things considered. It sort of gets lost in the general agony that is Sam’s chest, the pounding and the burning and the noise that’s buzzing through his head.
Sam is squinting up at the ceiling, staring into the bright headlight that hurts his eyes enough to make them water. He zones out, zeros in on Dad’s hand in his hair and he wonders who Dad’s talking to, him or Dean, who needs calming down right now?
He blinks again and the room is swaying, left and right and up and down and up, up, up until Sam is sure he’s about to crash into the ceiling.
He snaps back to with a hot jolt that shoots through his chest. Dean is apologizing, says “sorry” almost as much as he’s saying “fuck” and then Sam’s out again.
The buzzing is still in his ears when he comes back around this time, and the headlight is still burning into his eyes. His chest is wrapped up, feels numb and sore at the same time under his bandages.
He’s not dead, he thinks. He’s not dead. He was sure he was going to die, but he’s not. Didn’t.
“’course you’re not.”
Dean’s voice echoes through Sam’s head. He manages to turn around until his forehead knocks into his brother’s hip. He tries to look up, but it’s too much of an effort and he just sinks back against his sheets, smells sweat and wet towels and Dean.
“You better be glad you’re such a shrimp,” Dean says, which doesn’t even make sense because Sam’s grown at least five inches in the last year, so much he’s working his way up to finally being eye level with Dean. “If you were bigger, think of all the blood the fucker coulda drawn.”
And that’s…that’s so not how mortal injuries work.
Sam scowls which makes Dean laugh so much their mattress shakes.
Sam’s stomach turns and for a minute he feels like throwing up. He curls onto his side, buries his face half in the covers, half in Dean’s jeans. He makes some sort of noise, he thinks, isn’t sure, but Dad’s got his hands, threading through Sam’s hair (both hands. Dad’s fine) and Sam takes a shuddering breath and sinks back under.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: The first time Sam really needs stitches is also the first time Dad can't do the stitches himself. Sam doesn't care that he's sixteen and supposed to be tough. He really, really doesn't.
Written for the Hurt/Comfort Comment Fic Meme on ohsam. (Yup. Hurt!Sam. Not even a hint of Hurt!Dean or plot. Also, yay for good-daddy!John. Don't judge me, I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time.)
Sam thinks he should be objecting to this. All of it. Being in the backseat and his head cradled in Dad’s lap and Dean looking over his shoulder as he’s driving which just can’t be the safe thing to do.
Sam thinks - doesn’t --
Sam thinks.
The world fizzles out and for a minute everything is just black (cold. Why’s he so cold?). When he comes back, he's staring up at the ceiling. There’s a bright light, right in the middle of the dark wood and it stays there, burned into his mind, even when he screws his eyes shut tight.
He can hear them moving around him, opening doors, running the shower, pulling shut their shit-brown curtains. It all blends together and Sam just keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to slow down again.
His throat feels dry and rough like sandpaper. He needs something to drink. He needs…Dad should… Sam swallows to get his voice working again, but it makes him cough and coughing sends pain burning up his chest and deep down into his belly.
He thinks he must have made a sound because suddenly Dean is cursing and Dad is telling him to calm down and Sam isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.
He tries to tell them sorry. Sorry he didn’t see the black dog coming, didn’t hold on to his gun, didn’t - maybe he didn’t do anything. Maybe that’s the problem. He told them he didn’t want to go with them, but they didn’t listen, they never listen, never let him back out and God, Sam hurts.
“Sammy.”
Sam blinks his eyes open. His mattress dips and he rolls to the side and he doesn’t care, Sam buries his face in his father’s jeans until the room isn’t quite so bright anymore.
“Sammy,” Dad says again and Sam remembers that he’s Sam. Sam, not Sammy, but he doesn’t really remember why. “Sammy, you gotta move your hands, kiddo.”
Sam tries to tell him sorry. There’s blood on the sheets, next to Dad’s leg and it can’t all be Sam’s and he’s just…he’s -
“C’mon, Sammy, move your hands.”
Sam’s hands are wet. Sam’s hands are cramped up in his shirt and they’re wet and warm and oh God, Sam remembers the claws. The black dog’s claws and teeth and how he was ripped open and so sure he was going to die.
Someone puts a wet cloth onto Sam’s neck (Dean. Gotta be Dean. Dean didn’t get hurt.) and Sam tries to uncurl his fingers even though some part of him is screaming to stop, screaming to keep holding himself together.
They take his hands, put his arms down by his sides and work his shirt up over his head. It’s like he’s getting ripped open all over again. Sam wants to scream, but his throat is raw and he ends up clamping down on a hoarse groan.
“Fuckin’…” Dean whispers and stops, like he can’t even wrap his head around the state of Sam’s chest.
Sam tries to look, but he can’t figure out a way to lift his head without tearing his insides apart.
They dab at his chest on his left side, just below and above his ribs on his left side which isn’t really where they pain is worst. Sam thinks that can’t be right. He tries to file it away for later analysis, but the thought floats away before he can really grasp it.
They’re talking. Dean and Dad, and Sam tries to tune in because it sounds like they’re fighting and Dean and Dad don’t really fight, and Sam picks up bits and pieces that don’t make much sense.
“Stitches” and “no” and “hand’s all fucked to hell” and then they’re all the way across the room, Dad is yelling in Dean’s face and Dean looks like he’s shivering, shaking his head. It’s weird how Sam’s brain isn’t picking up much of what they’re saying, too focused on the buzzing that’s clogging up his ears.
He dips his head away from them because focusing hurts. The towel on his neck slides down far enough so Sam can lick a couple of drops of water from his cheek.
Sam blinks and when he opens his eyes again, Dad and Dean have switched places, Dean on his left, Dad on the right and Sam is dimly aware that he’s missed out on a significant amount of time.
“I’m gonna…” Dean sounds like his throat is all messed up, too tight for words. He’s got a needle in his hand and suddenly…suddenly.
“No,” Sam gasps. “No, I want Dad.”
He doesn’t even care. He’s sixteen. Him and Dad, they haven’t had a civil conversation that lasted longer than five seconds in months, but he doesn’t care.
“Move your hands,” Dad says and Sam doesn’t know when he got them pressed against his abdomen again. He can feel the blood now, cracking open when he bends his fingers, caked under his nails.
Dean moves Sam’s chin, pushes something between his teeth and Sam can’t dry swallow, not with his throat filled with dread and then there’s a cup pressed against his lips and Dean pours water into his mouth and Sam gulps it down like he hasn’t had anything to drink in years.
“It’s not that bad,” Dad says, twisting his hand into Sam’s hair. It’s clumsy, a little too rough. Sam wonders if that’s because it’s his left hand or just because it’s Dad. “Not as bad as it looks, anyway. Dean’s gonna stitch you right up.”
“I want you.” Sam knows he’s whining but…but just…God damnit, fuck, Sam wants.
It’s like when he was seven. Or maybe eight. However old he was when he had a birthday in Alabama. It was way too hot for May and Sam cut his hand on a rock when Dean took him swimming to the pond by their cabin. He was going through a phase, thought he couldn’t see blood without passing out, so Dean put his arms around him and hugged him to his chest, so his left arm was pinned between them and he talked into Sam’s ear while Dad did his stitches and damnit, Sam wants that now.
Now, Dean says, “cryin’ little bitch,” and Dad growls his name, which is as much of a threat as they ever need, but it loosens something in Sam’s chest and makes him almost want to giggle, the way Dean can’t pass up an opportunity to call him names.
Sam tries to call him a jerk, but he’s all light headed all of a sudden and doesn’t remember how.
“The dog chewed on my hand,” Dad says and Sam nods because he can see that, see how Dad’s shirt is stiff with blood, almost all the way up to his elbow. “So Dean’s gonna do your stitches and you’re gonna be fine. You got five cuts. We’re gonna need to disinfect them first. Do you want the belt?”
Sam’s eyes fly back open and he whips his head around so fast it makes the entire room spin.
“No,” he almost shouts.
He’s trying. He really is, he’s trying not to mess things up any worse, trying to let them fix him, he’s - he’s shivering and then Dad’s hand tightens and pulls on Sam’s hair and Sam remembers Dad meant a belt for his teeth, to bite down on, God, Sam's acting like an idiot. He feels stupid, tries to say he’s sorry, but his tongue is too heavy and thinking is too much like walking through snow that’s piled up all the way up to your knees.
Then Dean says "cheers!" and suddenly Sam’s got a bottle pushed between his teeth. The whiskey tastes sharp and rough and burns going down. Sam tries not to cough too much because even the shivering hurts the gashes in his chest so bad he can't even think about it. Then Dean pulls the bottle away and tips it over, pours alcohol into the wounds and it burns, it tears so much, Sam wants to crawl out of his skin. His throat is raw but he screams. Dean’s got one hand pressed against Sam’s upper chest, Dad’s good hand is circled around Sam’s wrists. He can’t get away, can’t make it stop, oh God, he can’t do this, it’s too much, he -
Sam waits for the blackout, but it doesn’t come, so he just holds on, yells and shouts his way to his line in the sand. He stumbles over it and keeps on going until he comes out gasping on the other side.
The shivering is almost too much to handle now. He’s cold and trembling and his brother’s and father’s hands are there, their grips unsure on Sam’s clammy skin.
“Good boy,” Dad whispers into his hair. His voice sounds off, Sam thinks but he’s too worn out to pin it down.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees and this Sam can figure out. This is Dean with his voice pitched too deep, the way he thinks makes him sound like Dad when he’s trying to be tough. “Yeah, good job.”
Sam blinks the sweat out of his eyes. His breathing is labored and too fast, his chest hurts every time he draws in air.
“You want another pill?”
That’s Dad. Sam shudders when he tries to answer. His breath hitches and for a moment it’s like he can’t breathe at all. So he shakes his head, then nods because he doesn’t care about being tough right now, all he wants is for the pain to go away and deal with the possible liver damage later.
Dean feeds him another pill. Sam tastes dirt on his fingers. Dirt and whiskey and Sam’s blood.
“Okay,” Dean says, more to himself than anything else. He picks up his needle and dread washes over Sam like a bucket of cold water. “Rock’n’roll.”
He doesn’t do that bullshit counting thing that Dad sometimes does when he’s popping Dean’s shoulder back in, where he says he’ll count to three and then does it way before that, anyway. Sam’s a little grateful for that, just because no counting at all gives him zero chance of tensing up beforehand.
The first one isn’t too bad, all things considered. It sort of gets lost in the general agony that is Sam’s chest, the pounding and the burning and the noise that’s buzzing through his head.
Sam is squinting up at the ceiling, staring into the bright headlight that hurts his eyes enough to make them water. He zones out, zeros in on Dad’s hand in his hair and he wonders who Dad’s talking to, him or Dean, who needs calming down right now?
He blinks again and the room is swaying, left and right and up and down and up, up, up until Sam is sure he’s about to crash into the ceiling.
He snaps back to with a hot jolt that shoots through his chest. Dean is apologizing, says “sorry” almost as much as he’s saying “fuck” and then Sam’s out again.
The buzzing is still in his ears when he comes back around this time, and the headlight is still burning into his eyes. His chest is wrapped up, feels numb and sore at the same time under his bandages.
He’s not dead, he thinks. He’s not dead. He was sure he was going to die, but he’s not. Didn’t.
“’course you’re not.”
Dean’s voice echoes through Sam’s head. He manages to turn around until his forehead knocks into his brother’s hip. He tries to look up, but it’s too much of an effort and he just sinks back against his sheets, smells sweat and wet towels and Dean.
“You better be glad you’re such a shrimp,” Dean says, which doesn’t even make sense because Sam’s grown at least five inches in the last year, so much he’s working his way up to finally being eye level with Dean. “If you were bigger, think of all the blood the fucker coulda drawn.”
And that’s…that’s so not how mortal injuries work.
Sam scowls which makes Dean laugh so much their mattress shakes.
Sam’s stomach turns and for a minute he feels like throwing up. He curls onto his side, buries his face half in the covers, half in Dean’s jeans. He makes some sort of noise, he thinks, isn’t sure, but Dad’s got his hands, threading through Sam’s hair (both hands. Dad’s fine) and Sam takes a shuddering breath and sinks back under.