Smoke Damage
Title: Smoke Damage
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A hunt goes up in flames. Literally. Sammy tries to make sense of why his brother and father are so shaken up about it.
Written for the Writing between the Lines Challenge on hoodie_time for Prompt 34 by i_speak_tongue. I only took the first part, because she said that was okay. I might come back and write something else for the second part. I have a feeling this is nothing like she imagined this would play out but this is where my mind took me.
Also, filling 'Worst Case Scenario' for my angst_bingo card. Because what could be worse than Winchesters and fire?
Sam knows this is bad. Knows it even as he hears the rumble of the Impala come to an abrupt halt right in front of the door to their motel room, where there’s only gravel and no real parking spots.
Something went wrong on the hunt. Bad enough that neither Dad nor Dean care about messing up their baby’s tires and paintjob and whatnot .
“Sammy, get the med kit,” comes Dad’s harsh command the second he turns his key.
“What happened?” Sam is already on his feet, feeling useless and small in his third hand pyjamas.
Dad shoulders his way through the door, Dean’s 6’ frame dangling off his right shoulder and that alone is enough to scare Sam shitless. Winchesters don’t do carrying. Not even the half dragging, half stumbling kind. Not unless someone is dying.
And Dean? Dean looks pretty much dead to Sam.
Eyes closed, lips pressed into a tight line, so tense they’re starting to look blue. His face is chalk white except for the dark grey smudges on his cheeks and forehead and Sam never before noticed how much those freckles can stand out under the stark motel room lighting.
If not dead, Dean at least looks a whole lot younger than seventeen.
“Sam,” Dad grinds out through gritted teeth and Sam’s eyes snap from the trembling form of his brother to his father’s ash blackened face. They smell like fire and smoke and death, both of them; leave black footprints on the carpet. “Med kit.”
Right.
Sam scatters away into the bathroom while Dad puts Dean face down on the boys’ bed.
“What happened?” he asks again and Dad shakes his head, works to get Dean’s singed jeans off of him.
Dean moans softly when the rough fabric slides over his calves and Sam gasps a second later when he sees the swollen red and purple skin, white blisters standing out in places.
“Dad, what happened?”
“Not now, Sam. Scissors.”
Sam doesn’t believe this. Dean got hurt. Really hurt and Dad won’t tell him how. Sam needs to know what happened and he needs to know it right the fuck now, screw Dad and Dean and all their nonsense rules about Sammy and swearing.
Dad reaches over Dean, roughly shoves Sam’s hand out of the way and gets the scissors out of the kit himself.
His hands are shaking ever so slightly Sam notices and Dad’s hands don’t do that. Ever. (Unless he’s trying to go cold turkey, but he hasn’t done that in a pretty long time.)
Sam wants to protest when Dad starts cutting off Dean’s shirt, straight through the lightning bolt between the C and the D. It’s Dean’s favorite shirt. The only band shirt most school allow, because the band emblem is small and high up on the back.
Sam wants to protest, but the soft, once black fabric falls away and Dean’s back looks even worse than his legs. Blisters on top of welted skin, lazily oozing serous fluid.
“Shit,” Sam whispers, just in time with Dad’s growled “fuck, goddamnit.”
“Dad, what happened?”
Sam can’t help but stare. It’s not exactly like Dean’s entire back and legs are covered in burns. More like patches of slightly wet, enflamed flesh on top of beet red skin.
Dad shakes his head, “Fire.” He starts working a wet cloth over Dean’s back. Long strings of blackened skin shrivel up and cling to the rag like dead insects.
Dean’s eyes flutter open, big and green and red. Sam isn’t sure how much his brother is actually seeing. “’m sorry,” he mumbles into his pillow, tears tracing small pathways through the thin ash coating on his cheeks.
Dad scoots up on the bed, runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. They come back up dark and dusty and somehow that’s worse than when they’re covered in blood. “Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo,” he whispers in a strange, gentle voice that makes him sound like Mike Brady, then all business-like “Sam, Vicodin.”
Sam shakes his head numbly, can’t force his eyes away from the pile of dead skin next to Dean’s legs. “Vicodin makes him throw up.”
Dad looks up at that, glares at the med kit like he is blaming it for every bad thing that has ever happened to their family. “Gimme the strongest thing we got then.”
Sam scoffs. He can’t help it. They ran out of Codeine a month ago and the next best thing they have is Aspirin. Big fucking help that’ll be.
“Hey, Ace,” Dad whispers close to Dean’s ear, holds out his hand for the pills. “We’ll have to make do with Aspirin for tonight, ‘kay?”
Dean nods into his pillow and dry swallows his pills. Dad sits up again and when he looks at Sam his cheeks are wet and his eyes are puffy and Sam’s breath catches in his throat.
Dad keeps working on Dean’s back and Dean’s quiet moans turn to whimpers and then he’s saying “sorry” and “please” and “I didn’t listen” and “sorry” again.
Dad nods for Sam to get into his own bed. It’s late. So late it’s almost morning and Sam is too tired and too scared to put up much of a fight.
Still, he can’t quite block out Dean’s voice. It’s raspy and painful and he has to stop every few words to take a deep, shuddering breath. “Back home,” Dean sobs quietly and Sam’s heart beats faster just at the thought of Dean crying. It’s not right. “The fire, you…you told me not to…look back, but I…I didn’t listen, Dad, I…Mom and…and…”
Sam puts his pillow over his ears. Feels like an intruder. This isn’t his conversation. Somehow he envies them. Wishes fire would hold some sort of memory for him, like it does for Dad and Dean.
It doesn’t though. Sam doesn’t puke at the mere mention of a barbeque and he doesn’t need to spend hours playing with his lighter so he doesn't get a panic attack during a salt'n'burn and he doesn’t really get why Dean keeps begging for Dad to wash the smell of smoke out of his hair.
It's horrible.
Dean sobs softly into his pillow all night, no amount of Aspirin enough to relieve the pain, and Dad just tries so hard to comfort him, kissing his forehead over and over, running his thick, rough fingers through Dean's matted hair. All things Sam's never seen Dad do at all, and it freaks him out. So he rolls over in bed and tries not to listen to Dad whispering in Dean's ear, tries not to look at Dean's back, his legs. The angry red and purple welts that criss-cross his skin and make it look like rotten old bacon, all greasy and everything because Dad's rubbed antibiotic ointment all over him.
He doesn’t think he falls asleep. Not really. More like a half asleep haze filled with pictures of flames and smoke and Dean on the ceiling above Sam’s bed, just like Mom and all the other people in Sam’s dreams.
“Sammy.” Dean sounds close to panic.
Suddenly Sam’s upright in his bed. He looks around, tries to get his tired eyes to focus.
“Dad, I didn’t get Sammy out.”
Sam crawls onto the other bed. His brother looks like he’s trying to curl into himself except the large patches of open wounds on his back stop him from moving all that much. “Dad, what’s wrong?” Sam thinks he sounds a lot like a scared kindergartener, but really, who cares?
“He’s been talkin’ like that for the last hour.” Especially since Dad sounds a lot like the terrified father of a scared kindergartener.
“Dad, where’s Sammy? I didn’t have him when we left and you were carryin’ me, so he’s still in there. We let Sammy die.” Okay, so they’re a family of scared toddlers. Fine by Sam. They’ve earned it.
Dad pulls Sam down so he’s lying on Dean’s other side. The bed is too small for two people, let alone three Winchesters, but somehow Sam doesn’t care.
“You should’a left me there, Dad. You let Sammy burn.”
“Hey, Dean-o,” Dad whispers into Dean’s hair, turns his head slightly to the right so he can make out Sam’s face in the dark. “Look, Sammy’s right here, okay?”
“Huh?”
Somehow Dean manages to sound adorably confused through all the pain and fear. He would probably give Sam a week’s worth of wedgies just for using the words Dean and adorable in the same thought.
“I told you to take him outside and that’s what you did, okay?” Dad whispers. Sounds like he’s crying again.
Sam wonders if Dad is talking about Lawrence or tonight. Probably tonight. Or neither. Anything to make Dean feel better.
“Sammy’s here?” A hand shoots out from under Dean’s pillow, makes a mad grab for Sam’s arm. “…Sammy’s here.”
And just like that the crying stops.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A hunt goes up in flames. Literally. Sammy tries to make sense of why his brother and father are so shaken up about it.
Written for the Writing between the Lines Challenge on hoodie_time for Prompt 34 by i_speak_tongue. I only took the first part, because she said that was okay. I might come back and write something else for the second part. I have a feeling this is nothing like she imagined this would play out but this is where my mind took me.
Also, filling 'Worst Case Scenario' for my angst_bingo card. Because what could be worse than Winchesters and fire?
Sam knows this is bad. Knows it even as he hears the rumble of the Impala come to an abrupt halt right in front of the door to their motel room, where there’s only gravel and no real parking spots.
Something went wrong on the hunt. Bad enough that neither Dad nor Dean care about messing up their baby’s tires and paintjob and whatnot .
“Sammy, get the med kit,” comes Dad’s harsh command the second he turns his key.
“What happened?” Sam is already on his feet, feeling useless and small in his third hand pyjamas.
Dad shoulders his way through the door, Dean’s 6’ frame dangling off his right shoulder and that alone is enough to scare Sam shitless. Winchesters don’t do carrying. Not even the half dragging, half stumbling kind. Not unless someone is dying.
And Dean? Dean looks pretty much dead to Sam.
Eyes closed, lips pressed into a tight line, so tense they’re starting to look blue. His face is chalk white except for the dark grey smudges on his cheeks and forehead and Sam never before noticed how much those freckles can stand out under the stark motel room lighting.
If not dead, Dean at least looks a whole lot younger than seventeen.
“Sam,” Dad grinds out through gritted teeth and Sam’s eyes snap from the trembling form of his brother to his father’s ash blackened face. They smell like fire and smoke and death, both of them; leave black footprints on the carpet. “Med kit.”
Right.
Sam scatters away into the bathroom while Dad puts Dean face down on the boys’ bed.
“What happened?” he asks again and Dad shakes his head, works to get Dean’s singed jeans off of him.
Dean moans softly when the rough fabric slides over his calves and Sam gasps a second later when he sees the swollen red and purple skin, white blisters standing out in places.
“Dad, what happened?”
“Not now, Sam. Scissors.”
Sam doesn’t believe this. Dean got hurt. Really hurt and Dad won’t tell him how. Sam needs to know what happened and he needs to know it right the fuck now, screw Dad and Dean and all their nonsense rules about Sammy and swearing.
Dad reaches over Dean, roughly shoves Sam’s hand out of the way and gets the scissors out of the kit himself.
His hands are shaking ever so slightly Sam notices and Dad’s hands don’t do that. Ever. (Unless he’s trying to go cold turkey, but he hasn’t done that in a pretty long time.)
Sam wants to protest when Dad starts cutting off Dean’s shirt, straight through the lightning bolt between the C and the D. It’s Dean’s favorite shirt. The only band shirt most school allow, because the band emblem is small and high up on the back.
Sam wants to protest, but the soft, once black fabric falls away and Dean’s back looks even worse than his legs. Blisters on top of welted skin, lazily oozing serous fluid.
“Shit,” Sam whispers, just in time with Dad’s growled “fuck, goddamnit.”
“Dad, what happened?”
Sam can’t help but stare. It’s not exactly like Dean’s entire back and legs are covered in burns. More like patches of slightly wet, enflamed flesh on top of beet red skin.
Dad shakes his head, “Fire.” He starts working a wet cloth over Dean’s back. Long strings of blackened skin shrivel up and cling to the rag like dead insects.
Dean’s eyes flutter open, big and green and red. Sam isn’t sure how much his brother is actually seeing. “’m sorry,” he mumbles into his pillow, tears tracing small pathways through the thin ash coating on his cheeks.
Dad scoots up on the bed, runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. They come back up dark and dusty and somehow that’s worse than when they’re covered in blood. “Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo,” he whispers in a strange, gentle voice that makes him sound like Mike Brady, then all business-like “Sam, Vicodin.”
Sam shakes his head numbly, can’t force his eyes away from the pile of dead skin next to Dean’s legs. “Vicodin makes him throw up.”
Dad looks up at that, glares at the med kit like he is blaming it for every bad thing that has ever happened to their family. “Gimme the strongest thing we got then.”
Sam scoffs. He can’t help it. They ran out of Codeine a month ago and the next best thing they have is Aspirin. Big fucking help that’ll be.
“Hey, Ace,” Dad whispers close to Dean’s ear, holds out his hand for the pills. “We’ll have to make do with Aspirin for tonight, ‘kay?”
Dean nods into his pillow and dry swallows his pills. Dad sits up again and when he looks at Sam his cheeks are wet and his eyes are puffy and Sam’s breath catches in his throat.
Dad keeps working on Dean’s back and Dean’s quiet moans turn to whimpers and then he’s saying “sorry” and “please” and “I didn’t listen” and “sorry” again.
Dad nods for Sam to get into his own bed. It’s late. So late it’s almost morning and Sam is too tired and too scared to put up much of a fight.
Still, he can’t quite block out Dean’s voice. It’s raspy and painful and he has to stop every few words to take a deep, shuddering breath. “Back home,” Dean sobs quietly and Sam’s heart beats faster just at the thought of Dean crying. It’s not right. “The fire, you…you told me not to…look back, but I…I didn’t listen, Dad, I…Mom and…and…”
Sam puts his pillow over his ears. Feels like an intruder. This isn’t his conversation. Somehow he envies them. Wishes fire would hold some sort of memory for him, like it does for Dad and Dean.
It doesn’t though. Sam doesn’t puke at the mere mention of a barbeque and he doesn’t need to spend hours playing with his lighter so he doesn't get a panic attack during a salt'n'burn and he doesn’t really get why Dean keeps begging for Dad to wash the smell of smoke out of his hair.
It's horrible.
Dean sobs softly into his pillow all night, no amount of Aspirin enough to relieve the pain, and Dad just tries so hard to comfort him, kissing his forehead over and over, running his thick, rough fingers through Dean's matted hair. All things Sam's never seen Dad do at all, and it freaks him out. So he rolls over in bed and tries not to listen to Dad whispering in Dean's ear, tries not to look at Dean's back, his legs. The angry red and purple welts that criss-cross his skin and make it look like rotten old bacon, all greasy and everything because Dad's rubbed antibiotic ointment all over him.
He doesn’t think he falls asleep. Not really. More like a half asleep haze filled with pictures of flames and smoke and Dean on the ceiling above Sam’s bed, just like Mom and all the other people in Sam’s dreams.
“Sammy.” Dean sounds close to panic.
Suddenly Sam’s upright in his bed. He looks around, tries to get his tired eyes to focus.
“Dad, I didn’t get Sammy out.”
Sam crawls onto the other bed. His brother looks like he’s trying to curl into himself except the large patches of open wounds on his back stop him from moving all that much. “Dad, what’s wrong?” Sam thinks he sounds a lot like a scared kindergartener, but really, who cares?
“He’s been talkin’ like that for the last hour.” Especially since Dad sounds a lot like the terrified father of a scared kindergartener.
“Dad, where’s Sammy? I didn’t have him when we left and you were carryin’ me, so he’s still in there. We let Sammy die.” Okay, so they’re a family of scared toddlers. Fine by Sam. They’ve earned it.
Dad pulls Sam down so he’s lying on Dean’s other side. The bed is too small for two people, let alone three Winchesters, but somehow Sam doesn’t care.
“You should’a left me there, Dad. You let Sammy burn.”
“Hey, Dean-o,” Dad whispers into Dean’s hair, turns his head slightly to the right so he can make out Sam’s face in the dark. “Look, Sammy’s right here, okay?”
“Huh?”
Somehow Dean manages to sound adorably confused through all the pain and fear. He would probably give Sam a week’s worth of wedgies just for using the words Dean and adorable in the same thought.
“I told you to take him outside and that’s what you did, okay?” Dad whispers. Sounds like he’s crying again.
Sam wonders if Dad is talking about Lawrence or tonight. Probably tonight. Or neither. Anything to make Dean feel better.
“Sammy’s here?” A hand shoots out from under Dean’s pillow, makes a mad grab for Sam’s arm. “…Sammy’s here.”
And just like that the crying stops.