Title: Self Medication
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 3,099 words
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing.
Warning: WWP (whump without plot), hurt!Sam
Summary: for pignapoke; tag to 4.19- "Jump The Shark" How Dean helped Sammy and how Sam helped himself.
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Dean.
It's a desperate prayer, a plea that cannot form on his lips. He can hear the sounds of struggling, fighting, but its growing farther and farther away. He yanks desperately at the ropes tying him down. He's gotta help Dean; if only he could get his arms free… he tugs harder as his vision wavers.
The house has gone still. It's like a dagger to the heart. Dean hasn't come to help him yet. If Dean were okay he'd be …
"Dean!" he wants it to sound more commanding, more forceful, but it comes out weak, cracked and pleading.
Hands, arms, a blurry body appears on the edge of his vision and he panics. He tries to turn his head but it's too heavy, just lulls and rolls on his neck. When the hands, holding a knife, come closer to his arms he whimpers, struggling once again, until he hears that familiar voice.
"Easy Sammy. I gotcha."
Then the ropes are cut free. And though it sends bolts of sheer agony through him, he pulls his arms down to his sides. He wants to sit up, he feels too vulnerable laid out like this, but his body feels too heavy to move.
Dean makes quick work of the ropes and duct tape keeping his brother imprisoned, all the while his eyes are raking over the damage done. He gets a hand under Sam's back and hauls him upright, keeping one hand on Sam's chest when he starts toppling forwards.
"Easy Sammy. You're okay now buddy. Take deep breathes. That's good, just like that. Keep your eyes open Sammy, I gotcha." He keeps up the softly spoken words as he grabs two towels and wraps them around Sam's bloody arms.
"Keep pressure on them, okay?" He pushes Sam's arms together, trying to hold them with some semblance of pressure with one hand while he cuts away the rope on Sam's ankles with the other.
He's gotta get Sam outta here, the faster the better. Sure the Milligan house is out enough in the country that the blast of a shotgun isn't uncommon, but Dean doesn't want to chance anybody getting nosy and poking around. Especially with two headless corpses lying around and enough blood to be looking for a third.
But taking a closer look at Sam, Dean knows he needs to get Sam, at least crudely, patched up before they can hit the trail. Judging by the blood pooling on the table, the floor, and in the bowls, Dean would guess Sam lost two pints of blood. Closing in on three looking at the saturated towels on Sam's arms. He needs to stop the bleeding before anything else.
"Come on, Sammy. Up and at 'em." Dean helps Sam slide off the table, taking his staggering weight and all but hauling him across the room to the couch.
Once he gets his brother settled, arms propped up on pillows, Dean searches around frantically for something to help staunch the bleeding. In a pinch, he kneels down and pulls Sam's belt from his jeans, then his own. He hates using tourniquets, their dad's warnings against them running through his min, but they will have to do for now.
Wrapping one around Sam's bicep, he pulls just enough to slow the blood flow. He doesn't want to risk occluding the veins and leaving Sam open to tissue damage. Once one is secure, he moves off to the other.
"Keep still. You hearin' me, Sammy?" He pats his brother's cheek lightly trying to get his attention. "Keep your arms on the pillows and no sleeping. I'll be right back."
Sam picks his head up for a moment, willing his vision to clear. Slowly he focuses on Dean's worried expression hovering close, and tries to nod. Stay still. He can manage that he thinks. If the room would stop spinning.
Once Dean is sure Sam will be okay for a minute, he heads straight for the kitchen, rummaging around. He remembers their father's first aid lessons and the many times he stressed the need to be creative and improvise in a pinch. His eyes land on the container of sugar and thinks that's just what he needs to stop the bleeding.
Grabbing the canister off the counter, Dean searches through the drawers locating the other items he needs. He needs to get fluids into Sam. He knew they had an IV kit in the car if it came to that, but Dean is hoping to avoid that scenario altogether. And he can't give Sam water either.
Checking the fridge, he nearly cries out in relief at seeing a few bottles of Gatorade in the door. Perfect.
Gathering up his supplies, Dean heads back to Sam, eyeing his brother critically. He is worried about Sam slipping into shock, wants to avoid that at all costs. Sam's pulse is rapid but strong enough for now. His skin is pale and a little cool but so far Sam's doesn't seem to be having trouble breathing, he isn't cyanotic, and though a little sluggish, Sam doesn't seemed altered either. Right now they're safe.
"Here Sammy. You gotta drink up." Dean holds the bottle of Gatorade to Sam's lips and helps him drink a few swallows. "Good boy. You can have a little more in a minute, okay?"
Sam slowly nods his head, trying to hold in a groan as his world once again tilts on its axis. His arms are pure agony, white hot and pulsing with every beat of his heart. He trembles with the force of it, barely holding back the nausea and the screams wanting to tear out of his throat. He just can't understand why Dean hasn't hauled him out to the car, why he hasn't been given pain killers to take the edge off. Through fuzzy vision, he watches as Dean lays out towels and tears off strips of duct tape, sticking the ends to the coffee table he is currently perched on. When he meets Sam's eyes he gives him a small grin.
"Almost ready. We'll get you patched up, then we'll hit the road, okay?" Dean holds the drink to his lips again, encouraging him to drink a few swallows. "You hangin' in there, kiddo?"
"Hurts," Sam whimpers. And right before Dean's eyes his 26 year old brother transforms into a six year old, all wide terrified eyes looking to his big brother to make it all better.
Sighing, Dean sits on the edge of the couch, running his fingers through Sam's hair, brushing it back from his clammy forehead. "Yeah, I know it does. But I can't give you anything yet. It's too strong, it'll know you right out and I need you awake for a little longer, okay? I promise, I'll get you something soon."
With that, Dean moves back to the small table and readies the rest of his supplies, praying this will work. Slowly, he peels the towel away from Sam's left arm, wincing at the deep slashes in his brother's flesh. He is happy to see the tourniquet has significantly slowed the blood flow but he isn't looking forward to stitching up the long gouges.
"Ready, Sammy? This might hurt a bit, but I'll be as quick as I can. Just try and stay still, all right?"
Sam picks up his head, wandering what Dean is going to do when he sees the sugar canister. He watches as Dean takes a deep, steadying breath then pulls the scoop out of the container. Sam barely has time to draw in a breath to question when it hits him. A biting, blinding, burning pain searing up and down his arm. It steals the scream right out of his mouth. It's like he can feel each and every tiny grain as it adheres to his raw flesh. He wants to cry out, to pull away, to beg Dean to stop but he can't move.
Dean pours the sugar over the wounds, cringing as he watches his brother instantly tense. He keeps a firm hold on Sam's hand, as much for comfort as to hold the limb steady. He murmurs a mantra of words as he grabs a towel and holds it firmly over the wounds.
He hates to do it, but Dean has to let go of Sam's hand as he grabs a strip of tape and begins to fasten the make-shift bandage around the injured limb. Once he is sure it is secure, he loosens the belt tourniquet, watching with bated breath for any signs it won't work. A few spots of blood show up on the towel but nothing like before.
Dean lets out a small sigh of relief. One down, one to go. He was hoping that Sam would've passed out but damn if his brother isn't a stubborn bastard. Sam has his head thrown back, mouth agape in a silent scream as he pants for breath, muscles locked up tight.
"Almost done, Sam." He wants to stop, to give Sam a chance to catch his breath but he needs to get this done. He can coddle Sam in a minute, but right now he needs to see to his wounds. "Keep breathin', Sam. Nice and deep. I'll be done in a minute."
He feels like the world's biggest liar. It doesn't take a minute. More like five before Dean has the bleeding under control, the tourniquet off, and the bandage in place. And through it all, Sam stays awake and aware.
"All right, Sammy. All done." Dean curls his brother's arms toward his chest, keeping them propped up on the pillows, knowing that's what Sam would be doing if he could move them without agony. He settles on the edge of the couch next to Sam's knees, keeping track of Sam's pulse for a minute as Sam gets himself back under control. After a brief check on Sam's side, and a check of his pupils, Dean is satisfies the worst is behind them.
It takes a good twenty minutes before Sam has choked down the rest of the Gatorade, Dean beaming at him, watching closely to make sure he doesn't bring it all back up. Then he makes a cursory sweep of the house, packing up all their weapons in the duffle and grabbing Sam's discarded jacked and outer shirt.
Getting Sam up from the couch is harder than getting him settled there, gravity is against them this time. In the end, Dean ends up fisting two hands in the front of Sam's shirt and hauling him upright. Once he is there he sways precariously but ever stubborn, Sam locks his knees and refuses to go down. Not that Dean isn't grateful; he is elated he doesn't have to figure out how to drag his brother out to the car.
He settles Sam in the passenger seat, delicately arranging his arms on the borrowed pillows. Then he stashes the weapons in the trunk and opens the first aid kit. It will be at least another twenty minutes until they get back to the hotel. He doesn't want to wait that long to give Sam some relief, but he doesn't want Sam passing out on him before they got to the room either. After a quick debate Dean grabs one of the pain killers and cuts it in half with his boot-knife. Snagging one of the two Gatorade bottles pilfered from the house, Dean makes his way back up to Sam.
"It's not much, but it should take the edge off until we get to the room." Dean slips the pill passed Sam's lips and holds the bottle for him while he swallows. "Good boy, Sammy." He gives the kid's hair a little ruffle and grins.
The entire ride back Dean keeps up a monologue, facts about his favorite rock bands, the hottest waitress he'd ever seen, the summer they spent at Pastor Jim's learning Latin and fishing; it doesn't matter what he talks about, he knows Sam is listening, that it is keeping him awake. Sam's eyes are closed, his head resting against the window, but Dean can see the lines of tension easing up a bit as they drive.
It is nearing 2am when they stagger into the room, Dean instantly settling Sam on the middle of his bed. He grabs the first aid kit, only pausing to relay the salt lines, before he is making his way back to Sam's side.
"I'll give you the pain killers in one minute, okay?" Dean watches as Sam nods slowly before he moves. He presses two fingers against Sam's neck checking his pulse. He checks Sam's breathing, his pupils, then gives his side another once over. Satisfied that Sam isn't any worse off, Dean pushes another pill and a half into Sam's mouth, making him drink a healthy amount once again.
"Rest now, Sammy. I'm gonna take care of your arms." Dean bustles around the room, taking his time getting the suture kit out and gathering up all the bandages he will need. Five minutes later when he turns around, Sam is sound asleep.
It's a long process, peeling away the towels, cleaning Sam's arms, stitching the multiple six in gouges in each arm, then bandaging them up again with fresh, clean gauze. He used the smallest stitches he could hoping that they won't scar too badly, but knowing he is foolish all the same for the thought. And through it all, Dean nudges Sam awake every half an hour making him drink and checking his pulse before quieting him back to sleep.
It is nearing seven in the morning when it is all said and done. The room is cleaned up, Sam is all taken care of and no longer in fear of slipping into shock, the pain killers and the last half-empty bottle of Gatorade are sitting on the nightstand. It is then that Dean loses his fight, crashing into bed and falling instantly asleep.
Sam wakes once around midday, moaning and whimpering as he slides towards consciousness. Dean is instantly alert and at his side offering him two more pain pills before his eyes are even open. Ten minutes later, the pain lines on Sam's forehead loosen as he eases back into sleep.
When Sam wakes the second time, it is to the evening sun sliding through the window and lines of fire raging up his arms. It isn't the raw agony he'd felt before but he is pretty sure it won't belong until the pain pills wear off and he is back there once again. He thinks about taking another pain pill but there is something else, he knows, that can take his pain away. His body is yearning for it, his mouth watering already at just the thought of it.
One glance around the room reveals it is vacant of Dean. And judging by the time, Sam is pretty sure Dean has gone off in search of food. He only has a small window of opportunity before his brother gets back. And no matter how much it will hurt him, Sam is gonna take it.
It takes more effort than he originally thought to pull his heavy, sluggish body up and out of the bed, the fires in his arms reignite when he first starts to move. It is near unbearable but Sam will be damned if he'll stop now. Stumbling three steps over to his bag, he carefully begins to rummage through his things until his numb fingers brush the cool metal of his flask. Grasping it is sheer agony, as is uncapping it and bringing it to his mouth. But once that cool, thick liquid begins to flow into his mouth, everything else fades to white noise in the background.
He downs nearly the entire flask before he has the strength to pull himself away. Sam is just tucking it back in his bag when he hears the familiar rumble of the Impala coming down the road. The blood rush always makes him dizzy, but somehow he manages to pull himself into the bathroom. The door has barely closed behind him when he hears Dean come in.
"Sam?!" The call is near instantaneous and if Sam wasn't feeling so weak and nauseous, he would find it amusing. As it is, only the door and sheer will power are holding him upright.
"Be right out," he is proud when he manages to keep his voice somewhat steady. Taking a deep breath, Sam flushes the toilet for good measure before turning on the sink and rinsing his mouth out.
"Jesus! Next time wait for me." Dean is standing right outside the door when Sam opens it, slinging an arm around Sam's waist and helping him back to the bed.
Sam sits on the edge but refuses to lie back down. The demon blood is kicking in, his pain fading to numbness, the dizziness and nausea quieting leaving Sam feeling tired and stiff.
Dean glares at him for a moment before scanning him up and down. Gently checking the bandages, Dean murmurs, "How are you feeling?"
"Okay. Better." Sam shrugs, wincing slightly when it jostles his arms.
Dean wants to argue but can't deny that Sam is looking much better. His color is coming back, he is awake and alert, and his pulse is strong. Nodding, Dean sits on his own bed turning his attention to the bag of take out.
"Adam really was our brother." Sam breaks the silence after a few minutes. Now that the pain is dulled and his head clear, Sam can finally focus on what had happened. And the fact that they had another brother, another one that he hadn't been able to save, is weighing heavily on his mind.
"Yeah, I figured as much." Dean's voice is flat as he takes another bit of his burger. He makes no other acknowledgement of Sam's statement though.
"We should do something for him, make sure he rests in peace, ya know? He's family, and that's what family is for." Sam's voice grows stronger and more determined, giving Dean pause.
"Yeah. Maybe in a few days." When it looks like Sam is going to argue, Dean cuts him off with a hard glare. "You got your ass handed to you last night. So you're gonna rest up before we do anything else. Got it?"
Sam frowns but acquiesces. He hears Dean sigh heavily but makes no move to look up until Dean starts to speak again.
"We'll go late tonight, make sure he's at peace. I promise, Sam."
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A/N: Okay, quick disclaimer. No I am not crazy, sugar can be used as a coagulant. It may not be used for wounds that serious, but I twisted the facts a bit to use them to my own purpose. So no, I am no insane. Also, I wouldn't recommend using sugar unless you are desperate.
And yes, I did write something with basically no plot just so I could put Sam through pain. What have I become?! *hides under rock*
As always, feed back is highly appreciated. And if you have a prompt for next week, let me know! I'm always on the look out. Thanks for reading.