A/N Yeah, I caught it too. Wanna fight about it?
As you may have read on my profile, the television show Supernatural, in my semi-expert opinion, has been created simply for the purpose of hurt/comfort. Now, as it has been brought to my attention, most of my readers seem to be amongst the hurt/comfort crowd, though most of my fics are more death-oriented. So, to ease into the transition, I'll have both limp!sam and limp!dean (as they have been dubbed by every fanfiction summary I've come across) . Also, they both die.
So.
Why give up? Why give in?
It's not enough, it never is
So I will go on until the end
We've become, desolate
It's not enough, it never is
But I will go on until the end
-Breaking Benjamin
"We go together. We live together, we go down together. I'm not leaving without you."
-Leah, Bloody Monday
"Sam."
The day had started like any other.
Internet research, find a case, drive a few miles to the next town, find a cheap motel.
It had been a demon, of course. One who was going around killing kids. Or...something.
Sam couldn't remember.
"Sam."
It was a good one, though. One of the ones where you walk away with your bones intact and and your blood firmly inside your veins.
And, the funny part is that Sam thought--knew--he wouldn't be dying of old age. He'd die somewhere cold, on the ground or in a shabby old house or in the woods, somewhere closed off and remote and maybe with something sticking out of him. Not of old age, but of something.
This was certainly something.
"Sam."
"What?" He didn't mean to sound so harsh. He didn't, actually. He sounded like a hoarse, pathetic dying dog or something. He hated to say whimper, but that's what it was. A sad little whimper.
And his head hurt. Alot.
A groan, soft and breathy. "Y'kay?"
No. "Mhm. You?"
"Bullshit your okay."
"Bullshit your okay."
And that was all the sarcasm Sam had left in him.
Walking, soft celebrations. They had walked through the woods, towards the Impala. No scratches, not even a sore spot. Dirty fingernails and a rip at the knee. That's it.
"'S a good day, little brother," Dean said, with his voice coming out like a post-burp sigh.
Sam had silently agreed, and kept his jacket close to his body just because it seemed to be getting colder. Seemed to be getting windier, and darker as they got deeper and deeper into the woods. Foreshadowing, Sam remembers. It was so obvious that no one would think about it till they're lying in a pile of rubble with pieces of gravel digging into their ass. Foreshadowing.
But he felt the blood, all the damn blood, and he couldn't be angry at himself. He was too busy being angry at everything else.
"Sonuvabitch," Sam hissed, the sharp pain he had to see coming assaulting the core of his brain with a sharp ferocity that made him picture an exceptionally sharp knife twisting into the back of his head.
"Sam?" Dean sounds dead. What Sam imagined a dead man would sound like. Dead.
Sam feels the weight of the pain engulf him, and he's suddenly afraid he can't move. His blood is now lead, his organs anvils. He's sewn to the floor with industrial wire. His eyelids are being pulls down and down and down...
He wants to ask what happened (what the hell happened...?)
He wants to say he's tired (so, so tired)
He wants to know if Deans still alive (because he's stopped talking...)
But he can't, because his eyelids are going down...down...down...
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He wakes up to the sound of breathing. And dripping.
Breathing and dripping.
These words are foreign to him.
His mind
is
slow.
"Sam?" And Deans still talking, still talking like Sam might keel over any minute. Of course, this is purely third person opinion, because Sam can't attach himself to anything. He doesn't have a name, at the moment, and neither does the concerned voice drifting but not quite clinging to his brain.
Nothing as a name except the agony.
Because that's the only thing to call it, isn't it?
It's agony.
"C'mon, Sammy," he says.
Can't.
Hurts.
Motherfuckinghurts.
His voice sounds forced, thick. Like he's crying, like a wall of his own pain is choking his vocal cords. "Damnit, Sam."
He lets out a sort of strangled "What?" just to get across that, yes, he is alive and, no, he can't talk.
At least he's not dying. When your about to die, Sam heard, you feel nothing. That'd be nice right now.
Nothing.
Sweet, blissful nothing.
He falls into darkness.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Dean?"
He wants his brother. He just does.
He wants his brother.
"Dean?"
A sudden jerk, sudden sudden sudden.
"Sam?"
For a moment, Sam thinks the pain has left, gone back to hell where it should fucking stay for the rest of fucking eternity fuck fuck fuck but no. It just takes a minute. Just a minute.
Then it's back.
"Dean!" he cries, cause it's all he can say. It's the only word he knows he knows nothing nothing nothing just Dean and he needs Dean and God it hurts and where's Dean?
"'m right here, Sammy." His voice sounds clipped. Raspy.
Sam still wants to know what happened what happened what happened? but he can't ask he can't talk he can't breath.
"Your fine," Dean says, like it helps. "Your fine. Everythings fine."
And Sam believes him.
Blindly, without doubt, the type of belief children hold in every person taller then them, that Dean is right. Everythings fine, because Dean is right he's always right he has to be right and damnit it hurts.
"Your...okay...?" Sam asks because Dean doesn't sound okay.
"I'm fine," Dean says, and his teeth sound clenched. "I'm fine, Sammy."
Sam says, "Liar."
Dean caughs. "I just...hit...something."
Sam, who's eyes are still closed, lets a sad, wet laugh burst from his throat like sneeze. "Me too."
Dean makes a noise like a laugh.
A moment passes where nothing happens and Sam is afraid he might fall asleep again. Then:
"Dean?"
Dean says, "You okay?"
Sam says, "I can't feel my legs."
Dean makes a noise and Sam thinks it's a sob but he can't stay awake long enough to think about it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"What happened?" is the first thing he says. The pain has subsided, but he is floating.
Said something, said something about walking and the ground opening up and Timmy fell in a well Sam thought. But no, probably not. Probably some kind of trap, mine shaft, a ground level cave they walked into in their jubilance. Something where the floors where as hard as rock and the only moisture was that of dripping rain water, falling in puddles beside Sam's head.
"Oh."
Dean made a sound. "Yeah."
Sam felt himself fall back into the small-child confidence, the feeling that everything would be alright because damnit it was always alright with Dean. Always.
Still. "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"It's not gonna be okay, is it?"
Sam's breath is heavy, so heavy he wonders if it's air or dust he's sucking in.
Sam opens his eyes, just a crack, and sees the outline of Dean, illuminated by nothing but scrace hints of light making through the cracks. Has he been awake this whole time? In this darkness, just looking? At what? Sam? Nothing? Is this what Dean's been doing?
No hope, Sam thinks. Everythings over, this is over. Everything they've ever done has led to this. This stupid, pointless death because they're dead dead dead.
"Everything's fine," Dean says, almost believing it. "It's gonna be fine, Sam."
The breath leaves Sam once more and he falls away again. "Liar."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sam wakes up shivering.
'Cause it's cold.
Dean's shaking, too.
Shaking like a motherfucking leaf.
The numbness that has wrapped itself around Sam's waist seems to be throbbing. A throbbing nothingness, in unison with his heart beat. If that made sense.
Nothing is throbbing.
"Hey," Dean says, his voice soft and shaking and weak. "You okay?"
Sam leans his head back against whatever cold surface he's lying on. "Figure out were we are yet?"
"Are you okay, Sam."
Sam can't open his eyes, can't do much but breath and whisper. "Dandy."
He hears something like a sigh. "Good."
The dripdrip of the water beside his head has slowed, and Sam realizes he's thirsty. "Your phone working?"
Sam can imagine the sharp look he's getting. "What do you think?"
Sam wants to sleep.
Sam wants to sleep and never wake up.
But the pain is still there. Dim, waiting. An ache. A whisper.
"Hurts." It's not a sob, really, but a statement coated with mild panic. Mistaken for a sob, perhaps. But not a sob.
Dean's closer now, dragging himself to Sam and resting a shaking hand on his brothers head,, because it's all he has the energy to reach for. "I know, Sammy."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
He feels comatose, now. Weak and aching and drifting and his breaths are getting slower. Dean has stopped his quiet reasurences. His hand lying on Sam's head and eventually his shoulder has stopped being a comfort and is now dead weight.
"We're not getting out of here, Dean." It's a statement, not a question.
Dean's voice is a breath. "Pr'bly not."
At least he dropped the reassuring crap.
"We had a good run, huh?" He seems the only one still capable of full speeches now, it seems. Sam's not sure what to make of this.
Dean pants and cries at the same time. "God, Sammy."
Sam lets his head fall to the side, onto Deans extended, limp wrist.
"I'm..." Dean whispers, desperately clawing at the air for the words to make it, "so...sorry..."
"It's okay," Sam whispers, repeating his brothers words. What's okay, he hasn't a clue. The blood has long since dried and his clothes are stiff on his skin. "It's okay, Dean. We're fine."
Sam can feel Dean lean heavier against the wall. "We're fine."
And the darkness falls again.
END
A/N For some reason this feels like I'm copying it off of something. I can't imagine what, because I haven't read any supernatural fics as of yet, but...Let me know. It feels like I'm copying someone.
Other then that, I think pretty decent. What say you, sir?