Disclaimers: Duh, they ain't mine, no money made, don't sue (cause it ain't worth the pocket lint).
Summary: Short One-Shot---I was working on another story and I just saw the teaser for the season premiere. This idea caught my attention and wouldn't let me sleep til I finished it.
The Haunting of Dean Winchester
"I'm takin' off!" Dean Winchester growled to Sam, who stood in the roadway, his pack slung over his shoulder.
"That's what I want you to do!" Sam yelled back.
Dean snarled and got into the black Impala, tires screaming as he floored the accelerator and whipped the car down the blacktop.
Sam watched the car recede into the misty night and turned his back.
"Because I can't save you any other way," he said to himself as a tear rolled down his cheek.
oooOOOooo
Sam walked down the deserted road until he came to the tree growing beside the ditch. It rose up tall and proud, its leaves gone, the gnarled branches twisting towards the sky. This was where the arguement in the car had taked a nasty turn. Sam remembered, because he had instigated it. He had seen the black sentinel rise from the fog and remembered his dreams of the past week. His 'shining', as Dean put it. The dreams in which that tree stood over his brothers' twisted, mangled body.
So he started the arguement, trying to get Dean to leave him stranded, alone on the highway to deal with the killer that had been prowling this stretch of road. It had worked. Perhaps too well. Things came out of that heated screaming match that neither brother wanted to deal with. The skinwalker. The Asylum. Finding Dad. Dean insisted that the next job would bring them to him, but Sam resisted. That was when his brother had slammed on the brakes and brought the ultimatum. Stay with him and help, or keep bitching and get left behind. Sam had grabbed his duffle and demanded Dean pop the trunk, and then retrieved a few weapons, along with a bag of salt he hid in his pocket, and a handgun with exploding shells.
Then Dean was gone.
Shaking his head to clear it of the memories, Sam looked around, trying to decipher why this was the place where the killer had struck. And then he heard it. A low growling motor, revving in neutral. The kind of motor that had hundreds of horses trapped within it, all screaming to be let loose. The kind of motor that was placed in small sports cars for power and acceleration. The kind of motor Dean would have been entranced by.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw a pair of headlights wink on in the darkness, muted by the misty fog that slipped over the road. The engine revved again, then dropped into drive. The headlights leapt forward as the horses under the hood were unleashed.
Sam turned and bolted, throwing his duffle bag to the side of the road. He could hear the car getting closer, and he dived to the side at the last minute. He caught a glimpse of the vehicle as it sped past close enough to touch. No wonder Dean had died in his dreams. He had probably been drooling at the sight of his killer: a sleek, black 1969 Pontiac Firebird. The wide hood sloped gracefully towards the midsection, the powerful lines all spoke of a commandingly beautiful presence. There was only one problem. There was no one driving.
The spirit car disappeared into the mist, and Sam hauled himself to his feet, removing the bag of salt from his pocket. All of a sudden the car lunged out of the clouds right in front of him and slammed into him. Sam's body was hurled onto the hood with painful force, but he fought past the agony of his cracked ribs and hung on with his right hand as the car raced down the road, slewing to one side and the other, trying to dislodge him. He grabbed onto one of the air intakes and dropped the salt into it, then let go of the car and flew off, landing on the highway hard and rolling to a stop.
The young hunter gasped for breath; his rough landing had broken some of the already cracked ribs, and the ends of the bones grated painfully as he tried to breathe. Sam rose to one knee and looked up. The headlights sat in front of him, about half a mile away. The engine revved again, the headlights jumped in place. He could feel the hatred radiating off the black car.
Reaching into the waistband of his jeans, Sam withdrew the handgun and aimed just as the headlights lunged forward again. He fired three rapid shots into the car as it came closer, all three seeming to explode at once into a great fireball.
Sam was lifted off his feet and thrown into darkness.
oooOOOooo
Dean drove the car down the highway, arguing with himself and anyone who bothered to listen.
"Dammit Sam, why did you have to bring all that shit up? We will find dad. We WILL! Fucking sanctimonious little son-of-a-bitch..." He continued to mutter.
Every now and then a clear word or phrase could be heard.
"...damn Asylum..."
"...find dad..."
"...Stanford..."
"Goddamnit Sam!"
I'm sorry
"I'm sorry, too."
I didn't mean it
"Yeah, I didn't mean it either."
I love you
"No chick flick moments here, dude," Dean almost laughed.
I'd die for you
"I know that, Sammy."
Help me
Dean gasped at that last imagined thought and looked at Sam, sitting in the passenger seat.
Waitaminnit! Sam had gotten out of the car hours ago!
Dean's heart stopped and he slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing to the side of the road.
He looked at the passenger's seat again. Sam was still there, shoulders slumped, looking at his hands in his lap. Dean could see the door on the other side of him. THROUGH him!
Dean was being visited by Sam's ghost.
Panting with fear, Dean could only sit there numbly as 'Sam' spoke.
I need you Dean. Please, help me 'Sam' raised his head and looked at his brother. The right side of his face was covered in blood, streaming from his forehead, nose and lips. There was a large gash on his cheekbone, and blood dripped from his eyes.
Help me, Dean
"...wha? sammy?" Dean whispered.
It hurts, Dean
Help me
Please, come back for me
Dean needed no more urging as he stomped down on the accelerator and cranked the wheel hard, turning the car around and screaming back down the straightaway. He only prayed he'd get there in time.
Dean pushed the car faster than he ever had. 105 mph. 120. 140. 150.
If he had a blowout he'd be dead, but he didn't care. Only one thing mattered. Sam.
He focused all his attention on the road, trying to ignore his brother's shade. It sat utterly still, bloody eyes focused forlornly on Dean, as if it knew Dean was on the way, but might not make it soon enough.
The Impala tore through the early dawn, tires strumming on the pavement, creating a hypnotic hum. 'Sam' sat up. Dean slowed. He recognized the landscape now. He was close to where he had kicked Sam out of the car.
There 'Sam' pointed.
Dean followed his gaze to the side of the road where Sam's duffle bag lay. There were black tire marks all over the road that hadn't been there before, and the gravel in the shoulder had been torn up.
He glanced at the passenger's seat, but the ghost was gone.
oooOOOooo
Dean jumped out of the car and raced towards the side of the road. The ditch crumbled away sharply here, the base of it nearly twenty feet down a sharp incline. The eldest Winchester scanned the bottom of the hill, trying desperately to catch a glance of Sam. There was nothing.
He ran over to the other side of the road. Here the ditch had less of an incline, but scrag bushes and tall grass hindered his view.
'A little help here!' he thought as he frantically looked for his baby brother.
He felt a tingle skitter down the back of his neck and turned slightly to his right, and then he saw it. A boot. As he ran towards it, the rest of his brother's body was revealed, hidden in the dry autumn grass thirty feet from the road.
Sam was lying on his stomach, arms stretched out above his head, face turned to the side. Dean could see blood glistening in his dark hair, and his hands were scratched and bleeding.
His heart in his throat, Dean felt for a pulse. It was there, thready and weak. Gently, he felt along Sam's legs and arms, discovering a break in his brother's left forearm. Avoiding that arm as much as he could, he straightened Sam's long legs and rolled him over onto his back. Sam's head lolled to the side.
Dean put a shaking hand to his brother's cheek and turned his head, gasping at what he saw.
The right side of his face was bloody, a gash spread along his cheekbone, just like his ghost.
Sam's eyes twitched behind closed lids; his eyelashes fluttered.
"That's it, Sammy," Dean soothed. "Come back to me."
Sam's eyes slowly opened, blinking as he tried to focus. He had hit his head hard, and blood vessels had ruptured behind his eyes, filling the whites with red.
Dean shuddered at the injuries his brother had suffered.
Sam moaned.
"Easy, Sam, easy. You'll be OK," Dean tried to calm him.
Sam only moaned again, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to move.
"Where, Sam? Where does it hurt?"
"Unh...m...my left side, ribs...n' arm," he gasped.
Dean gently unzipped Sam's jacket and lifted up his shirt, revealing dark bruises on his chest. He palpated his brother's ribs, finding many cracked and broken bones. Sam lay on the ground, forcing himself to endure the agony as Dean checked his damaged body. His breath exploded in a gasp when Dean's hands traveled to his left shoulder. He screamed in pain.
"Sam," Dean said, "Your shoulder is dislocated, and your arm is broken. I have to set them. But first, I have to get the first aid kit, OK?"
Dean wasn't sure his brother had heard him. Sam's eyes were only half open, and he was swallowing convulsively. Dean raced up the incline to the car, pulling out his cell phone as he did. He called his dad's message service and entered three numbers: 9-1-1. He grabbed the first aid kit and was back at his brother's side in less than 30 seconds.
"Hey there, Sammy," he crooned as he removed splints and bandages from the kit. "Just gonna set that arm now."
Dean grasped Sam's arm at the wrist and elbow, and jerked hard.
Sam screamed again as the bone snapped into place. He lay gasping as Dean splinted, then wrapped his arm.
He felt Dean moving his arm and fire erupted in his skull. Nausea crept up his throat but he forced it back down, his ears ringing and his face drenched with sweat.
Suddenly, Dean twisted and yanked his shoulder viciously. Sam heard the bone fall back into the socket as he screamed and arched his back in agony. The burning pain flashed through his body and then faded, leaving him numb. Buzzing filled his head, and he could hear Dean speaking to him but the words were miles away. Dark spots danced on the edges of his vision. He shuddered and let the blackness consume him.
Dean's heart jumped when Sam shuddered, then went still. He quickly placed his fingers on his brother's throat and sighed when he found the pulse.
Dean continued treating his brother for shock, elevating his legs with a duffle bag, and covering him with a space blanket.
oooOOOooo
Sam floated in and out of conciousness, hearing voices that seemed to be talking in low tones to each other. Forcing the darkness aside, he struggled to wake.
"That's right, Sam, open your eyes for me," he heard Dean say.
Trying to obey, Sam fought harder to regain awareness. He opened his eyes, blinking. His vision was fuzzy, and his brother's face slid in and out of focus.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean whispered as he moved closer, his hand gently smoothing Sam's forehead. "We're gonna move you now."
Sam realized his ribs had been taped and his arm immobilized, secured to his body, and he was wrapped in blankets. Another person swam into his line of sight, and he felt four arms slide under his body and lift him between them. He gasped as the movement reawakened the pain in his body.
"Easy, son. We've got you," John Winchester said to his youngest as he cradled Sam to his chest.
"I've got you."
fin
A/N: Aaaaaaand now that that's done, I'm going to sleep, and hope that I can unblock my muse and get to work on my other story!