Prompt from ohsam's Triple Play: 1)Impala backseat 2) John 3)Coughing up blood
Everything is red-raw and flayed inside of him. He can feel it. He can feel the interior of his lungs dislodge and make their way back up his gullet. He chokes and sputters like he's drowning, and maybe he is.
Sam blinks, teary-eyed. He can't see much through the blur. It's dark outside but the Impala is lit up. He's crammed in the back seat, the heavy weight of his father behind him, keeping him upright.
Sam swipes at his mouth and chin, glances at his hands. He'd expected a lot more blood than there is. He'd expected fountains of it, not a spattering of red mucus. It hurts so much.
"Dad?" Sam gasps, lungs crying for help.
"I'm here, Sammy." A large hand squeezes his bony shoulder and Sam reaches up to meet it, to make sure it's really there.
What happened? Sam wants to asks, but he's too busy trying to catch his breath. He feels it rising inside him again and the next moment he's heaving and choking and his chest is on fire.
"Come on, Dean," John mutters.
The fit slows and stops until he can almost breathe and Sam leans wearily back into his father's chest. He realises then how cold he is and he shudders. His feet are bare and his clothes are torn and filthy, he's sure they weren't like that a day ago. He blinks, tries to remember where exactly he was a day ago. John shifts behind him and wraps his leather jacket around Sam's shoulders. He strokes his hair clumsily and Sam realises his dad is scared.
"What... happened?" Sam asks, a heaving breath between words.
"Don't worry about that right now," John says. "Just try to breathe."
Sam shakes his head, there's a giant blank space there leering at him. Taunting him.
"I don't remember - " Sam begins, but he's cut off by hacking coughs. John holds him steady.
"I know you don't," he says. "You'll be okay, Sam. You'll be fine. Dean's going to fix this."
Sam wants to ask why Dean isn't here and why Dad isn't the one off killing whatever's doing this, because that's how these things usually go. He glances up and sees the skin-whitening fear on his father's face, and he decides it's best not to question it.
Still, Sam wants to know.
"What happened?" he asks again, breathing calm enough for him to get both words out at once. He's gasping by the time he's done speaking. Dad rubs his back and holds tight.
John is quiet for a moment, then he says, "We lost you two weeks ago. You went to school and you didn't come back. Do you remember anything?"
Sam strains, thinks hard. He remembers going to school in the same clothes he's wearing now, except they weren't so ragged and he had shoes on his feet. He remembers collecting his things from his locker before stepping outside at the end of the day, then nothing. There's a great, big gaping hole between then and now.
"Nothing," Sam answers.
"It's okay," John says, hand brushing over the top of Sam's head. "We got you back, that's what matters."
"But why - " he's coughing again but this time it's worse. So much worse. His chest is stuttering, mouth stretching open, trying to pull in air. But he keeps heaving, and blood spatters all over his knees, much thicker and darker than it was before. His dad is there, speaking, but Sam can barely hear him over the sound of his own coughing. Sam thinks, I'm going to die.
There's a brief moment where he notices everything slipping away around him, it tilts and clouds grey. Then, it's just black.
The air is cool, his body is warm. Music is playing, the usual, the kind Sam puts up with. He peels his eyes open and his vision is bleary, eyelids sandy and heavy. He's lying in the back seat of the Impala, cheek squashed against the leather bench. He's wrapped in all three blankets they keep in the trunk. His chest hurts but his breaths are blissfully free.
Someone in the front shifts and his dad glances at him from the driver's seat. A weight lifts from his face and he smiles.
"How're you feeling?" he asks.
Sam opens his mouth, then licks his lips. They taste salty and metallic, the same flavour on his tongue.
"Um. Okay. I think," he says. His voice is wrecked, shredded to pieces.
"You'll be alright," Dad says.
Sam peels himself off the seat, arms shaking under his weight. He manages to get himself upright and leaning back, blankets up around his shoulders. Slumped in the passenger seat is Dean, head hanging back, a line of drool on his chin, snoring softly. Sam looks around, compares it to the last thing he remembers.
"What happened to me?" he asks.
His dad turns back to face forward and starts the engine. They're parked on the side of the road, nothing but trees for miles on the right, fields on the left.
"Someone took you," John says. "And they didn't like it when we took you back. Decided that if they couldn't have you, no one could. Dean took care of it. They aren't touching another kid again."
Sam frowns. His brain is still moving a minute too slow and he's trying to figure out what his dad is saying.
John says. "Don't worry about it. It's over now. You'll be okay."
Sam pulls the blankets to one side. He's not wearing the filthy clothes he was wearing before, he's been re-dressed in pyjamas. He tugs back his sleeve and finds a cluster of bruises from his wrists up to his shoulders, oval and purple. Fingerprints on his skin.
He looks up at the back of his dad's head, notices him sneaking looks in the rear view mirror.
John drives.
I can't stop myself from filling prompts on ohsam so you'll probably be bombarded with one-shot fics from me, sorry! Let me know what you thought of this one :)