Title: Blood Trail
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
Author's Note: Just a little rambling of mine that I posted on my LJ account. However, it felt like I might as well have put it out space, that I was broadcasting it to nobody. So I'm returning to my normal habitat…have I said how much I love everyone at !
Summary: Blood, it's a liquid Dean's an expert at identifying on sight. No slash.
When he slips on something on the floor of the dinky convenient store, he curses the laziness of the kid at the cash register. Until he looks down, sees the liquid underfoot, liquid he's an expert at identifying on sight. Blood. He's almost reaching for his gun that's not in his waist, about ready to follow the blood trail to whatever evil SOB is lurking between the dust coated box of cornflakes and the expired rack of candy boxes when it dawns on him that the top of his boot, it's not brown anymore, it's red. And that same liquid, it's not dripping onto his boot, it's a nice steady flow steaming onto the boot onto the floor.
'What the' but the expletive gets caught in his throat as his eyes track up his jean clad leg, note the darker hue to the fabric starting mid thigh. Instincts take over then, have him making a beeline for the bathroom on legs that are functioning just fine, great in fact. Slamming through the door, he's at the sink in the next stride, is turning the handle on the paper towel dispenser like there's a prize. When the paper is long enough to touch the floor he tears it off and unceremoniously crumples it into his hand.
Pressing the wadded papertowel against his upper thigh, to the small, friggin' trivial wound he got in the hunt, he growls at the sudden surge of agony that shoots down his leg like an electric current. Can't believe the towel is soaked already with blood that it's oozing out onto his hand. 'So much for clotting,' he internally grumbles as he angrily flings the saturated towel to the floor and gets another floor length supply of the towel, wets it this time and presses it, without mercy, on the wound, causing a choked cry of pain to slip past his defenses.
The water logged towel only turns the blood into a thinner river down his leg, makes the towel soaked with water and blood disintegrate in his hand. Discarding the towel onto the floor to, he strips off his button down shirt, wraps it around his leg wound, pulls it tight like it's a tourniquet. Fear starting to turn the taste in his mouth as metallic as his blood, he watches as blood seeps into the fabric, turning everything red, fabric strand by fabric strand.
And it's a hard revelation, to know he needs help, that he's about a few pints away from dying in some stop-and-go-mart's bathroom. He intends to step out of the bathroom, scream for the punk kid at the counter to get his brother from the car, but his body, it is in full revolt. His step turns into a collapse to his knees, blood loss causing his equilibrium to desert him and his strength vamooses with it.
He's kneeling in his own blood, not even something new but this time he's going for the bonus round, wonders vaguely if he lost more blood with the hellhounds, thinks he should ask Sam. 'Sam,' his mind snaps to thoughts of his brother, of Sam, the real Sam who he just got back from Hell. Sam who he was supposed to be a rock for, to make sure that wall never ever came down. Sam, who was waiting for him in the Impala in store's parking lot. Sam, who wasn't more than twenty five yards away from where he knelt but it might as well be the valley in the Grand Canyon.
His phone's not even on him, is sitting in the car where he left it. And the bathroom door knob, it's out of his blood coated reach. As he uses all of his strength to press both of his hands against the unchecked flow of blood, he knows it's too late. He's an expert at death, having dealt it out and experienced it more than anyone else ever has. He knows how it feels, the way the void sloshes over you, the helplessness of it, how final it is…should be, might be this time.
And in that moment, he wishes Sam wasn't Sam. That soulless Sam was in the Impala, not giving a damn when or if he ever came back from his little excursion into the convenient store. Because the last thing on God's green earth he wants to do is hurt Sam, not this Sam, not his Sam. 'But it's what I do best – hurt people,' he bitterly thinks as dark spots float in his vision, as he feels himself topple forward, or maybe its backward but most certainly its down.
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I'm not sure if I'm writing more on this one or not. I might let it stand as an angsty one shot.
Have a great evening!
Cheryl.
