STOMP-CRACKLE- CRUNCH
By: Karen B.
Summary: Hurt Sammy and Big Brother Dean. Written just for that fuzzy- warmhearted- melty effect. Nothing more. Well, maybe some cheesy humor to boot.
Disclaimer: Not the owner
* SAVING PEOPLE. HUNTING THINGS. THE FAMILY BUSINESS.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
I was running through the woods, sweat running down my face, running for my life, yet with no idea why or what from. All I could hear was the sound of my harsh breathing overlapped by the thundering stomp- crackle-crunch behind me. Everything was hazy and moving in slow motion. I'd run for a while, then fall. Every time I hit the ground I'd be jolted awake. The massive thing chasing me was gone, replaced by some dude who held my arms down and kept tucking something warm and heavy around me that restricted my movements.
Seriously, dude?
I just wanted to get up and continue running, so I concentrated on my legs, but they wouldn't respond. I was flat on my back – exhausted, terrified, short of breath, shivering cold, arms flailing, and muscles tight.
The dude…he just kept hanging around, holding me in place. "You're safe," he said in a faraway whiskey-smooth voice. "You're going to be okay. Just settle your ass down and go back to sleep, enjoy the ride," He gave a weak smile. "You do anymore damage to yourself, it's going to be your ass on a plate."
Don't know why I listened, but I closed my eyes.
Stomp, Crackle, Crunch.
I ran. But not fast enough.
Wait, what?
Was I awake and dreaming I was asleep? Or was I asleep dreaming I was awake?
"Little brother, you're the definition of mass confusion. Sleep."
Did I say that out loud?
A warm hand patted my shoulder and both worlds became one big confusing blur.
Scary massive monster.
Blurry-faced- smiling- dude.
On my feet running.
On my back staring at the sky.
Round and round I went.
Running and sweating and running and falling and waking and falling and running.
Stomp- crackle-crunch.
I didn't dare take the time to look over my shoulder to figure out what the hell it was that was about to take a bite out of me.
The sweet smell of apples and leaves and dirt mixed with something foul and disgusting causing me to gag. Could you smell things in a dream? I didn't dare take the time to try and figure that out either. Just keep running.
A gust of wind blew through the tall, old trees stripping yellow, red, and orange leaves from their branches and sending them fluttering and frolicking down in a shower of color. If it wasn't for the loud angry roar blasting in my ears and scattering startled birds, it would have been beautiful.
Crap. I forced my legs to move faster, the thing's hot breath rushing straight down the back of my shirt. Whatever was chasing me was closing in. I wished I had wings. It was the only way I was going to make it out of this nightmare alive. Clutching at my side, I could feel the warmth of blood spread across the palm of my hand. The burning chill of pain nearly brought me to my knees. I stumbled, but caught myself. I wished for the blurry-faced- smiling- dude with the whiskey-smooth voice to wake me up. Tell me again I was safe. This is not safe.
The world started to grow dark and gloomy and a wave of panic built inside me. The ground shook like an earthquake had hit and my body trembled from the sheer force of the enormous thing so close now its fetid breath was puffing up strands of my hair. I was weak and dizzy and confused and about to give up when I spotted him. The blurry-faced- smiling- dude. Damn, wishes did come true. He was about ten-feet in front of me, running full speed toward me, shouting and waving a gun.
Instinct drove me to ground.
I dropped flat to my belly mid-run, chin plowing through rocks, sticks, and leaves. Sliding along the forest floor like a slippery seal, and stopping only because my head slammed into a brick wall. Or is it a tree?
Blurry dude's gunfire and whoops had me scrabbling to get up. All I managed to do was flip over onto my back and stare up through the branches. Watching rays of sunshine illuminate the veins of the coopery leaves that floated down gently to land on me.
The next thing I knew the dude was there. I felt bad for the guy. He was pale and had a really freaked out look on his face, the blur of a smile gone. "Jesus, Sammy," he murmured, his warm hand clutching my side, the other slipping underneath my skull and gently cradling my head. "When I said kiss the dirt I didn't mean literally," he said sternly.
The wind suddenly blew cold and it was like a slap to my face and everything went dark.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Where was I? What happened? Why was everything so dark now?
Deaf?
Dumb?
Dead?
Think, think.
Coffin?
Cave?
Coma?
Think, think, think.
I couldn't think. Felt like someone was tenderizing my brain with a meat cleaver.
Senses…find your senses. How many senses where there again?
Think, think, think, think.
Sparks of pain flew straight through every part of my body, blotting out every other memory.
Five…there were five senses. Of course.
I took inventory.
My head was attached, but again, my brain was too busy fending off the meat cleaver to be of much help. My eyes felt crusty and sticky and wouldn't open. My right hand was useless, both legs too.
It took me sometime, but I managed to flex my left hand outward. To my surprise, the tips of my fingers raced along over sticks, rocks, leaves, and lumpy dirt.
Okay.
I was lying down, flat on my back, dragging in the dirt, bouncing, bumping, swerving and sliding along the ground, yet I felt warm and dry, nested on top of soft padding. Why'd I feel so cozy? Normally, when I found myself in this predicament there was the burning rip of muscle and the crunch of teeth on bone.
How's this possible?
I gave that question some thought. Maybe I was mostly dead. Nerve endings numb, blood loss deadening all the pain.
Better question. What or who was doing the dragging?
That thought got my flight instinct kicked into gear. I needed to get this moving train stopped. Needed to get up to my feet, make a run for it. I tried to dig my heels into the dirt and put on the brakes. The task was a difficult one, the idea failing miserably as neither of my legs were still willing to corporate, bundled tightly.
I just kept thumping along at an uneven pace.
Blindly, I searched with my left hand for purchase, trying to push myself up enough and roll off the nesting material onto the ground. My nails scratched across the familiar soft warmth of nylon and I frowned.
Sleeping bag?
That should have brought some sort of comfort, but it only ramped up my fear. Whatever had a hold of me wanted to keep me from further harm – keep me alive?
Fresh meat is best.
My stomach roiled, and I swiped my tongue out, lips swollen and metallic tasting. Drawing in a shallow breath came the strong scent of sweat, leather, lighter fluid, and something flowery. The putrid mix was disturbing and nauseating and all I could think of was it smelled like death.
Resisting the urge to gag, I listened closely.
Chirping birds, rustling leaves, trudging boots, and a deep voice humming very loudly. Why? Maybe in anticipation of the meal it was about to have – me.
My next idea was to stick the thing in the heart the second it got close enough. I'd have to see for that to work. Somehow be able to reach the knife I kept strapped to my ankle.
Slowly and painfully I managed to crack open my eyes and stared upward.
It took a moment to get my out-of-focus vision to clear. When it did I watched in muddled confusion as clouds galloped along through the bright blue sky. Before I could encourage my hand to move for the knife, the nausea was back. It hit me hard and this time I gagged.
There came the clatter of rocks.
"Ah, shit," A deep voice cursed.
My body thumped hard to the ground and every part of me turned to fire, black smoke invading my eyesight. The darkness threatened to take me under, but the deep voice cursed louder, pulling me from the smoke and fire.
I blinked the pain away and tipped my chin to my chest. Slowly, I stared down the length of my body to where my boots were sticking up from under the sleeping bag. No wonder I couldn't stand. I blinked a few more times and groaned, raising my eyes up further.
There. Straight ahead of me was a shadowy figure of a man, bowed forward and struggling to move, the squeak and squish of mud shooting out from underneath the soles of his boots just before he fell to his knees cursing.
I had a sudden urge to reach out to help him, but all I could do was groan again.
"Easy, easy, Tiger, easy," the man chanted soothingly, half-glancing back at me .
Huffing and grunting, he got back to his feet. A thick rope was wrapped around his waist and he took up the slack, straining as he stumbled forward with each tug of the line dragging something. Up hill.
Took a minute to realize that something he was dragging was me. I was stretched out on a flimsy cot made of twigs and pine needles. The strained shoulders were hard to make out through my foggy haze, but after a few more minutes of focus I knew whose broken back I was looking up at from the flat of mine.
'Dean,' I mouthed silently.
I had a good view of my sled dog of a brother's back. His shirt was sweat-soaked and his arms and shoulders were bowed stiff, knotted, and straining hard.
"Fucking stupid," Dean swore, knees bent and boots digging in.
Fighting gravity, he gripped the rope tighter with resolve and plowing us straight up the hill. I could sense his worry and how dead on his feet he was. How red and dry and cracked his arms and the back of his neck looked – baked by the sun.
Tried to reach out to him, but I was strapped in way too tightly. I opened my mouth to tell the jerk to stop and let me out of this thing. I could walk. But when I tried to put some actual strength into my voice all that came out was a pipsqueak of a moan.
"I know, man," Dean grunted, not taking the time or energy to look back at me. "Can you stop your bitchin' already, bro?" he breathed heavily with each step. "Been telling your lazy ass the last three miles," he panted. "I'll have us outta here in no time. Understand?" he gasped.
I understood plenty. Dean was beat to crap and it was because of me.
Licking my cracked lips, I mumbled a few sentences. Nothing I heard myself saying made any kind of sense. Great. Trying again, more slurred and sloppy words flowed from my mouth in one, long strand of misplaced brain syndrome. My body was a raging contradiction, volcano hot one second and artic cold the next. I needed Dean to stop. Needed to know what the hell was going on. I needed him to take a break, stop and color in-between the lines of my screwed up memory.
"Crap, dude, how much did you say you weighted again?" Dean huffed in response still in faithful sled dog mode.
I mumbled a few more run-on sentences something about steak burgers, stubborn brothers, and sunscreen.
"Never mind," Dean wheezed out of breath. "Figure it out and tell me later," he said, then started humming to the tune of Yankee Doodle.
What the hell?
I raised my head, to get a better look around. Trying to figure out what was going on since Dean rather hum off-key than talk. Squinting against the sun, I was overcome by dizziness and my vision grayed. Large black dots hopped around like a heard of drunken kangaroos darting here and there around me. Every moving shadow was an enemy and I groaned a warning to Dean.
He didn't acknowledge the danger, moving us down the road even faster. Crap. Was he catatonic?
I lifted my head higher and took in a deep breath. That was a huge mistake. The hopping, drunken kangaroos turned into a whirling zoo of crazy, while Yankee Doodle Dandy's drums banged inside my skull.
"St-st-stop," I wheezed out of breath.
Dean continued to drag me over potholes and speed bumps, swerving dangerously in and out of traffic that strangely resembled trees.
I drew in another deep breath. "Breaks," I raised my voice, slamming my eyes shut when my ribs nearly poked through my skin. "Pl-please." My head flopped bonelessly back to the cot. Things turned blacker and something sick gurgled in my throat making it difficult to breath.
Dean's miffed words whirled around me. "Stupid…bitch…Sam…damnit, come on…Sammy, come on."
The arrival of something cool dabbed at my forehead, my cheeks, and neck.
"Sam!"
Drops of muddy wetness hit my lips, and I regained consciousness, blinking open my eyes and rocking my head to the right.
"There you are."
At first all I saw was graying sky and one lone cloud. I shifted my gaze to the left. Crows and robins darted between the trees. Then Dean was there, knelt over me, his gaze steady, expression stern. "Drink, Sammy," he barked, offering me his canteen.
A few more drops of warm, muddy water passed by my lips.
I swallowed gingerly.
"Better?" Dean asked a deep frown still on his face.
I opened my mouth. Wanted to ask him how we ended up here and why, but all that came out was "Dirty water."
That elicited a smile from my cranky brother. "Dork," he muttered, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
I glanced around.
When had he pulled the car over ?
Twisting branches and hollowed out logs and the eerie creak of wood made me shiver. Oh, yeah, no car. Contraption. "We up-up a tree?" I asked, frowning back up at his blurring image.
"You could say that," Dean replied.
"Big one?" I frowned.
"Don't do that again, Sam," he ordered, very softly running a hand through my hair. "Just try to relax and let me do all the work." He stared at me a second more, and then shuffled off.
Something in Dean's voice told me I should do just that, relax, but I couldn't shut off my buzzing brain. We'd started moving again. I watched the sky, wondering when Dean had put in a sunroof while allowing every pain-blotted memory to flood back in a rush.
We'd trekked up the mountainside three days ago, camping gear in tow. Hoping to find the latest victim of the ogre we'd been after that had dragged off – a twelve-year-old boy.
We found him all right.
His chest ripped open, intestines slung around like used rope, blood still so warm and fresh it glistened in the beams of our flashlights. More hideous was the boys chewed off head. The ogre had placed it on a low, rocky shelf lined up next to more rotting faces. All previous kills – obviously kept as trophies. Ogres were such hoarders. The cave piled full of rotting, sticky, dough-like flesh.
Dean and I both had gagged and nearly vomited just entering the dwelling.
I slammed my eyes shut against the lingering memory of stench. But even with my eyes shut all I saw was that boy's fear-filled eyes staring sightlessly back at me, pleading even in death for us to help him. We had to kill the thing before it got to anyone else. My breaths turned to quick puffs, my heart beating out of control. Sick. I was about to be sick. I thrashed to one side, pain burning in my shoulder and side half-rolling to lean over to one side and gag.
"Here we go again," Dean gave a pain-filled moan and we came to a complete standstill.
Above the harsh sound of my own dry heaving I could hear boots scrambling over dirt and shifting pebbles, and then Dean was crouched right beside me. His hands were shaking and blistered as they cupped my head, and held me steady. "Sam, it's okay," Dean said going into big brother's here-calm-the-hell-down mode.
"Not okay." I spit hot chunks of bitterness into the dirt.
"Good." Dean deadpanned, wiping my mouth with his untucked shirt.
"Good?" I blinked repeatedly at him. When did he grow a beard?
"You're lucky to be alive, Sam."
"Dean," I blurted, just barely able to lift my head and look around. "Need to kill the ogre before –"
"Lay back," Dean growled, pressing a cold hand to my forehead. "It's over, Sammy, all over."
I shivered and swallowed hard. "That…the boy. All those people we –" My stomach clenched and I retched again.
"Sam, I killed it," Dean said, shrugging his pack from tense shoulders. It thumped loudly to the ground. "Nothing more to be done, bitch is dead," he repeated. "Burned it myself, there's nothing more for us to do except get you the hell out of here. You understand me, man?"
I nodded reluctantly and lay back down. "God," I hissed, reaching toward my lower left side that burned like someone was holding a branding iron against it.
Dean clasped my hand stopping me. "Leave it," he barked, raising the sleeping bag, and taking extra time to gently lift my flannel shirt up. "Shrek knocked the living stuffing out of you and helped himself to a piece of Sammy pie before I could gank him."
"Doesn't look so bad," I said, staring at the thick, gauze tapped to my side.
It was large, but it was white and clean.
Dean lowered the shirt. "I have to drag your ass back home," he said, sounding pissed off. "Deep laceration by sharp tearing teeth not to mention the concussion you got from ramming your head into a tree. I'd say that's pretty bad, dude."
I bit my lip, literally not in a position to disagree. I was too damn weak to walk, and judging by the growth of hair that had appeared on my pissed-off brother's exhausted face since we started this whole hunt, he might not be far behind me in that department. How long had he been dragging my ass around anyway?
"A day and a half," Dean said bleakly, obviously reading my mind. He reached for his pack and dug around inside.
I frowned. "Didn't park the Impala that far away."
"Large, green, and super ugly hauled your stupid Princess Fiona ass halfway to Jamaica before I caught up to you," Dean explained, still sounding pissed.
"Not a princess," I protested.
"If I say you're a princess, young lady, you're a friggin' princess," Dean grouched, body rigid with worry as he eyed me intensely
"Whatever," I croaked, feeling uncomfortable under his heated stare.
"Fine. You don't want to be the princess you can be the stupid donkey… sick of draggin' you around anyway." Dean smiled softly.
"Fine, I'm the princess." I said, knowing he had me beat, and glancing around searching for a change of subject. "Where's my pack?"
"Don't worry, man, your copy of Pride and Prejudice is safe," he said, still staring at me like I'd disappear if he looked away for a second.
"I don't read that crap, Dean."
"Dude, yes you do." Dean tipped his chin toward me. "And you're using your pack as a pillow. I had to combine our gear, young Winchester."
I rolled my eyes. "Hate it when you quote Star Wars."
"Hate it when you try bleeding out on me," Dean said gruffly. "I'd say that makes us even." He finally took his eyes off of me and pulled out two bottles and held them up. "Name your poison, little brother." Dean eyed the plastic water bottle. "Half-full," he said. "Or half-empty," he sloshed the whisky around in the bottle he held in his other hand.
"Half-full," I muttered.
"Water it is," Dean gave a light chuckle, pressing the bottle in my hand and making sure my fingers were wrapped tightly around it before he let go. "Just drink it slow," Dean ordered. "Then we'll resume our walkabout."
I sipped at the much needed water, while Dean helped himself to the much needed whiskey.
"You keep drinking the hard stuff and walkabout is going to turn into drunkabout," I hissed, offering him my water.
Dean stubbornly took another swig of whiskey. "Liked you better when you were quiet and drooling." He gave a half-hearted smile.
I observed my brother. He looked undamaged except for the swollen knot on his left temple that had turned a deep-purple.
"Bro, stop staring at me, you're creeping me the hell out."
"You're exhausted," I said, noting the dark circles rimming his eyes, and were those dried tearstains on his mud-streaked cheeks?
"I'm golden," he deadpanned.
I knew full well he wasn't. "Dean –"
"Sam, this isn't a college lecture hall, just drink your damn water. We move out in three," he said in a militant tone that could rival dad squinting so hard at me I had no choice but to look away.
We were in the middle of a glen surrounded by crimson, bronze, and golden trees. Night was on the edge of the horizon, the air chilly, and wind picking up.
Sure the ogre was gone, but these parts were known to house grizzlies and cougars. How far away from the Impala we were… I didn't know. Dean was on his last leg. We'd have to make camp soon. How much longer did he think he could keep dragging my useless ass around?
I snorted. Easy answer: as long as it took.
"Sammy, stop burning brain cells and drink your water damn it," he hissed, staring off into the distance with a look of deep concentration on his face as he took another swallow of whiskey.
I sighed. Just like dad, there was no point in arguing any further with my stubborn brother. I took another sip of water. Shit. It went down the wrong pipe and I started hacking hard. My stomach cramped and I tensed, wincing when my stitches pulled, my hand holding the bottle going limp.
"Hey!" Dean whirled around and caught the container before the water could dump all over the ground. "Don't waste water," he scolded a very frenzied, worried look on his face.
"I'm okay, Dean."
"Uh-huh." Dean capped the bottle and shoved it into the backpack, never taking his squinty eyes off mine.
"So we still have a bit of a hike ahead of us here?" I asked, trying to take his attention off me.
"Hammock swinging for you," Dean said darkly, slugging down another mouthful of whiskey. "You need to keep still, don't need you busting stitches and bleeding yourself white. Again," he chastised.
"You need to drink water, or you're going to dehydrate," I reprimanded in return.
"You need a haircut," Dean said, finally capping the whiskey bottle and stowing it back in the pack.
"Agreed," I said, weakly blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes and ending the banter only because I was too tired to continue.
Dean sat a moment longer, just staring at me.
"Stop staring at me you're creepin' me out," I mocked.
"Good." Dean stared a half second longer and then said, "We're going to have to find a place to setup camp real soon." He directed his middle finger to the darkening sky.
I chuckled lightly, the gesture not lost on me, and relieved at the same time. Setting up camp was a good idea. Dean needed to rest, and it was true. We wouldn't get much farther in the dark.
The wind began to shift and Dean shivered. The temperature was dropping rapidly. I hadn't felt it, snug and warm under Dean's sleeping bag, his leather jacket lying on top of that.
I frowned just now realizing I was nestled on top of my sleeping bag. No way was I being a bed hog.
"Dean, put your jacket on, and when we make camp you're taking back your sleeping bag."
"Not taking orders, Sam, giving them," Dean barked, again, sounding way too much like dad.
"Dean, could you stop with the bossy boss routine…if you freeze to death..." I took a breath, held it and blew it out feeling the water I just drank coming back up on me. "...if you freeze to death, dude." I took another breath. "Who's going to haul my ass out of here?" I asked hating the fact there was no way I was getting off this contraption he'd built.
Dean seemed to think that through for a second, then stood, but not before snatching his jacket off me in frustration and putting it on. "Happy, bitch?" he barked,
I sighed and closed my eyes. "Mush, jerk."
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I glanced over at Sam. I'd pulled the stretcher as close to the fire as I dared, didn't need a stray spark lighting his ass on fire. He was still out and looked warm enough. Good. He needed to rest. And I didn't need to hear him bitching over the fact he still hogged both the sleeping bags...and my jacket that I draped back on him when he'd slipped back under.
Besides, I was warm enough. Had built the fire up pretty well, and planned on keeping it that way. Wouldn't be getting any sleep anyway. Night had come fast and it came cold. The sickle moon and few stars set against the black as fuck sky didn't offer much light. Every swaying tree and shadow beyond our campfire was deep and dark and sharp. Coated in frosty white.
At least I'd caught us some dinner. Nothing fancy – Bugs Bunny on a stick.
I twisted the field dressed rabbit slowly on the spit, while chewing on its liver. "Chef Boyardee couldn't do a better job." I took another bite of meat. "Tastes like… like… like…like...taste like liver…ew," I muttered, taking yet another tentative bite and listening carefully to the night.
All was quiet, except for the chirping crickets and a small breeze that blew through the tops of the trees.
Stretching and popping my back, I sat forward poking my knife into the center of the rabbit, watching its juices run clear. "Sorry, little fellow." I cringed.
In our line of work you learned to eat whatever was available. Cooking skills was one of the first lessons dad taught me. With a hungry little brother to feed, I'd gone from mixing formula and filling bottles, to pouring bowls of cereal and opening cans, to survival situations like this in crash-course time.
Dad taught us how to take advantage of anything available to eat, in any environment we found ourselves in. We'd survived on fish, deer, raccoon, snake, bird eggs, berries, snails and worms. Hell, I'd even whipped up a coconut cream pie Gilligan's Island style a time or two. But rabbit? Rabbit was my least favorite dish. They were supposed to be cute, furry pets. Not food.
I nearly gagged, lifting the stick and sliding the charred meat off, moaning as that small movement caused me a great deal of pain. My shoulders, back, and abs burned hotter than the campfire.
"Lifting weights at the gym has nothing on dragging your pain in the ass around Sherwood Forest, Sammy," I complained, setting the cooked rabbit on a hot rock near the fire. I stared down at my hands. "Crap." Both of them were rope burned, the skin torn, bloody, and full of blisters. We still had several miles ahead of us come morning. That coupled with my near exploding head from the hit I took from the ogre was going to really slow me down to a near crawl. I needed to get my little brother out of the elements and into a motel bed, or better still, a hospital bed. "Son of a bitch," I yelped in frustration, disgusted with myself for letting Sammy get hurt. Disgusted with my dinner. I was just about to toss what was left of the charred liver into the flames.
"Don't waste food," Sam's dry, gravelly voice froze my arm mid-throw.
I stared across the crackling fire.
Sam stared back, face gray and hair sweat plastered.
I felt the biggest monster I ever would fight wrap tightly around me – failure.
I knew Sam was capable of looking after himself. He was strong, brave, and tougher than nails. He was more than able to stand his own ground. But that same old fear inside of me wouldn't go away. Just the thought of losing Sammy always took my breath away. Dad's voice a constant bomb blast going off in my head. Watch out for Sammy.
"Dean? What?" Sam interrupted "What's wrong?"
"Pissed off, dude," I barked, picking up the rabbit off the stone and flipping it to keep the meat evenly warmed. "Forgot to pack the friggin' rosemary, man," I sneered.
"You," Sam rasped. "You're no Chef Boyardee," he said, then started coughing so hard I thought his eyes would pop right out of his head.
"Hey, hey, hey." As stiff and sore as my body was, I was on my feet in a flash, bottle of water in hand, and rounding the fire to his side. "What are you are talking about, little brother?" I knelt beside Sam, laying a hand to his chest and patting gently. "I'm the Rotisserie King of the World." I uncapped the bottle and held it to his lips.
"And I'm a merman," Sam snorted out a laugh between wracking coughs. "No...no more water." He turned his head away.
"Aw, c'mon, Sammy," I said, dropping my voice to a sheer whisper, feeling his heart beating way too fast. "Hey," I dropped my head closer to him. "Easy, pal. Slow it down. Can't afford to have you all geared up like this." I set the bottle aside.
Sam's coughing attack turned into wheezing, then four rapid snot blowing sneezes exploded out of him causing him to arch, wincing in pain.
"Say it, don't spray it, Samantha," I lamely joked, unable to do anything else but support his back.
"Guh… that-that hurt." Sam curled upward, reaching for his lower abdomen.
I frowned and withdrew my hand from his chest, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. My internal thermometer accurately read Sam's temperature – 102.6. "You're sick." I rolled down the sleeping bag and lifted his shirt to check his wound.
Within seconds Sam shivered with chills. "Dean, don't."
"I'm in charge, not you," I snapped studying the bandage.
It was still white. Clean, and blood free.
Sam squirmed and hissed as I lifted a corner to peek underneath. The stitched skin looked puffed and swollen and oozing.
"Well?" Sam groaned.
"Well...it's infected."
"Of course it is."
"Yeah, well at least we don't have any more bleeding going on." I covered the wound back up, dabbing the tapped edges gently in place, yet Sam still hissed. "Here, try a little of this." I reached for a cup I had warming by the fire.
"What is it?"
"Latte, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla soy, double shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, peppermint white chocolate mocha with whipped air and extra syrup and carmel drizzle," I joked. It was actually broth I'd made from Rodger's bones.
Hoping he could hold that little bit of nutrition down, I raised the cup to his lips.
Surprisingly, and without question, Sam took a few small sips.
I could tell he was battling with his stomach trying to keep the liquid down. "Sam?" I pulled the cup away, feeling my own stomach lurch.
"Um...yeah... it's good, but don't make fun of my taste in drinks," he quipped, quickly, licking a drop off his lips, and lying back down.
"Those fancy girl-drinks of yours cost more than a gallon of gas," I drawled.
"Truth," he groaned huffing and puffing to catch his breath and ease the pain I knew he had to be feeling in his gut. "So, where are we?" Red watery eyes drifted sluggishly about.
"Almost out." I pulled a bandanna from my pocket and poured a little water from the water bottle on to dampen it. "Figure we've got about another three miles and we'll be back at the park entrance where we left Baby." I bathed the sweat from his face.
"I can walk," Sam sputtered, staring at the crackling flames and shifting logs.
"That's bullshit, Sam," I angrily growled. "I know that and you know that."
"Dean, you can't keep me tied down to this contraption." His eyes fluttered.
I raised a brow, dampening the bandanna again as it had already gone dry from the heat radiating off my brother. "Have you know…that contraption... took me two friggin' back busting hours to build," I muttered. "So, you, my brother, will lie there and like it." I went back to wiping the sides of his face, his neck, then chest. "You're toast."
Sam eyed me up and down. "Look who's talking, Dean."
"Shut up, Kirstie Alley," I spat, trying not to wince at the pain that burned across my shoulders.
"You're a train wreck." Sam's stomach grumbled.
"You hungry?" I changed the subject.
"Don't know," he said, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling. "Come morning, I'm walking out of here, Dean." He quickly went back to insisting.
I sighed deeply, taking out my pocket knife I scooted back to the fire and cut into the rabbit, carving a nice chunk of meat out of its back leg.
"You don't think so?" Sam continued.
"I don't think so."
"I am."
"No, Sam. You are not." I blew on the meat to cool jostling it from hand to hand trying to cool it down some.
"Dude, you told me earlier you couldn't even move a muscle when I asked you to roll on your side to check the scratches on your back," I lied.
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"Don't call me a liar, Dean."
"Liar," I deadpanned.
Playful banter was always our way of keeping us grounded, but I knew come morning Sam would put up one hell of a fight and end up injuring himself further just to bulldog his way back to his feet. Call me a control freak, but I was in charge.
"I'm in charge here, Samantha." I pursed my lips, giving Sam a cold-hard stare.
Sam pursed his lips and stared just as cold and just as hard back at me. Tough son of a bitch.
I had to arm myself with more than words. Paper, scissors, rock was a no go. Sam always won at that. I thought a moment. My stomach flopping at the images of his torn open side and gobs of blood pouring into the dirt. And that's when it came to me. It was pathetic and underhanded, but it would work.
"Tell you what, little brother." I waggled the chunk of cooled charred flesh in the air. "You eat something more solid for me… hold it down all night long…and I'll let you walk your ass out of here on your own recognizance."
"You're not holding court, jerk." Sam pouted.
I shrugged and said, "My contraption...my court, bitch."
Point was, hungry or not, Sam needed to eat something. The rabbit I'd cooked up wouldn't replace the blood he'd lost, but the nutrients wouldn't hurt.
"So, is it a deal, or no deal?" I winked.
Sam edged up to one elbow squinting at my culinary delight. "Fish?"
"Little Bunny Foo Foo," I deadpanned.
Sam looked at me in shock.
If I hated rabbit…Sam loathed it.
"Eat something solid and I walk out of here? Correct?" Sam questioned, red-fevered face breaking out in a big smile.
"Eat something solid and not barf," I clarified, breaking out into my own big smile. The idiot. I know my brother. Herbal broth, or ginger ale, or dry toast he might hold down, but not something as gamey as rabbit; which was all we had. I was being manipulative, a borderline asshole even, but it was for Sam's own good.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, shaky hand sliding into his pocket and pulling out a half-eaten bag of Chocolate M&M's.
"Dude! How'd you get a hold of –"
"Picked your pocket just now." He smiled.
"That is not something solid."
"Yes it is."
"That's cheating."
"Yes it is." The smartass rattled a few of them out and popped them into his mouth.
"Saaaammm," I threatened.
"You didn't tell me what to eat, Dean," he said, chewing very slowly.
I rolled my eyes. "Least you could do is send your compliments to the chef," I garbled.
"My Compliments to Forrest Mars," Sam gave the bag a shake, a proud look on his face as if he held a bag of gold and not just half-a-bag of chocolate color-coated candies. "Forrest Mars is the creator of –"
"I know who he is, Sam." I smiled inwardly. Geeky kid was a chip off the big brother block.
"I'm not going to hear the end of your shit for saying this, little brother, but, you are awesome."
"Learned from the best around," Sam sniffed and cleared his throat, fighting to stay awake and not cough while popping M&M's like he was popping Tylenol.
"You haven't seen anything yet," I whispered going back to my spot by the fire and chowing on the rascally rabbit. I watched every swaying tree and shadow beyond our campfire, trying to remember if I had enough length of rope left in my pack.
The – dorky - end