Title: Left Behind
Author: Enkidu07
Disclaimer: Not even mine for Christmas.
Summary: This week's hunt hits too close to home. Dean's a little worried about being left behind. But Sam's not going anywhere. Hurt!Dean and h/c!Sam.
Betas: Thanks for all of the feedback on this one! Thanks goes out to Mad Server, PADavis, and to InSecret for the outside consult.
The Challenge: A few months ago, Soncnica, Mad Server, PADavis and I gave ourselves a mini-challenge called H/C Dogme '09, or Needy Dean. We had our own Vow of Chastity and everything. This is my submission. The premise was to write hurt/sick!Dean (I know, something new for us, right?). We noticed we tend to make Dean independent and stoic, and Sam nurturing and concerned, and while this is extremely satisfying, the characters aren't always like that on the show. So the challenge was to deliver delicious h/c while staying consistent with what we see onscreen (This involved rewatching h/c scenes – the sacrifices we made...). All four stories are set in Season 1. Happy Holidays and I hope you all enjoy!
The other players:
PADavis: 'Land of Enchantment',
Soncnica: 'Going up in Flames',
Mad Server: 'Display',
A/N: Last thing, I promise. We have traded stories and are building off of each other's fics. If you find one you enjoy, stay tuned for chapter 2 next week.
--
"Hiking? Seriously, Sam?" Dean stuffs three days' worth of laundry into his duffel with a little more force than necessary.
"Dean. Five hikers in the last two weeks. Along the same two-mile stretch of trail." Sam balks at Dean's indifference.
Eventually logic, facts, and a deep down sense of duty win over Dean's petulance and distaste for the great outdoors.
At dawn they point the Impala north.
They spend the first day talking to the rangers. No sign of struggle. No sign of foul play. No sign of the lost hikers, either. Air patrol and volunteers have combed the area and they're at a loss.
On the second day they track down each group of hikers who had lost friends on the trail. The stories are varied but have a common theme. The first group reported that the hiker who went missing had twisted an ankle. He was just going to wait for the group to circle back, but they never saw him again. The next group reported that their missing companion had needed a rest – stayed behind to catch his breath. The third missing hiker had lost his jacket and was doubling back to find it. The fourth went ahead of the group. Told his friends that he was just going to scout out a camping spot. Another ducked off the path to pee.
Witnesses who witnessed nothing.
After talking to hikers all day, Dean and Sam check out the trail head. The trail is closed and taped off like a crime scene, detour signs pointing hikers to a paved road running parallel to the path. Sam fingers the tape thoughtfully while Dean finishes his sandwich. "Drawing its victims away from the herd," Dean states through masticated burger.
"What?" Sam asks, turning to him.
Dean swallows. "It waits for one of them to wander away from the group. Then it makes its move."
"What does?"
Dean looks thoughtful. "Not sure yet."
Sam stares down the dirt path and then pushes back. "Come on. I want to do a little more research and then we can check out the trail tomorrow."
Sam spends the evening looking through old papers. There have been several disappearances over the years. Injured hikers, people missing, people lost and unprepared for the elements. When he falls into bed, the vivid photos of wayward hikers meander through his dreams - flashes of red from a lost boy's sweatshirt, the yellow of a lost girl's raingear, crooked smiles.
The brothers hit the trail before daybreak to avoid any unwanted attention. There's a taste of winter in the predawn air and Sam sees Dean huddle closer into his leather jacket, can hear him grumbling to himself.
By noon the sun is high and Dean is shedding layers, the exertion of hiking combining with the heat from the late fall sun. Sam sheds his own jacket and stuffs it in his pack.
They comb the area thoroughly, stopping periodically for water and power bars. Just as they are about to give it up and head back for the night, Dean disappears. Sam's staring right at him, mouth open to suggest they pack it in before dark, and Dean's gone in the blink of an eye, swallowed up by the forest floor.
"Dean!" Sam hears a muffled crash, a grunt, and then hears Dean cry out, the sound resonating down his spine, spurring him forward.
"Dean!"
As Sam nears, he moves cautiously, can barely make out the hole into the earth, partially covered with rotten jagged planks and colorful autumn leaves. He slides to the edge and peers down. "Dean?"
"Fuck." Dean sputters below him and then wide eyes blink up at him. "Fuck!"
"Dean."
Dean coughs, sucks in some air and mutters a few more choice curse words. Then he grunts out, "I think I found the hikers." Sam digs a light out of his pack, causing Dean to shrink back as the beam catches him in the face. Sam takes a moment to scan the light over Dean's body and then swirls it around the inside of the sunken cavern. From his vantage point he can make out several bodies huddled together and then another off to one side. Dean's voice is rough. "Looks like they got trapped. Couldn't get out. Died together. Sort of. Some look fresher than others."
Sam shines the light back at Dean. He's still resting where he fell. "You hurt?"
Dean blinks up at Sam and then closes his eyes and swallows. "I'm okay. Hit my fucking hip."
"Hit your head?"
"Maybe a little." Dean struggles to stand, grunting when he puts weight on his right leg, hand hovering just over his hip.
"I'll get a rope. Hang tight."
By the time Sam gets Dean back onto solid ground, Dean's pale and sweaty and a little green around the edges. Sam assesses quickly. Dean's pulse is fast, his breathing shallow, and dark marks are soaking through his jeans along his hipbone. Sam eyes it and then cups a hand around Dean's skull and feels gently for abrasions. Dean's submissive, looking kind of dazed, until Sam hits a tender spot. He jerks back, panting.
The sky is already growing dark and Sam sits back for a second, thinking. He eyes Dean thoughtfully.
"We'll make camp for the night. Now that we know what we're dealing with, we can finish it off in the morning." He starts hustling Dean to his feet.
"Know what we're dealing with? What'd I miss?" Dean is squinting at him with one eye squeezed shut and lip curled up.
Sam nods at the darkening hole as he gets Dean moving, noting that Dean is putting weight on his leg – good, not broken. "The... decayed body. With the red sweatshirt and boots. I remember him. Saw his picture last night. He was lost out here this time last year, right before a sudden rash of missing persons occurred, kind of like what's happening now. He was never found. Honestly, it didn't look like anyone ever looked that hard. Sounded like his friends left him behind and now I'm guessing he's a little pissed off."
"So, he's lost out here and now is trapping other hikers out here with him?" Dean's getting heavier beside Sam, eyes slipping closed as he talks.
"We can burn his remains in the morning. Call in a tip to the authorities. If the disappearances stop, we'll know we're right."
"If?" Dean looks doubtful. A tough look to pull off with one eye closed and one hand clutched in Sam's flannel shirt. Then, "What's to stop him from trapping us?"
"All of the hikers went off alone. Left behind." Sam smirks, then sobers. "He picked them off one by one. We just have to stay together."
Sam deposits Dean at the base of an old pine with a grunt. He watches Dean's face. Lines appear as Dean adjusts to the new altitude. Dean's holding his breath, body taut.
"How you doing?" Sam asks, concerned.
Dean's eyes flicker open and skim Sam's face. "Good." A breath. "Gonna suck come morning, though." A shiver runs though him.
Sam scans the tree line. If he's right, they're safe till morning. If they don't freeze first. He pushes Dean over enough to pull the gun from his waistband and slips it into his grip. Dean's eyes meet his. "I'm just gonna grab some wood."
Dean attempts to rise to help and then sags back against the tree. "Stay where I can see you."
Sam builds the fire close. Pokes at it until the flames are rugged, then keeps it in his periphery so his night vision won't be compromised.
He rechecks his own gun and sits beside his brother as the forest quiets for the night. Occasionally he throws another branch on the flames. They don't talk. Two sets of eyes reflecting the firelight and scanning the dark trees.
A few hours later, Dean's head finally starts to nod. Sam watches him and then stands to stretch. He ducks behind a bush to relieve himself, keeping his brother in sight. He looks down as he is finishing up and suddenly there is a ruckus from where he left Dean. He whips around and sees leaves flying and Dean pushing himself frantically up. Even as Sam moves toward him, Dean cries out, "SAM!"
"Dean." He grips Dean's biceps, scanning his face and then the forest. "What? What is it?"
"Where were you? I thought... I thought it... I thought I saw..."
"What'd you see?"
Dean scans the darkness intently. "I think you're right about the boy." Sam looks around anxiously.
"You saw him?"
"Maybe. Thought maybe he drew you away."
Sam sighs. "Nah. Nature called." He pushes at Dean's shoulder, heart rate settling, "Sit down. How's the hip?"
Dean grimaces and sits with far more caution than he arose, gripping Sam's forearm to lower himself. "It's awesome."
"Rest. I'll keep watch."
Dean doesn't respond, swipes a hand over inflamed eyes.
"Dean, we're gonna have to hike out of here in the morning. You're hurt. Sleep."
Dean sighs, bangs his head back against the tree and then grimaces and tenses up.
Sam drops beside him, leans into the curve of the tree. He pulls his knees up and dangles his gun between them. "I'm not going anywhere."
Dean watches him and then slowly rests his head back and closes his eyes. "Wake me up if you leave," he mumbles.
"I will."
--
The forest is deceptively calm in the morning. Sam struggles to his feet at the first sign of dawn, shaking off the lethargy of keeping watch.
His shuffling rouses Dean who stretches and then groans low. Sam watches as one eye squints into the pale light. Dean licks his lips and Sam pulls a water bottle out of his sack and hands it over.
Sam banks the fire while Dean pulls himself stiffly up, hand still hovering over his leg. His jeans are dark and stiff with dried blood and Sam regards Dean's hip critically.
Dean follows his gaze and twists his face into a scowl. "I don't think these are coming off. Maybe ever." Dean downs the water.
Sam huffs. "Come on." Sam works his way back over to the hole and gazes into the murky depths. "If you lower me, I can burn the body down there. Let him rest."
Dean tilts his head back, eyes closed, and hums. "It'll look suspicious when the authorities arrive."
Sam considers this. "Maybe." He pauses. Then asks, "Do we care?"
They stare at each other in the chilly dawn. Dean leans against a tree, eyes heavy. "Huh. I guess not."
"I can bury the remains. Buy us some time at least." At Dean's nod, Sam loops the rope around the base of an old pine and tosses the end to Dean. "Don't drop me."
--
They are getting close to the Impala by the time the sun is high in the sky. Sam takes deep breaths of the autumn air, trying to chase away the acrid odor of burning flesh from his nostrils. He pushes his hand through his hair, the scent clinging to him and making him nauseous.
Dean has had a hand cupped around Sam's shoulder for the last mile or so, growing steadily heavier with each step.
At the car, Sam takes the keys and settles in. Dean takes his time tossing supplies in the trunk and Sam can hear him phoning in an anonymous tip, voice weary and sad.
Dean slides in carefully, sinking into the leather seats with most of his weight on his left, slightly cocked toward Sam.
Sam watches him, fingers the keys.
"Sam?" Dean asks, not even opening his eyes.
"Yeah?"
"Roll down the window. You stink."
Sam laughs, startled, and cranks the engine. He points the Impala south.
--
The late afternoon sun is vicious on the horizon. Sam blinks and rubs at his eyes. Dean keeps shifting beside him, restlessly dozing.
Now that there are a few towns between them and the remains of the hunt, he starts scanning for a motel.
Dean is mostly lucid as Sam drags him from the Impala. "Dean. Help me out here," Sam barks, bone-tired and short-tempered.
Dazed eyes blink at him and he feels guilty, gentles his touch, takes the weight when Dean stumbles closer.
Dean shakes himself and breathes deep. "Which room?"
"Eleven." Sam grabs the bags.
Inside he follows Dean into the bathroom. "Can you get those off?" Dean's jeans come off more easily than expected. He tugs at his boxers to expose the wound and pales visibly when the material resists. Sam hears a sick swallow and puts a hand out when it looks like Dean's about to go down. "Okay. Okay. Come on." Sam pulls him to the bedroom. "Lay down. We'll wet it first."
Dean lowers himself shakily to the bed. Sam grabs the first aid kit and fills the ice bucket with warm water.
Dean starts when he pours some warm water over the stuck cloth, huffs a loud breath out his nose. Sam hears Dean's teeth grind as he steadily peels the material away and tugs the boxers down enough to get to the wound.
The flesh along his hipbone is bloodied and bruised. Sam hovers his hand over it, not touching, feels heat radiating.
"It's just scraped and bruised, man. Looks like a few splinters from those planks. Gotta clean it."
"Awesome." Dean grits out.
Sam lays a warm, wet cloth against his brother's flank and lets it soften the dried blood. He adds a little pressure, then rinses the cloth and does it again. As the old blood dissolves, new bright beads well up in the deepest scores.
Once it is relatively clean, Sam douses it with alcohol, belatedly mumbling, "Gonna burn."
Dean's grips the bedspread with one hand, the other coming up, forearm pushing against his eyes. He turns his face away and his left leg bends at the knee as he squirms, tucking around the pain.
Sam pulls out the tweezers and spans a hand awkwardly across his brother's hip. "Hold still."
Sam tightens his grip as Dean jerks against him, pulling away from the bite of the tweezers. "Dean. Don't move."
Dean's breath stutters and Sam gives him a once over. "Dean? I've gotta clean it, dude."
"Yeah. Good. What're you waiting for?" Dean's voice is coarse. Sam turns his attention back to the task at hand.
Once clean, Sam carefully blots the area dry, sprays it liberally with topical anesthetic, and tapes a square of gauze over the entire hip. "You want these off?" Sam tugs at the damp boxers.
"Yeah. Get me up." Dean's voice is almost gone. Sam pulls him up and digs out a clean pair of boxers. Dean awkwardly changes and grimaces as the waistband puts pressure over the gauze. He takes a breath and then pulls off his t-shirt.
"Go wash while you're up and then I'll look at your head." Sam bosses.
Sam watches as Dean shuffles to the bathroom and splashes water at his face and neck, causing dirty red rivulets to run down his chest. He buries his face in a towel and then swipes inefficiently at his torso.
Sam lets him lay down again before he starts burrowing through his hair, dabbing carefully at the swollen scratches at the back of his head, first with warm water and then with disinfectant. Dean mutters pitiful obscenities as the alcohol infiltrates the inflamed flesh, tired and sore. He pushes his face into the pillow.
Once Sam finishes, he pulls the blanket up around his brother. "I'm going to shower. You want some Tylenol?"
Dean's breath evens out and Sam palms the back of his neck, checking for fever.
Dean mumbles, near sleep, "Wake me up if you leave."
"I'm not going anywhere."
--
PADavis will be posting chapter 2, from Dean's POV, on January 2nd. Stay tuned! Happy New Year!