A/N: This began as a weird little plot bunny following One Wrong Move.
It may have grown a little bit. So, without further ado, welcome to the world of Shadows Within.
This may be the first written for my little world, but it won't be the first in chronological order of the series, so stick around if you see something you like. Enjoy!
He doesn't remember leaving the scene.
He doesn't remember making it home.
He doesn't remember making it to the forest outside the city.
(It's going to be a bitch to figure out where the hell he parked his car.)
The last thing he remembers clearly is seeing Lou's body being battered and thrown by the explosion and the wild keen of grief that had torn its way from Spike's throat.
(He'd heard sounds like that before; they still haunted his nightmares, along with flashes of sand, blood and agony that radiates from his soul. Hell, he's made those sounds before.)
Somewhere amongst the haze, comes the distinct impression of all-consuming rage; someone had taken part of his family away from him, killed a member of his pack. Snuffed out Lou's life like it meant nothing.
And that couldn't stand, not in Sam's eyes and not in the eyes of the darkness that prowled within him.
But there was nothing for him to hunt, no one for him to kill in retaliation for the attack that stripped away yet another person he loved. Which left no outlet for that searing anger and desperation, leaving it to boil beneath his skin.
This wasn't supposed to happen; land mines were a thing of the sands, an unknown terror that plagued every patrol, forced every footfall to become unreasonably nerve wracking. This wasn't supposed to happen here, not in this city, not to this team; they were supposed to be safe. This family was supposed to be safe.
(The irony isn't lost on him; he knows that this is an unreasonable wish, but it's not as though he can stop himself. The SRU faces dangers every single day, be it guns to bombs and everything in between. But he thought he had left the unpredictable nature of the desert behind and this time, things would be better.)
The next thing Sam knows is he is on all fours, breath heaving through over taxed lungs as he hurtles his body through the trees. The slam back into full consciousness is disorienting, to say the least, and Sam trips over a fallen log he doesn't notice until he's flat on his face past it. Fallen leaves scatter in a fiery burst of colour in all directions as his heavy form takes up residency on the forest floor.
Sound and smell rushes back next, a cacophony of chirps, twigs breaking and the breaths of various animals all-trundling through his over sensitive hearing like a freight train. Thousands of little scent trails seem to light up in his brain, a barrage of prey and possibilities. For a brief second, he's paralyzed; simply overwhelmed by the sudden transition from the blank state he'd been in to the vibrant explosion of life.
(The last time Sam had lost control of the beast to this extent, he'd been back in the sands. He'd come to, wounded and surrounded by the bodies of his fallen pack. It had taken him six days to both find his way back to base and pull together his tattered sanity in order to stay human.)
Ever so slowly, his heart calms and he regains control of his senses. Tucking his paws beneath him, a quick twitch of his pelt later and he flips onto his back and closes his eyes. Quickly, he takes stock of his body and there's a jolt when the scent of blood registers strongly in his nose.
Eyes snapping open, he surges to his paws and growls softly when he notes his muzzle is streaked red with dried blood. Shaking his head with an angry snort, he rubs away the stains against his forepaws. Still caught in the tail end of panic from his abrupt return to reality, it takes a minute to place the blood as rabbit.
(Once before, it wasn't rabbit. Once before, it wasn't just one member of his pack being ripped from his soul.)
Finally, he stills, muzzle relatively clean and sanity mostly held in check, and stands tall in the midst of the sun-dappled trees. The thick black fur that covers his body twitches with each bunching of powerful muscles and he shifts his weight between his forepaws, the right a gleaming blaze of snow-white fur. His shoulders fell easily above waist height of the average male human, nose capable of reaching the chin without trouble.
(Werewolf wasn't the term he liked to use, but it was fitting. Personally, Sam preferred just calling himself a human with a mild anger management problem that occasionally took the form of a very large, furry wolf.)
Shaking viciously, Sam sheds the leaf litter that's attached itself to his fur and allows is tongue to loll free from powerful jaws. Still breathing heavily from running only God knows how many kilometers for God knows how long, Sam begins to flick his ears this way and that, hunting for some sound that will guide him back into civilization.
Tipping his head back, he catches a glimpse of sunlight through the branches and determines that it's still relatively early morning, meaning he can hopefully make it back to the city before the afternoon.
(That is, unless he hasn't stuck to the pattern of woods he normally runs. Then he's just screwed.)
Swirling at the back of his mind is a maelstrom of emotions, ranging from embarrassment for this loss of control and time to grief pulsating sickeningly through his bones. For a moment, his vision wavers as the wave of feelings threatens to crash over him, finally unleashed after being trapped within the beast. But he locks it down, using every scrap of compartmentalization skill he possesses, and gives his head another quick shake to clear away the last of the fog.
He doesn't have time right now to deal with anything but getting himself back to the city.
(It's a struggle for him to drop his muzzle from the sky; tipped up, Sam can feel a howl of grief fighting to get free. But now is no longer the time for the wolf to mourn, but the man.
And the man has to get the hell out of these woods.)
After several minutes of being unable to pick up any sounds indicating his location in relation to the city, Sam's lets out an explosive sigh of exasperation and lets his instincts take over. He sets out at a light trot, giving a flicker of attention to the presence in his head leading the way, until he begins to feel confident in the path his paws were taking.
And that's when he starts to run. Huge loping strides eating up meter after meter of earth, claws digging into the dirt and leaves and sending clumps flying. Muscles bunch and contract beneath that gleaming coat of fur and, just for an instant, Sam is able to forget everything but the feel of wind on his muzzle and power in his limbs.
(But moments don't last forever, and eventually, he finds himself back at his car, stumbling into clothes he doesn't remember hiding in a trash bag beneath the roots of a tree just out of sight from the road.)
He unlocks his car with mechanical movements and spares a glance at the cell phone on the passenger seat. The amount of missed calls
(12 from Jules, 8 from Parker, 6 from Ed, 3 from Wordy and 1 from Spike)
missed texts
(23 from Jules, 17 from Wordy, 8 from Ed and 2 from Parker. None from Spike)
and voicemails
(4 from Jules, 2 from Ed and Parker respectively, 1 from Wordy. None from Spike)
don't surprise him. What does is the date.
It had been two days since the explosion.
And he still didn't remember a single clear second of it.