Title: Terror From The Dark
Summary: Sam is seeing something, but can Dean trust that it is real? Or is Sam merely working through some Hell induced night terrors? Set mid season 7.
Rating: M - for scary and maybe a little gory!
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters therein. Sad life.
Warnings: Some parts of this might get a little graphic. I love me some whumpage on the boys, the more gory the more glory!
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at fanfic. Feedback is very much appreciated! I didn't have it beta read, so I hope there are little to no mistakes. Thanks for reading!
Terror From The Dark
The motel was typical for the Winchesters, a little on the run down side. Coffee stains, along with other miscellaneous fluids, adding a bit of panache to the drudgery of the faded green carpet, any cushioning worn flat years ago. Dean enters first, always taking the fore position when entering a new situation even if there is no apparent danger. It was a habit. Always looking out for his forever baby brother. Sam comes in next, carrying their bags and unceremoniously tossing them onto their designated beds. Dean always took the bed closest to the door. Again, a protective habit developed over the years.
Sam moves over to his bed, a slight limp in his step. He tosses his bag down as well and flops onto the bed himself, laying facedown with his face in the course fabric of the taupe top cover. He lets out a sigh of contentment. It always feels good after a long day of hunting to pass out in bed for the night. His reprieve is short lived though. Dean picks the first aid kit from his bag and moves over to Sam's bed.
"Dude, why don't you sit up for a 'sec and let me patch up that arm of yours before you bleed all over the covers?" Dean says, tossing the kit onto the blanket next to his brother's prone figure and popping the lid. Sam sighs. He always hated this part of the after hunt ritual. When injuries occurred, which was more often than not, it was best to take care of them as soon as the brothers got into their hotel room for the night. He turns his head to face Dean and eyeballs the surgical thread and needle his brother was removing from the kit.
"It's not that serious, Dean. I don't need any stitches. Really, it's just a few cuts..." Sam starts and Dean gives him a smirk. "Quit being a baby, Sam. It'll just take a second. Let's get you cleaned up and then you can try to get some sleep."
Sam huffs and sits up on the bed, swinging his long legs over the side and takes off his jacket. He glances down at his right bicep and sees the blood already starting to seep through the makeshift bandages Dean had temporarily wound around his arm. Maybe the cuts were a little deeper than Sam had originally realized. Dean goes into the bathroom and comes back out with a wet washcloth while Sam carefully unwraps his arm.
Dean starts cleaning up the blood and dirt from the wound and Sam winces and hisses, the stinging nerves in his abused skin coming to life as his brother disturbs the tender tears in his flesh. "Sorry." Dean quickly apologizes. He cleans as gently as he can, next grabbing the saline solution and squirting it into the wound, letting out a slow whistle as the blood washed away. "Dang, that skin walker really took a chunk outt'a you." Sam looks down and sees the three huge gashes running diagonally across his arm. "Huh." Is all Sam says. This might take longer than he had hoped. Dean threads his needle and gets to work.
He pushes the needle and thread through Sam's skin, his practiced hands steady as they draw the flesh back together in neat sutures, working down each wound as Sam concentrates on other things, occasionally letting out a hiss and an uncomfortable squirm as he felt the pinch and pull of the needle and thread. After about half an hour of biting his lip, Sam lets out another sigh of relief as Dean cuts the thread from his final suture.
"Alright, Sammy, we are done here. Let's just get this wrapped up and you're good to pass out." Dean says as he fishes out white bandages and tenderly wraps Sam's arm. After taping it securely Dean smiles to himself. No matter what anybody says, Sam was one tough son of a bitch. All those stitches, no anesthetic, and hardly a peep from him. He was proud of his little brother.
Dean stands up and gathers up his first aid supplies and puts the kit back into his bag. He pulls the salt out and goes about securing the motel room with salt lines at every window and door while Sam gingerly pulls off his shoes and strips out of his jeans. He pushes the covers back on his bed and crawls in. Exhausted, he lays his head down and closes his eyes. Maybe Lucifer will leave him alone tonight.
Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye as he lays down the salt lines. His constant concern as of late being Sam's mental status in regards to his concept of what was real and what were the disturbing delusions put forth by the Devil in Sam's mind. Sam seemed to be holding up well, the scar on his left palm an anchor; a constant reminder of the pain of this physical world. Dean grabs some clean boxers and sweat pants from the duffel on his bed and heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and stripping off his clothes. He turns on the shower and lets the hot water wash away the dirt and grime from the day's hunt.
Tossing in bed, Sam tries to get comfortable. His arm throbs as he rolls onto his left side, his back towards the door that his brother just disappeared into. He closes his eyes and listens to the shower start up. The shower curtain rings give out a screech as they slide over the curtain rod when Dean slides the curtain shut. He concentrates on his own breathing and tries to relax his muscles, hoping to drift off to sleep. Heaven knows he could use a good night's rest. As the world calms around him and his mind starts to wander, he hears it. A scratching noise.
Ever so faint, like slow footsteps coming from the far corner of the room. Sam's eyes snap open. He lays completely still and stares towards the corner of the room, looking for the source of the noise. He sees nothing. No movement in the faint light of the motel lamp. No shadows fleeting on the walls. But still a slow shuffle, growing louder and closer to where he lays. Sam's duffel is laying at the foot of his bed. If he's fast enough, he can grab out his pistol. His muscles tense up, and he pauses. The scratching gets closer. It's right there, almost at the foot of his bed. Sam sits up quickly, not caring as his sudden movements pull uncomfortably at his fresh stitches. His hand dives directly into his duffel, wrapping his fingers around the cold grip of his pistol. He jerks it out and aims towards the source of the noise and the scratching stops suddenly.
The bathroom door flies open, a puff of steam swirling out as Dean steps back into the room, vigorously running a towel over his hair. He stops mid motion as he observes the scene before him. Sammy in bed, holding his gun out towards the empty area in the motel room. Pointing at nothing. At least nothing Dean can see... Dean feels his heart sink, his mind flashing back to the scene at the warehouse when Sam almost shot him, not knowing what was real and what was illusion. Maybe Sam isn't doing as well as he had hoped.
Dean clears his throat. Sam snaps his gaze in Dean's direction and suddenly realizes what this must look like. He breaks eye contact with Dean, removes his finger from the trigger and lowers his gun slowly. "I, uh..." Sam struggles to save face. He lets out a sigh. "I heard something. At least, I thought I did." He says sullenly. He pauses, listening to the silence in the room. No scratching. He feels like an idiot. He let Dean down in a momentary lapse of judgment. "Sorry." He apologizes, then reluctantly sets the gun down on the night stand between the two twin beds.
"Hey, you've had a long day. You're probably just tired and suffering from more blood loss than a double donation to the Red Cross. You didn't even get a sugar cookie." Dean offers, trying to console Sam and diffuse the awkward situation. "Maybe a little hallucination is normal... Just try to get some sleep. I'll be here, so there's nothing to worry about. I won't let anything happen to you." Dean manages a reassuring smile and Sam nods, still reluctant to make eye contact.
"Yeah, you're probably right. I'll just try to get some shut eye..." Sam concedes, and then lays back down, his back facing Dean once again and covers himself up with the blanket. He can already feel his hurt arm getting stiff. He hopes his stupid slip up didn't manage to tear any stitches. That would just make him feel worse, ruining Dean's neat suture work. He closes his eyes again and listens as Dean finishes his nightly routine, double checking the salt lines and making sure the door and windows are locked. Dean eventually crawls into his own bed and Sam hears the click of the lamp turning off. The room goes dark and to Sam's relief the only noises to be heard are the sounds of his and Dean's own breathing.
In the corner, it watches. These two aren't the usual kind of people it encounters. They know things. They are aware. They are dangerous.
This could be fun.