The Stalker
Chapter two
Conclusion
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"Sam!" Dean tripped his way back through the forest of corn and through the soupy mud having lost sight of the creature. "Sammy!" He landed on both knees with a splash, hands fumbling to unfold his curled up brother and see the damage.
Sam gurgled deep in his throat, spitting a wad of saliva to the ground, and shoving Dean's helping hands away.
The rain in Dean's face and the shaking flashlight beam in his hand slowed him down to a sloth's pace as he took in the goose-egg sized purple lump on Sam's forehead as he drew his brother's jacket open. "Shit," he cursed, biting into his lip when the light finally caught on the claw mark low in Sam's abdomen. The kid was bleeding all over himself. "Always in the wrong place at the wrong time, aren't you, Sam?"
"Feel—" Sam choked coming around further. "Dean. Feel sick."
"Yeah, I bet." Dean jammed the base of his flashlight into the thick, sticky mud, angling it toward the wound so he could see better and free both hands. "Just take it easy." Dean glanced around, for a second unsure as to what to do first. Spying Sam's gun lying under limp fingers, he gently picked his brother's cold hand up, and shoved the weapon into the back of his jeans. "Can you straighten out some?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer as he gently unfolded Sam and laid him out flat to his back.
"Gah." Sam sucked in a breath, trying to do as he was asked and straighten out. "D'n," he gasped.
"Forget that." Dean pressed a palm to Sam's shoulder, easily pushing him back down. "Just lay back a second, dude, and don't move." He shrugged out of his soggy leather jacket and balled it up as best he could, then placed it under Sam's head. "It's okay, Sam, gonna be okay," he whispered, never taking his eyes off his brother's face as he struggled to get out of his wet button-down, leaving him only in a white t-shirt.
"Did…did..." Sam licked his lips. "Did you get it?"
Dean shook his head. "No, but it got you, man," Dean stated flatly.
Sam glanced down at Dean's hand. "With what?"
"Claws."
Sam's eyes snapped back up to meet Dean's. "Crap..."
"Sam." Dean immediately bowed over Sam blocking his view. "It's okay."
"God, Dean." Sam swallowed hard.
"Right here, pal, I'm right here." Dean wadded his shirt and pressed it to Sam's wound in his side.
"Geez." Sam winced.
"Easy," Dean whispered, gritting his teeth and wincing right along with his brother.
"Hurts," Sam groaned.
"Yeah, well now that we've established that… you think you can get to your feet and make it back to the car? That wound is going to need cleaning and stitching and you'll be lucky it doesn't get infected and while we're at it we should cut your hair—"
"Is that all?" Sam snorted. "We're in the enemy's zone, Dean. Case you hadn't noticed, it's dark and storming, we got one man down, and the other talks too much and—"
"And you bleed too much," Dean growled, eyes darting around.
"What do you think the maumbi is doing out here?" Sam changed the subject.
"Building crop circles for all I know," Dean deadpanned. "Whatever that circus-freak reject is doing, it does it fast. Scary fast. I was right on top of it when you went down. Went after it... had it in sight, then it was gone."
"It's not gone," Sam said softly.
Dean shuddered, running one bloody hand through his hair. "No kidding. It's stalking us. I can feel it."
"Told you," Sam gagged, titling his head to the side and moaning.
"Damn it, Sammy, could you stop bleeding, already!" Dean picked up Sam's hand out of the gooey mud. "Need you to hold this here, okay?" He pushed Sam's hand down over the wadded up shirt that was already dripping wet with rain and blood.
"Trying, Dean." Sam clenched his teeth, pressing down.
"Try harder, Sam." Dean grimaced, knowing his baby brother was hurting, but having no choices here. "Bro, we need to go now."
Sam turned his head away, face twisted, breathing rapidly. "Give me a…sec," he gasped, drawing his neck far back, mouth working like a guppy to draw in air.
"Damn it, kid." Dean urgently grabbed Sam's free hand out of the mud and squeezing tight. "Breathe. Deep and slow, Sam," Dean instructed. "Deep and slow."
Sam shut his eyes tight.
"Dude." Dean frowned.
"Think I—"Sam made an awful grasping sound,"…might have… My head hurts," he said as his eyes seemed to be dragged by an invisible string straight up into the back of his head.
"Yeah, probably a concussion," Dean informed sadly, bending foreword to peer into Sam's eyes.
For a moment, there was a whole lot of nothing. It was weird. Sam lay flat on his back, eyes open. He could see everything that was going on, but his brain was thick and gooey like maple syrup, and he couldn't make sense of anything. Time blurred. There came a prickling sensation in his belly, quickly turning into burning from the inside out. Sam wanted to cry out, but couldn't. All he could do was stare up at Dean, who hovered close. His brother looked panicked, moving and talking in slow motion. Sam couldn't make out one word his brother was trying to say over the whoosh and thud of his heart in his ears.
The slow-mo effect was making Sam dizzy and nauseated, and it freaked him out.
Stop, Sam mouthed, hoping Dean would listen and go back to normal-speed. But he didn't.
The weirdness just got worse. He took in his surroundings. The cornstalks swayed and moved slowly in the wind, cold rain fell, pattering to his face, one drop at a time, pin-like and rough, like splinters of wood.
Sam gulped.
Dean edged closer, his mouth seeming to move faster than his body. All creepy looking, like a horror flick, only it was Dean, so Sam wasn't scared. He reached up a shaky hand and knotted his fingers weakly into Dean's shirt, eyes wide and watching his brother's every emotional tell: the arch of his brow, first one, then the other, the crinkle of his nose, the way his freckles seemed to come alive, dancing about on his cheeks…
Dean suddenly went into warp speed, taking Sam gently by the shoulders and giving him a small shake. "Sam!" his voice booming like a sonic airplane shot overhead.
"Ahhh," Sam rasped. Damn he hurt. Every nerve in his body was coming alive.
"I said breathe," Dean ordered. "You never listen, man."
A hand stroked through his hair, over his cheek, sliding down the side of his neck, pressing against a throbbing vein. "Sam! I'm not doing a solo here. Come on, man!"
Sam latched onto the voice, swam through the heavy syrup, breathing in deep, breathing out slow. He concentrated hard, the effort worth the cost when Dean's freckles stopped dancing. Needle-like cold prickled Sam's skin from the inside out and he gave a teeth-rattling shiver.
"The maumbi," Sam said, struggling to an elbow, fingers searching through the mud. "Where's my gun?"
"Here." Dean carefully tugged off Sam's button-down, then pressed the weapon into his hand. "Happy?"
"Not yet," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Not until we kill this thing," he muttered, keeping his hand tight around his gun.
"That honor is going to be all mine, little brother." Dean used Sam's button-down and wrapped it around Sam's waist. "Gonna hurt a second," Dean announced as he tied the two sleeves together, holding the wadded up shirt over Sam's wound in place.
Sam hissed lightly, but remained still.
"Good thing Dad taught us to dress in layers." Dean gazed up at Sam, brow furrowed. "Let's sit you up, okay?"
Sam wasn't so sure that was okay. The wind picked up, whipping harder, driving the rain into his eyes and bending the corn stalks so far, a few of them snapped. He ducked his head, trying to escape the sharp ping of water bombs biting into his face. "It…it's raining."
"You think?" Dean eased Sam up, holding onto him with one hand and snagged his leather jacket out of the mud with the other. "You got this?" Dean dipped his head, studying Sam's face.
Sam nodded.
"You owe me a dry cleaning, bro." Dean quickly stuffed his arms in his soggy jacket's sleeves, and then grabbed the flashlight and duffel. "And a car wash and wax." He spit rainwater out his mouth and pulled the jacket's collar around his ears as high as he could.
"Owe you…more 'n that," Sam said on a breath.
"Yes, you do," Dean murmured, sliding a hand behind Sam's back, lifting him to his feet. "Owe me some pie. Lots of pie," Dean said in a gravelly voice, shouldering Sam close and holding him steady.
"Grrr," Sam growled, swallowing heavily.
"Let's get out of here before our stalker finds his brain or some farmer really does shoot you in the ass."
The claw-rack burned under the makeshift bandage and Sam's knees trembled.
"Steady, kid."
"I'm good, Dean." Sam gave a curt nod.
"Good. " Dean moved them along, slowly at first.
Sam was woozy and he scrunched his eyes tightly closed. He trudged along, letting Dean guide the way. It was hard to walk through the mud; with each step, his shoes sunk deeper into the brown gooey earth as if it was trying to steal them off his feet. He grimaced, each lift of his foot tugged at belly muscles, and it took all his concentration to ignore the dizziness from the concussion and the loss of blood.
"What're' we doin'?" Sam squinted through half-closed eyes, the rainstorm growing in strength, his waning.
"We're walking," Dean said.
Sam didn't have a comeback, diligently conscious of his task at hand: not puking up his insides and trying to keep up with Dean's lively step. "Sorry 'f 'm crimpin' your swagger," he finally managed to pant.
"You're not," Dean said in a serious tone. "Think you can make it a little farther?"
"Hope so. Are we almost to the car?"
"What do I look like, maize-quest?"
"Map Quest," Sam swiftly corrected. "You don't know…do you?"
"And you're a steamboat of information? You don't even know for sure if that thing is a maumbi or if it's something else out there," Dean challenged, narrowing his eyes and scanning the darkness before him.
"There's a..." Sam took in a sharp breath. "There's a cornfield out there." He gave a half-chuckle, half-grunt.
"Funny."
"Thanks." Sam leaned deeper against Dean, conserving his draining energy as they schlepped their way back toward the car.
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Dean was no longer aware of the pouring rain or thunder and lightning anymore. Neither did he notice the brush of cold wind and wet cornstalks whapping him in the face with just about every step he took. All he focused on was his armload of Sam. All he could hear was how hard his kid brother was breathing. How Sam's long, gangly body brutally struggled to keep up, keep his eyes open, the concussion wanting to drag him into sleep.
Sam moaned, left foot crossing over his right, tangling as his legs gave out.
"Easy, pal," Dean soothed. "Ready for a rest, huh?" He winced, tugging Sam upward.
"Jus'…" Sam caught himself, straightening out his feet. "Keep going." He let out a gusty sigh, planting his right foot determinedly to the ground.
Dean shook his head. Dad would be proud to know Sam held firm to the family motto: do or die, but soldier on. "Stubborn ass, just like Dad," he said, stepping up his effort to help keep Sam slogging along through the mud.
"Being a stubborn ass is better than being just an ass." Sam's chuckle of laughter turned into a cough.
"Save it for later, Sammy," Dean said grimly, knowing Sam's stubbornness wouldn't keep him upright much longer. Dean was tiring, too.
They trudged onward in silence. It was difficult for Dean to tell which direction they were heading on the starless, stormy night. The labyrinth of taller-than-Sam cornstalks was hindering his maize-quest senses. Which way back to the car? He wasn't sure anymore. Every row looked the same. Dean kept careful watch, his eyes darting all around, front, back, side-to-side. He was on edge, awaiting further attack. Danger still lurked nearby, of that much he was certain. What was the maumbi or whatever the hell it was waiting for, anyway?
Dean shrugged the weapon's bag higher up on his shoulder, then adjusted his hold on Sam, pivoting him closer to his hip, protecting. "How you doing, huh?" he asked, peeking over at Sam out of the corner of his eye.
"Okay," Sam said, obviously trying to ease Dean's worry.
"Dude, your face looks as white as mayonnaise." Dean smirked, knowing Sam hated the stuff.
Sam glanced over. "Least I don't have to look in the mirror and be tempted to play connect the dots, freckles."
"Fine, Miracle Whip, just don't pass out. Now tell me how you really feel."
"Can I puke?"
"Not on my shoes."
They came to a small, open clearing where the cornstalks were mashed to the ground.
Dean panned the beam of light across the ground. "Crop circle?"
"Dinner table," Sam breathed.
Blood glowed red under the beam of light, chunky, chewed-up body parts poking out from under the crushed stalks. Hands, feet, arms, and… Was that an eyeball?
"Gross," Dean muttered, bending down to get a closer look.
Someone laughed in the dark and Dean pulled up short, listening to the sound of feet sloshing through mud, circling around them.
"What the…?" Without thought, Dean pushed Sam protectively behind him. "You having a friggin' good time, freak show?" Dean yelled, his voice carrying far over the field as he drew his weapon.
More laughter, sharp and grating on Dean's every nerve.
"Show yourself!" Dean dared in a low, rough voice. "Come on!" He circled, keeping Sam behind him, eyes darting, and flashlight beam doing little to cut through the darkness.
More animalistic cackling filled the night. Several knives shot out of the darkness all at once, their points stabbing into the ground right up against the toes of Dean's boots.
"What the hell?" Dean barked, stepping backward very slowly
"It's toying with us," Sam determined, both now standing back to back.
"You got suckered, man," Dean bellowed furiously into the night. "I wouldn't have paid a dime for these cheap imitations." He held his gun ready. "You ever hear of the Ginsu steak knife set? They're dishwasher safe! Operators are standing by. Order now, bitch."
Sam tilted his head back against Dean's, panting, "Dude, curb your infomercial fetish."
"Least I don't have a knife fetish like this freak."
Dean noticed the rain had stopped falling and the wind was no longer howling. A thick, cloudy vapor rose up from the ground and curled around the stalks like the tentacles of an octopus. The fog wound higher and higher until it hovered across the corn tops. The entire field was quiet, except for the drip-drip of leftover raindrops sliding from leaf to leaf then plopping to the mud-puddled ground.
"It's gone again," Dean said, breaking the long silence.
"Not far." Sam shivered against his back.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore. He could feel how cold Sam was. All this was that creepy circus rejects fault. He so wanted to unload his entire clip into the night, but knew better than to waste energy and ammo shooting at unseen targets.
"Told you, maumbis like to stalk their prey," Sam said through chattering teeth.
"You read that in your Woman's Day magazine?"
"Ha...ha, Dean."
"How you holdin' up, Sammy?" Dean got serious, half-turning to take Sam by the arm for support, then stepping around to face him.
"I'm holdin'." Sam grimaced, drawing in a sharp breath.
"Uh-huh," Dean scoffed, shining the flashlight onto Sam's face. The kid looked bad, barely able to stay upright. "You look sick."
"You look wet." Sam straightened his shoulders, trying to put proof behind his statement.
"You look sick and wet," Dean muttered.
"You look sick, wet, and stupid."
"You look sick, wet, cold, and douchey."
"You look—"
"Okay! Enough!" Dean shouted his frustration. "No time for this."
He had to do something now. Traipsing around aimlessly through the cornfield until Sam passed out cold wasn't an option. And playing tag with stalker guy was wasting precious time, wasting Sam's energy. Sam needed to be dry, warm, and stitched up. Only way out Dean could see was to clear a way out. Turn the tables.
The fox was about to become the hound.
"That's it! I'm ending this circus act." Dean dropped the weapons bag at Sam's feet. Clutching his gun tighter, he took a rushed step forward.
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"Dean!" Sam's jaw squared and he reached out, nabbing Dean by the arm but hardly holding him back. "No, no way you go off alone!"
"What's good for the goose," Dean snarled, half-turning to face him.
"Like you said, Dean, we don't go off alone. We stick together."
"Since when do you listen to what I say?"
"Since you want to play farmer Jones and run off alone after that thing."
"Sam, not debating this, pal. You're in no shape!" Dean glanced at the flashlight still in his hand. "Here." He shoved it at Sam, he wouldn't need it. The light would only announce his arrival to the thing he'd planned to stalk and kill.
"Dean—"
More laughter came from the distance, fading as the thing headed farther into the field.
"Stay alert, Sammy." Dean narrowed his eyes. "And stay right here! If I'm not back in fifteen," he said. "You got to get yourself back to the car."
Sam opened his mouth in protest, but before he could say anything, Dean was gone, disappearing into the moving shadows.
Sam took in a small gasp of air. He was scared. Dean shouldn't be out there alone. He thought about racing after Dean, but knew he'd only slow his brother down. He held his weapon tighter and panned the beam of the flashlight around the field. If the creature headed back toward him, he needed to be on his game.
The wind had picked up again, the cornstalks shifting in waves, mimicking shapes. Human? Scarecrow? Dean? Maumbi?
Seconds past, minutes. Five, ten, maybe fifteen, Sam couldn't be sure. Even with the flashlight, the darkness seemed to touch him like a gloved hand, creepy and overwhelming and dreamlike. Sam rubbed at his eyes with the back of his gun hand and blinked three times in rapid succession. He squinted and strained to see, to hear, to try to get some sort of clue as to what was going on out there and where Dean was. But he heard nothing, and saw nothing. His legs started to shake and his breathing got too fast and the muzzle of his gun drooped lazily toward the ground.
Sam grunted, fumbling for a better hold on the weapon, trying to focus.
The darkness seemed to press down on him. Sam's pulse was too fast, his mouth dry and lips twitching. He wanted—no, needed—to call out to Dean. To know he was okay, nearby. But even in his befuddled state, Sam knew better than to distract his brother when he was hunting something. That stupid urge could get Dean killed. Sam shuddered at the mental picture that quickly filled his head. Dean lying gutted, belly split like the cows they'd found, blood running in rivulets down the leaves of corn, mud puddles brimming with red.
The sick image was broken by the very real sound of gunfire not far off and to his left.
Familiar booted feet were moving in a dead run, weaving in and out of the stalks. Then there came the roar of Dean's gun, and Dean calling out to him.
"Your way," Dean's voice floated to him over the tops of the corn. "Sammy, watch out! Headed your way."
"Uggg!" Sam somehow found the strength to race forward, but the pain spiked through his head and his side burned and he had to stop a second, panting hard.
He caught his breath and ran a few more paces, swiping his damp hair out of his eyes
"Dean." There was a buzzing in his head. Growing louder and louder. Sam's legs turned to lead and he belly-flopped into the mud. He sucked in huge gasps of air, heart pounding, fingers fumbling to keep hold of the gun.
"Get it together, Sam, get it together now," he gritted out.
With effort, he found his feet and got back up. Trembling head to toe, he took up a shooting stance facing the direction the commotion was coming from.
Sam waited. He could no longer hear Dean racing through the field. He squinted and strained to listen harder. Nothing came to his ears but dead silence, backed up by a wretched, foul stench that reminded him of rotting meat. Sam fought not to gag, trying hard not to picture his brother torn to shreds out there in the darkness. Suddenly a rush of damp, cold air blew through the stalks of corn, sounding like the waves of the ocean. Then he heard it: a predatory roar. But not from the direction he'd expected. Biting into his lower lip, Sam twisted around. His flashlight's beam landing on the maumbi as it emerged behind him out of the dismal darkness.
The creature looked more human than anything. It was wearing a torn-up red t-shirt, and a custom leather belt holding up faded Levis. Only difference was, the belt was weighted down with an impressive collection of fifteen or so sheathed knives of various sizes, shapes, and kinds. The half-man, half-creature was taller than Sam by four inches, skinnier too, its extra-long, boney arms gray and as wrinkled as its distorted face. Sure, the thing had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but all the pieces were off-center and cockeyed.
It smiled at Sam as if amused, showing off a mouthful of crooked, pointy, razor-edged shark's teeth, gleaming and dripping slimy, thick drool.
Sam raised his gun and fired off a shot.
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For a while, everything was a black blob as Dean weaved in and out amongst the tall stalks that swayed in the wind. The fox leading the hound God knew where. He could hear the thing not far ahead of him, the rush of heavy footsteps, and the breaking of the large cornstalks. His eyesight adjusted as the chase continued. Dean ran at breakneck speed, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of mud, tall stalks, and leaves.
"Where are you heading, you son of a bitch?" Dean huffed, having a hard time keeping up.
A loud, predatory roar brought Dean skidding to a halt. The sound was wrong. All wrong. A sick feeling dropped into his stomach, landing like a brick. The fox was smarter than average. It'd circled back, heading toward his kid brother, the injured, weaker of the two.
Unflinching fear skittered up Dean's spine. "Shit!" He rushed forward, feet moving faster, blazing with fire.
Dean ran in fear; fear made him angry.
He ran in rage; rage made him dizzy.
"I'm coming, Sam," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Hold on."
Gunfire rang out, loud and explosive. Dean picked up his pace, if that was even possible, the sound oddly giving him comfort. It meant Sam was still up, still fighting, still alive.
"That's my boy. Fight, Sammy, fight." He breathed heavily, trying to stay calm and making a beeline through the corn.
It started to rain again and Dean let the patter of raindrops hitting the leaves calm his nerves and drown out his fear, stopping his gun hand from shaking. Everything was happening way too fast, whizzing past in a blur. He wasn't sure what he was heading into, or what he would find when he got there. He hoped he'd find Sam standing over a dead and bloody monster. If not, he'd have to think fast. If the maumbi was still standing, he'd have to take in the scene in a second's flash: note where Sam was, hit the right target, and then gouge the monster's heart out before it could get back up.
Ahead, Dean could see the beam of Sam's flashlight chopping through the darkness, advertising his position.
"Dean," Sam called out to him.
Another gunshot and the maumbi screamed, and the flashlight extinguished.
"Hold on, hold on." Grunting and panting with exertion, Dean cleared the corn and skidded to a halt.
He saw a shadow move, wasn't sure who or what it was. He gripped his gun tight, but kept the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Just then, the moon half-slid from its hideout behind a dark cloud, shedding just enough light for Dean to see.
Raw-anger filled him at the sight of the maumbi bent over his pinned-flat-to-the-ground brother, clutching a knife and about to peel his Sam's skin off like a potato.
"Sam, stay down!" Dean raised his gun on impulse, aiming for the back of the maumbi's head—a kill shot.
Sam wiggled his shoulders up off the ground. "Dean! No!"
Dean swiftly shifted the muzzle away. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Alive," Sam yelled as he clung to the maumbi, keeping the creature from fleeing. "Rip its heart out, but alive."
Right. Right. Because this was some freaky tabloid circus freak. Dean reluctantly took a step back and re-aimed his weapon. It took all his willpower to stand back and wait and watch as his brother struggled and fought to keep hold of the creature.
It wasn't easy, but Dean shoved Sam's grunts and groans of pain out of his head, following the two with his gun as they rolled about across the smashed cornstalks, waiting to take the right shot. Waiting to be sure Sam was clear. It would take perfect timing, or he could hit Sammy instead. He could do this. After all, he was Eastwood, Pacino, and Wayne all rolled up into one. Wasn't he?
Dean's hand began to shake and he had to grip his gun with both hands to keep steady, keep tracking, fear mounting and patience growing thin as he waited to take the shot.
Sam and the maumbi tossed about head over heels, blurring together like a couple of alley Tomcats fighting over the last queen.
"Sammy, come on, man, move, move, move," Dean mumbled, licking his wind-chapped lips.
Then his moment came. Sam moved slightly right, the maumbi's right leg open. Dean took a deep breath, aimed, and squeezed the trigger at exactly the same time the moon slid back into hiding.
The round whistled through the air, the bullet thudding into soft flesh, both Sam and the maumbi letting out a cry of pain.
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Sam lay on his back, eyes squeezed shut, taking in huge gasps of air. His chest felt like it was being squeezed through a grape press and his heart felt like it would beat right out the jagged claw mark in his gut.
He wasn't sure what was going on, only knew Dean was somewhere nearby in the darkness. He could hear him breathing, and cursing under his breath. Sam tried to call out to him, but couldn't. He attempted to stand, but his rubber legs gave out and he found himself on his back again, staring up into the black sky as rain started to pelt down again, blinding him further. He turned his head to the right, just barely making the outline of a shadow-man, hunched over a body, raising his arm and thrusting down. The mound underneath him reached up, clawing, trying to stop the attack.
Sam heard the familiar sound of a steel blade meeting wet, bloody flesh, the gruesome, bubbling, airless noise of something taking its last breath. Sam panicked. What if that something was Dean. He couldn't see clearly enough to make out what was what, or who was who.
Sam thrashed in the mud, managing only to sit halfway up. He tried to cry out for Dean, but couldn't get enough air as he continued his futile attempt to get his rubberized legs up under his shuddering body.
The shadow-man was suddenly up on his feet, stumbling awkwardly toward Sam, closing the few yards between them. Sam reached around him, searching for his gun. When he came up empty, he managed to draw a small knife out of his boot, before flopping weakly back to the wet, cold stalks, panting heavily.
Sam blinked hard, knife gripped in his trembling hand, waiting, ready.
The shadow stopped only for a second, seemed to bend down, then started moving faster toward him, slip-sliding all the way. A flash of light passed over Sam, then back again.
Sam raised the knife ready to strike out.
"It's me!" Someone roughly grabbed his wrist, pressing down hard and painful against his thumb, loosening his grip.
"Guh." The knife dropped from Sam's hand and he struggled weakly to regain it.
"Sam," Dean called out breathlessly. "Me, just me."
Sam stopped his struggle, eyes wide and staring. He licked his lips, his mouth dry and tongue numb. Took a minute for the puzzle pieces to form together. "The maumbi?"
Dean held up a cupped palm, blood dripping in rivulets through the spaces of his fingers. "Got it, I got it," Dean breathlessly said.
"That-that's its heart?" Sam nodded at the black mound in Dean's hand.
"Sure the hell isn't an artichoke, Sammy."
"Burn it," Sam stated weakly.
Dean nodded, pulling the duffel close and zipping the bloody heart inside. "Later. Let's get you out of here first." He shrugged the duffel up to his left shoulder then slid a hand under Sam's back. "Can you help me?"
Sam whimpered strangely, his eyes rolling upward.
"Sam! Hey!" Dean gave the side of Sam's cheek a swift, cold slap. "Stay with me."
Sam jerked, body board-stiff.
Dean leaned over Sam, drops of cold, heavy rain dripping from his face. "Sammy?"
"Can't," Sam gasped out of breath, clutching at his bloody wound. "I—"
There was a ringing in Sam's ears and all other sound faded, but the pain in his belly flared. "Dean," he gasped out of breath, his eyes sliding closed, everything fading to nothingness.
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How long he lay in the dark he couldn't be certain. What he was certain of was the unmistakable smell of leather and the thrum of an engine that made his head reel. Still, even with eyes closed, Sam recognized the interior of the moving car, the front seat of the Impala. He could feel his heart beating fast and an unsettling rocking motion was making him feel like throwing up. He tried to remain motionless. Didn't help much.
"Sam." The muffled voice floated over the seat. "You awake?"
Sam opened his mouth to answer, but the pain in his belly caused him to tighten every muscle. "Sorry to say," an uncontrolled whimper seeped out between dry lips.
"You'll be okay."
Sam forced his eyes open. He was lying on his back on a soft, warm blanket. Felt good until a bump in the road jostled him, causing him to arch his back. He tensed, lifting his head slightly, forehead thumping against the bottom of the steering wheel.
"Hey." A hand came to his shoulder and rested there gently. "Try not to move, you'll start the bleeding again."
Sam gazed blearily up at Dean. "You make nice pillow…crap." Sam groaned when the Impala hit another bump.
"Try to relax." Dean's hand on his shoulder tightened. "Getting your ass back to the motel, unless you'd rather have me take your ass to a hospital."
"No." Sam lifted a trembling hand, closing his fist around Dean's jacket, though his fingers lacked any real strength. "Just..." He swallowed. "It's not that deep. You can fix it." Sam drew in a deep breath, letting go of Dean's jacket, his hand flopping limply to his chest.
"That'd be me. Dr. Fix-your-ass." Dean chuckled softly. "Another bump," Dean announced a hand quickly nabbing Sam's, squeezing hard. Dean glanced down. "Damn back country roads," he growled. "You okay?
"Wonderful." Sam stiffened, exhaled, then sucked in another quick breath and said, "Thanks for the…the warning."
"Get you a couple shots of whiskey soon as we get to the motel," Dean offered.
"Make that a couple of bottles." Sam greeted Dean's worried gaze with a weak smile.
"Almost there, Sammy, just go back to sleep."
Sleep was what Sam wanted most. He closed his eyes. His breathing was still too fast and now he was sweating, not sure if he was dizzy or sick.
He only made it halfway to dreamland, still semi-aware of the pain, of the bumpy road, of Dean's nervous rambling, lecturing him on the do's and don'ts of pie expeditions.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
It wasn't easy dragging his brother's moose-sized body back into the motel, they made it as far as the chair near the door.
Dean sat Sam down, his brother's limbs hanging loosely, while he gathered supplies and put in a call for more clean towels, and then quickly moved to shove both twin beds together, creating one so he'd have more room to work and Sam would be as comfortable as possible.
He turned just in time to see Sam doing a slow slither out of the chair toward the floor.
"Hey, hey." Dean rushed forward two large steps, catching Sam under the armpits just in time. "Mind not doing that, Dopey? It's hard enough here without having to pick your deadweight up off the floor." Dean grunted.
In an unsynchronized fashion, he drug Sam across the floor, both collapsing together—Sam on his back, Dean on his knees—to the bed.
Sam flinched and a small whimper escaped him.
"Okay, okay, it's okay. Here we are," Dean mumbled, fighting to arrange Sam's flappy, listless limbs into some sort of remotely comfortable position.
As Dean gathered the supplies he would need, he listened to the drum of the rain, hard and heavy against the motel room's one and only window. He felt sick, and swallowed convulsively. He never liked it when Sam had a simple case of the flu or chickenpox, let alone a grotesque fleshy pink claw-rack gouged across his side.
Dean knelt on the side of the bed, careful not to separate the two, and laid his fingertips to the side of Sam's neck. Kid's pulse was hammering fast and hard.
Sam twisted feebly away, clearly more out of it than in it.
"Strong and steady wins the race, bro. Crap, Sam, don't move around so much," Dean muttered, laying affirm, but light hand to Sam's chest. "Don't need you rolling off and onto the floor."
Sam settled.
Dean went back to cutting away his wet and bloody shirt and tossing it to the carpetless floor. He then got Sam the rest of the way undressed. Sam's jeans were so wet and plastered to his skin, he almost thought about making a trip to the Impala for a pair of pliers. Finally tossing the jeans on top the shirt, Dean hovered low, examining Sam's wound.
The area had clotted, but there was plenty of dried mud and blood to be swabbed, and way more torn flesh to be sewn than Dean was comfortable with.
"Here we go, bro," he said softly, dipping a towel in the bowl of warm soapy water he'd set on the bed near his knee, and went to work, caringly and as lightly as he could.
Still, Sam moaned under his ministries, eyes scrunched shut, and a deep frown marring his forehead as he shivered hard.
"Shh. Easy, Sammy," Dean said through chattering teeth, still dripping wet and cold himself as he had not bothered to take time out to get into dry clothes.
Sam came first. Always did, always would.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean had hiked the thermostat up as high as it would go. The motel room heating up fast and toasty and warm.
Sam was nearly dry, except for the few strands of stubborn hair plastered to the side of his face. He lay very still, wrapped up like a mummy in blankets, save for the exposed wound Dean was working on. Still the kid shivered with the aftereffects of cold and blood loss.
Dean frowned. He didn't like how very pale his brother looked. "I ever tell you about this hot littlenumber I met in Poughkeepsie?" Dean asked, talking more to distract himself from what he was doing as his stomach roiled looking at the lesion.
Sam's eyes scrunched tighter, an agitated whimper that slipped past his lips his only response.
"Too bad, Sam, if you don't want to hear about it. Because I'm going to tell you anyway, man. So listen up." Dean bent closer, watching Sam's face. Waiting for his brother to say something sarcastic, but all he did was moan, body trembling and limbs limp. Dean dragged a shaky hand through his hair. "So, anyway," he threaded a needle, "Amber's Secret is this small joint with no cover charge, a full kitchen, and great burgers." As he stitched, fresh blood began to ooze from Sam's wound. "Tuesday night draft beers are only a buck a bottle. All night." Dean frowned. "Damn it where is that maid?" He exchanged the now soiled towel for the last clean one. "Can you believe that, Sam? A lousy buck." He nervously chuckled, his free hand reaching up to squeeze Sam's shoulder, while the other put the pressure on.
Sam moaned miserably.
"Yeah, I know," Dean soothed, fighting to keep his hand from shaking. "I thought the same thing. Cheap beer equals skunky beer, but it was cold and refreshing. They've got this private VIP lounge." Dean swallowed.
Sam turned his head away, flattening his cheek into the pillow, but thankfully didn't make a sound.
"No, no, I know what you're weirdo modern day Romeo-self is going to say, but the place is classy, man. They even have this moonlit spa and Amber…she sure can be naughty in the nicest way." Dean stopped to blot away some of the blood and check his progress.
"S…sounds melodramatic," Sam panted, both hands scrunching fistfuls of sheets.
Dean glanced up. "Sorry. We were all out of the good stuff, but I gave you some of the not-so-good-stuff before we got here," he said sorrowfully. "If you don't think you can handle the pain… I can give you the ol' one-two punch."
"Can handle it," Sam gulped audibly. "Wouldn't want you to break your fist on my jaw," he mumbled.
"Going as fast as I can, Sammy," Dean whispered softly
"Be sure that…that you are," Sam said through gritted teeth.
By the sixth stitch Sam's body was shaking involuntarily, yet he didn't make a sound.
"Easy." Dean stopped mid-sew to give him a break . "Sammy, easy."
"Just keep going." Sam choked back a sob.
Dean held still, needle in one hand, the other pinching belly-skin together. "Sam," Dean gave a weak smile, "you can cry. I won't hold it against you this time."
"Bite me," Sam slurred. "Just finish already." He sucked in a deep breath and held it, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.
Dean kept shooting glances Sam's way as he worked, putting in three more stitches before he had to stop. "Sam, you're turning blue around the mouth. Stop holding your breath, man, and pass out already."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head no.
"Stubborn ass!" Dean gave Sam a good, purposeful jolt with his knee.
"Guh," Sam cried out, taking in several short breaths. "You jer—" His eyes suddenly rolled up, mouth going slack as he fell into a dead faint, head slipping off the pillow to one side.
"Sorry, Sammy." Dean bit the inside of his cheek. "You'll rest easier now, bitch," he muttered, going back to stitching.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
TAG
Sam groaned. A tickle at the back of his throat caused him to cough and brought a stinging pain to his gut and a new level of consciousness to his being. He groaned again, suddenly nauseated and hot. The sting turned into a sharp tug, coming from his belly, increasing with each breath Sam took. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying hard to put the rest of the puzzle in order.
"Sam? You awake?" A soft voice said in his ear said.
"Wha'?" Sam mumbled, mentally slow, unable to keep up with the words.
"You with me?" A gentle hand tapped his cheek over and over.
Sam blinked, gazing up at a blurry face.
"Look who's awake?" The foggy face leaned attentively over him.
Sam licked his lips, sluggishly gazing around the room in confusion. "Who?"
"Sammy?"
"Dean?"
"Dude, I need no introduction." Dean smiled down at him.
Sam coughed and winced at the strain pulling on his gut. "What happened?" he asked in a whispery thin voice.
"What do you think?"
"You made me pass out. Cold."
"I made you go to sleep."
"Right, 'cause that sounds so much better." Sam grimaced. "Where are we now?" He asked noting the turquoise walls had been replaced with dirty green.
"Another crap motel. Got a little too hot at the other place...cops snooping around after the maid called them...she barged in with some extra towels at the exact moment you decided it was time to fall out of bed and she got an eyeful of your Frankenstined-ass and freaked."
"Stitches?"
"Fifteen."
"That's it?" Sam asked groggily.
"Isn't that enough," Dean grouched.
"Infected?" Sam asked in a small voice, still breathing heavily.
"Not yet." Dean placed a palm to Sam's chest. "I said slow it down, bro," he said harshly, obviously worried.
"Yeah, okay." Sam let his eyes close and breathed slowly as he was told. At least he thought he did.
A cold compress was placed across his forehead while Dean kept talking, encouraging. Something about applesauce and Jell-O, a fever that kept coming back, bleeding that at least had stopped.
"How you feel?" Dean asked.
Sam swallowed, not wanting to answer.
"Sam?" Dean called, sounding tired and miserable.
Sam forced his lazy eyes opened. "A little bit puckish," he said, squinting cross-eyed around the room. He lay in a lumpy Queen-sized bed, dressed in baggy sweats and a t-shirt. Dean sat next to him on the edge of the bed, worried hazel eyes monitoring his every breath. Sam reached for his side with his free hand, fingers brushing against his bandaged wound. His muscles contracted at the slight pressure, sending a bolt of pain through him. "Damn," he growled, feeling as though he was falling even though he wasn't.
"Hey." Dean's hand on his shoulder stopped his decent. "Don't touch that, you'll break the stitches apart. Screw-up my artwork."
"Wouldn't want that," Sam yawned and switched his focus to the small tray table at the foot of his bed covered in take-out boxes and bags. "Dude, Baker's Square?"
"Four feet out the door and to the left. I feel like a king, Sammy." Dean nodded happily, tucking the blankets tighter around Sam.
"Now I know why you picked this place." Sam nestled down into the mound of pillows behind him. "Looks like you bought every kind of pie they sell."
"What can I say, Sammy? You of all people know how much I love pie."
Sam sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "I know."
"Hey, you okay? What are you doing?"
"Your kingdom awaits, Dean. I'm going back to sleep."
The end...thank you for your time!