*Requested By: ChelseaWinchester*
Summary: While on a hunt for something ghost-like, Sam and Dean art trapped in the log cabin they're hunting in. Shortly after, things turn deadly.
(These paragraphs are a little longer than what I usually write because I gave a bunch of detail so you can get a great picture of what's happening. So read carefully and enjoy!)
Thanks so much for the requests everyone, keep them coming. You guys are awesome!
Night Owls.
That's exactly what they were. Armed with rock salt filled rifles and flashlights, they walked through the dirt and moss to the abandoned cabin on the edge of the small town they were in. The wind blew slightly, just enough to give you they totally creepy feeling. The trees shook each time, they chased each other in a tight circle and then flew in the opposite direction.
Dean was ahead. Of course. He walked carefully and recklessly at the same time. Something only he could pull off. His right hand gripped his gun tightly, ready for anything that even moved the wrong way.
Sam followed close behind, watching not only his, but Dean's back, too. With a technique Dean had taught him when they were younger, he had positioned his flashlight on top if his gun, keeping them both steady and on target. He kept his light in the path Dean was going, making sure he knew where he was going.
They approached the house. He cricked his neck.
"You stay here. I'll check the back," Dean had says softly, sneaking around the side of the cabin and disappearing into the night, leaving Sam alone.
Sam turned the handle on the doorknob. Finding it unlocked, he pushed it open. The hinges screamed as it swung ajar slowly. Cautiously, Sam looked around; checking for any strange or sudden movement. Trying to feel any weird presence or quick drafts. Nothing.
Seeing no harm in entering, Sam walked forward. He shined his flashlight in the furthest corner. Nothing but an end table and an ancient telephone with no line sitting on top of it. To the left of it was a small hall that led to what looked like a kitchen. Walking more into the house, Sam make a 360, searching as much as he could. He heard a loud thump and figured it was Dean coming inside the house from the back door.
"I'm in here, Dean."
There were footsteps coming toward Sam, but he didn't think much of it. His focus went to the ceiling, making sure there was nothing up there. Again, he saw nothing. This house was beginning to look like a dud. Nothing was here but a bunch of cobwebs and a lot of dirt and rust.
Exiting what would be the living room, Sam entered the kitchen. It was a mess. Doors to the cabinets were missing. The refrigerator was open but no light was coming from it. The sink was missing. Three rust covered, but sharp pipes were sticking out the ground where it used to be. Weirdly, there were two dishes in the darkest corner of the kitchen. It was big, though; bigger than it looked from the outside.
A quick, freezing burst of wind went past Sam. It came so strongly, it almost knocked him off his feet. He stumbled momentarily, then spun around on his heel, locked and loaded. His eyes darted from wall to wall; ceiling to floor. Nothing. Everything was clear.
Sam could feel his heart rate pick up. He was getting nervous.
"Dean?" he called out, noticing that his brother hasn't came in yet.
Again, the wind pushed past him, blowing his hair in his eyes for a second, blinding him. He shook his head frantically, throwing his bangs to the side, clearing his vision. Quickly, he shone his flashlight around the huge, but filthy kitchen.
Nothing.
Whoever, or whatever was doing that, was somehow disappearing. Yeah, this was a ghost cast they have on their hands.
Everything was calm for a second and Sam was almost sure that whatever was here was gone. For now at least. Turning around, he began to head toward the front of the house. Dean still hadn't answered and Sam was beginning to get worried.
Whoosh!
That wind again. Whatever it was; it was back…
Sam cocked his rifle again, and turned to the side, studying everything carefully.
Out of nowhere, a white figure cam charging toward him.
"Sam, look out!" a voice called.
Dean's voice.
The figure raised his arm and Sam went flying. He was thrown backwards, his head clipping the top of the doorframe as he was flung into the kitchen. His gun dropped out of his hand as black dots began clouding his vision. Very blurrily, he seen Dean's figure running toward him. Sam could see he was yelling, but he couldn't hear what he was saying.
Sam's back came in contact with the wall on the far end then he was stick to the wall where the sink should be. Sam looked down and shivered. He felt his stomach drop as his body fell to the floor. Dean scrunched his face when he seen the two pipes go through Sam's leg. They glistened with his blood.
"Sam!" Dean yelled, still charging toward him.
Feeling his eyes lids get heavier, Sam let them slide closed. Luckily for him, he didn't even feel the two pipes stab his leg and bind him to the floor. He just simply felt the darkness as it left a happy sensation over his body, and Sam welcomed the darkness with open arms.
Little details came to Sam in small bursts of almost unbearable pain. His head throbbed to the beat of his heart. His leg, oh God, words couldn't even describe the pain he felt in his leg. He felt someone next to him, but just couldn't place his finger on who exactly. There was a smell in the room that reeked for something rancid and spoiled. Rotten eggs, maybe? Whatever it was, it was sure waking up Sam's senses. He was half-sitting up, shoulder blades presses against something cold and hard. Tile? Wood? Whatever. He was breathing heavy, heart whooshing in and out og his ears- still alive- borderline consciousness.
"Sam?" An echo of a voice chimed in a ran around in his head. The voice seemed far away. But then again, have you ever heard an echo that sounded close? "Sam, rise and shine." There it was again.
Beside the cooing of the echo, everything was quiet.
"Sam?"
Turning his head to the voice calling him, he reached for it. He felt a warm hand cover his and bring it back down to his lap; laying it there. Sam opened his eyes ever so slightly. Just a crack, really. He seen a dirty, kitchen-looking room. But there was a difference from the last time he was it: Everything was closed. The door that separated it from the living room was closed and the refrigerator was pushed in front of it. The windows were closed, too. There was confined in. Quarantine, even.
Sam's eyes rolled over to his right where he spotted a leather jacket first. His eyes traveled north and seen shot-cut hair and a chiseled, but gentle face staring at him. His green eyes looking down at him with hope, worry, determination, and focus all at the same time. Another thing only Dean could pull off. He stared at him. Rifle in one hand; flashlight shining in his face in the other. He looked down at him with that 'hi there' smile sewn into his face.
He must've been looking at Dean with a confused look on his face because he began explaining.
"You took a pretty good knock to that egg head of yours," he says, pointing to the side of his head. Sam reaches up to where Dean had just pointed and gracefully touches it. He face scrunches together and he winces in pain.
"Well don't touch it, genius."
Sam let his hand fall on the ground. Dean looked down at Sam's legs then at Sam, then back at him legs. "Yeah, whatever it is can disappear like friggin' Houdini," Dean continued. "He knocked you off you're feet. Literally. You snagged your head on the top of the doorframe and you can give your self extra credit for you leg."
Letting his eyes drop, Sam finally had a good look at the two pipes shooting through his leg, keeping him stuck to the ground. He bit his lip when he seen blood ooze out one of the wounds and trickle down his jeans. Suddenly, he felt like he could throw up.
A soft cloth pressed against the side of Sam's head.
"Ow," Sam says jerking his head away.
Dean takes hold of Sam's shoulder, keeping him in place. "Hold still."
He raised the cloth again, but didn't press it to the side of his head yet. Sam was jittery, he felt his hand tapping and his head beginning to move away from Dean's hand. What he felt before was barely a tap. It was going to hurt like hell when Dean actually pressed it against his head and applied pressure.
"Dea- ah, damn it!" Sam cursed, pain leaving him breathless.
Sighing, Dean says, "Stop moving, then. It won't hurt that much."
It takes all the power left in Sam not to move away or cry out when Dean pressed the cloth to his head, trying to stop the bleeding.
"'M leg," Sam mumbles, looking at it. It was turned slightly, the pipes entering and exiting his leg at an angle. It hurt like hell, but it was numb at the same time. Maybe he didn't feel it as much because he hadn't moved it yet.
Dean sit's back.
"You're leg hurt more than your head?"
Sam shrugs. "For now. Maybe because you're pressing on it like you want it to explode."
Instantly, Sam could feel Dean ease the pressure on his head.
"Sorry," he apologizes, "Trying to stop the bleeding."
Sam's eyes wander around the room.
"We gotta get out of here."
Dean sighs. "Well I don't know. I kinda like it here," he smiles faintly at Sam. "We should stay for margaritas and the concert at ten."
"Ha ha; you're hilarious," Sam responds dryly.
Dean shrugged, setting the flashlight down. "We can't anyway. We're locked in. Seems like whatever's here doesn't want us to leave."
Sam sighed.
He thought about his own injuries and the predicament he was in and then remembered Dean.
"You hurt?" Sam questioned, his voice hoarse.
Dean laughed uneasily. "You make a good distraction, Sam. Thing wasn't even thinking about me."
Sam looked down at his leg again. The delayed reaction of pain was beginning to kick in. He was beginning to feel a burning sensation all over his leg.
"Must've heard you calling for me," Dean says, letting go of the rifle.
Sam rolled his eyes. "My first mistake."
"Actually, more like your third," Dean corrects. "I told you to stay outside. And you know not to be that loud when we're hunting. It only draws attention to yourself."
"I learned the hard way," Sam mumbled.
Dean smiled slightly. "No kidding."
There was rumbling, shook the whole cabin. Causing Sam's leg to shake back and forth.
"Ah!" he called out, taking hold of his thigh, trying to steady his leg. Quickly, Dean picked up the rifle and the flashlight and aimed all around the house. They didn't see anything, though. The ghost-like demon might be right in front of their faces and they don't even see it. Suddenly, one of the glass plates that were in the corner comes flying out of the darkness and zoomed right past both Dean and Sam's face, smashing into the wall adjacent to them.
Dean shot in the direction the plate came from but it didn't hit anything.
The wind stopped and everything was quiet again. The only sound was of Sam and Dean's heavy breathing as they got their composure back.
"I think it's gone," Dean says, dropping his gun a little.
Rolling his head, Dean looked over at Sam who still gripped the top of his leg in pain. Soft whimpers could be heard from him as he lightly rocked back and forth as the pain got worse. Dean saw as a tear dropped from Sam's eye and onto his lap. He sucked in a labored lungful of air and let it out sharply, trying to ease the pain.
Dean let his hand fall on his shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze for a second.
"Hey, Sammy. You alright? You with me?"
Sam continued to rock for a second or two before he answered. "Not really."
Dean sighed. He put his hand under Sam's chin, lifting it.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly.
Sam let their gazes meet.
"How are we gonna get out of here, Dean?"
Dean looked down at his hands. "Maybe my Spidey senses will kick in soon."
Letting his hand fall on the dirty will behind down, Sam sighed. "I'm serious, Dean."
Dropping the rifle on his lap, Dean sighed. He rubbed his brow, knowing that they can't even attempt anything unless they get those pipes out of Sam's leg. Dean took hold of the flashlight and shone in it Sam's face.
"Okay, seriously, how do you feel?"
Sam rubbed his temples and sighed, his breath shaky. "Seriously," he says, leaning toward the right. "Like I'm gonna puke."
Dean begins to rub small circles on his back.
"Well, seriously, don't. Throwing up's not gonna help up any. But what will help us is getting you un-stuck."
Sam quivered at the thought of trying to pull his leg from this. It was already killing him, but irritating it would just make it worse.
Dean pushed himself to his knees in front of Sam.
"There's no getting around this, Sammy. I'm sorry."
Understandingly, Sam nodded and braced himself for the pain he knew he would feel.
Dean took off his jacket. Folded it a few times so that it was thin enough, and then handed it to Sam.
"Bit down on this."
Sam tried to say something in argument, but Dean cut it.
"Trust me; you're gonna need it."
Giving in, Sam took the jacket and bit down in it. After taking in a few deep breaths Sam nods slightly.
"Alright. On three. 'Kay, Sam?"
He nodded again.
"One…"
Sam could feel his heart beat speed up. His breathing got more rapid at the pure thought of even moving his leg, let alone attempting to pull something out of it.
"Two…"
Dean fixed his grip on Sam's lower leg and shook his head. His eyes were soft with worry and regret. He knew he was going to hate doing this, but it was something he had to do. This is the only way Dean could actually put any type of plan into action. Once Sam was out of this, he could try to break out of here.
"Three!"
Dean pulled firmly on Sam's leg.
Sam screamed in pain, throwing his head back into the wall.
His leg lifted a few inches, but not enough to get rid of the two pipes going through it.
Sam gripped Dean's wrist tightly.
"Stop! Dean, please stop!" Sam begged, his voice muffled by Dean's jacket.
Dean didn't stop though. He gave his leg another sharp jerk upward, making the pipes slip even more.
Tears streamed down the side of Sam's face as he bit down on Dean's leather jacket.
Sam's surroundings were beginning to fade. Dean's encouraging words were becoming echo's in the back of his mind again. His head fell onto the wall behind him and he loosened his bite on Dean's jacket.
"Hold on, Sam. You can do it. It's almost out," Dean promised, still pulling on Sam's leg. Blood was pretty much covering all of his lower half. If Sam wasn't his brother, he couldn't even come close to him.
The pipes were almost out when Dean noticed Sam's whole body go completely limp and his leg stopped resisting his push. With ease, almost, Dean lifted Sam's leg off the two pipes and set it down as gently as he could. Using his favorite jacket for another MacGyver inspired improvisation, he tied it around Sam's leg in attempt to stop the bleeding.
Careful not to touch his bleeding leg, Dean crawled forward, tapping the side of Sam's face.
"C'mon man. None of that."
Sam's rugged breathing is his only reply.
"This is just as bad as having your friggin' leg impaled on the friggin' pole, you know that?" Dean says, getting aggravated as worry began to take over.
Dean shakes his brother.
"Sammy, wake up. C'mon."
Nothing.
"Sam!"
Again, nothing.
Dean stands, impenitentness and the feeling of being trapped getting to him.
"This is just great. Really, it's perfect," Dean mumbled, he kicked at the dirt on the ground, pacing.
What could he do?
Of course he had a plan. I mean, he's Dean Winchester for Christ sakes. But none of his plans are going to work if Sam's staring at the back of his eyelids.
Walking back over to him, Dean crouches down and decides to try again.
"Sam, wake up. C'mon, time to go before the evil ghost-spirit-demon-thing comes back," Dean sang, shaking Sam.
Sam shifted a little, beginning to wake.
"That's it, Sammy. Hey, come on," Dean tapped his shoulder again, this time successfully. Sam opened his eyes lazily. Everything had a slight blur to it. His head was still pounding but by now the pain in his leg had officially surpassed the pain in his head. Hell, it took home the grand prize for most painful injury.
"Mmm," Sam groaned, the pain increasing.
Dean reached down, putting one arm around Sam and pulling back, trying to get him to his feet. Like a doll, Sam stood, but he could barely hold himself up. His head dangled, and his legs were weak. Which is understandable. He pressed his hand into Dean's shoulder, steadying himself as much as he could.
"Wha're we do'n?" Sam asked, his voice slow and mumbled.
Dean shrugged.
"Well, Vanna, I'm going to take this rifle here," he held up the rifle that Sam didn't even had the strength to look at. "And I'm gonna shoot rock salt through that window there." he pointed to the window to the right of them.
"Then, I'm going to take you over there. Lift you're heavy ass up there, drop you over there, and take you to the car alllll the way over there. Get it?"
Sam didn't answer. Not really, anyway. He mumbled something but didn't listen hard enough to understand.
Following through with his plan, Dean shot through the window, breaking it. He half carried- half dragged Sam to the window and lifted him as much as he could so he could get out. He watched as Sam tried to lower himself to the ground as much as he could before letting go, coming down hard on both of his legs.
"AH!" Sam yelled when his legs came in hard contact with the floor.
Dean leaned over the window looking at Sam on the ground.
"Careful," he says with a smirk. "Don't hurt your good leg."
He couldn't help but laugh at his own joke.
Dean lifted himself up and out of the cabin and helped Sam to his feet.
"Now this thing might come after us," Dean informed, power walking with Sam on is arm. "How do you feel about running?"
Sam looked over at him with a dull look on his face. He was in no condition to run, and Dean knew that.
Speaking too soon, the wind came back, knocking Sam over and taking Dean with him. Quickly, Dean unhooked his arm from around Sam and stood.
"Sam, get up now. Go!"
Pushing himself up, Sam literally hopped on one foot toward where the Impala was parked.
Dean cocked his gun and waited.
The wind came back, blowing past him. Coming toward him he seen the white figure.
Dean shot not once, not twice, but three times, hitting the ghost each time.
Once he was sure it was dead…or dead, again, whatever, he went to catch up with Sam who had gotten pretty far for someone with one leg to use.
Dean brought Sam to the car and instantly called Bobby, letting him know they were headed to the hospital. Dean dialed and put the phone to his ear.
"Who you calling?" Sam asked, resting his head on the window.
"Ghostbusters," Dean replied dryly as he put the car in 'drive' and got away from the house as quickly as he could.
To: ChelseaWinchester, when you said stabbed Sam, I didn't want to be cliche and have it similar to the show or anything to I stabbed him in the leg...twice :] Hope you still liked it !
To Everyone else a.k.a the most amazing people ever, I hope you enjoyed it, too. Please review, you know I love them. And leave me a request, the more the merrier :)
Thankyou, Please review!
