Disclaimer: I don't them. However I did put them on my Christmas list. So Santa, if you are reading this, please be aware that that is all I put on my Christmas list!
Shout out to Blackpanther97, your review for chapter three made me laugh my ass off. Thank you!
For everyone else who reviewed, as always you, have my gratitude. Please enjoy the story.
Sam stumbled through the parking lot of what he hoped was a motel. He silently wished that he was over the worst of whatever drug he had been foolish enough to put into his system, but his fuzzy vision and rubbery legs told him otherwise. He paused to rest against a car, whose battered condition left one wondering just what it had been through, when another one of his more violent episodes of dizziness overtook him. He took several steadying breaths and pushed through the nausea that often accompanied these attacks. Unbidden, the image of Dean's face finding his beloved car wrapped around a tree jumped into his head and he let out a soft chuckle.
"Well if my dream was wrong before…I've certainly brought a whole new twist to self-fulfilling prophecy." He shook his head and pushed himself off the jalopy he was resting on. He shuffled towards what he figured was the front office and tried to logic out his situation. He was drugged, weak, and damn sure that something besides a possibly demented Dean was following him. He wasn't in any shape to fight anything that exceeded the size and strength of your average butterfly, as a matter of fact anything besides sleeping sounded like an impossible task at the moment. He didn't like it, but he didn't have any choice. He needed Dean, and he needed him soon. He needed someone to watch over him until this drug had filtered from his system and he didn't really trust anyone besides his brother. Whatever Rachel had given him, it was strong, and it was slowly stealing away his consciousness. He didn't know what he did to piss her off, or if she was even human, but he didn't think escaping her was going to be all that easy. Come to think of it, her popping up in the middle of the street he happened to be speeding down, all of a sudden didn't seem like a coincidence. No, he had been set up. 'Great! Fucking great! As if worrying about Dean killing me wasn't enough of a frigging responsibility, now I've got one of the kids from Village of the Damned looking to come out and play!' He grimaced as he reached for the door in front of him and fire raced through his torso. He needed to get into a room soon and clean up his injuries, make sure nothing was too serious. The clerk was leaning forward on the counter, head in hand, reading a newspaper. He didn't even look up at the sound of the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Two queens please."
Sam waited as the man took time to finish reading his article before retrieving the room key from the series of hooks behind him.
"Room 14, holy crap! Hey buddy, are you ok? What happened to you? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"
Sam winced. He didn't think he looked that bad, apparently he was wrong. He replied with a quick smile and denied the man's offer.
"I'm ok, thanks. I got into a car accident earlier and just haven't had the chance to clean myself up yet. I'll be alright." Sam nodded and swiped the key from the counter in front of him. He dropped his credit card on the marble and waited for the man to get back with the program.
"Ok Mr. Rockford, if you're sure."
Sam nodded and watched while his card was swiped through. That was his distress call. If Dean were still looking for him, which Sam hoped to God he was, it wouldn't take very long for him to be found. That name was a code between the two, Jim Rockford, a path to each other if they ever ended up lost or separated. He was lost now. He needed Dean now. His eyes were becoming more and more difficult to keep open, and his knees had developed a slight tremble. He accepted the card back gratefully, and his stomach knotted at the small slip of paper attached to it. His brow furrowed in confusion at the phone number scrawled on the scrap paper in his hand, and gazed at the man evenly, unsure of how to respond. The man shook his head and smirked in response.
"Just so we're on the same page, that phone number is in case you decide you need help. You know if you change your mind about the ambulance or something. It's the direct line to the front desk."
Sam mentally kicked himself because the man before him had quite obviously figured out where Sam's line of thinking had led him the second he had spotted the number. He smiled apologetically and thanked the man as he headed out the office door; keen on making sure the conversation went no further because he honestly didn't think he would remain conscious through it. Looking down the porch and to the door numbered one to the left of him, he suddenly despised the number fourteen. Why? Because there were too many numbers before it, thus increasing the distance he would have to walk.
It was long, and painful, but when Sam finally stumbled across the threshold of room fourteen, he kicked the door closed behind him and promptly fell, face first, on the nearest bed. Unsure of just what exactly he had pissed off, because by now he had thoroughly convinced himself Rachel wasn't human (cuteness be damned), he didn't want to chance the use of his cell phone and possibly being tracked. Sam groaned into the pillow and his stomach growled in protest at the toxins floating around it. The cramps ripped through him and pain exploded in his chest. The short burst of adrenaline launched Sam from the bed into the bathroom. He skidded to a halt on his knees and wrapped his arms around the bowl of the toilet as heave after wretched heave burned his throat. His eyes watered and he trembled with exhaustion. When he finally felt his stomach empty he rose and made his way to the sink. He braced himself on his arms and leaned toward the mirror to get a better look at his face. The gash on his head had stopped bleeding, but there was no doubt that it needed to be stitched. Half his face was covered in dried blood and his lip was a little fatter than he had originally perceived. He peeled off his shirt to reveal a blanket of bruises that looked a violent shade of heliotrope. 'That's gonna hurt in the morning.' Sam sighed and winced when the action caused more pain than expected. Taking off the shirt proved to be difficult enough, so he was well aware of the fact that what was coming next would probably best be done following a few shots of whiskey…or vodka…or rum, or any combination of the three. The lovely idea of alcoholic assistance disappeared when he remembered that on his jolly romp through the woods with the Impala, the window had been a little less then friendly with his head. In short, mixing alcohol and head injuries is a big no no. Sighing, he clenched his teeth together and tried his best to contain the pain. He ran his hands over his torso in a slow examination. Searching for broken ribs was always a nasty process particularly when every single rib he had was bruised. The pain that ran through him had him careening dangerously close to another session with the local toilet bowl, and he had to stop and regain his composure before continuing. He felt rather confident that there were no clean breaks, although he wasn't sure about the possibility of the amount of stress fractures. Among the rest of his injuries, a sprained finger, a rather long cut along the side of his thigh, and a very swollen wrist. 'Set the wrist and finger, wrap the ribs, clean out and bandage the cuts and I'll be good as…" Sam closed his eyes, tilted his head back and let out a huff of frustration. The triage would have to wait until Dean showed up, because Sam, in all his wisdom and glory, had left the first aid kit in the back of the Impala after the accident. He huffed again when he thought about the lecture he was going to have to endure from Dean about that slipshod mistake. Yet another huff when he realized that he had more than one lecture headed his way.
He shook his head at the absolute dreariness of the situation and he planted himself at the small desk opposite the beds. He sat and waited, hopefully, for Dean to come to his rescue. He wanted to stay awake until his brother arrived because yet another thing he shouldn't be mixing was sleep and head trauma. He was actually beginning to resent the rules of medicine. His eyes drifted to half-mast and he slumped against the seat back and silently willed Dean to hurry, because by his college aided estimation he was probably not going to stay awake for more than another five minutes. He glanced at the clock above the nightstand and grunted when he realized it had been less than an hour since he had checked in. He had almost slipped away when he was rattled back to full alertness by a vigorous knock at his door.
"Sam?"
"Dean?"
Sam stared at the door expectantly, knowing Dean would make everything all better. And Dean would make it all better were it Dean that stood opposite that wooden barrier. The creature in his stylish Dean suit stood outside the door and grinned evilly as he listened to his victim shuffling towards him. It was too easy. The door swung open to reveal a very haggard looking but pleased Sam.
"You just gonna stand there and stare at me or are you going to move and let me in?"
Sam shook himself from his daze and grinned stupidly. "Sorry," and with that he stepped aside and invited "Dean" into the room.
"I've been looking for you Sam."
The voice sounded steady, but wrong, and Sam realized his mistake far too late. He spun and locked eyes with his brother. His terror consumed him when they connected and those green orbs were cold and empty. The only prelude to the attack that hit him was an evil grin and a small whisper of revenge. Sam threw his arms up in defense as his brother launched his body, shoulder first, in to Sam's ribs. He cried out as pain blossomed throughout his entire torso, and they tumbled to the floor, Sam fighting for his life.
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