AN: This is, again, yesterday's prompt, which was Disorientation / Blurred Vision / Ringing Ears. I swear I'm trying to catch up! This one is fairly formulaic h/c, but that's why we're here, right? I set this early in the show, an unspecified spot in season 1.
Full disclosure: you can fit my medical knowledge in a bedpan, so I may have screwed some of that stuff up.
sfaulkenberry: Dang, look at you, putting your finger on the reasons the last chapter was…unsatisfactory for me. I think you're right about everything. Jesse deserved more screen time (can you imagine how much fun it would be to watch the boys run circles around him and talk him into stuff?), Damael was too complex to just appear and disappear without more explanation, and there was a lot more tension / terror to be had. I love the idea of nagas coming back…where did the Hal guy get the venom, anyway? Guess it goes on the "to expand some day" pile. Thank you for the encouragement!
Shazza19: Aw, thanks! I call my boys Thing 1 and Thing 2 all the time. I appreciate how supportive you are, especially when I struggled with that chapter so much. Danke.
Now would be a really nice time to be unconscious.
Or maybe to have that trauma-induced amnesia thing. That would be good too. Or maybe just numbness. Sam stared up at the stars so far away, watched them get blocked out by one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen. The ugly thing that, naturally, wanted to eat him.
I'll take unconscious for a thousand, please, Alex.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Trolls were supposed to be extinct. Sam knew this. But he suggested it anyway and waited for Dean's reaction.
"A troll? You think a troll is killing these people? Like fe fi fo fum?"
Sam was resigned to it. Might as well just let Dean run his course. "That's a giant."
"I suppose you're going to tell me those are real too?"
"Not as far as I know." Sam kept his voice even.
"A troll. Not a hex on the bridge or the spirit of someone who died there, but a troll. And nobody noticed a big, ugly troll?"
"They may not be big. Some lore suggests that they're a little smaller than an adult human. A I don't know if a spell or a spirit would cause injuries like this. It's like pieces are missing, like something was eating the bodies. And the people who died when their cars went over were all found outside of their cars."
"The coroner's report says the injuries could have been caused by the fall. And people get thrown from cars, especially when they drive off a bridge that high up."
"Not a single person from the whole three months was still in their car, and that's without any holes in windshields or anything. You really think not one person had their seatbelt on and everyone had a car door come open?"
Dean pulled a face. "You're the one wasn't sure we should even look into this. What'd you say about it? Everything could be explained by suicides, falls, and lousy drivers?"
Sam sighed. "And I trusted you enough to look into it." He deliberately didn't say he trusted Dad, even though he'd been the one to send the coordinates. "There are way too many deaths around the new bridge. And just looking at it objectively, trolls fit the best." Sam tried not to scowl. It felt way too much like when Sam wasn't allowed to do anything except research for Dad, then he was required to justify every conclusion. More than once while at Stanford, Sam had wondered if the rhythm of research / present / justify / defend had been the basis for his desire to become a lawyer. But a good lawyer knew when to shut up and let his facts stand for themselves, so he bit his tongue and waited.
"Trolls." Dean shook his head, amusement creeping over his face. "The county decides to put up a reproduction of some old bridge, and there are trolls hanging around nearby who are like, hey, Marge, I know you been looking to upgrade our condo. Let's go live under that new bridge. They made it look like it's old and crappy, so it's perfect for us."
Sam knew Dean would see it as a victory, but he couldn't keep the smile completely off his face, especially with the ridiculous accent Dean has affected. "And where did Dick and Marge pick up an accent like that?"
"Troll finishing school?"
That did Sam in, and he laughed out loud. Dammit. Now Dean would be really proud of himself.
With a shit-eating grin, Dean kept going in a high-pitched voice, still with the horrid accent, "Helga, dear, don't pick you teeth with that rib. Remember, it's possible to commit manslaughter while still being a lady. Just because you're a monster doesn't mean you should have monstrous fashion sense."
By this time, Sam was snorting with helpless laughter, and Dean joined in too. It felt so good. Sam hadn't laughed like that since Luis had decided he could fix the pipes in his apartment and Sam and Jess…and Sam's laughter died, killed by the unexpected stab of pain. He felt guilt that he knew was irrational, guilt that he was laughing and living without her.
An irate woman had once screamed at Dean that he had the emotional range of a muppet (much to a teenage Sam's amusement), but Sam knew better. It was more like Dean could be emotionally tone deaf. He didn't deal with his own emotions in a normal way, and he didn't always recognize or respect it when people did deal with them in a more typical matter.
But not now. Dean saw the change on Sam's face, and focused for a moment on the gun he'd been putting back together. Then he tucked it back in the weapon's bag and plopped down on Sam's bed next to him, accidentally on purpose bumping Sam's knee with his own. He waved at the research setting on Sam's lap. "Let me see what you found about trolls." His voice was quieter than normal as he offered Sam a distraction without asking for anything. And Sam swallowed hard, thinking Dean wasn't emotionally stunted or lacking at all.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
They still weren't really sure if it was trolls causing so many deaths off the bridge. They couldn't find any likely spirits, but they salted and burned the first two people who had died, a couple in their fifties who had been driving over the new bridge just two days after it opened but never made it home. But then someone else disappeared off the bridge while they were reburying the remains.
Then Dean was a little more open to the idea of trolls. They learned that the creatures were rare, especially in the states, and liked living under bridges, as long as the surrounding area was relatively quiet and wooded, which fit in this case. They were ridiculously strong, but not terribly bright, and usually fed mostly on animals. But sometimes a family group would get protective of "their" bridge and become aggressive, attacking and feeding on people who tried to cross. And once they started, they wouldn't stop. And they preferred their meat tenderized; they would kill their prey by throwing stones at it or chasing it off the bridge. And if the body weren't battered enough after that, they'd beat it with stones until it was deemed ready to eat. A head shot or decapitation was the way to kill them.
"Sounds like fun," said Dean with a smirk. "Let's go after 'em tomorrow. I have an idea."
Were there any scarier words coming out of Dean's mouth than those last four? Sam wasn't sure.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean's idea was to break into a DOT and liberate some "road closed" signs to get them some privacy to search the bridge. It was only about 60 feet long, but it spanned an area of the river that had steep, rocky banks. Dean was farther onto the bridge than Sam when the latter saw two dark shapes scramble too agilely over the side of the bridge right at his brother. Shouting a warning, Sam squeezed a shot off, and the first shape disappeared. But Sam hadn't watched his own flank, and something slammed into him hard enough to send him flying into the rail. He fired at it point blank, but a hand came up over the side of the bridge, grabbed his hair and smashed his head into the rail. In his disorientation, Sam could just make out hands lifting his legs and sending him
Over
The
Side.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Now would be a really nice time to be unconscious.
Or maybe to have that trauma-induced amnesia thing. That would be good too. Or maybe just numbness. Sam stared up at the stars so far away, watched them get blocked out by one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen. The ugly thing that, naturally, wanted to eat him.
I'll take unconscious for a thousand, please, Alex.
Sam had been aware enough to try and turn his body to protect his head, to soften his knees, to hope really hard that he landed in the water. But naturally, he didn't hit the water. He hit the hard earth and felt and heard his ankle break, his back smash into something hard, the side of his head impact the ground. He felt himself bounce uncontrollably and roll over twice, his left hand landing in the water.
Close but no cigar, Sam.
And why on earth did his body think staying conscious was a good option?
Each blink took too long, and showed something different, none of which made much sense. The only thing he could hears was a slow fwhump fwhump like a slow motion helicopter, and his body wasn't answering any commands, too busy overloading his nervous system with fuck, this hurts. And that hurts. And it all hurts. Hurts. Hurts.
That was when the hairless creature appeared above him. Its skin was nearly black, and its face looked like it had been sculpted out of clay by a four-year-old. The nose was too big, and crooked to the side, the eyes were uneven, and the mouth was just too damn big. Sam couldn't make sense of it.
Blink.
Something was against the crook of his arm, making sniffling sounds. Was something smelling him? That couldn't be good.
Blink.
The misshapen face was right above his own, so close it was ruffling his hair with its breath. Move, body. Do something. Don't these things eat people? Figure out which way is up and get the hell up!
Blink.
There were two figures…or four? They raised their ropy arms, holding something up, like the man in Roots holding the infant to the sky. No, they held rocks, and that was very bad. Very very bad. His body was in full rebellion, but he could turn his wrist and squeeze the trigger, right?
He discovered he couldn't turn his wrist. But he could squeeze the trigger, so he fired into the riverbank. The figures jumped back.
Blink.
He could see stars again, but he wasn't going to be able to open his eyes very many more times. Isn't that what he wanted? Please wait to eat me until after I'm asleep. Didn't you learn that in charm school? That should have been funny, but the figures were coming back. Trolls. Trolls, but no pink hair like the little naked dolls.
Blink.
Two figures. Three. Shots firing, except he didn't do it this time. Did he? The sound was muffled, wrong, almost buried under the helicopter noise. And he wanted to look, to sit up, to fight or something, but he simply couldn't.
Blink.
The figures were back, above him, reaching for him, and he really, really, really, really didn't want to be eaten. Really. With a groan of effort, he pushed himself back and tried again to raise his gun, but he'd lost hold of it at some point.
There were hands on him now, pinning him, holding in place for…what again? Something not good.
Blink.
One punch. That's all he had in him. Maybe he could knock one back a few feet. Heh. That'll teach 'em. Or not. He tensed his muscles and it hurt, god it hurt, this punch was going to hurt him so much more than it hurt the…thing…he hit. But it was hurting him, and if he didn't act soon, he'd miss his chance.
Blink.
He didn't have it in him to give up. And where was Dean, anyway? For once, big bro was going to be too late. So Sam would take his one shot.
His tormentor pushed on his screaming ribs, and he punched. Take that.
Darkness.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
The bastard moon had come out too late for Dean to see the freaking Gollum wannabes climb over the bridge rail at him, though Sam had seen them and yelled to Dean to get down. Sam had managed to shoot one of the trolls, too, a hell of a shot from an awkward angle and in the dark. The moon had hidden in the clouds and only given Dean terrifying glimpses of what was going on down by Sam after that, even as Dean beheaded the second troll near him. But the moon had come out from hiding just in time for Dean to have a perfect view of his baby brother flying off the side of the bridge with two trolls scrambling over the side after him, clinging to the bridge like spiders.
Then Dean moved as fast as he'd ever moved in his life. He sprinted to the end of the bridge and was sliding and climbing down the bank, terrified of what he would find, cold and hot all at the same time with his need to see Sam.
He saw the trolls first. They were kneeling, lifting stones the size of their hideous heads when a shot rang out. Dean flinched, but they flinched harder. Keep shooting, Sammy. He still couldn't see Sam which meant Sam couldn't see him, but he ignored the possibility of stray bullets and moved all the faster. The trolls were heading back for their prey, and Dean pushed himself even harder, never noticing that he was scraping his palms raw on the rocks.
Dean wasn't going to be there on time, so he stopped (against his screaming instincts) and fired. Two shots, two head shots, two trolls fell into the water. Then he was at Sam's side and trying to assess him in the paltry light of the sulking moon.
Sam's eyes were open a slit, and his gun was still in his hand. Atta boy. Dean eased it out of his grip and tucked it away. Nothing was so messed up that it was immediately obvious, and there was no blood he could see, which means the trolls hadn't started snacking yet. But it wasn't like Sam was uninjured. In fact, if he hadn't landed on the strip of soft mud and had hit the rocks instead, he would have been pulverized. Just the thought turned Dean's stomach, but he had no time for that.
"Okay, Sammy, let Dr. Dean take a look at what you managed to do to yourself this time." Dean's hands were gentle as he checked for broken bones, but Sam still made a pained gasp when he touched some of the ribs on the lower part of his left side. "Those hurt, huh? Doesn't feel like they're out of place from what I can tell, but a cracked rib earns you some morphine and maybe a pretty nurse. Let's see what else we've got."
Suddenly, Sam reared up and took a swing at him, catching him across the jaw from the sheer surprise of it. It wasn't hard, but obviously that was all the strength he had, because after that his eyes closed completely. "At least you're fighting," said Dean, rubbing his jaw a little.
A little annoyed, a little proud, he continued his assessment. The next reaction was from him touching Sam's right ankle. It was swollen enough that there was no way to tell if it was broken or not, but Dean's money was on yes. "Hmmm, that's a pair of nice bumps on your egghead, Sammy. Put 'em together with rib and ankle and you've got yourself a full house. Damn it." Sam whimpered a few times but didn't wake up again. It was probably a good thing, but Dean still hated it. "Yeah, I know. I'm nasty and cruel. But you got me with a sucker punch, so we're even, dude."
How was he going to get Sam up the bank? And without hurting him more? Even if he could carry him, a fireman's carry was out of the question with injured ribs. The alternate option he'd learned was to pull Sam's arms over his own shoulders and walk leaning slightly forward. But with Sam's extra inches, that would leave his feet – and broken ankle – dragging over the rocks.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Shit. Shit. New rule: trolls suck." He took a breath. He hated calling emergency services but knew it was his best option. "Okay, Sam, it's an ambulance ride out of here for you. I'll let them figure out how to haul you up." He patted the side of Sam's neck. He couldn't have the paramedics see the bodies of the trolls on the bridge, or the road closed signs. He had to pray that there weren't any trolls left and be as fast as he could. But he hated it, holy fuck he hated to leave Sam even for three minutes.
Mentally cursing trolls and bridges and himself, Dean dialed 911 and quickly detailed that he and his brother had been checking out the so-called cursed bridge when Sam had fallen over the side. He went through what he knew: hurt ankle, two bumps on his head, maybe a broken rib, unconscious but breathing well and no sign of internal bleeding.
Yes, he would stay with him (as he tossed dead trolls off the bridge, saluting them with a special finger), yes his brother's pulse was steady (as he threw the signs in after the bodies, lacking a way to hide them), no, he wasn't hurt, he was just out of breath because he was worried about his brother. He was back at Sam's side and then he could breathe again. He thought Sam might have roused briefly, but there wasn't much in the way of comprehension. He was shivering now, shocky, and Dean was laying his jacket over Sam when help finally arrived.
Things moved fast after that, and soon he was following an ambulance to the community hospital, cursing the policy that didn't let him ride along. He cursed more as he filled out the obligatory paperwork and even more as he waited to hear word of his brother's condition. And waited. And waited.
Finally, a tired-looking little doctor who seemed to be gray everywhere – hair, skin, eyes – called for "family of Sam Mitchell," introducing himself as Dr. Williams.
"Come and sit with me, son," he ordered without even really looking at Dean, then proceeded to walk so slowly to a conference room that Dean was ready to strangle him with his stethoscope. "How is Sam?" demanded Dean before the doctor had even sat down.
"Your brother has a number of injuries," said the doctor, checking the computer on the desk with a bored air. "Some of them are significant."
"Yes, I know. How is he? Why did it take so long to get information? Can I see him?" Dean was tired, covered in mud, and utterly furious that in four hours, this was all he'd gotten.
The doctor gave him a glare that said he was annoying and impertinent. "He has two fractures in his right ankle, and also sustained cracks in his ninth and tenth ribs on the left side. These will be painful, but the lungs are undamaged. There are also contusions on much of the left side of his torso and his back. The biggest concern is his head injury, however. There is no bleeding on his brain, but he has a concussion that we haven't been able to grade just yet. I am cautiously optimistic that it will be reasonably minor and heal completely – "
"Why haven't you been able to assess it? He hasn't woken up yet?"
The doctor looked down, immediately setting off all kind of alarms in Dean's head. "He awoke while getting a CT scan and became quite agitated. The staff on hand administered a sedative. Once he wakes from that, we will complete the assessment of his head injury, and then you will be able to see him."
Dean found himself leaning over the desk, though he didn't remember standing up. "You sedated a patient with an unspecified head injury?" His voice was low, deadly. "Did explain what was happening and give him a chance to calm down on his own? Or maybe ask me to come in to see him?"
"For the staff members to administer the sedative without consulting his doctor, they must have felt threatened – "
"Or it was the quickest and easiest thing for them." Dean could feel a muscle in his jaw jumping and was vaguely aware that Williams was practically cringing away from him. "Bring. Me. To. My. Brother."
Five minutes later, Dean was at Sam's side, doing his best to keep his breathing slow and even. When he'd arrived, he'd found his brother deeply unconscious and pretty much as pale as the sheets, hooked up to too many things, with an air cast on his ankle, and in soft restraints. Still struggling to regulate his voice, Dean asked Williams to remove the restraints before he called his lawyer, and the doctor had quickly complied.
It was a good 15 minutes before Dean was calm enough to start talking, though he knew Sam wasn't hearing a thing.
"Well, bang up job I'm doing taking care of you since I got you back into hunting, huh? Trolls. Next time you take a swan dive, you think you can do it into water?" He chatted until he ran out of things to say, trying to keep Sam and himself calm at the same time. The whole thing had happened so fast. They were taking a look around, then Sam was almost mincemeat. Troll kibble. Ground Sam. And that voice in his head needed to shut up right the fuck now.
Desperate for distraction, Dean grabbed a book from a little caddy that hung on the wall. There was no TV in the room, so he just picked up the first thing he found. And when he saw the title, he actually almost smiled.
"I'm gonna read to you, Sammy, just like old times. Once upon a time, there were three billy goats gruff."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Someone had stuffed Sam's mouth full of sand. That was the only explanation of why it was so dry. And his body seemed to be uninterested in moving just yet. That brought up a flash of memory of smashed-clay faces and long black bodies, holding up stones…oh, yes, the trolls. Sam could feel fuzziness and distant pain and knew that he was on hospital-grade pain killers.
That meant it was high time he woke up and found out the damage. The sound of talking reached him before he got his eyes open.
"And then the biggest billy goat gruff, who was probably also the handsomest and most heroic, since big brothers are, started across the bridge."
Sam's nose itched from a nasal canula, there was a dull ache that was sharper near one foot and on his torso, and his back felt like one big knot of tension. That wasn't to mention his head, which throbbed and felt like it was stuffed overly full. But he couldn't resist smiling at the sound of his badass big brother reading him a children's story and, like he'd always done, adding his own commentary.
"Kill th' troll's ass, B'lly."
"Sammy?! Damn, man, after what they gave you, I thought you were gonna sleep all day. And yeah, I'm reading three billy goats gruff. Cuz big brother does kick some troll ass."
"You 'kay? T'lls all d'd?" Damn it was hard to talk.
Dean brought a straw up to Sam's mouth as he answered. "Not a scratch. I'll need to go back and make sure, but we took out all five of the ones I saw."
Sam remembered nightmare figures outlined against the moon, ready to beat him or eat him, and shivered involuntarily. "You cold?" asked Dean immediately.
"Nuh. 'S damage?"
Dean was good at interpreting concussed, confused, or tired Sam. "You hit your melon pretty damn hard. When they figure out you're awake, they're gonna do the whole concussion test. Your pupils look fine, and you're not puking, so I'm guessing it won't be too bad. Ankle's broken, no surgery needed. Couple ribs cracked, and I guess your back is one hell of a mess of scrapes and bruises. So, nothing we can't handle."
"C'n we go?"
Dean laughed. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and leaned in close. "I don't like hospitals, and I kind of hate this one, but I think you better stay for a while. You want those good pain killers for a few days."
"Days?"
"Hell, yeah. You took a Greg Louganis off a bridge but missed the water."
But the next day, Sam signed himself out AMA with Dean's hearty approval. The hospital staff obviously wasn't used to people questioning them and they didn't like it. Besides, Dean liberated some of the really good pain killers and muscle relaxers (for Sam's poor back), and he was feeling the heat as the police dug deeper into everything that had happened.
They made it a good 200 miles before Sam's back began to seize up and he couldn't go any farther. Despite the meds, Dean had to basically drag him into the motel room, where Sam curled into a miserable ball. Dean was cursing himself for agreeing to let Sam out, but the reality was they hadn't had much choice.
"Your back?" he asked.
"Yeah." Sam's words were muffled by the fact that he'd buried his face in his arms. "Meds 'r he'ping the rest."
"Alright, but don't get used to this." Dean carefully helped Sam stretch out on his stomach. Once he'd relaxed, at least marginally, Dean began to use his elbow to work the overly tight muscles of Sam's back. Sam made a sound that bordered on indecent and Dean chuckled.
Dean knew what he was doing, and soon Sam was boneless and his eyelids began to droop. Dean didn't stop. "Why don't you take a rest, dude?"
"No, 'sokay." Sam grunted as Dean found a particularly tight spot.
Yeah, you sound almost asleep already. "Playing hardball about naptime? I know how to handle this. Once upon a time, there were three billy goats gruff…"