AN: This is very long, but it was kind of all one long scene. Ah, well. It is what it is.
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Dean landed hard but was back up in seconds. He didn't sense or see the creature and without it, the trees and other flora were just inert plants. But that didn't make him incautious. He knew just how fast the whatever Sam had called it could come back.
Still, the return of the regular forest noises once the echoes of the crash were gone was reassuring.
Reloaded shotgun in hand, Dean made his way toward the bottom of the trunk, shaking debris out of his hair as he went. He needed to collect his brother and regroup. Find out more about what they'd just faced and how to keep it from throwing more trees at them.
Come to think of it, the whole thing was weird, and not just because of the whole T-1000 vibe. The people who'd died had died of heart attacks, not death by pine. Super geek probably already had a theory, Dean thought fondly. He picked up his pace a little, needing to see the kid was okay. And kick his ass for staying in the danger zone to free Dean. What the hell was that? Maybe Sam wasn't good at taking orders, but he'd never disobeyed one during a Hunt.
Dean's steps hitched slightly as he eased his way past the root ball, dirt and sand still sliding off it The hitch wasn't from Dean's sore ankle. It was from memories of the time -- no, times -- Sam actually had ignored an order during a hunt.
At ten, Sammy still idolized his big brother. His dad, too, though to a lesser extent. And that meant he wanted to Hunt with them even though he didn't love the thrill of the chase the way the other two did. The bloom had worn off that rose pretty damn fast. Putting together clues and researching had quickly become the kid's favorite part of Hunting, something Dean would never understand.
Just because Dad sometimes let him come along, though, didn't mean he let Sam into the most dangerous situations. Like now, he was relegated to the far side of the glorified creek from where the fight would take place, since strigoi couldn't cross moving water.
That didn't mean Sam wasn't any help. Strigoi were powerful, but susceptible to the hawthorn bolts in the crossbow Sam held. He was a good enough shot to be excellent backup.
Besides, like their cousins the shtriga, strigoi liked their prey young. Dean shook off the distraction of the dark memories thinking of shtriga always brought the surface.
Dad and Dean were going to trap the thing against the creek and to finish it off, a messy process that required cutting it in half, cutting out its heart, and burning the three parts separately.
Even though Dean was nearly fifteen, there was no doubt the thing would target him over Dad. Strigoi were predictable: they always went after the youngest person available. Their plan allowed for that.
But Plan A didn't work, as it so often didn't. The strigoi, energized by a fresh kill, was far faster than they'd expected. Even shot full of quarrels, the hissing, emaciated figure knocked down Dad and reached Dean, clamping a mouthful of alligator like teeth onto Dean's wrist, and sucked hard.
Dean shoved one of the crossbow bolts in farther, but the strigoi didn't let go. And to Dean's shock, that was all he had strength for. Feeling was running from his body like water overflowing a bowl. Venom? Paralytic? he had time to wonder, then he was sinking.
Dean thought he heard yelling, splashing, more yelling. Stay there? Like he could go anywhere. Then it all went white.
The next time the world made sense, Dean was in an unfamiliar motel room in a different state. And Dad and Sam were mad at each other. It was an odd situation at that point in their lives, and neither would tell Dean why. But it was obviously serious, because it was three months before Sammy was taken on another Hunt. It took Dean a while to put his fractured memories in order and figure out what must have happened.
The number one order Dad had given Sam was: no matter what, do not cross the water. And Dean knew he'd heard splashing.
That wasn't the only time Sam had disobeyed a direct order on a hunt, Dean realized, at the same time moving a little faster. Sam wouldn't call out until they knew the danger was really gone, but Dean really needed to set eyes on the guy. Like, now.
Without losing focus, Dean remembered a 15-year-old Sam defiantly leaving cover when the berserker proved to have a couple friends, all headed toward the two older Winchesters with great prejudice. And though they'd needed Sam's help, Dad had been pissed.
Dean for once hadn't stood up for Sam, but Sam hadn't said a word in his own defense either, when Dad went off in a verbal beat down that had Dean wincing. Sam took it, and the subsequent punishment, while showing no signs of capitulation, Dean recalled.
There was a pattern here, one that shouldn't be. One that Dean was determined to break. Sam could damn well channel his inner iconoclast toward some other form of rebellion. No more putting himself in danger for Dean.
Not that it would be easy to break the habit, but Dean was comfortable in an uphill battle.
Just then, a little sound reached Dean and every other consideration flew out the window. It was a stuttered breath. A sound of Sam in pain. Given Sam's stoicism in the face of physical hurts, it would probably have been a moan for most people. He was hurting.
Dean finally rounded the massive root system and the sight in the other side of the trunk stole his breath.
Sam was on his back, the lower half of his body disappearing under the trunk, which had to be close to five feet in diameter. His legs had to be...
Dean called Sam's name and rushed to him. He noted details even as he went. Sam turned toward him as Dean yelled. He was pale but not deathly so, and while there was certainly pain on his face, he was aware and was even holding onto his Taurus. (Score one for the John Winchester School of Hunting.)
Dean might have said his brother's name again as he dropped his own gun into the dirt and landed on his knees at Sam's side. One hand went to the pulse in Sam's neck, the other flat on his chest. Assessing, but also reassuring both of them.
"Dean." Sam's voice was strong, insistent. He moved a little and Dean increased the pressure on his chest.
"Don't move, Sammy. Let me check you over first."
Sam stilled his body but bent a hand to grab the cuff of the hand on his chest. "Dean," he said again. "Trapped. Not crushed."
Dean stared at the succinct analysis. Could it be true? Though Sam had a habit of rambling, he also had a gift for giving emergency sit reps that were at once concise and precise.
"Lemme see," Dean answered finally. He saw his own pack a few feet away and retrieved it, digging out the Maglite knockoff. He went to Sam's other side, his right. Sam wasn't quite flat on his back, but was tilted ever so slightly to his right, and there was more space between the truck and the ground on that side.
The light showed a right leg that wasn't pinned. Sam moved it as Dean looked. "My right leg isn't even stuck," he confirmed.
Dean flipped off the unhelpful flashlight. He studied Sam's face. "And the left?"
Sam hesitated. He might have been doing a self assessment, but it was just as likely that he was figuring how much he could downplay it, a trick Dean hadn't meant to teach him. "My hip and foot are both under quite a bit of pressure, but I don't think anything's broken, and I can't feel any bleeding or impalement." Despite the pain in his eyes, Sam's tone was matter-of-fact. "There's no way the tree is resting on me. I got lucky."
Dean snorted at that, but he appreciated the honesty. Actually, Sam was certainly feeling more than just pressure, but Dean didn't doubt the rest of it. "Anything else?"
Sam shook his head again, and Dean studied his face once more. His heart rate was a little fast, but you know, he was trapped under Treebeard's bigger cousin, so that was understandable and not necessarily a sign of a bigger problem. His breathing was a bit fast too, but unimpeded. "You okay?" Sam asked and Dean's eyebrows shot up.
"I'm not the one under a tree, genius. I'm fine." He added the last when Sam's eyes narrowed. Leave it to him to ignore the elephant in the room and think about Dean.
"Your ankle?" asked Sam stubbornly.
Dean was using the flashlight to take a better look under the tree. "Just bruised," he answered distractedly. "Can you keep an eye out for Ornery while I check out what's keeping you from identifying as a pancake?"
"Um, yeah. Just can't get to my ammo and I'm empty."
Dean simply took the Taurus and loaded it with the clip from his pocket. There was a reason they carried weapons that were ammunition compatible. The hand that took the gun back was strong, sure, despite Sam's predicament and Dean was proud of the kid. Lord knows in the same situation, Dean's claustrophobia would have been kicking in.
Dean clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder and resolutely turned to follow the tree towards its crown.
A good thirty feet away from Sam, Dean found why the pine hadn't made it all the way to the forest floor. Two very large elms grew together so their trunks combined, then separated again to form a V. The pine had fallen into the V to be suspended about six feet above the ground. The combined size of the elms and the thickness of their joining meant the pine wasn't in danger of falling farther, at least. And a cursory inspection of the pine itself revealed it to be very solid -- highly unlikely to crack and fall.
Lucky indeed. If Sam had been standing closer to the base of the pine, or if the V had been lower, or if the pine had missed getting caught...well, Dean wasn't going to think about any of that.
He threw a smile at Sam when he came back, pleased and proud when Sam returned the gesture. It didn't keep Dean from seeing his pain and worry, and Dean wondered if his own thoughts were as clear on his face.
Thoughts about crush syndrome and compartment syndrome and internal bleeding and a monster still on the loose and no cell service for at least a few hours' hike.
Yeah. There was only one thing all of it added up to: he had to get Sam the hell out of there.
"Keep watching out for Ornery and tell me what you know about 'em. I want to get a better look at the trapped leg, see if I can dig away around it, get us some space to maneuver." And look how badly it's injured and take a pulse in your ankle to see how screwed we are Dean didn't add.
He ignored the speculative look Sam gave him. Head first into such a small space wasn't his idea of fun, but he'd done it for hunts before and he certainly could do it for Sam.
"I tried to dig with my free foot but..." But he didn't have the room or leverage, and couldn't see what he was doing, Dean could fill in.
"Well, let's see what I can do." Dean took a moment to pull a thermal blanket out of his pack and thread it between Sam's torso and the ground. The air was cool rather than cold if you were moving around, but lying still against the cold ground was a different matter. "Now how do you know what this thing is and I don't?"
Dean took a deep breath and started digging out the dirt next to his brother with his hands. Man, he could really use a shovel or trowel. Maybe a brighter light. Hell, while he was wishing, he'd take a crane or one of those inflatable things they use to get houses off people after an earthquake. A forklift would work. Or even a couple pneumatic jacks. But of course, he didn't have any of that, just his own two hands.
"Dad hunted one, I guess," Sam was saying.
"Wait, the entry from...from '97?" Dean realized. He now had space to get his head shoulders under the trunk. It was a hunt Dad had stumbled across and done alone. There wasn't a sketch of the creature in Dad's journal, just a description along the lines of a black, shifting surface that's hard to focus on or even look directly at. Huh. Leave it to Sam to immediately put that together with what they'd seen. Smart.
"Yeah." They way Sam's legs shifted minutely, Dean knew he was continually turning his head to keep a lookout. "Dad's notes say that oneiroi are believed to be physical representations of dreams of the collective unconscious."
"English, dude," demanded Dean automatically even though he had a pretty good idea of what the professor -- er, Sam -- was saying. Sometimes he enjoyed hearing how smart the kid was. Sue him.
"Um. Well, you know there are the three or whatever dreams that everybody has at some point? Like, everybody has dreams that they're falling?"
Actually, no, he hadn't known that. And it was kind of interesting. He made a noise of assent, wishing he had the little trowel thing they used for burying the remnants of a fire after camping out. But he hadn't seen Sam's pack yet.
"Well, it's believed that so many billions people have had these dreams over thousands of years that some have somehow developed a physical form."
"Of course they have," Dean muttered. Why couldn't something cool manifest, like the world's greatest guitar riffs? The chords from Enter Sandman would probably be a beautiful woman... Dean reluctantly refocused, and said louder, "so it's some kind of thought form? And aren't there three kinds?" He might enjoy this if he didn't have his face stuck in a dirty little place and, oh yeah, he brother wasn't trapped and in pain.
"Hmm. Probably related." Sam sounded impressed. Guess college boy hadn't outgrown big bro just yet. "And I think when they do manifest, they attach to a person, animal, or inanimate object. But I can't remember how Dad killed the one he found."
Dean grimaced. He remembered. "He killed the bear it was inside. With iron, I think." He grimaced again at the sight of Sam's left foot. It was twisted to the side and pinned beneath a knobby protrusion.
"How do we kill the magnetite this one is attached to?" asked Sam, sounding frustrated. "I --" he broke off on a hiss as Dean felt around all of the ankle he could get to.
"Sorry, Sammy." It was good that Sam had feeling in the ankle, and bad too, because of the pain. Sam was silent for the rest of the examination, but the fact that Dean had to reach over his other shin to do it meant he could feel just how tense he was.
Dean then tried to dig a little next to the trapped leg. It was slow going since the dirt was pretty packed there, anchored with grass that made it even harder to dig out. They talked a little about how to kill the oneiroi as he worked, not coming up with anything, except to guess that it was iron rounds that had made it smoke.
"There's good news, though," Sam said unexpectedly. Good news? They could use some. "Dad specifically wrote that they're kind of cowards. They trap their prey and then wait to go after them in their dreams."
"And the good news out of that is that it's not coming back until you're sleeping?"
Sam hummed in agreement.
Dean did what he could until he couldn't stand being under there one more second. "Comin' out," he called. "I want to check your hip, so, uh, think about baseball."
Sam huffed a surprised laugh that made the corners of Dean's mouth twitch too. Damn, it was good to have the kid back.
Checking the hip was less awkward than it could have been, for a number of reasons. For one thing, they couldn't see each other's faces. For another, the tree was wedged in so tightly there wasn't much Dean could do to even check it. And most of all, they'd just had too much experience of having to take care of each other's injuries. Even though he had to reach across Sam's waist, Dean wasn't sure this even ranked in the top ten for embarrassing. It certainly was better than bedpan duty.
"Hey, Dean, remember the brucha quills?" asked Sam, a smile in his voice despite the obvious fatigue. Dean pondered not for the first time just how closely they could follow each other's thoughts sometimes.
The brucha, or "iron porcupine" had been the supernatural guard dog of a witch the Winchesters had Hunted not long before Sam left for Stanford. The monster had gotten a number of its quills in Dean's backside, and Sam had been the one who had to dig them out.
"Pretty sure I'm scarred for life!"
"I changed your diapers, dude. You owe me," Dean growled, unreasonably pleased that Sam was teasing. "Besides, it's not like you were my first choice." Dean worked on shimmying the rest of the way out of the space.
"You would have preferred Dad?"
"God, no." They both laughed. Dad was skilled at first aid, but he focused more on expediency than gentleness.
Dean stood and stretched gratefully, thinking Sam certainly wished he could do the same. He dropped back to his knees and handed Sam a bottle of water from his pack. He'd caught sight of the edge of Sam's pack under the tree and knew anything inside it was not only inaccessible, it was pulverized.
Sam drank gratefully, then laid back to look up at Dean, wryly resigned. "So?"
"I got you dug out as much as I could, so now I'm going to try and pull you out." Dean kept his worry and doubts off his face. He was not at all confident that he could get Sam out and either way, it was going to hurt. But it was still the least shitty option on a whole shit menu.
Sam nodded, took a deep breath, set down his gun, and crossed his arms over his chest. Dean put one knee on the ground and hooked his hands under Sam's armpits. Sam met his eyes. He looked resolute; there was no doubt he realized that this was going to hurt. But there was absolution there too, a clear, it's not your fault that this is gonna hurt. Then, trusting Dean completely, he closed his eyes and relaxed.
Dean set his jaw. Nobody could make him feel as much or as deeply as Sam. And he hated hated hated having to hurt him, but it was the lesser of two evils. Without warning, Dean pulled, smoothly but strongly.
Sam stiffened and made a visible effort to relax. The tendons in his neck stood out. Dean silently ran through his favorite swear words and pulled harder. Sam made a sound in the back if his throat and his back arched. Shoulders bowing, Dean stopped and laid Sam down like he was cracked glass, like that could undo the pain he'd already caused. He moved back to Sam's side and brushed away the inadvertent tears that had slipped out.
"Breathe, Sammy. I'm done. I won't do it again."
Sam drew a long breath, stuttering just like the breath that had first alerted Dean that there was a problem. Dean took Sam's wrists and pulled them down to a more relaxed position against his stomach. They both ignored the fact that he didn't let go right away. He hadn't taken kindly to Sam in pain, not since he was a droolly, teething baby.
Sam opened his eyes. He had that knowing, too-old look he'd perfected before he could tie his shoes. It was the same look he'd tossed Dean when a nurse assured him his vaccinations wouldn't hurt. Or when Dad said there probably aren't any bullies at this school.
The look said I know what's coming, and this is gonna suck, isn't it? It said that Sam, naturally, knew what was their only recourse now. He even smiled at Dean, and the bravery of it broke Dean's heart a little.
"Sammy."
"I know, Dean. You have to go get help."
Dean gave him a smile that felt totally false. "I left my chainsaw in my other pants. I...can't get you out without some help or equipment."
Sam turned his hands so he was holding onto Dean's forearms. "I know. I get it. I didn't dodge the tree. But look, the oneiroi won't bother to come back now I'm trapped. It'll just wait for me to fall asleep, which I won't do. Just leave me some ammo to scare off any wildlife and get going."
"Stop trying to make me feel better," Dean growled. "I'm not the one who's trapped." But he knew there was no other option. Archimedes notwithstanding, there was no way Dean could move a tree that size, and there was no way to call for help. Nobody knew where they were.
But leaving Sam behind, trapped, immobile, hurt and vulnerable, grated Dean's very soul. It broke the big brother code that said he should be able to fix it. His failures were kind of piling up. He couldn't protect Sam from his girl getting killed, or the pain and nightmares that followed. He couldn't reunite his family. He couldn't keep Sam safe on the Hunt, and now that he was trapped and hurting and, though he hid it well, scared, Dean couldn't fix any of it. He had to go get help from strangers.
"I'm okay, Dean," Sam insisted because Winchesters consider denial an important life skill. And because he refused to remember that it was Dean's job to do the reassuring.
Dean rolled his eyes and finally let go to pat Sam's chest. "Of course you are. All right, Robinson Crusoe, let's get you set up for a couple hours of camping." He pulled the thermal blanket around Sam, leaving his arms free. He rooted around in his pack for rations next.
"You know Robinson Crusoe?" asked Sam, fidgeting a little like he wanted to help.
"Only because I read it to you when you had strep throat." Dean lined up all the water bottles he had, then the granola bars and even his personal M 'n' M stash.
"That's right!" If Sam kept looking so sappy, Dean was just going to have to stop looking at him, simple as that. "You liked it too. And you liked Treasure Island." Sam frowned at the provisions. "You need to take some of the food and water. You have a long hike."
"Pirates. What's not to like?" responded Dean, ignoring the irrelevant part of what Sam said.
In the end, he left all of the provisions except one bottle of water with Sam, and his own coat, easily overruling his brother. He also left three guns, all of the ammunition, and the bigger flashlight. Sam argued about all of it, but he was literally in no position to stop Dean.
All too soon, Sam was as comfortable and protected as Dean could make him, and there was nothing left to do but leave.
They say you can feel like your heart is in your throat, but Dean was pretty sure his entire stomach was in his throat, and it had taken a few of the other organs along to really clog things up. Sucking it all up and tucking away his worry and fear in the Shit Dean Doesn't Like to Think About Box he kept buried deep in his psyche, Dean knelt next to Sam one more time.
"Hang in there, Sammy. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"I know you will." And that look, that was everything. Sam looked at Dean with such confidence that Dean knew it would all work out, because there simply was no other choice.
Dean stood. "Don't fall asleep," he warned unnecessarily, stalling.
"I won't. Bring back coffee. But don't get distracted by that brunette waitress, huh?"
Dean snorted, not quite capable of laughing. "Keep the gun handy and watch out for Yogi and Two Socks. But don't shoot me when I come back."
Now Sam snorted. "If you don't bring me coffee, I just might." His voice had a minuscule waver. "Jerk."
"Bitch."
There was nothing else to say, so Dean started walking and didn't look back.
The what ifs followed anyway.
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AN: Actual references this time, not just turtle facts. (Wait. Turtle facts are awesome. Here's one: turtles can hear even though they don't have external ears!)
T-1000 is the main antagonist in the 1991 film Terminator 2: Judgement Day. The T-1000 can change its shape and looks like liquid metal while in the process.
Treebeard is an anthropomorphic tree in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. He and his fellow Ents can lift their roots and walk around.
Archimedes said, "give me a lever long enough, and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world."
Yogi refers to the cartoon Yogi Bear. Two Socks is a wolf in Dances with Wolves.
JaniceC678: First of all, I liked your Ent reference so much that I used it in this chapter! I hope you don't mind. :-) A few readers have made similar comments that it's nice to hear Sam's POV, and I enjoy thinking about it and writing it too. I really think that Sam did realize how awesome Dean was.
sammygirl69: I'm so glad to have you reading and enjoying this! I love Sam's POV too. Now, would I hurt poor Sam? Never. Okay, I totally would. hehe
Timelady66: I would never hit my Sam ... er, our Sam, with a tree. Except I totally did. I completely 1000% agree about the mistake of having Sam not look for Dean. I couldn't imagine that! And if there is anything that can't be fixed by beignets, it can probably be fixed by paczkis or eclairs!
supernaturalsammy67: Oh my! Thank you! You are so sweet. I'm really glad you are enjoying it. I hope it keeps meeting your expectations!
stedan: I have a huge smile on my face from your comment! The one advantage written words will always have over performance arts is the details of what characters are thinking. And I so like exploring it! I wish they'd tell each other those things too.
Jenjoremy: You wanting to love on season one Sam reminds me of a dream I had a few years ago. I dreamt that I met Jared and instead of asking for an autograph or something, I scolded him to put on a coat because it was cold. Random, I know. Glad you like the creepy monster. I thought your comment about the flora was in reference to the second sentence of this chapter...until I realized you hadn't seen it yet! Guess we're on the same wavelength!
Kathy: By the way, I do see all your comments on Scorched Earth and Bewildered now. Yay! Always so happy to hear from you. You should know that I never mind plot bunnies and you certainly aren't pushy! I can promise that some flashbacks are coming, mostly in chapter five probably. Weechesters too. I can't promise there will be a pet turtle, but it's an utterly charming idea!
sfaulkenberry: How did I know that you'd like the Sam POV? There's more of it in the pipeline, too. And you know how I feel like the brothers' relationship is at the heart of everything. I'm always happy to find others on that bandwagon with me. Yeah, I sort of dropped a tree on Sam. Are you even surprised by the whump any more? *snicker*
muffinroo: Glad you like it! Didn't take long for Sam to get in trouble, huh? It makes me happy that you like the way I portray the brothers' dynamic.