AN: Er...I'm sorry?
Warning: animal death. Kinda.
Edited to fix a math mistake. Yes, really.
* * *
Are you man enough?
Big and bad enough?
Are you gonna let 'em shoot you down?
When the evil flies and your brother cries
Are you gonna be around?
Are You Man Enough by The Four Tops
* * *
Sam's composure lasted for all of ten minutes after the sound of Dean's steps faded. And it only lasted that long because he had to make sure big brother wasn't looping back. He knew just how deeply it went against the grain for Dean to leave him.
About a week after they faced a mouthy shifter, Sam and Dean were easing back into the Hunt (at Sam's insistence; Dean had seemed prepared to sit on the sidelines until every one of Sam's bruises was completely gone). It was a simple salt and burn, but they didn't know exactly where in the cemetery the body was buried. Looking at the 20 acre plus boneyard, Sam suggested he go north and Dean go south.
Dean had frozen. It had seriously taken him a full minute to agree to separate, and Sam had felt eyes on him on and off the entire time he searched.
Sam got it. He did. He remembered his own panic when he'd first discovered that Dean was missing and something else was wearing his face. And the same shifter had gotten Sam twice, and almost killed him the second time. It really ramped up Dean's already protective nature.
Heck, Dean took every injury Sam got Hunting personally. Being a big (well, older anyway) brother wasn't just a part of Dean's identity, it was almost a religion to him. If Asimov had written the three rules of Dean Winchester, the first, sacrosanct rule would have been: Dean protects Sam at all costs. But he didn't want reciprocoty from Sam. Oh, no. He wanted Sam to also protect Sam.
So, Sam hurt and trapped while trying to help Dean, Dean unable to get him free, and needing to leave him stuck and alone while the monster at fault was still alive? Well, that checked every single box on the list of things Dean hates the most. Not to mention most of the boxes on the list of things Dean feels guilty about.
No matter how well things turned out, Dean was going to hate himself. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd be surprised that Dean had actually left except for one pertinent fact: it was the only way he could help Sam. And there was very little Dean wouldn't endure for that.
Too bad Sam wasn't nearly as brave as he'd pretended to be. He was shaking already, a combination of fear, delayed shock, pain, and cold. Sam took two long breaths and held the third, a technique Dad had taught them years before to slow their heartrate. Panic would be a really bad idea right now. Even the shivers sent pulses of pain into Sam's hip. Struggling would be both useless and painful.
Besides, his assessment to Dean had been the truth. There wasn't any way for Sam to get out without a whole lot of help. All he had to do was stay calm and awake. And keep an eye out for danger, though there wasn't a lot of dangerous wildlife in the area.
To distract himself, Sam tried to think about what animals he might have to look out for. Coyote, maybe, though they were rarely a threat to humans. A trapped, injured human, possibly, if the animal was starving, but it was fall, not winter. Wolf? Mountain lion? Bear? All theoretically possible, but extraordinarily unlikely. No, the real danger lay in another direction.
Sam glanced around, trying to stop that train of thought. The ambient noises were comforting. The fact that he could hear insects meant it was unlikely that the oneiroi was close. But if its anchor really was the magnetite, and Sam was lying above the vein, it was possible, even likely, that the creature knew exactly where he was.
The thought made Sam twitchy. Dad had taught them a maxim he'd had pounded into his head in Vietnam: if you're not mobile, you're dead. And Sam was the definition of not mobile. He squirmed, feeling claustrophobic for the first time. So much for not thinking about things.
Since he was thinking about it anyway, Sam tried to remember anything he could about oneiroi. In a moment of nostalgia, he'd signed up for a Greek mythology class his freshman year of college. As he recalled, the primordial deities that shared a name with oneiroi were related to the night, sleep, pain, fear, and death. And while mythology was never totally reliable, it often had a grain of truth to it.
It stood to reason that the oneiroi would grow bolder, if not actually stronger, after dark. And the things that made Sam more vulnerable already might give the nightmare creature an in, even if Sam stayed awake.
Sam's heart rate picked up at the realization, and he began to breathe heavily. Yes, panicking was exactly what he shouldn't do. Knowing that didn't help.
Something moved in Sam's right peripheral vision and he jerked that way hard enough to send pain lancing down his left leg and tiny fire crackers to burst across his vision. He could still make out the white tail deer bounding away, as startled by him as he'd been by it.
Sam let the gun sag back down and lay back, catching his breath. He berated himself. Dean hadn't even been gone that long, and here Sam was flipping out over Bambi. Dean wouldn't have been losing it over some deer, so he had to do better. Dean wouldn't have gotten trapped, sneered the pedantic, pessimistic part of Sam's brain that he really hated sometimes.
Your fear and worry and the extra pain you caused yourself just made you an easier target for the oneiroi, brainiac. Oh, and great work getting yourself trapped. No wonder Dad and Dean didn't trust you to go off on your own. What kind of Hunter needs a babysitter?
Sam shook his head as if he could physically dislodge the negative thoughts. Something Bobby had taught him years and years ago popped into his mind. "The middle of a Hunt ain't the place to analyze your mistakes," he'd said. "You can figure out what went wrong later. When you're in danger, you gotta look ahead. Focus on what do I do now."
The words of wisdom helped, as did Sam's efforts to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth, deeply enough to make his stomach rise with each inhale. It was working, and helping with the pain too. But that voice, which was honestly a bully and an asshole, wasn't finished.
White tail deer are mostly active at dusk and dawn, it reminded him. So that doe probably means it's going to be dark soon. Just how scared are you going to be then?
Sam grumpily told it to shut up. It had a great time reminding Sam of all the ways he didn't measure up to Dean, to becoming the Hunter his dad wanted him to be, to his own expectations. It delighted in pulling out Sam's own personal blooper reel, all his not-so-greatest hits and showing him all of his failures in living color. If he let it get started, it would have a hell of a lot to say about his nervousness. No. His fear.
But then, Dean has never made fun of Sam's fears. Sure, he'd made fun of him for months after a squirrel had startled him so much that he'd nearly fallen out of a tree. And he teased Sam for his if not fear, extreme dislike of clowns. But not when Sam was truly, honestly afraid. In fact...
Sam had thought he wanted this. Thought being out here would be so much better than waiting alone in a motel room and worrying about what was happening to the rest of his family. And in a way, it was. He knew exactly where Dean and Dad were, and what they were Hunting.
But lying here, just waiting for the woodwose to show up and go for the bait, which happened to be Dad? Terrifying. The longer they waited, the worse it got. It felt like something cold and hard was crawling around inside Sam's stomach, and it was getting bigger and wigglier as time passed.
Woodwoses were nasty, but easy to kill with a silver blade, which Dad and Dean both had. Sam had a shotgun for protection just in case, but Dad didn't expect to need assistance from either of his boys. The only reason they were even along was to observe and learn.
None of those facts warmed Sam's blood or stopped him from worrying that he was going to watch his Dad die in this broken down little shack. Maybe Dean too. What if he screwed up and got them killed?
Time to distract himself. Sam began to silently recite the periodic table. Kenny Filmore had said it was impossible for a kid Sam's age to memorize all 108 elements, so naturally Sam was working on proving him wrong, and he was nearly halfway.
Helium, hydrogen, lithium. It wasn't helping. He was breathing heavier now. Beryllium, boron, carbon. His hands were shaking. He was probably going to shoot Dad by accident. Nitrogen, oxygen. This isn't working.
Dean was looking over at Sam now. They were concealed from the door but not from each other. Great. He probably was realizing just how lousy Sam was at backing them up. He was frowning and looked like he was going to come over to Sam's spot, which could alert the monster.
But before Dean could act, the woodwose made its entrance. It didn't come through the door, but through a hole in the roof. Its landing knocked Dad to the floor, then Sam and Dean were firing simultaneously. The impact knocked the ugly thing backwards, then Dad was up and killing it and none of the blood spilled was red.
Dad was fine, and pleased with his boys' reaction time. He even sprang for pizza that didn't taste like greasy cardboard, but Sam had to force himself to eat. The fear was gone, but he still felt shaky.
Dean goaded Sam into a belching contest (which he totally won, because everybody knows duration trumps volume) and generally acted like a moron, distracting Sam from his brooding. Gradually, Sam was able to relax enough that he'd be able to sleep.
But when Sam was in bed half asleep, Dean came into the room and sat on the edge Sam's bed instead of climbing into his own. "Sammy, it's okay to be scared. Everybody gets scared Hunting sometimes."
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing it was probably too dark for Dean to see it. Dad didn't get scared. Or Uncle Bobby, Jefferson, or Caleb. And Dean sure didn't; probably hadn't at Sam's age either.
Naturally, Dean sensed his skepticism. He lightly smacked Sam's closer shoulder. "They do. We do. It'd be pretty stupid to know what's out there and not be kinda scared. Just cuz you can't see that someone's scared doesn't mean they aren't."
Sam still wasn't positive that Dean was right, but he was listening.
"You'll get less scared as you get more used to Hunting, but it probably won't ever totally go away," said Dean matter-of-factly. Since Sam had found out about monsters and been hurt to learn how much he'd been lied to, Dean always told him the truth. He didn't tell Sam everything and probably never would, but it was a compromise Sam could live with. Except, Sam found himself half wishing for a kind lie right now, a reassurance that he wouldn't always feel like this.
"What's important is that you are smart scared, not stupid scared," Dean continued when Sam didn't answer.
"Smart scared and stupid scared?" asked Sam, not able to hold back a grin.
"Sure. Like, say there's an accident right in front of you and somebody's stuck in the car. Most people get stupid scared. They scream or freeze or faint, and that doesn't do anybody any good. But not people like us. We use the rush to start helping faster, maybe we can even lift something we normally couldn't."
Sam was intrigued. He'd heard of this, thought he even knew what it was. "It's called adrenaline, Dean," he scoffed, though he wasn't positive he had the word exactly right.
"I know that. I just figured a kid your age wouldn't know any words bigger than mayonnaise," said Dean easily, and Sam could hear the smile the darkness hid. Sam knew Dean had realized that his pep talk was working.
"Adrenaline isn't a bigger word than mayonnaise, Dean," Sam argued because he was a little brother.
"Yeah, it is. Anyway, you used yours pretty well, shooting the woodwose. Dad's happy. I figure he knew it would come from above and wanted to see how we'd do. On the job training, ya know."
Sam thought about that, and didn't especially like it, but it did make sense. And it was to see how Sam did, not both of them. Still, they'd taken Sam along. "Pretty well? I shot the same time you did."
"Yeah, but you only winged it." Dean reached to mess up Sam's hair, but the younger boy say it coming and twisted out of reach.
"I did not! I hit it center mass!"
"Nope," answered Dean in a voice that said he knew Sam was right. He tried for the hair ruffle again and this time caught Sam. "Go to sleep, Sammy. I'm gonna see if I can get Dad to bring us fishing tomorrow."
"I'm bringing a book," confided Sam instead of expressing just how unlikely he thought it that Dad would indeed bring them fishing.
Dean chuckled as he moved away. "Of course you will, geek."
Sam was very surprised when they did actually go fishing. (And he asked Dad to spell the words adrenaline and mayonnaise and rubbed it in when they learned they have the same number of letters.) Sam was even more surprised that nightmares about the woodwose never materialized. But maybe he shouldn't have been.
Dean's methods hadn't changed that much in the last dozen years, Sam realized. Deflect, distract, and defuse with humor and teasing. Offer honest praise. And if all else fails, sympathetic understanding.
Sam kept scanning the area and listening to the crickets and night frogs. It was full dark now, but he didn't turn on his flashlight, preferring concealment to visibility. Of course, he wouldn't be concealed from anything if he couldn't slow his shivering. Sam worked the thermal blanket more closely around his body, then drank the other half of the water bottle he'd started. The chill was helping him stay awake, but his reactions and even thoughts were growing more sluggish, making him worry that he was getting shocky.
Not good. Very not good. And apparently, he was losing his grammar skills too. Sam pulled Dean's pack more firmly up so he could sit on a slight angle instead of flat on his back. Maybe he should see how much of the periodic table he still knew.
He'd made it to nickel when something touched -- crawled over -- Sam's good ankle. He started so badly that it felt like a hot poker had been rammed into his hip. The movement scared his new friend, because a mouse ran out from under the tree like its tail was on fire.
Grinding the heel of his hand into his torso just above the pained hip, he breathed through it until the world stopped rotating around him. The big Hunter scared by Bambi, then Jerry, Sam thought with dark humor. Of course, Dean would probably be more sympathetic to the latter. A drunk Dean had once confided to Sam that he hated rats and mice so much that he used to cheer for Tom and Sylvester to catch their prey.
Sam's thoughts were drifting, but it was distracting him from his pain and worry and, oh yeah, claustrophobia. At least he wasn't checking his watch obsessively any more.
He wondered idly if Dean had ever seen the movie Willard. Sam had taken Jess to the creature feature once while it had been showing, and the best thing about the movie was the fact that she climbed on his lap...what was that noise? It sounded like a soft, low rumble with a descant of squeaks.
Oh, God.
Sam flicked on the flashlight and pointed it left, where the sound came from. It showed a living carpet of hundreds of mice heading right toward him. He had time to get off one shotgun blast, sending a couple dozen tiny bodies flying. It was like spitting on an inferno.
Then they were on him, running, climbing over every part of him that wasn't pinned by the tree. Some slipped into the ends of his sleeves, the cuffs of his pants, his collar.
Sam curled forward, covering his face with his arms, and tried not to scream.
* * *
AN: Asimov's rules refer to the three rules of robots in Isaac Asimov's classic book I, Robot.
Yes, I know that there are 118 elements on the periodic table, but in 1993, there were 108. Google told me so.
Jerry refers to the cartoon mouse in Tom and Jerry. Tom is a cat. Sylvester is a cartoon cat from Looney Tunes. Neither cat ever catches a mouse.
Willard is a classic horror movie in which the titular character, who is lonesome and treated poorly, befriends a bunch of rats. He gets them to help him and eventually kill someone. Eventually, they turn on him and eat him alive.
supernaturalsammy67: Thank you so much! We do get to hear more of Sam's thoughts here, and I'm not very nice to him. :-(
JaniceC678: Thank you! Only one flashback here, but even more coming, per my prompter's request. (That's a request I never mind!) I think trapped is possibly worse than hurt, and it gives me a chance to write more from Sam's POV, which I consider a bonus. Just fyi, Dean took one of the four guns with him. He'd probably feel naked otherwise! I really appreciate how not only supportive your comments are, but also how specific. That is really helpful. I know I've said it before, but I wanted to reiterate it.
Lena: A little confession -- I got the compatible ammo from a different fanfic and didn't verify it on my own. I know, lazy writer! So glad you like how the boys think about each other. Writing about that feeds my soul. You know Dean's going to have boatloads of angst about leaving Sam behind and you can blame Jenjoremy for it. J/k. You know how I dump the boys into terrible situations and then sit back with popcorn to see what they do. Thanks for the reviews and the smiles that come with them!
Jenjoremy: Aw, you're so nice! There's only one flashback here, but more to come in the next chapter. I found this didn't come as easily as when the boys are together, but again, that's what flashbacks are for, right? I also love the boys watching out for each other and trying to make things easier on each other. So, uh, how do you feel about mice?
Christine: I am anxiously awaiting your reaction to this chapter! *g*
sfaulkenberry: Prop your feet up and cut another slice of pie, cuz it's not getting easier for Sam! I'm excited that you find the banter unforced. And why did I know you'd like the brucha story? *snicker*
muffinroo: I don't really keep track of the flashbacks, though maybe I should. I do expand them once in a while. I also love the boys being all tough to protect each other!
stedan: Thanks!! I invent some monsters (i.e. Tornit). But often I take something without much lore (i.e. Ibeji) and just build my own mythology around it. That's what I did here. Oneiroi are from Greek mythology, but stories about them aren't consistent or detailed. So I made them dream manifestations because the idea of collective consciousness is fascinating, IMO. And when do I ever let them off easy? hehe
Scealai: Bwahaha! Get comfy!