Another short one. Sorry. Next one will be longer I promise. Enjoy.

Chapter 7

Voices yelled above and around him. Sam squinted his eyes open. Paramedics ran his gurney down a hospital corridor, and Dean ran beside him sweating and panting. "Hang in there, Sam! We're going to help you." He felt a jolt as they pushed him through double doors. Then all at once he saw blue sky, and a bird flying and felt the cool breeze in his hair. He opened his eyes. He was flying across the heavens, soaring and sailing through the blue, following that bird until it took a nose dive and started down...down.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke with a shock. There was no bird and no blue sky, no gurney and no hospital, no paramedics and no Dean. It was just Sam, lying on the cold concrete floor in his own blood. He'd been shot through the left calf, shattering bone and slicing out muscle and the pain strangled him. This was the same leg that Scott had shot him in, in almost the exact same place. The pain was unbearable, noose like, closing his throat and tearing a moan from deep within him. He forced himself to sit up and winced at the pain spearing through his right ribs. He'd been shot there too.

Sweating with the pain he tore his shirt open and stared down at the wound. The bullet had missed his ribs, though it had blasted the flesh in its deadly path. It had not missed the bone in his leg, however. The bullet had gone right through him, shattering a hole in his tibia, before exiting out the back.

He'd been going over to Dean. He'd had a gun in the doctor's ribs, so who had been at the top of the stairs? Who had shot him? The doctor had said that he was not alone in the house. He should have listened and not yelled out to Dean. He didn't understand why they had not killed him.

He reached down to his bloody leg and ripped the fabric of his jeans, so he could see the wound better. Carefully he peeled the jeans away from his blood caked skin.

The sight of it made him dizzy, so he stopped a minute and looked up toward the vent that hummed and blew cold air into the room. He needed to get up. He needed to stop the bleeding and figure out a plan of escape. He didn't know if Dean was ok, or if something bad had happened to him, too.

He tried to rise up but there was no way he could put weight on his leg. With his good arm and leg he managed to pull himself up. His head throbbed and as he rose up to the mattress, a wave of dizziness washed over him again. He grabbed the blanket and ripped off a strip, then used it as a bandage on his leg. He didn't know what to do for his side.

Lying back, he tried to catch his breath. The only relief was the cool air blowing through that vent on the ceiling just above him. He thought about Dean again, across the basement, locked in that other room. Was he hurt? He just didn't know. He couldn't lie there wallowing in his weakness. He had to get away. He knew the life was running out of him. He knew that he didn't have much time left.

If Dean wasn't hurt, Sam knew that it was only a matter of time. The doctor had snapped. He may have been a decent person once, but not anymore. They probably told Dean that he was dead. Sam knew that it wouldn't be long before they did something terrible to Dean. These people didn't want to kill either one of them, at least not yet. They wanted to torture them first. Have fun at their expense.

Sam was afraid that his brother would be next on there sadistic list of things to do, but he was so sleepy. All he wanted to do was sleep. He fought to stay awake but he was exhausted and was beginning to get dehydrated all over again. "Dean, help me!" said Sam as he closed his eyes and drifted off into unconsciousness again.