A/N: Thanks to everyone who's still reading!
If You Dare Challenge - #71 (A School Bus)
Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #329 (Shut up)
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters belong to the writers, not me.
"Dean? Dean!" Two tiny fists shook him. "Get up! We're gonna be late for school!"
Dean's whole body felt as though it had gone through a paper shredder. "Sure, Sammy," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "Go—go get your shoes on." His words slurred together as though he was drunk.
"I've got them on!" Dean winced at the high pitch of his voice. "I've got my jacket, too!" It sent waves of nausea through his torso and throat, and he— "Now, Dean!"
He gagged; he had nothing to throw up, so he retched only the water he'd drunk from the sink the night before. Sam jumped back, surprised. "Dean?"
"Go," Dean moaned, exhausted. "The...bus. Go." He knew he should escort his brother to the school bus, for it was his job to keep him safe, but he could barely sit up, let alone walk. "Now, Sammy!"
Sam hesitated once more before scrambling for the door as his brother began to gag again. There were spots of blood among the vomit; Dean retched and cried once Sam was gone, curling in on himself. He was so hungry… He crawled to the sink, dragging himself forwards with his hands, and drank greedily from the faucet. He immediately regretted his actions; he threw it up not two minutes later.
He coughed, and something rattled in his chest. He didn't think their situation had ever been this bad; he wished his mom were here to hold him. He missed her so much that the yearning pressed at his aching chest and climbed up his throat and—
Dean coughed and coughed and coughed until he couldn't breathe; his head pounded, throbbing with pain and hunger, until it burst at his ears, throwing him into darkness.
Dean was tired of waking up like this. Everything hurt. The hunger pangs had not faded as he had hoped; he needed food. Sammy needed food. Sam… Sammy needed food. Dean struggled to his feet, propping himself up with his shotgun. Sammy… He didn't have any money, so he knew what he had to do. Dean collapsed onto the nearest chair, gritted his teeth, and wiped away the blood trickling down the side of his head. He would do this…for Sammy.
The cashier was organizing milk jugs when Dean arrived. At first, having grown used to the sound of the opening door, he didn't notice the boy. But the hacking cough, raspy breathing, and uneven footsteps soon alerted him to the child's presence.
"Hello?" he called out. The boy had disappeared into one of the aisles, dragging his leg behind him. "Can I help you?" There was no reply. Only the sickly breathing of the boy assured the cashier that he was still there. "Do you need—"
The cashier turned into the second aisle. In between stacks of chips and candy stood the boy, Dean. He was a mess. His whole body was shaking violently, particularly his right leg, which looked awkward and crooked. His right arm matched the leg, for it was unnaturally bent as well. There were small cuts scattered all over his exposed skin, and three of his fingers were dark; was that...frostbite? The bruise on his face had mostly faded, but now the ghostly, unhealthy complexion and sleepless eyes were brutally obvious. The dark circles carved beneath each apple-green eye barely touched on the boy's suffering. He was painfully thin and hunched over as though there were an iron rod stuck between his ribs.
Most importantly, however, Dean was holding a gun. And it was pointed directly at him. "D-don't," he croaked. "I just—I—" He coughed. "Food." The gun shook dangerously in his bone-thin fingers. "I want…food."
"Kid," the cashier said carefully, taking a small step towards the injured child. He didn't know where the boy had gotten the gun, but he knew that he needed to— "Let's just put the gun down, okay? Talk about it. We can—"
"Don't test me!" The shout sent him into a round of hacking that left his sleeve wet with blood. "I can… I will shoot you."
"I know." The cashier raised his hands in surrender. "But I can help you. There's no need for—"
"Sh-shut up! I d-don't want your help! I-I-I—" Tremors rippled through the boy. He was so sick that he was shaking. "I want...food. Give me...now."
"Look, son, I don't know what's happened to you, but listen to me. I can help. I can—"
The first shot was a shock to his system. It entered his right shoulder, burning like gasoline, and tore right through him. The force of it knocked him onto his back. "Food," repeated the boy, his voice gravelly. Every time he took a breath between words seemed to worsen his condition; he wheezed, his breaths half of what they once were. "Food." The cashier was somewhat surprised that the boy had shot him, and even more so when his quiet demeanor surged into desperation. "Now!" When he didn't move, the boy's gun moved, aiming at his other arm. "I-I'll shoot you...again if I have...to."
His words were becoming so broken and ill that the cashier could barely understand him. However, he pushed himself to his feet despite the pain, clutching his shoulder to prevent further bleeding. Knowing what the boy wanted, he moved through the shelves at gunpoint, plucking out each item. He wanted to help Dean, but there was not much he could do when staring down the barrel of a gun. He handed the boy his groceries; to his surprise, he asked for nothing more. Trembling, he snatched the plastic bags, his body tensing as his broken arm reached for them. He kept the gun trained on the cashier as he left, although his aim had worsened since he arrived.
"Tell...no one," gasped the boy, and then he limped out of the store.
Dean was starving; wolf-like hunger gnawed at his insides. As soon as he left the mini-mart, he staggered into an alley, his numb fingers tearing open the first package. He didn't care what it was; he just needed something to fill his stomach. Like before, however, his stomach rejected it, and soon he was puking, heaving weakly into a dumpster. He managed to drag himself back to the motel, forcing his broken leg forwards and giving himself extra time between steps to rest. He didn't know how much longer he could take this pain; he wished his father were home already.
He fumbled for his key. The difficulty of grabbing any object had multiplied once he lost the feeling in various fingers. After multiple attempts, he finally pushed the key into the lock, twisting it. Once inside the motel room, he collapsed onto the floor. A strange, hot feeling writhed deep in his gut, and he vomited again. This time, it was more blood than anything else. Vaguely aware of his actions, he crawled towards the sink. He was so thirsty. If he could just...reach...the...the…
A/N: Thanks for reading! I'll be posting the next chapter sometime later today or tomorrow. Please favorite, follow, and review!