Sam Winchester paused, plastic spoon halfway to his mouth, open can of tuna in hand and listened.
He thought he'd heard footsteps but now all was quiet again.
Slowly, warily, Sam brought the spoon to his mouth. Crouched in the kitchen of an abandoned house, the hunter was out of the line of sight should anyone peer through the window above the sink but he dare not relax for even a second. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear the tat-tat-tat of gunfire and closer, the hoarse, throaty calls of crows sitting in the barren trees outside.
Sam finished the tuna and put the empty can and spoon into his duffel bag. Closing the bag and sliding the strap onto his shoulder, Sam took a breath and prepared himself to stand. He had already stayed too long in the house for his own comfort and the urge to keep moving was now overwhelming.
Slowly, eyes fixed on the front lawn visible through the cracked and stained window above the kitchen sink, the hunter rose to his full height. The yard was empty but for an overturned tricycle rusting in the uncut grass.
As quietly as he could, Sam crossed the kitchen and through the doorway that led into the front foyer. Shoes of various sizes had been strewn across the hardwood floor as if their owners had left home in a hurry. Sam paused, using the toe of his boot to turn over a men's loafer idly. Even if he was in need of new footwear, a soft slip-on shoe would not be a wise choice.
Stepping over the abandoned shoes, Sam unlocked the front door to the house- he had entered through a broken patio window in the back- and eased it open an inch.
With the door open, the croaking of crows and the tattoo of gunfire had grown in volume but besides those macabre sounds, Sam heard nothing that belied danger.
Easing the door open just enough to squeeze through, Sam exited the house and closed the door behind him. The cement path that led to the sidewalk was cracked, dry weeds poking out from the fissures, seeking sunlight.
Head down, walking briskly but not running, Sam made his way down the path and onto the sidewalk. He stepped quietly, alert for any sounds of danger- footsteps following, gunfire moving closer, voices- as he left the neighbourhood behind.
W
Sam paused on the corner, glancing up at the street signs though they were all but meaningless now.
Picking a direction arbitrarily, the hunter began walking again, deciding to remain in the residential area for a while longer. It had long since ceased to be strange seeing empty streets, deserted houses, and discarded objects.
Sam walked down the middle of the road, weaving his way between cars marooned like so many islands in a black sea. He didn't even entertain the idea of hotwiring a vehicle; it was safer to travel on foot, less conspicuous.
The hunter paused, listening.
He turned to peer over his shoulder.
He could have sworn he heard footsteps.
"Hello?" he called softly.
There was no response.
Uneasy, Sam turned around and continued on, this time picking up his pace.
As he walked, he unzipped his duffle bag and slipped his hand inside, feeling the cold, comforting grip of his gun.
Sam continued on for a few more minutes until he reached an obstacle in the road, two cars had met, making a V with their front bumpers.
Sam turned to move around the obstruction and instead use the sidewalk when he again heard footfalls, stepping quickly this time and he caught sight of a humanoid shape hurrying towards him.
Sam pulled his gun from his duffle and pointed it at the approaching figure.
"Stop!" he cried.
The figure ignored him and rushed forward, one hand clutching a tire iron.
Sam squeezed off a shot and hit the figure in the shoulder. The bullet wound didn't seem to affect his attacker at all.
Hemmed in by the cars, Sam made to scramble over the hood of one of the vehicles when a second figure, wielding a cleaver, vaulted over them instead and swung the knife at the hunter.
Turning his attention to this new threat, Sam shot this attacker low in the belly. The knife-wielding figure, an older woman, with stringy grey hair, grunted but did not fall.
A sudden pain bloomed in the back of Sam's head and he staggered forward as bright lights obscured his vision. The attacker with the tire iron had reached him.
Gripping his gun tightly, Sam twisted at the waist and shot the figure holding the iron. This time the bullet tore through the attacker's throat and he crumpled onto the asphalt. Sam kicked the tire iron away from the dying man's hand and cried out as a sharp pain tore through his right leg.
The woman with the knife had buried the weapon into the hunter's thigh, a couple of inches above his knee. She grinned at Sam with a mouthful of broken teeth before he had a chance to aim his gun and shoot her, sending her falling backwards against the hood of the car she had jumped over.
Sam's knees buckled and he sat down heavily on the pavement. Blood welled from the gash on his leg, staining his jeans and the asphalt beneath.
"Shit," he growled through clenched teeth, holding one hand over the wound, afraid to touch.
He needed to move. He had to get somewhere safe. Taking a deep breath, Sam grabbed onto one of the car's side mirrors and pulled himself to his feet, pain spreading down to his foot and up to his groin.
"Damn it," Sam hissed and gently put pressure on his leg. It held, but just.
Shoving his gun back into his duffle bag, Sam inched around the bodies and the cars and made his way to the house directly across from him. He didn't care about secrecy right now. He just needed to get inside and tend to his leg.
The back of his head throbbed as he moved and, pressing his fingers to his hair, swore once again when they came away wet with blood.
A stroke of luck that hadn't been with Sam mere minutes ago, allowed the front door of the abandoned house to be unlocked. He shoved it open with his shoulder and staggered into the front hallway, nudging it shut behind him. He knew as soon as he stepped inside that he would find nothing of use inside. The closet door hung open, revealing its innards of shoes, boots, coats, hats and mittens that had been ripped from hangers and thrown about as thieves search for anything useful. Graffiti was scrawled across the wall declaring 'Hell is Empty and All the Devils are Here.'
Sam sank to the floor, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and began pawing through his duffle. Non-perishable food, bottled water, batteries and First Aid supplies were the first things to be stolen when things got bad.
The hunter found what he needed, a brown plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide- nearly empty- a sewing needle and a roll of green dental floss. Laying the items carefully on the floor beside him, Sam carefully tore the cut in his jeans wider, sucking in a sharp breath as he did so. The wound in his leg gaped wide like a grinning mouth and Sam felt nausea roiling in his stomach at the sight. This was no time to be squeamish.
He grabbed the bottle of peroxide and unscrewed the cap. His hand shook as he poured the contents of the bottle onto the wound and ground his teeth together against the burning sensation. Using his sleeve, Sam wiped away the pink bubbling liquid to dry the wound as much as he could. Picking up the needle and floss, it took Sam several attempt before he managed to thread the needle. With his left hand, he pinched the edges of the gash together as much as he could and, taking a deep, steadying breath, began to stitch the wound together.
W
Ten minutes passed and Sam leaned his head back, sweat beaded on his brow and closed his eyes. He felt drained. The back of his head throbbed with each beat of his heart and the cut on his leg burned. Digging a bloodied hand into his duffel once again, Sam retrieved a white t-shirt and wrapped it around the sutured wound to keep it as clean as possible.
He knew he needed to go. He had made too much noise, and the two dead bodies outside were sure to attract attention. But… where to go?
Ever since everything had gone to hell- literally- Sam had wandered, having no destination in mind, relying on his feet to move him forward. But that was before. Now, without proper medical assistance he could expect a long, painful death from infection.
Sam opened his eyes- they were suddenly moist- and carefully stood, gingerly placing weight on his injured leg. It seemed to hold, if a bit painfully, but he could manage for now.
Although he had been avoiding it, he knew now where he needed to go.
He needed to get to Dean.
Picking up his duffel bag and sliding the strap over his shoulder, Sam moved gingerly towards the door, testing his injured leg to see if it would give out. It didn't and he crossed the threshold and moved down the path that cut through the lawn towards the sidewalk.
W
Night fell, and as it did, Sam was forced to stop. The wound in his leg throbbed with pain as he walked and he started weaving along the sidewalk, exhausted.
Not bothering to find shelter, Sam simply sat at on a boulevard carpeted in dried, yellow grass. His head had long since stopped throbbing and for that at least, he was grateful as he slid his duffel bag off and used it as a pillow. He stretched his legs out and closed his eyes, hoping that his sleep would be peaceful and undisturbed.
W
Sam gritted his teeth and peeled back the bloodstained t-shirt to reveal the wound. The floss he'd used as a suture was stained black with dried blood, the flaps of skin puckered and red. A dark purple bruise surrounded the gash.
Two days had passed since he'd been attacked and it felt as though he had made little progress. He really wasn't even sure he was going in the right direction. With no map and no cell service, Sam only had road signs to rely on and even then, he had his doubts.
He hadn't been to Camp Chitaqua in years and his memory of it was hazy at best. But, he knew that if Dean was going to be anywhere it was at the old campsite. The only thing Sam could do was try. Sam hoped his brother would be there.
Author's Note:
This is a completed story I've had for a while and am just now getting around to posting. Please enjoy.
Fanfiction title comes from a song by Three Days Grace.
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