Anyway…you know how plans, well, suck?! I planned for this to be only a 2 chapter story and ha, well, I'm gonna make this a 3 chapter story. I just thought why not, you know? I really hope that's okay! And I really appreciated every reader and every review and every alert I got for this story, that is why I decided to put this up…I think it's better than nothing, right?!
So this is the 2nd chapter and thank you Emerald-Water for being so annoying, or else I wouldn't have this up for at least a week. I am currently writing the 3rd chapter, and I will get it up this week or early next week.
The interaction between Dean and Sam in this chapter, happened between two of my friends, brothers the same age as I put Sam and Dean in. I will not tell you why it happened but it did, and it was awful, so this is semi true story. I was fascinated by what the oldest did and I really think that Dean would do the same for Sam. So without me boring you to death, here…oh and I apologize for all the mistakes.
Enjoy…
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A small rabbit shaped cloud came to hang out with the old moon, covering her from head to toe when Sam stopped…and saw…and heard…
"Please…" a raspy voice, silent almost in the too silent world came from the man laying on the leafy ground. Some leaves rustled when he gasped for air, arching his back a little.
Sam stood there, in the clearing, tall trees around him, whispering shhhhh and swinging in the soft breeze. Dean was standing on his right, shoulders hunched, his hands gripping his shotgun, jaw clenched, his spiky hair glowing in the moonlight, his eyes going wide with shock of seeing Sam there.
"Sammy!" Dean's voice came to Sam on a warm breeze.
Dad…Dad was leaning over the man, kneeling near the man's side, speaking words to soft to hear.
Sam was still clutching the gun and the flashlight in his hands, not knowing how he managed to hold onto them for this long. His hands were sweaty and cold, trembling and cracking knuckles on the hard plastic of the flashlight.
"Sam!" it was his fathers voice now…the deep growl…angry and full of fear.
His flashlight fell on the floor with a muffled squish as it hit a mushroom, squishing it to little pieces of white cap and yellow meat. The smell enveloped Sam, but he didn't notice, his senses too focused on the man's silent tears and panicked voice. And his gun…was still being his safety blanket.
He stood there…forgetting how to breathe, his chest squeezing tight, his eyes transfixed on the man. The flashlight his Dad had in his hand threw its light straight onto the man's chest and Sam saw…the blood, the dirt, the torn up clothes, the fear in the man's eyes reflecting on the stream of the light…moonlight, flashlight... it didn't matter, it was too bright, too bright, too much to see.
"Help…me," his eyes found Sam's, bloody eyes, no white visible, shining with tears, warm and cold at the same time, ferocious, "boy."
The man raised his dirty hand towards his Dad and Sam dropped his gun. Dropped his safety blanket and the sound it made when it collided with a rock, vibrated through his chest, squeezing the rest of the air out. The man's eyes were holding a steady look on Sam's, both with glistering tears, both in a pull of currents; fear and pain.
"Sammy, hey, Sam, come here…"
Was that Dean?
Something dark obscured his line of vision, blocking his view on the man's eyes. He felt hands tugging his shirt, he felt hands go around his neck, down his back, he felt hands tighten their grip, he felt hands clenching the back of his shirt, he felt hands…strong, muscular, tugging, holding, gentle, soft, hard, warm, suffocating. He could feel the bone in Dean's arm pushing into his ribs, hard and painful.
His face was pushed into someone's chest…hard, moving, breathing, soft, undertones of a fabric softener...he poured too much of it when he was doing laundry, Dad laughed and Dean said it was as soft as a baby's tushy and that he will learn eventually.
But it smelled so nice right now. And moving and warm and soft and…
Dean? Smells like Dean.
"Sam, hey, don't look, don't look. 's O.K." The words were a soft whisper into Sam's hair, the deep voice Dean had, vibrated through Sam's ears all the way down to his chest giving him air to breathe.
When did Dean's voice become so deep?
And he breathed with his brother, sharing raising chest and fast heartbeat.
"Help me, boy." Once more from the dying man. Three slurred words, barely reaching Sam's ears, barely touching him.
"Shut up, you son of a bitch!" Shifting on his cheek, soft fabric grazing his flesh, the amulet string pressing its material somewhere near his eye, rumble in the solid chest, words spoken by Dean, words too loud, too close, angry, fierce.
Sam flinched.
Dean's hands were suffocating Sam, pressing him to his chest, wanting Sam not to see, not to hear and not to feel any of this. Not yet, not now.
"Sammy, don't look, don't look. 's O.K. Just...just don't look." The words were fast, tumbling out of his mouth, hitting Sam's soft hair, moving that one wayward hair on the top of his head with every breath the words possessed.
"Don't look, 's fine." The trees made a shhhhh noise again, echoing Dean's intended word that was cut off by Sam's hair finding its way into his mouth and it tasted like flowers.
Girly shampoo. Ewww.
But it was Sam. Limp in his arms.
Even with all his effort, Dean knew it was too late when he felt Sam go silent in his arms. Sam already saw, already heard, already felt.
"Don't look, Sam," he lowered his voice to a mere whisper, to a sound only he and Sam would be able to hear, "don't look. 's fine." And the trees shhhhhhed again.
He gripped Sam tighter, maybe breaking a rib, maybe bruising his lower back, maybe squeezing the air out of him…but he didn't care. Anything would be better then Sam seeing this.
Sam was sweating, shaking, tensing and relaxing all at once. Dean's hand kept sliding down from Sam's nape, the soft hair there tickling his palm when he readjusted his hold.
He knew he should take Sam away, drag him away as soon as possible, he knew that, but he didn't think Sam would make it. He didn't think Sam would be able to walk. Carrying him was an option but…he felt Sam slipping from his grip even though he was holding him with all the strength he possessed. He tightened his grip a bit more, cringing when he thought he heard something crack, a rib? No, no, 'm not holding him that tight.
He felt another crack and something beneath his feet…flashlight.
Piece of shit.
He kicked it away and with it some of the mushroom too. The smell became stronger then, sharp and sweet and intoxicating.
Sam's nose was pressed into Dean's T-shirt, almost squishing it on Dean's amulet, the warmth on his forehead, the heartbeat…too fast, too slow, too much…all there. All mixed up. The smells, the darkness, the breathing, the nothingness of sound…just murmurs in his ear, in his hair…don't look, Sam, hey, don't look. Nothing made sense anymore. Dad and the man and Dean and a gun and blood and no air and tight arms around him and feet not even touching the ground anymore and warmth of a solid body right on his face.
Need air, air, breathe, air, air!!
Dean was holding his baby brother in his arms, one hand on the back of Sam's neck, the other on Sam's lower back. And when Sam rotated his head, to breathe, Dean could feel his silky hair…like time flowing underneath his fingers. Time he will never get back…time when Sam saw…a man die. Heard a man die. Feel death. Smell it.
Dean's hand was on Sam's ear now, squishing the soft flesh, soft bones there. Hurting, tickling.
"Dean, take Sam to the car." Sam saw his Dad's head, saw his eyes look at him, saw him moving his mouth, but couldn't hear one damned word. Nothing. Only rustling of leaves and Dean's huffing breaths that stirred his hair.
"Yes, Sir." The words were an echo in Sam's ears, a vibration send through his cheek to his brain. But nothing registered in there. All silence and need air.
And then he was walking, being pushed, manhandled towards the bushes, his hands holding a steady grip on Dean's T-shirt, near his hip, never wavering in strength. Never. It was the only contact he could afford, the only strength he possessed. The material was soft and loose, easy and warm. In some point he might have made a hole in it with tugging on it too much, but he didn't care. He just pushed his fingers through the hole, scraping his fingers on Dean's skin and bone and squeezed.
Help me, boy…echoed in his ears, settling in his mind. Help me boy…and those eyes, bloody, feral, dirty face, torn up clothes, tears and weakness.
They almost danced away from their Dad and the man, limbs tangled, legs stumbling on the uneven ground. Dean must have stepped on Sam's sneakers dozen of times and Sam barely made a sound.
A gun shot that rang out through the forest was the last thing the man heard and then…then there was death with a cricket waking up in the distance.
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TBC… Right?