WICKED
WITCHES
GUIDEBOOK
Chapter two
"…am!"
Sam didn't want to open his eyes, but something had bullied him awake.
"…ammy! Y'…d'n there? …nswer me!"
Sam frowned in confusion, tilting his head upward. He tried to make his eyes go as wide as they could go, but still he couldn't see well. His breath snagged in his throat. Things were dark and cold, and he was dripping wet. Sam's heart began pounding in his throat and his eyes threatened to flutter closed.
He shivered. "Nuuu," he whimpered, fingers searching. Searching for what? Cold mud? He seemed to be packed in the ooze, his clothes sticking to his skin, like, well, like skin. Pain flared in his head and right arm, and this time he had no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut -- panting -- hardly able to take in a decent breath.
"Sam!"
"Wha'?" Sam shook his head and blinked his eyes back open. He couldn't remember what had happened. His mental awareness seemed to be wandering a darkened, narrow hallway. The very last thing he'd remembered was…was…
"Ehhh." Another whimper escaped as he dredged up the image of being pinned by witch number one, helpless against the cabin wall, her crooked finger alone, slicing his cheek open. He'd watched helplessly as Dean tried to flambé witch number two, without backup. "Uhhh." Sam tried to maneuver in the small confines -- the witch's cold storage -- he guessed. He didn't know how long he'd been down here. All he knew was, he was ready to get out. He was snuggled in tight, like a grave bed. Panic continued to gather in his chest. Don't panic. Don't panic -- easier said. "Mmmmm," he groaned his discomfort. The more he slithered about in the mud, the more he did panic. He was drenched in sweat and mud, about to pass out from lack of oxygen -- so not good.
"Sammy!" A wide beam of light ran back and forth across the muddy floor, but it was the quaver in the voice calling his name from above that slammed Sam's mental awareness out of the narrow, dark hallway.
Dean would never leave him alone, in the dark -- not after the school locker incident, anyway. He'd felt guilty for weeks afterwards, catering to Sam's every whim to make up for the prank.
"Sam! Damn it! Talk to me, man!"
His brother was here, Sam realized. Calling to him. Afraid for him. Sam pulled air in and pushed air out, wrestling with panic the way a crazy man would wrestle with a straight-jacket. He called to Dean, but the word came as hardly a whisper.
Sam took in a steadying gulp of air, concentrating on changing his breathing." D…Deeean," he groaned his brother's name.
"Sam! Thank God!" Dean's excited voice ricocheted down the shaft. "You okay? You hurt?"
"Deee...aaahhh." Sam tried to suck more air into his lungs.
"Hold on. I'm coming down." The flashlight's beam disappeared.
"N'... don't." Sam wiggled in the small confines. "Nu' 'nough room."
There came several long moments of silence, and Sam couldn't help but panic -- again. Dean was topside, still without backup. Sam hooked the fingers of his left hand into the wall of the soft mud and began to claw. Lighting a match one-handed he could do, clawing his way out a deep, dark pit one-handed -- not so much. But Sam was bulldogged and tried anyway. Desperate to pull himself to his feet, climb out of the hole, and get to his brother. His fingers slipped through the pudding-like ooze, getting him nowhere. Mud bombs detonated around him, and he was scared, but not for himself, claustrophobia forgotten. He was scared for Dean. For all he knew the witches were hurling his brother headfirst into a boiling pot, or chopping him into bits and adding him to their compost pile. The thought made a huge wave of nausea roll over him.
"De..." Sam coughed and gagged at the same time. "Dean." His fingers remained clinging to the soupy wall, unable to do a damn thing. Above he could hear the scuffle of feet, and more mud bombs smashed down around him. Sam took in a deep breath and yelled, "Hey! Where are you?"
"On the job, where else? Damn yapping, foo-foo princess, chihuahua." Sixty seconds later, Dean yelled, "Tossing a rope. Heads up!"
A looped rope dangled in front of Sam. He stared at the cord, wanting to grab on, but the straight-jacket was back clinging tighter to him, and he swore he couldn't move a thing, including his lungs.
"Sam, grab on," Dean ordered from above.
Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Trying." His legs were rubberized and his hooked fingers twitched in the mud, but that was all the movement he could afford. Sizzling, hot fire shot up his right arm stealing what little air he had left in his lungs.
Panicking was not good. Panicking was dangerous. Panicking was the one thing, the first thing, their father had taught them 'not' to do. Sam fought to gain control, but his phobia was a cruel and hungry beast that wouldn't release the vice-like grip it had regained.
"Sam? You're in the damn bitches root-cellar, now let's move!"
"Can't," Sam whispered in shame.
"What are you doing down there?"
Sam's hand slipped from his worthless hold of the soupy wall. He ran his shaking hand down his face and smearing more mud.
"Dude!" The flashlight's beam was back. "It's not a ketchup and spaghetti dinner I'm offering you, it's a friggin' rope! Now grab the freak on!" Dean bellowed.
Sam titled his head, staring up the dark shaft, working his lips but no sound came out.
The rope swung closer to his face. "Sam, we're sitting ducks here. Need you to help me out, kiddo." Dean's voice trailed down the dark pit, soft and caring. "I know it hurts and it's hard to breathe, but you have to reach for the rope," Dean said, somehow knowing exactly what was going on.
Sam shuddered hard, eyeing the rope in front of him.
"Sam! Just reach up." It sounded simple enough, but Sam couldn't move. "It's the only way out of this predicament." Came Dean's surefire voice. "Come on, pal, that's no gym-locker you're stuffed in." A pause. "You're pansy ass better take that rope or you will find yourself stuffed somewhere dark and small for a whole friggin' week," Dean threatened.
Sam was close to passing out, but he knew Dean needed him. His crude threat alone told him that. He swallowed the panic in his throat and reached up one-handed for the rope that dangled and bopped him in the face. He got his uninjured arm through the loop and over his head.
"Bro, you ready?"
"K'" Sam gave the rope a weak tug.
Without another moments pause the rope drew tight, hefting his weight upward. Sam's legs dangled long and gangly, his broken right arm slack and useless at his side.
Halfway up he heard Dean curse, and Sam dropped a few feet back down.
"Uggh!" Sam cried out, trying to dig the tips of his boots into the soft muddy walls to keep from falling further.
"I got you." The rope took up slack.
"You sure?" Sam craned his head upward. H
His answer came quick, in the form of a tug as he started to be pulled back upward. "Sam…" Dean panted from above. "Trust me."
Sam smiled, knowing Dean was on the other end of the rope tugging, straining and fighting gravity. Dean wouldn't let him fall. Dean wouldn't leave him in the dark -- ever again.
Slow rise after slow rise, Sam finally saw Dean standing near the rim of the pit. "There you are." Dean bent down and reached out over Sam, grabbing hold of his waistband. "That's it. Easy now, boy," he grunted, his voice sounding far away.
Sam was vaguely aware of being belly-dragged up and over the edge of the hole, before everything pinpricked and he blacked out.
"Sam, you coming around?" A warm, flat palm tapped against his cheek. "Sam." The voice called again through a cloud of pain.
"N…no." Sam's head throbbed, so did his arm.
"Sure you are, bro." Everything was a jumbled mess. Sam crinkled his nose and took in a deep cleansing breath as the hand continued to gently pat at his cheek. "Sam! Wake the hell up!
"Not the boss 'f me."
"I am so the boss of you." The gentle cheek tapping turned into more of a hard slap.
"Stop it." Sam tried to scramble away from the hand, the panic he'd swallowed coming back. "Where'm I?"
"Why don't you open your eyes, whiz kid, and find out!"
Sam's eyes scarcely slit open, only to spin up into his head. "Ou--out. G-get me ou--" he gasped.
"Hey, hey …it's all right, I'm here now." A hand cupped his shoulder and squeezed hard. "You're out, Sam. "Be calm." Sam was yanked into someone's lap and held close. "Breathe, man, breathe."
Sam drew in a deep breath, the comforting whiff of citrus combined with cloves and nutmeg -- Giorgio Armani. Well, a knock-off of the expensive cologne, anyway, his brother's favorite aftershave.
"D'n." He opened his eyes not taking his sight off the face waffling above him.
"Come on, Sam." Dean knuckle rubbed his chest. "Breathe in."
"I am breathe…" Sam choked. "In. I..." He tried to sit up. "I'm fr-freezing," he said.
"Smell, too." This time Dean's laugh was full bodied. "Sam, if I told you once, I've told you a million times, bro….watch that first step…it's a doozey. What the hell was the bitch's point, dropping your ass down there anyway?"
"Didn't ask." Sam squeezed his eyes shut and shook uncontrollably. "Sorry, panicked. Too small…couldn't…"
"It's okay. I get it. Little Sammy fell in the well."
Sam drew in a breath, "Thanks, Lassie." He couldn't help but give a small chuckle, able to breathe a little better. "The witch?" Sam blinked his eyes open. He was lying on his back, looking up at Dean.
"Which, witch?" Dean smiled, hovering lower over him, swiping Sam's mud-soaked hair off his forehead.
"The ugly one." Sam sank back further against Dean, appreciating the safety he always found there.
"Dude, they were both ass-ugly." Dean gently pulled at the torn material of Sam's jacket.
"It's broken," Sam cringed, getting a better look at the exposed bone popping up through his flesh.
"Don't need x-ray vision to know that, huh?" Dean looked up.
"No." Sam shut his eyes. "Heard a snap…" He grit his teeth when Dean touched along the torn tissue. "When I hit muddy bottom." He forced his eyes back open.
"I bet." Dean winced. "Hold…"
"Ewww," Sam moaned.
"Hold-on-easy, pal." Dean patted down his jacket, obviously searching for something. "I'll do what I can. Bitches purse snatched the duffel, scattered our supplies. I don't have a damn thing to patch you up with here, Sam, need to get you back to the motel."
"Probably a good plan," Sam muttered.
"We're going to have to do this the hard way, bro," Dean informed,sadly.
"I like the medium way better."
"I know you do." Dean's eyes were soft with sympathy. "Think you can hold that arm still, okay?"
Sam nodded halfheartedly, glancing around.
"Serious, Dean…d'you get 'em?"
"Wicked witch number one is dead." Dean gently picked up Sam's injured arm.
"Jesuuuu....crap!" Sam violently jerked, biting into his lower lip.
"Got her with the flamethrower," Dean announced proudly, maneuvering the broken limb against Sam's chest. "Your bitch-witch is still zooming around on her broomstick somewhere, I assume." Dean raised his brow in question.
"Bet the Impala, she's not far-off," Sam muttered, using his good hand to cradle his brokn arm to his chest still glancing around nervously.
"Samantha, leave my baby out of this," Dean snapped. "Can you sit up?"
Sam worked his jaw, letting Dean ease him to sitting and blinking away the black spots that danced in front of his eyes.
"Ready to find your feet?" Dean questioned.
Sam briefly glanced down, spying the coil of rope laying near his feet on the ground. "Where'd you find the rope?" He asked, stalling to gain better focus.
"Hanging around." Dean frowned. "Least of our worries, bro. You done stalling?" He gave knowing nod.
Sam braced himself. "Go on."
"Take a breath and count to twenty, backwards," Dean ordered.
"Dean, I don't need…" Dean drug Sam to standing. "Gahhhh," Sam hissed in through gritted teeth.
"Sorry, man." Dean curved an arm around Sam's waist and tugged him to his side.
"Uhhhh." Sam struggled to find his balance, trying not to joggle his broken arm. "Fucking witches, I hate them!"
"That's the baby brother I know and love. Ready to walk?"
Sam swallowed unable to answer. His heart was pounding in his head, his lungs burned, and double vision made him wobble.
"Sammy?"
"Head's spinning, like clothes in a washing machine."
"Good fun, huh?"
"The funnest." Sam winced.
The wind groaned through the trees bringing the faint aroma of rotting flesh. Gourmet cooks, the witches were not. Sam felt dizzy watching patchy shadows move, helter-skelter all around. His skin prickled and he shivered badly. He swore he could feel eyes racking over them, and not the Innocent glowing eyes of fireflies. More like, they were a couple of thick and juicy filet mignons just begging to be seasoned and grilled. "We have to get out of here." He glanced at Dean. "Now." Sam's head dipped once.
Dean lifted Sam's chin, brushing strands of hair that were sticking to the drying, bloody gash running down the length of Sam's cheek.
"Want me to carry…"
"I can walk." Sam put action to word taking a few shuffling steps.
"Uh-huh," Dean murmured, his tone disbelieving as he helped Sam along.
Sam closed his eyes, letting Dean lead the way. Something snake-like was curling around his stomach and he only hoped it didn't slither up his throat and out his mouth.
"Sa-a-a-a-m." Dean drug out his name. "You have that face."
"What face?"
"The, 'I'm about to puke, but I don't want to tell Dean', face."
"Not going to puke, Dean."
"What'd you eat this morning?" Dean asked, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.
"Little bit of everything," Sam grimaced.
"Flounder, Oysters…vanilla ice cream, all mixed together and drizzled with maple syrup."
"Dude." Sam warned, swallowing thickly.
"Well, if that didn't make you throw up on me, nothing will," Dean pronounced tartly.
"Not going to throw up on you, Dean." Sam took a couple more uncoordinated steps
"Good," Dean said. "Because you remember what happens to you when you throw up on me, right, Sam?"
"Severe bodily injury." Sam kneaded his fingers into Dean's jacket hoping to keep upright. "Just…keep me walking, Dean, okay."
"Okay," Dean agreed, increasing his hold as they moved along.
TBC…