A Bump in the Night
Summary: A simple salt and burn takes a turn when the spirit throws Sam into a tombstone. Teen Spirit 'verse.
A/N: This story bit me and I had to scratch. Set in the universe of my stories Smells Like Teen Spirit and Come as You Are (I promise the next chapter isn't far away!).
(Sam is thirteen, for reasons I never explain.)
Chapter One
Match sparked, Dean lets it slip from his fingers.
The flame falls. A tiny flash of a shooting star, racing towards the corpse of William Christensen. Unearthed and exposed. His body salted, soaked in lighter fluid, and milliseconds from oblivion, William Christensen's ghost flickers into existence in between heartbeats, towering over Sam, and Dean knows.
It's too late.
Dad must have been crazy, taking Sam out to hunt monsters when he was this small. Kid's all eyes and hair and not much else. Made tinier by the shotgun in his hands, almost as long as he is tall. Sam raises it. He's ready. His finger is on the trigger, starting to squeeze.
Too late.
One ghostly hand wraps around the barrel of the gun and wrenches it from Sam's grasp. A second hand fists in Sam's shirt. And there's a moment, a mere second that seems to stretch itself out, as the match tumbles in slow motion, in which Sam looks past Christensen, across the yawning grave, and his eyes find Dean's. They both know what's about to happen.
Dean must be crazy, taking Sam out to hunt monsters when he's this small.
The ghost lifts Sam like he's weightless and flings him into the air. Dean's heart drops all the way down into his boots. The match lands, William Christensen explodes into a spray of scarlet sparks, and Sam slams head-first into a tombstone.
"No!"
Dean is sprinting, hurdling graves. Sam crumples, ragdoll-esque, a small dark lump in the thin moonlight, motionless of the ground. Dean skids to a stop beside him.
"Sam."
Dean crouches down. Sam's eyes are open, blinking up at the night sky, but they don't see. They wander, vague and disconnected.
"Sam. Hey, Sammy. Look at me. Look at me, Sam."
It takes a beat, as if the words are slow to filter through, but Sam obeys. He focuses, in a foggy sort of way, and Dean starts breathing again.
"'m okay," Sam mutters. He lifts one small hand, fingers drifting towards his head.
"Don't," Dean says. "Don't move." His own hands hover, uncertain. A Sam this small feels fragile, hollow-boned like a bird, breakable in Dean's rough hands. He's afraid to touch him, afraid of adding to his injuries. Sam is tough, Dean knows this. Sam is strong and fast and braver than anyone Dean knows and he has promised, over and over, not to baby him or treat him with kid gloves. But it's hard, with that stupidly adorable baby face of his and the insanely dangerous job that they do. And hell, it can't count as babying if Sam is actually hurt, right? "Let me look at you."
"I'm fine," Sam insists. "Let me up. I'm fine."
Stubbornly, Sam struggles to drag himself off of the ground, using Dean to pull himself up into a sitting position, and just for a moment Dean thinks that Sam is right. It's fine. Sam is fine. It's just a bump. A bruise. Nothing serious.
Then blood slides down from Sam's hairline, like fingers trailing down his face. Sam wavers, his eyes lose focus, and he slumps sideways.
"Whoa." Dean grabs his suddenly limp little brother and gathers him up in his arms before the kid can hit the ground- again. Heart pounding, he cradles Sam's head in the crook of his arm. "Sam. Sam!"
The whites of Sam's eyes flash in the moonlight, silvery slits between flickering lashes. Dean's throat tightens, panic crushing his lungs. He throws his head back, yelling into the sky. "Cas!"
He waits but there's no rush of displaced air. No hand on his shoulder. Wherever Cas is, whatever mess he's cleaning up in Heaven, he's obviously too busy to find out why Dean is screaming his name.
"Damn it." This wasn't supposed to happen. It was meant to be a simple salt and burn. "Sammy, wake up."
"Mm." Sam's eyes slide back into focus. He blinks at Dean, slow. His brow crinkles faintly in confusion, like he's not sure how he ended up here. "'m awake."
"Good. I need you to stay that way."
"Okay." Sam's promise is automatic. Perfunctory. Unsettlingly obedient and therefore entirely unbelievable. The blood running in rivulets down his face shows no sign of stopping. Time to move.
"Okay, stay with me, kid." Dean tucks an arm under Sam's knees and scoops him up, getting to his feet. Sam's head lolls, his precarious promise already threatening to break. Dean hitches him up, tucking Sam's head under his chin, and starts for the car, as fast as he dares in the darkness.
"Oww," Sam moans. His breath is hot against Dean's neck. His hair is damp with warm sticky blood, soaking into Dean's shirt, making his skin itch. "Are you carrying me?"
"Like a baby."
Sam groans. "I hate when you carry me."
"I hate when you smash your head on tombstones."
"Did I?"
Dean picks up the pace, hurrying away from the still-smouldering remains of William Christensen, through the maze of graves. "You need a hospital."
"Nooo." Sam's protest turns into another moan. He pushes his face into Dean's collarbone. "Fuck."
"Hang on, Sammy."
This would have been impossible had Sam still been his former self. Moving this fast, sweeping Sam into his arms. Sometimes, back when Sam was older and gigantic and Dean was struggling to drag him home at the end of a rough hunt, he would think wistfully of a time when Sam was pint-sized and pick-up-able.
Careful what you wish for, right?
"I can walk," Sam mumbles into Dean's shirt.
"I don't believe you." There. The Impala, dutifully awaiting their return in the small cemetery parking lot.
"That's mean."
"So is lying."
"Lemme down."
Dean ignores Sam's insistent whining, only setting Sam on his feet when they're right next to the car and only then so that he can fish his keys out of his pocket. By the time he has the door unlocked Sam has proven how full of shit he is by turning grey and threatening to face-plant on the concrete. Dean snatches him up before his knees give out and crams him – gently – into the passenger seat.
"Stay," he orders. He shuts the door and hurdles the hood to pop the trunk. He searches for a towel but comes up empty so he settles for one of his shirts instead, tugging it free from his duffel before racing back to Sam.
Sam has curled up, legs tucked beneath him on the seat, turned towards Dean. His eyes are closed, squeezed shut against the pain that pinches his cheeks and presses his lips tightly together. Blood-slicked locks of hair stick to his forehead and his face is smeared with red. Fresh blood trickles along one eyebrow, slides down the curve of his nose, drips from his chin. Like scarlet tears.
"Here." Dean presses the shirt into one of Sam's hands, closing his fingers around it and guiding it to his head. "Hold this to the bleeding. Keep it there."
Sam winces when Dean presses the flannel to the wound, swallowing something that sounds like it might have been a whimper. He bites down on his lower lip, refusing to cry out. Dean leaves his hand over Sam's a moment longer than is necessary, smothering small fingers with his larger ones.
"You got it?"
"Uh-huh." Sam starts to nod but stops, fast.
Dean squeezes Sam's hand, carefully. "Hang in there, Sammy."
To Be Continued