The pain hit him hard and fast, sapped his strength, made breathing feel like too much of an effort to really be worth it.
Sam lay there, no choice but to let it hold him under until he at least felt like moving wouldn’t end him. Finally, he was able to roll carefully onto his side, and from there get what information he could on where he was, what had happened to cause him to be lying on the cold floor.
He recognised the table – their table, with the few steps leading into the kitchen just visible beyond that. So he was in the bunker.
Ok.
He was hurt. How bad, he wasn’t sure, but being unconscious for an indeterminate period was never a good sign. And he was…wet. He tried to push himself at least half way upright and his hand touched something sticky and warm. Even before he lifted his hand to look at it, he knew what he’d find, so wasn’t surprised to see his skin covered in red.
Not ok.
He took slower, deeper breaths, trying to keep himself calm. If he was bleeding, then he’d taken a hit, and he managed to sit all the way upright so he could start checking himself out. From the amount of blood on the floor, it either wasn’t a deep wound or hadn’t hit anything vital, or it had only just happened.
In which case he needed help, fast.
“Dean! Dean, I’m hurt, get down here!”
His voice echoed away down the corridors of the bunker, but the expected rush of footsteps never came.
“Dean!” Maybe he was in one of the further rooms, maybe he hadn’t heard him. But Sam knew the bunker was built…weird. He didn’t know what the Men of Letters were on when they’d designed the place but wherever you were when you called out, the person you were talking to seemed to hear it. It was freaky, but he wasn’t about to knock it.
Still, there was no answer which meant one of two things. Either Dean wasn’t in the bunker, in which case where the hell was he, or he was hurt somewhere too, and unable to respond.
That thought drove him to try to stand. He grabbed the table, hauled himself up on legs that were too weak and shaky to support him, and ended up lying flat on the table top. He gripped the sides to keep himself there, because he knew if he went down he wasn’t getting back up.
But all the same he couldn’t move, and now the front of his shirt was starting to stick to him. So were his pants. In fact, everything, and he wanted to believe it was sweat but somehow he knew better.
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carisma_sensei
<b>FILLED: Bleed (PG) 1/2</b>
Date: 2015-11-03 10:00 pm (UTC)Sam lay there, no choice but to let it hold him under until he at least felt like moving wouldn’t end him. Finally, he was able to roll carefully onto his side, and from there get what information he could on where he was, what had happened to cause him to be lying on the cold floor.
He recognised the table – their table, with the few steps leading into the kitchen just visible beyond that. So he was in the bunker.
Ok.
He was hurt. How bad, he wasn’t sure, but being unconscious for an indeterminate period was never a good sign. And he was…wet. He tried to push himself at least half way upright and his hand touched something sticky and warm. Even before he lifted his hand to look at it, he knew what he’d find, so wasn’t surprised to see his skin covered in red.
Not ok.
He took slower, deeper breaths, trying to keep himself calm. If he was bleeding, then he’d taken a hit, and he managed to sit all the way upright so he could start checking himself out. From the amount of blood on the floor, it either wasn’t a deep wound or hadn’t hit anything vital, or it had only just happened.
In which case he needed help, fast.
“Dean! Dean, I’m hurt, get down here!”
His voice echoed away down the corridors of the bunker, but the expected rush of footsteps never came.
“Dean!” Maybe he was in one of the further rooms, maybe he hadn’t heard him. But Sam knew the bunker was built…weird. He didn’t know what the Men of Letters were on when they’d designed the place but wherever you were when you called out, the person you were talking to seemed to hear it. It was freaky, but he wasn’t about to knock it.
Still, there was no answer which meant one of two things. Either Dean wasn’t in the bunker, in which case where the hell was he, or he was hurt somewhere too, and unable to respond.
That thought drove him to try to stand. He grabbed the table, hauled himself up on legs that were too weak and shaky to support him, and ended up lying flat on the table top. He gripped the sides to keep himself there, because he knew if he went down he wasn’t getting back up.
But all the same he couldn’t move, and now the front of his shirt was starting to stick to him. So were his pants. In fact, everything, and he wanted to believe it was sweat but somehow he knew better.
What was going on?