This is a Fan-Fic from Safiyabat!
(S9 / E19 Alex Annie Alexis Ann)
It's lovely written, therefor I had to share it...
Notes:
- For agelade.
This was written in response to both Agelade's tumblr prompt seeking fics that addressed the tremendous amount of blood that Sam lost in that episode (approx. 2 liters, or 1/3 of his total blood volume!) and in response to the Bitter Sam!Girls Club May Fanwork Challenge, with the theme of Sam and Blood.
Sam eyed the jars of blood – his blood – on
the ground. Well, there were jars, and there was the bucket. He hadn’t
fought. He hadn’t fought them while they duct taped him to the chair and
he hadn’t fought them while they stuck the tubing into his arm. What
would be the point, really? As long as Dean was unconscious there wasn’t
really a whole lot he could do. What was he going to do, clobber the
vampires with Dean’s slumbering body? Stash him in the back of the
Impala and hope that the nest was no larger than they’d already seen?
Yeah, that was a plan. So he’d let the fangs restrain him to the chair
and he’d resisted them the only way he could: by silence.
The stubbly one who had restrained him wanted to know which one of them had killed his brother. If Sam had told him the truth he’d probably have killed Dean, and they couldn’t have that. If Sam had lied and said it had been him, the guy would probably still have killed Dean – a brother for a brother he’d said, and they’d have been back to things that were not okay. So he gritted his teeth and he sat there and he let the blood flow out of him, into the jars with its sulfuric taint.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from this whole experience, or what he wanted. He didn’t expect Dean to stay in a crumpled heap for ten to fifteen minutes, that much was certain. Why that was such a surprise he didn’t really know – he’d taken quite the blow to the head - but wasn’t the Mark of Cain supposed to have some kind of effect on its bearer? Some kind of mitigating effect on injuries or something? Or was that something else? He’d started getting confused about seven minutes in so maybe he was just getting things mixed up. He had an excuse – he was slowly bleeding to death.
He knew he was supposed to stay calm. Getting agitated or angry or panicky would increase his heart rate and make him bleed out faster. Which was a bad thing. It wasn’t what anyone wanted. Right. Had to remember that. Someone somewhere needed him for… something… or something. His brain was really getting fuzzy. He needed to fight that, he might need his brain smooth at some point. Jody – that was who might need him. What use he was going to be to her was anyone’s guess but he couldn’t let himself give into the temptation of the darkness until he knew she was safe.
He flexed his hand, made a fist, relaxed it again. He repeated the process a few more times. He hadn’t heard more than a few cries from the basement, and even those hadn’t come in a while. Maybe Jody didn’t need saving anymore.
He could recognize the symptoms of hypovolemic shock in himself of course. He’d worked up a fine sweat for not having moved a muscle in – oh, ten minutes now? And there was only one rational explanation for being this cold and sweating this much – well, only one rational explanation that included the length of surgical tubing sticking out of his damn arm. He was struggling to maintain his composure but there was only so much he could do about the respiratory reaction – it was like he just couldn’t get the air into his lungs fast enough. And then there was the fog in his brain, such a welcome returning guest after Gadreel’s eviction.
He knew – on some level – that he’d come in here with Dean and Jody to deal with a vampire nest and (hopefully) rescue a blood slave. At the same time he was bound and was being bled, and he’d been here before hadn’t he? Only then it was ghouls. Or was it? Was it ghouls this time? A finger being stuck into his blood to sample the wares – was it his half-brother’s face licking a finger or a different pale face with blue eyes? There was no commentary about how his blood tasted different but he couldn’t miss the way that the monster’s eyes lit up. Because his blood, it was different and they always liked his blood, like the little piece of Hell that he carried around with him was the perfect seasoning that made everything better. Like cumin, only better. It didn’t matter. Let them eat him, he didn’t care. Adam wasn’t Adam. Wait – wrong place, wrong time. Screw it.
“Tapped this keg,” the vampire with the hat like Bobby’s declared, and that actually gave Sam a pang. He missed Bobby, even if Bobby hated him now for disappointing Dean. He’d gotten the old man out of Hell, so that was a good thing right? It didn’t matter. “Get the short-haired one ready. Time to finish this.”
The other vampire gave Dean a kick right around the kidneys and Sam was still with it enough to flinch at that. How could he not? He’d done what he could for Dean but it hadn’t been enough. It never was. He made another fist, held it for a few seconds and relaxed it. The second vampire grabbed Dean’s hair and lifted his head and now Dean sprang into action. He apparently had been hiding a syringe full of dead man’s blood somewhere in his fist the entire time – Sam hadn’t even seen him move. He buried it into the vampire’s heart and emptied the entire thing into the monster’s heart, grabbed a machete from the floor and faced off against the vampire who’d put the tube into Sam’s arm.
The vampire didn’t fight back much – he’d been surprised and there wasn’t much he could do in the face of Dean’s onslaught. Wasn’t much he could do – there was a lot of that going around today. Sam had a hard time focusing as his brother forced the ghoul – vampire – whatever up into the wall. “Look at me!” Dean yelled at the creature. “Look at me, bitch!”
Well that had Sam’s attention, cut through the haze of blood loss and depression. He couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face but that tone, that rage as he pressed – wait, Sam had to be still confused. Was that the blunt end of the blade? Was Dean seriously wasting time with the blunt end of the knife while Jody was being subjected to God-or-whoever knew what in the basement? “Dean!” he called. “Dean!” He didn’t feel confused – in fact the clarity was refreshing, like walking into air conditioning on a brutal Texas summer day – but he couldn’t have just seen Dean wasting minutes of Jody’s life to toy with his prey like some kind of giant freckled housecat. Unfortunately with the return of mental clarity came an increase in anxiety, which threw his careful control over his reactions out the window.
Dean waited for a good thirty seconds before turning around. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You wouldn’t have done the same for me.”
Sam blinked. Was he seriously going to have a pity party for himself at a time like this? Jody was in the basement and a third of Sam’s blood, at least, was steaming in improvised containers in front of them. “No. Jody,” he panted, hoping to get through to the older hunter.
Dean cut through the duct tape holding him to the chair, yanked the tubing out of his arm and hauled him to his feet. Together they sought out Jody.
Sam managed to keep his footing as they raced to the basement. People liked to forget that he’d been the one whose willpower had taken out Lucifer; he could make himself put one foot in front of the other, even if he had no idea where fully half of the footfalls were going. He should have expected something along the lines of what they found there – Jody, badass that she was, had managed to behead the mama vampire although she’d apparently taken quite the pounding and been unable to keep Alex or Annie or whatever the blood slave’s name was from getting turned too. He sagged against the back wall of the basement as the necessary discussions were had and tried to put pressure on the wound on his arm. Eventually his jacket and shirts would stick to it and make a bandage on their own, right? Probably? Did it matter?
He could get through this. It was just a few bruises and a little blood loss. He’d be fine. Outside as they took their leave he forced himself to concentrate, making himself try to talk to Dean about his actions inside. He didn’t actually care about Dean’s choice to screw around with the blunt edge of the knife while he was bleeding, because frankly he just didn’t want to get into his own mindset with Dean and he didn’t want to have to face the fact that Dean didn’t want to hear about his mindset. But the whole demanding that the monster look him in the eye as he died thing – that was a little disturbing, and he had to talk to Dean about it.
It got about the same reaction that he’d have expected from Dean, but at least he’d said something. Maybe his words would sink in during a moment of reflection in the shower or something; he’d been doing that a lot lately. Or not. He’d fulfilled his obligations.
Jody and Alex made their way to their vehicle. Sam dragged himself to the Impala, no longer bothering to struggle for mental clarity. Why bother? A little nap should fix him up, right? He smothered a snicker. He was still bleeding; he’d seen Alex staring at him. Whatever. He didn’t care. Maybe he’d finish bleeding out in the car. If he hadn’t bled out with the ghouls he probably wouldn’t die now, right?
Only he was with the ghouls. Maybe. And maybe he still had a cause to serve. Maybe he could still actually save something, if not himself. Screw it. He opened the door to the Impala and fell, face-first, into the passenger seat.
When he woke up he was in an ER bay with an IV port sticking out of his hand. The port seemed to be attached to a couple of bags, one containing fluids and the other blood. A nurse, whose mauve scrubs did nothing for her ruddy complexion, approached. “Nice to see you with us, Mr. Wesson!” she commented. “It was kind of touch and go for a little while.”
He blinked and tried to force himself into a sitting position. “Really? I thought I was okay.” His mind seemed a lot clearer now, which had to be the greatest relief of all.
“No. Those sickos took an awful lot of your blood. You came very close to dying and you were still bleeding when you were brought in. Fortunately Sheriff Mills was able to tell us what those criminals did to you.” She shook her head. “Dr. Andrews will be in shortly. She’ll explain what you can expect moving forward. You’re still pretty shocky.”
“Is my brother okay?” he asked. “I don’t see him. What about Jody Mills?” He didn’t ask about Alex – he didn’t think that having the new vampire in an ER was necessarily the best plan and while Dean might not be thinking at his clearest right now Jody wouldn’t do that to the girl.
“Sheriff Mills is doing just fine. We were able to get a brace on her knee and she’s even going to be able to drive back to South Dakota. Not that I’d recommend that but she didn’t get to where she is by letting little things like bum knees slow her down.” Dr. Andrews proved to be a tall, dark-skinned woman with close-cropped hair and a thousand-watt smile. “She said she had an important job waiting for her and she couldn’t put it off.”
“Sounds about right.” He tried to smile a little, faking it for the benefit of the civilian. “What about Dean?”
“That the guy who brought you in? I had no idea that you were brothers. You don’t exactly look alike. He took off. He said he’d be back tomorrow and to call him if there were any changes in your condition.”
He sighed. “Yeah. I guess we’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. How pissed was he?” He swallowed his disappointment.
“He could have been happier about spending an extra night in town but he’ll get over it.”
Sam sat bolt upright. He promptly regretted it. “Oh – listen. I can’t do that. We need to – no, I’m sorry. I can’t stay overnight.”
“Sam, listen. No one wants to stay overnight in the ER but you lost an immense amount of blood. Hypovolemia isn’t something to mess around with. You lost more than a third of your total blood volume. That has a marked effect on your entire body. I’m concerned for your heart, I’m concerned for your lungs and I’m very concerned for your kidneys. Your urinary output is very low, Sam.”
“Look, doctor, I get that you’re worried but I’ve had worse.”
“Just because you’ve recovered in the past doesn’t mean that you’ll recover fully without treatment this time. Besides, no one is coming to get you until tomorrow morning anyway. So you might as well enjoy the night off. Sit back. Relax. You’ve got a television you don’t have to share and someone who will cheerfully bring you all the clear broth you can drink. All right? Get some rest and enjoy a comfortable bed.” She handed him the remote and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders as he sank back down onto the pillow. “Look. I know you’re driven to do whatever it is that had you consulting with Sheriff Mills, I get it, and you want to get back to work, but that’s why your partner – brother – whatever – left in the first place.”
He felt his face screwing up of its own accord. “I… what?”
“Once I explained the risks of not keeping you overnight he was willing enough to have you spend the night for observation. He didn’t think you’d be very keen on the idea though. So he decided that he’d take the car and park it somewhere else while you were here. Took your clothes too. Said it wouldn’t necessarily stop you from breaking out of here but that you’d think twice about doing it with your… well, in a johnny.” Her cheeks glowed when she blushed. “He also asked me to point out that there’s a Doctor Who marathon on channel 342.” She gave him a reassuring smile and walked away.
Sam was alone again, a stranger’s blood dripping into his veins along with generic fluids of unknown origin. Outside the curtains he could hear the sounds of human tragedy and pain, but he was left alone. There had been a time when Dean would never have left him here, but that was a long time ago and he wasn’t sure if Dean the way he was now would really be safe in a place like this. He’d taken the choice away from Sam again, too, and he didn’t like that one bit. But he did need the blood if he wasn’t going to bleed out or be a liability to Dean on his Hell-bent mission for Crowley. And the bed was a lot more comfortable than the front seat of the Impala – they’d even found a bed suitable for tall people. He clicked on the television. The Doctor had just met Martha Jones, Sam’s favorite companion. He’d take what he could get.
The stubbly one who had restrained him wanted to know which one of them had killed his brother. If Sam had told him the truth he’d probably have killed Dean, and they couldn’t have that. If Sam had lied and said it had been him, the guy would probably still have killed Dean – a brother for a brother he’d said, and they’d have been back to things that were not okay. So he gritted his teeth and he sat there and he let the blood flow out of him, into the jars with its sulfuric taint.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from this whole experience, or what he wanted. He didn’t expect Dean to stay in a crumpled heap for ten to fifteen minutes, that much was certain. Why that was such a surprise he didn’t really know – he’d taken quite the blow to the head - but wasn’t the Mark of Cain supposed to have some kind of effect on its bearer? Some kind of mitigating effect on injuries or something? Or was that something else? He’d started getting confused about seven minutes in so maybe he was just getting things mixed up. He had an excuse – he was slowly bleeding to death.
He knew he was supposed to stay calm. Getting agitated or angry or panicky would increase his heart rate and make him bleed out faster. Which was a bad thing. It wasn’t what anyone wanted. Right. Had to remember that. Someone somewhere needed him for… something… or something. His brain was really getting fuzzy. He needed to fight that, he might need his brain smooth at some point. Jody – that was who might need him. What use he was going to be to her was anyone’s guess but he couldn’t let himself give into the temptation of the darkness until he knew she was safe.
He flexed his hand, made a fist, relaxed it again. He repeated the process a few more times. He hadn’t heard more than a few cries from the basement, and even those hadn’t come in a while. Maybe Jody didn’t need saving anymore.
He could recognize the symptoms of hypovolemic shock in himself of course. He’d worked up a fine sweat for not having moved a muscle in – oh, ten minutes now? And there was only one rational explanation for being this cold and sweating this much – well, only one rational explanation that included the length of surgical tubing sticking out of his damn arm. He was struggling to maintain his composure but there was only so much he could do about the respiratory reaction – it was like he just couldn’t get the air into his lungs fast enough. And then there was the fog in his brain, such a welcome returning guest after Gadreel’s eviction.
He knew – on some level – that he’d come in here with Dean and Jody to deal with a vampire nest and (hopefully) rescue a blood slave. At the same time he was bound and was being bled, and he’d been here before hadn’t he? Only then it was ghouls. Or was it? Was it ghouls this time? A finger being stuck into his blood to sample the wares – was it his half-brother’s face licking a finger or a different pale face with blue eyes? There was no commentary about how his blood tasted different but he couldn’t miss the way that the monster’s eyes lit up. Because his blood, it was different and they always liked his blood, like the little piece of Hell that he carried around with him was the perfect seasoning that made everything better. Like cumin, only better. It didn’t matter. Let them eat him, he didn’t care. Adam wasn’t Adam. Wait – wrong place, wrong time. Screw it.
“Tapped this keg,” the vampire with the hat like Bobby’s declared, and that actually gave Sam a pang. He missed Bobby, even if Bobby hated him now for disappointing Dean. He’d gotten the old man out of Hell, so that was a good thing right? It didn’t matter. “Get the short-haired one ready. Time to finish this.”
The other vampire gave Dean a kick right around the kidneys and Sam was still with it enough to flinch at that. How could he not? He’d done what he could for Dean but it hadn’t been enough. It never was. He made another fist, held it for a few seconds and relaxed it. The second vampire grabbed Dean’s hair and lifted his head and now Dean sprang into action. He apparently had been hiding a syringe full of dead man’s blood somewhere in his fist the entire time – Sam hadn’t even seen him move. He buried it into the vampire’s heart and emptied the entire thing into the monster’s heart, grabbed a machete from the floor and faced off against the vampire who’d put the tube into Sam’s arm.
The vampire didn’t fight back much – he’d been surprised and there wasn’t much he could do in the face of Dean’s onslaught. Wasn’t much he could do – there was a lot of that going around today. Sam had a hard time focusing as his brother forced the ghoul – vampire – whatever up into the wall. “Look at me!” Dean yelled at the creature. “Look at me, bitch!”
Well that had Sam’s attention, cut through the haze of blood loss and depression. He couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face but that tone, that rage as he pressed – wait, Sam had to be still confused. Was that the blunt end of the blade? Was Dean seriously wasting time with the blunt end of the knife while Jody was being subjected to God-or-whoever knew what in the basement? “Dean!” he called. “Dean!” He didn’t feel confused – in fact the clarity was refreshing, like walking into air conditioning on a brutal Texas summer day – but he couldn’t have just seen Dean wasting minutes of Jody’s life to toy with his prey like some kind of giant freckled housecat. Unfortunately with the return of mental clarity came an increase in anxiety, which threw his careful control over his reactions out the window.
Dean waited for a good thirty seconds before turning around. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You wouldn’t have done the same for me.”
Sam blinked. Was he seriously going to have a pity party for himself at a time like this? Jody was in the basement and a third of Sam’s blood, at least, was steaming in improvised containers in front of them. “No. Jody,” he panted, hoping to get through to the older hunter.
Dean cut through the duct tape holding him to the chair, yanked the tubing out of his arm and hauled him to his feet. Together they sought out Jody.
Sam managed to keep his footing as they raced to the basement. People liked to forget that he’d been the one whose willpower had taken out Lucifer; he could make himself put one foot in front of the other, even if he had no idea where fully half of the footfalls were going. He should have expected something along the lines of what they found there – Jody, badass that she was, had managed to behead the mama vampire although she’d apparently taken quite the pounding and been unable to keep Alex or Annie or whatever the blood slave’s name was from getting turned too. He sagged against the back wall of the basement as the necessary discussions were had and tried to put pressure on the wound on his arm. Eventually his jacket and shirts would stick to it and make a bandage on their own, right? Probably? Did it matter?
He could get through this. It was just a few bruises and a little blood loss. He’d be fine. Outside as they took their leave he forced himself to concentrate, making himself try to talk to Dean about his actions inside. He didn’t actually care about Dean’s choice to screw around with the blunt edge of the knife while he was bleeding, because frankly he just didn’t want to get into his own mindset with Dean and he didn’t want to have to face the fact that Dean didn’t want to hear about his mindset. But the whole demanding that the monster look him in the eye as he died thing – that was a little disturbing, and he had to talk to Dean about it.
It got about the same reaction that he’d have expected from Dean, but at least he’d said something. Maybe his words would sink in during a moment of reflection in the shower or something; he’d been doing that a lot lately. Or not. He’d fulfilled his obligations.
Jody and Alex made their way to their vehicle. Sam dragged himself to the Impala, no longer bothering to struggle for mental clarity. Why bother? A little nap should fix him up, right? He smothered a snicker. He was still bleeding; he’d seen Alex staring at him. Whatever. He didn’t care. Maybe he’d finish bleeding out in the car. If he hadn’t bled out with the ghouls he probably wouldn’t die now, right?
Only he was with the ghouls. Maybe. And maybe he still had a cause to serve. Maybe he could still actually save something, if not himself. Screw it. He opened the door to the Impala and fell, face-first, into the passenger seat.
When he woke up he was in an ER bay with an IV port sticking out of his hand. The port seemed to be attached to a couple of bags, one containing fluids and the other blood. A nurse, whose mauve scrubs did nothing for her ruddy complexion, approached. “Nice to see you with us, Mr. Wesson!” she commented. “It was kind of touch and go for a little while.”
He blinked and tried to force himself into a sitting position. “Really? I thought I was okay.” His mind seemed a lot clearer now, which had to be the greatest relief of all.
“No. Those sickos took an awful lot of your blood. You came very close to dying and you were still bleeding when you were brought in. Fortunately Sheriff Mills was able to tell us what those criminals did to you.” She shook her head. “Dr. Andrews will be in shortly. She’ll explain what you can expect moving forward. You’re still pretty shocky.”
“Is my brother okay?” he asked. “I don’t see him. What about Jody Mills?” He didn’t ask about Alex – he didn’t think that having the new vampire in an ER was necessarily the best plan and while Dean might not be thinking at his clearest right now Jody wouldn’t do that to the girl.
“Sheriff Mills is doing just fine. We were able to get a brace on her knee and she’s even going to be able to drive back to South Dakota. Not that I’d recommend that but she didn’t get to where she is by letting little things like bum knees slow her down.” Dr. Andrews proved to be a tall, dark-skinned woman with close-cropped hair and a thousand-watt smile. “She said she had an important job waiting for her and she couldn’t put it off.”
“Sounds about right.” He tried to smile a little, faking it for the benefit of the civilian. “What about Dean?”
“That the guy who brought you in? I had no idea that you were brothers. You don’t exactly look alike. He took off. He said he’d be back tomorrow and to call him if there were any changes in your condition.”
He sighed. “Yeah. I guess we’ve hit a bit of a rough patch. How pissed was he?” He swallowed his disappointment.
“He could have been happier about spending an extra night in town but he’ll get over it.”
Sam sat bolt upright. He promptly regretted it. “Oh – listen. I can’t do that. We need to – no, I’m sorry. I can’t stay overnight.”
“Sam, listen. No one wants to stay overnight in the ER but you lost an immense amount of blood. Hypovolemia isn’t something to mess around with. You lost more than a third of your total blood volume. That has a marked effect on your entire body. I’m concerned for your heart, I’m concerned for your lungs and I’m very concerned for your kidneys. Your urinary output is very low, Sam.”
“Look, doctor, I get that you’re worried but I’ve had worse.”
“Just because you’ve recovered in the past doesn’t mean that you’ll recover fully without treatment this time. Besides, no one is coming to get you until tomorrow morning anyway. So you might as well enjoy the night off. Sit back. Relax. You’ve got a television you don’t have to share and someone who will cheerfully bring you all the clear broth you can drink. All right? Get some rest and enjoy a comfortable bed.” She handed him the remote and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders as he sank back down onto the pillow. “Look. I know you’re driven to do whatever it is that had you consulting with Sheriff Mills, I get it, and you want to get back to work, but that’s why your partner – brother – whatever – left in the first place.”
He felt his face screwing up of its own accord. “I… what?”
“Once I explained the risks of not keeping you overnight he was willing enough to have you spend the night for observation. He didn’t think you’d be very keen on the idea though. So he decided that he’d take the car and park it somewhere else while you were here. Took your clothes too. Said it wouldn’t necessarily stop you from breaking out of here but that you’d think twice about doing it with your… well, in a johnny.” Her cheeks glowed when she blushed. “He also asked me to point out that there’s a Doctor Who marathon on channel 342.” She gave him a reassuring smile and walked away.
Sam was alone again, a stranger’s blood dripping into his veins along with generic fluids of unknown origin. Outside the curtains he could hear the sounds of human tragedy and pain, but he was left alone. There had been a time when Dean would never have left him here, but that was a long time ago and he wasn’t sure if Dean the way he was now would really be safe in a place like this. He’d taken the choice away from Sam again, too, and he didn’t like that one bit. But he did need the blood if he wasn’t going to bleed out or be a liability to Dean on his Hell-bent mission for Crowley. And the bed was a lot more comfortable than the front seat of the Impala – they’d even found a bed suitable for tall people. He clicked on the television. The Doctor had just met Martha Jones, Sam’s favorite companion. He’d take what he could get.
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