Mouthwatering: Part IV

[musicalluna]

Title: Mouthwatering: Part IV
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean
Genre: Horror, Suspense
Warnings: Creepy.
Complete: Yes
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves in a dank underground prison in the clutches of a creature that wants more than just a taste of them.
A/N: I started this for Skysalla in chat one night. Then a month later, I added some more. And then a little more. And then suddenly it needed to be a real story. In the end, it got what it wanted.
Disclaimer: I don't own either Sam or Dean, tragically. I do own the creature-feature of this fic, however. :)

 Note: This takes place somewhere in season one or two, where in particular is up to you.

Dean limps slightly with each step, Sam struggling not to put too much weight on his shoulders.

 

When they reach the cell door Sam only hesitates a little. He shares a brief look with his brother and then takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

 

Nothing greets them on the other side and they both breathe sighs of relief. They shuffle-limp out into the hallway and Dean jerks his head to the left.

 

“This way.”

 

Dean's innate sense of direction has never failed them before, so Sam doesn't question him.

 

They don't have to go far before the tunnel is pitch black. They're walking blind.

 

Sam trips on something in the dark, struggling to muffle a sharp cry of pain and Dean decides enough is enough.

 

There's a soft metallic shink in the dark and a small flame bursts to life.

 

“You okay?” Dean asks, voice low and rough with pain and exhaustion and for a second Sam can see clearly how absurd they are, both suffering, both in danger, and still more worried about the other than anything else.

 

He laughs and nods. “Yeah, Dean. I'm good. Let's just get the hell out of here.”

 

It's quiet except for the sound of their shuffling footsteps in the dirt and they expend half their energy looking over their shoulders, but finally they reach the tunnel's end and find themselves looking at a slanted trapdoor, just above Sam's eye-level. If either of them were uninjured they could probably just climb out.

 

As it is, it's going to take a little more creativity.

 

“All right,” Dean breathes, “Let's get this sucker open.”

 

They put their hands on the trap door and shove, grunting in surprise when it doesn't immediately swing open. Sam can hear tearing sounds though--grass must have grown over the outside of the door. “Keep pushing,” he tells Dean.

 

The trap door finally gives under their combined efforts and swings back with a soft whoomph. Cool, damp air gives way to warm humidity and Sam closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath and just basking in the feeling of it on his chilled skin.

 

When he opens his eyes again, he can see the stars smattered like paint across the dark blue sky, the tendrils of a weeping willow's branches waving gently overhead in the breeze. The moon is somewhere Sam can't see, but its bright silver light is everywhere.

 

“Sam,” Dean prompts, fingers prodding him gently in the side. “Move it, man. We're not on vacation.”

 

“Yeah, right--” Sam breathes and looks back at his brother. “So, how're--”

 

“Gimme a boost,” Dean says, gesturing with a finger.

 

Sam gives him a skeptical look. “Dean, you can't--”

 

“You can't either, Sam, so don't start,” he snaps. “Just give me a damn boost, all right?”

 

His tone is a keen reminder of the argument that brought them here and Sam relents, eyes flicking back the way they came. “Fine,” he mutters and laces his fingers together, leaning his hip against the wall for balance. “Go.”

 

Dean takes a step forward, his foot pushing down on Sam's locked hands at just the right moment to help propel him upward. Sam bites back a noise of pain when his hands bump his thigh, but he grits his teeth and pretends that the noise he's making is a grunt of effort. He's not sure how, but Dean disappears through the hole and then he's alone in the dark.

 

He waits, on edge, eyes flicking down periodically to check the tunnel they left behind. The moonlight doesn't reach very far and his nerves are alight with the knowledge that the girl could be just past the edge of the black. He's just starting to worry that something has happened to Dean when he hears his voice.

 

“Back up, Sammy.”

 

Sam doesn't wait for an explanation, just shuffles back along the wall away from the hole. Not even ten seconds later a wooden crate comes tumbling through the hole. A second follows shortly after. “Nice, Dean,” he murmurs to himself, reminded, not for the first time, that his brother is no idiot.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, I got it, Dean,” he calls back and hops forward, one arm stretched out to the wall to keep him balanced. He stacks the crates, which look about a hundred years old, but sturdy. Fortunately, Dean thought of everything and the bottom crate is larger than the top, creating an improvised set of steps. Not that they're going to be much easier to climb with a busted leg than a simple tower, but it's something.

 

Sam considers the crates until he can feel Dean getting antsy up top.

 

It's his ankle that really throws a fit when he tries to use it, so Sam tries to circumvent that problem by using his knees. It still hurts with almost mind-altering intensity, but even on his knees it means Sam is a good three feet closer to the hole. If he could stand, he could probably climb out with just a hand to steady him.

 

But he can't and all the scenarios he can account for involve putting weight on an ankle that won't take it.

 

If he doesn't do it, he's stuck down here though, and he knows there's no way in hell Dean's going to let that happen, so he sucks in a breath and calls unsteadily, “Okay, Dean. I'm ready.”

 

Dean's face appears in the opening then, schooled into a carefully neutral expression, and he stretches out a hand. He knows, too. Of course he knows. His gaze meets Sam's, steady.

 

They lock their hands together, Sam's heart starting to pick up speed as reality sinks in. His grip has got to be painful, but Dean doesn't even flinch.

 

“Okay, Sam,” he says. “On the count of three. One--two--three!”

 

Dean pulls and Sam pushes his feet up underneath him. The agony is instant, like wildfire, erupting in his ankle and spreading like lightning through his whole body. Sam thinks he screams, but the pain is everywhere and in just his ankle all at once.

 

“Sam! Sam, come on, man! Breathe! Sammy!”

 

The panic curled around every letter of his name brings Sam back to himself and he sucks in a whaling breath then forces himself to let it out slow. His face is wet. His whole leg feels like it's burning from the inside. He can feel prickly grass under his back, poking at his scalp.

 

“Sam?” Dean demands, face blocking out the stars. “Are you okay? Sam, answer me, goddamnit.”

 

“Sure,” Sam croaks breathlessly, “I'm peachy.”

 

Dean lets out a long breath, his entire body sagging as the tension drains out. “Dammit, Sam.”

 

“I had to--”

 

He turns his face away. “Shut up. Just--shut up, okay? You need that air for breathing.” He gets to his feet, moving like a thousand-year-old man and mutters, “I'm going to find you a crutch. Just--stay there.”

 

And because his leg still hurts, and because Dean sounds so worn out, Sam just nods.

 

Dean's uneven footsteps in the grass are muffled and eventually Sam can't hear them anymore over the sound of crickets chirping--frogs probably, too. The dampness of the ground is becoming dampness on his shirt, but it's warm enough that he doesn't mind. Southern heat is thick, like a woolen blanket around his shoulders. At one point he opens his eyes and sees a small, soft yellow light fade into existence and then back out. A few seconds later it returns, a little further to the left. Then there are two of them, drifting lazily over his head.

 

Fireflies.

 

He's smiling when Dean returns.

 

“What are you so happy about?” Dean asks, but he doesn't sound like he really wants to know.

 

“Nothing,” Sam says and sits up, carefully. “What did you find?”

 

“Part of a fence.” Dean holds the MacGyver crutch out and Sam can barely conceal his amusement. It's a rough, worn-looking stick of wood that's nearly as tall as Dean is. It's not going to be comfortable, but Dean's undershirt is wrapped around the top to make it a little more so.

 

“What?” he demands when Sam looks at him. “There weren't a lot of options, okay?”

 

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Help me up.”

 

With Dean's help he gets on his feet again and tucks the crutch under his arm. It cants his shoulders at an awkward angle, and kind of hurts his armpit, plus it gives him three splinters in the first two minutes of gimping around with it, but it's still better than nothing.

 

Dean brushes off his thanks. “Let's just get the hell out of here before the new mini-me comes back.”

 

Sam finally takes a good look at the scenery around them. They're beneath a weeping willow about thirty feet away from the fence where Dean “borrowed” his crutch from. The fence lines a long dirt driveway that leads to an old plantation mansion. A warm, lazy breeze rustles the calf-high grass, fluttering the tendrils of the weeping willow around them. Fireflies fade in and out of view, drifting in languid patterns through the air, yellow against a blue landscape. It's idyllic; disturbing considering where--and what--they've just come from. The house looks rundown, abandoned, probably for a long time, and also their only hope of finding the tools they're going to need to get out of here.

 

When he looks back at Dean, his brother has his uninjured hand against the tree, his body bowed. His eyes are closed, a line of strain drawn down the middle of his forehead. Moonlight catches on a light sheen of sweat at his temples.

 

Sam frowns, gimping toward him. “Dean?”

 

Dean's eyes open, bright, and he looks so, so tired. “What?”

 

The words Are you okay? stick in Sam's mouth. After a second he gathers himself and edges his crutch toward the house in an invitation. “You coming?”

Part I   Part II   Part III   Part IV   Part V   Part VI   Part VII