Red and White
Summary: Sam versus a bear trap.
A/N: Written for the OhSam Hurt vs. Comfort Meme on livejournal, for the prompt "Bear trap".
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Red and white.
The air is still and stiff and Sam watches thin wisps of steam rise and dissipate above the growing stain of blood that creeps across the snow, violently red against the backdrop of white, spreading itself out over the blank canvas of winter.
Pain pulses warm and alive in his leg, digging it's claws deep into his flesh, making him grit his teeth, tears smarting in his eyes only to freeze on his cheeks, bringing acid to the back of his throat and a red haze of agony that drapes itself over him and curls up tight, constricting his lungs. His breath stutters out in erratic puffs of condensation and his teeth chatter endlessly. Anything that isn't hot with pain feels frozen to the bone, fingers rigid inside damp, frosty gloves, ice crystals clinging to his eyelashes and snow-damp hair. How long has he been lying here? He was supposed to look for something...
Red and white.
The metal teeth tore through skin and muscle, snatched him up and threw him to the ground. There was a crack of bone, a scream shocked from his lips, a creak of rusty springs and snapping jaws that burst through the carpet of snow like a shark breaking the surface of the ocean to snatch up it's prey, so sudden that at first he had no idea what had happened, only that he was lying in the snow, breathless with agony, broken and alone...
Red and white.
Bone and blood, frost and flesh. The crimson stain is stretching like a shadow under a setting sun. Maybe he should try to halt it's progress. He thinks he should but the pain presses him flat and the snow is deceptively soft and comfortable, cradling him in it's clutches. He remembers, anyway, remembers looking down at his leg, the way the forest swung as his head spun and blood pounded in his ears, bile rising in his throat, lungs seizing in his chest. He knows that the angle of his foot is wrong, twisted below a tangle of metal and bloodied denim, and the bear traps teeth have opened up yawning wounds around his ankle that spread wide in silent screams. Every move grinds metal against bone.
Red and white.
There's a tiny bird watching him from a nearby naked branch. It hops along it's perch, tilts it's head and chirps a question Sam doesn't understand. He watches it until he blinks and the bird is gone like maybe it was never there or maybe Sam wasn't here, for a while, and he thinks maybe he shouldn't close his eyes because if he does, he might fall asleep, and he shouldn't fall asleep because... because...
He needs...
He's waiting for...
Red and white.
He's so cold his thoughts are frozen, slow and heavy and slipping out of reach. A few stubborn snowflakes drift past his face and vanish into the ever-growing stain.
There's a murmur of noise approaching, the muffled crunching sound of snow under a heavy tread, movement through the skeletal trees. Sam squints through ice-encrusted eyelashes, struggling to make sense of the blur that weaves between the tree trunks. It's tall and swift and muttering curse words to itself, moving closer but still too far away to notice a crumpled figure on the ground. It ducks under a branch, dislodging a clump of captured snow, and swears again as the downfall scatters over the shoulders and down the collar of a red and white jacket. Sam feels relief swell in his chest, warm and wonderful.
"Dean," he calls.
END