Category: Supernatural

Written By: Mello_McQueen

Summary: In retrospect, Sam thinks that maybe the laundry room hadn't been the best of places to hide.

Genre: Gen

Rated: T

Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, John. None.

Authoress Notes: I don't give Sammy enough love. And I do love him, though not as much as I once did ...which makes me a bit sad really.

They Break Like Waves

In retrospect, Sam thinks that maybe the laundry room hadn't been the best of places to hide. Of course, he was halfway down the stairs to the basement before that thought had occurred to him.

Now all he can do is stay crouched down in the corner between the drywall and an old dented washer. Down here, the air is stale and damp, and the smell of mildew and laundry soap is overwhelming. Sam can see dust floating in the air.

He tries not to breathe it in as he waits, keeping his eyes (wide and frightened eyes) on the doorway. It's hard to hear over the sound of his breaths, the panicked thump-thumping of his heart. He strains his ears and listens. For a moment there's nothing, then the creak of floorboards and the sound of footsteps overhead. He inhales deep, squeezes his eyes shut. Prays.

In truth, a part of him hates this. Wonders why he has to even do it. Why should anyone have to do it?

Another side of him, a more rational side perhaps, tells him that someone has to. Better him than them, and he knows it. Knows it and hates it. There's enjoyment too, though, because a part of him doesn't mind this so terribly. A part of him likes it, finds it thrilling, fun even.

Still, it's not that part that's winning just now because it's hard sitting like this. Hard being so quiet. He's not used to it, and his legs are starting to cramp beneath him, and the gun he's holding in his hands is heavy like lead and feels uncomfortable to the touch. Especially considering the still-bleeding wound on his palm. The one he got upstairs when he'd had to dive for the gun after it'd been knocked out of his stupid, too-big, too-clumsy hands.

He'd gotten it back though. Managed to hit his mark in the arm too and would have felt a brief sense of pride if the hammer hadn't snapped back on his hand and it hadn't hurt like hell. He sucked it up though, just like Dad taught him. Sucked it up and ran for his life.

Now he opens his eyes and watches the door. Listens and wishes he were a statue made of marble. Statues can't die.

Another creak of wood just outside the door and Sam's eyes catch a flash of something shiny. Metal. It moves into the doorway, and every bone in Sam's body is screaming run. He doesn't though. He can't. Instead, he aims his gun at the figure moving steadily towards him, and hesitates only a second before firing. Three quick precise rounds, just like Dad taught him.

Relief floods through Sam as he realizes he must have caught his pursuer off guard. All three bullets hit their mark.

Breathing heavy, Sam rises from his hiding place just in time to see the black shape crumple to the floor in a heap.

Sam waits a few seconds, counts his own pulse-beats a minute before taking a shakey step forward. He keeps the near-empty pistol pointed at the mass, as he approaches. He swears, just now, that his heart is beating so hard, so loud, that people on the other side of the Atlantic can hear it.

When he moves his leg to kick at what he thinks is a foot, for moment it beats even louder. A sort of panic starts to fill him before a soft groan of pain reaches his ears. Sam let's out a breath and immediately wishes he hadn't because just then he hears it.

More footsteps.

By the time he manages to turn back to the door another gunshot is ringing in his ears and something hits him hard in his midsection. He doubles over, feeling all of the air rush from his lungs.

Gasping for air and clutching his stomach, Sam lets the gun fall from his hands. Lets his legs give out beneath him too as the lights flicker to life overhead. He closes his eyes, curls tighter and tries to block out the pain, and the harshness of the light. He can't ignore the footsteps as they approach, though. Can't ignore the familiar musty smell, the clunk of boots, or the way the burning heat of the barrel of a gun is being pressed against his forehead.

"Bang." Says a familiar rough voice.

On his knees, Sam lets out another ragged breath feeling every muscle in his body shudder with anger, shame.

Then the gun is removed and he hears Dad say, "Dean, suck it up and get the hell off the floor." and a part of Sam wishes it were John lying there instead of his brother.

It's not though, it's Dean. Dean who groans again and holds his chest as he sits up wincing at the soreness. Dean who makes Sam feel like hell when he looks at him and says, "Dude, that freaking hurt."

Sam wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't. Instead, he listens as Dad says: "It's your own damn fault Dean." as he helps him up off the floor. Sam stands too, then, leaning against the dryer for support. He's still winded slightly but as bad as this feels he knows it must feel worse for Dean. Once in the shoulder, three times in the chest. He's going to be in all kind of pain for the next few weeks at least.

Sam bets Dean isn't even thinking about that. By the look he's got on his face, the only thing he's thinking about are the words coming out of Dad's mouth. Words like you damn idiot and don't know what the hell you were thinking and I taught you to be smart, use that head of yours and what do you do- nasty things they all know Dad doesn't really mean. Most of the time.

"-do you understand me?"

Sam steps closer to Dean and he can hear the shakey quality to the standard, "Yes, sir." that follows Dad's question. It almost seems like Dean might cry, of course he doesn't and neither does Sam even though his eyes are bleary and damp with tears. A reaction to the pain still throbbing in his gut.

For a moment, Sam thinks Dad notices the sound too but after a moment the man breathes a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. Then he takes in a breath and his eyes are on Sam. "You'll do better next time." He says, and Sam knows it's not meant to be encouraging, hopeful. It's an order plain and simple.

"Yes, sir." Sam replies and Dad nods before turning and stalking off back up the stairs.

Sam swallows down the bile building in his throat and waits until he hears the floorboards creaking overhead with Dad's weight before turning to Dean. "You okay?" He asks slowly, and Dean nods.

"'Course, I am." He replies reaching over to ruffle Sam's hair, and Sam lets him even though he hates it. If nothing else, because Dean is still staring at the spot where Dad was just standing and he still looks wounded. Emotionally, and physically thanks to Sam.

Still it's Dean, and even though he doesn't really bounce back quickly, he acts like he does. "Right, up stairs now. Gotta patch these suckers up." He says, raising his shirt to look at the huge purplish blue bruises blossoming there. They're swollen welts the size of golf balls and Sam hates the way he can see where the blood vessles have ruptured turning the wounds a nasty reddish colour beneath Dean's skin. He knows his stomach probably looks exactly like that, but he doesn't want to look at it.

He doesn't want to follow Dean up the stairs and "patch up".

All he wants to do is be a little kid again and just disappear. Maybe stuff himself inside one of these busted up dryers for a long time, like he used to when he was six.

As Dean heads for the stairs, not even waiting to see if he's being followed, Sam looks at the dryer beside him.

Feeling a little foolish he reaches over and pries the door open, peering inside. It looks big enough, he thinks, leaning forward. His stomach throbs in protest and he sucks in a breath straightening again. Quietly he closes the door just as Dean shouts from the top of the stairs for him to hurry up.

Sam sighs and smiles softly. If his stomach doesn't hurt too badly tomorrow, he decides he'll give it a try. Maybe he'll tell Dean first, though.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll neglect to mention it to Dad.

End

Authoress Notes: Well, that was fun. And now it's one in the morning and I have to be to work at nine, breakfast at eight, and up at seven. Six hours of sleep. Lovely. Any whoo, I'm tired. If you find any spelling errors, or something of the like please tell me. And yes, I did hide in laundry machines. Eh...

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