We can have two fills, right? Let's have two fills. This one doesn't really answer the prompt all the way, so it barely counts, right? Right?
Sam had bought himself a label-maker the first time he wandered into a department store while Dean was gone. He'd reorganized the Impala's trunk. Again, though the Impala didn't remember the first time like he did. To secure the guns, he'd used foam, straps, and snaps because he didn't like the way the corners of velcro tended to curl and scratch his hands. He'd gone all the way and labeled the gun slots with the label maker: a place for everything, and everything in its place. At the end of it, there was a place for Dean left empty, and he just had to grab Dean and put him back -- it was stupid. But he got a lot of use out of that label-maker.
Sire blood Cadaver blood Cure base
Sam really didn't want to get those jars mixed up.
He'd finished burning the vamp an hour ago, and he thought the blood was starting to kick in. His head hurt, on top of the stress headache he'd been working around for the past two months, and the coals outside were brilliant where they peeked rosy through cracks in the ash. Sam heard a dozen birds and scurrying things moving through the dark woods, through the walls and closed windows of the shack.
There was no one close enough for him to hear their heartbeat. But he heard light soft coals fall muffled one upon the other as the bonfire smoldered.
He paced around the cabin and prodded his gums with his tongue.
He really had no idea how far he needed to push this -- where the tipping point was -- but there was a serious timing issue. He had to still be comatose by the time Jodie got to the shack. How should he word the text message? Something urgent, yet not-suicidal.
He prodded his gums some more, with his fingers. It'd been an hour and fifteen minutes. He was a little keyed-up -- when why shouldn't he be keyed-up? He was just about to . . . about to get a message to Dean and teach him the mantra that would let Sam connect a portal direct between the two of them, that would let Sam find him anywhere. And the blood should be kicking in. Assuming Sam even could get turned like a normal human, and wasn't just digesting the vamp's abilities.
He'd wait until he felt fangs.
He paced. Looked over his equipment and the note for Sheriff Mills on the floor, rearranged the railroad tie he'd dragged in, yanked on the bolts for the cuffs. He laid down on the tie, letting his face dangle toward the shack's leaf-strewn linoleum. It felt unstable. He tried lying beside the tie, and that pulled him naturally into the recovery position, but his arm would be asleep. He stalked out to the car and brought in a blanket for padding.
Each snap and crumble of the coals felt like a raindrop striking the back of his neck, like biting into lumpy corn grits -- startling and tactile. He checked his pulse.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe fast.
He listened to something scrabbling along a tree branch fifty yards away, to the earthworms popping up out from their burrows, and to the thousands of tiny claws shifting around in the beams of the shack. He couldn't taste the vamp's thin blood anymore. Was he hungry? He was a little hungry. His head still hurt, but now the moonlight was making it worse.
He was thirsty, too, but now that he thought about it, he hadn't had anything to drink for the past . . . since coffee. He'd had coffee. And blood.
Weak, nasty blood.
His gums itched. There still wasn't anything under them.
Sam drummed his fingers on his thigh and stalked around and around the shack, squinting in the moonlight, muttering the mantra for Dean. An owl swooped softly to the ground behind him. Something died in its claws. The natural cycle. Something deep in the woods behind Sam spilled its hot blood on the owl's claws.
Unless it had been a bug. Sam hadn't quite paid enough attention to the owl's prey.
He hoped he didn't try to eat Dean when he found him.
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Filled: Crash 1/3
Date: 2012-05-23 05:18 pm (UTC)Sam had bought himself a label-maker the first time he wandered into a department store while Dean was gone. He'd reorganized the Impala's trunk. Again, though the Impala didn't remember the first time like he did. To secure the guns, he'd used foam, straps, and snaps because he didn't like the way the corners of velcro tended to curl and scratch his hands. He'd gone all the way and labeled the gun slots with the label maker: a place for everything, and everything in its place. At the end of it, there was a place for Dean left empty, and he just had to grab Dean and put him back -- it was stupid. But he got a lot of use out of that label-maker.
Sire blood
Cadaver blood
Cure base
Sam really didn't want to get those jars mixed up.
He'd finished burning the vamp an hour ago, and he thought the blood was starting to kick in. His head hurt, on top of the stress headache he'd been working around for the past two months, and the coals outside were brilliant where they peeked rosy through cracks in the ash. Sam heard a dozen birds and scurrying things moving through the dark woods, through the walls and closed windows of the shack.
There was no one close enough for him to hear their heartbeat. But he heard light soft coals fall muffled one upon the other as the bonfire smoldered.
He paced around the cabin and prodded his gums with his tongue.
He really had no idea how far he needed to push this -- where the tipping point was -- but there was a serious timing issue. He had to still be comatose by the time Jodie got to the shack. How should he word the text message? Something urgent, yet not-suicidal.
He prodded his gums some more, with his fingers. It'd been an hour and fifteen minutes. He was a little keyed-up -- when why shouldn't he be keyed-up? He was just about to . . . about to get a message to Dean and teach him the mantra that would let Sam connect a portal direct between the two of them, that would let Sam find him anywhere. And the blood should be kicking in. Assuming Sam even could get turned like a normal human, and wasn't just digesting the vamp's abilities.
He'd wait until he felt fangs.
He paced. Looked over his equipment and the note for Sheriff Mills on the floor, rearranged the railroad tie he'd dragged in, yanked on the bolts for the cuffs. He laid down on the tie, letting his face dangle toward the shack's leaf-strewn linoleum. It felt unstable. He tried lying beside the tie, and that pulled him naturally into the recovery position, but his arm would be asleep. He stalked out to the car and brought in a blanket for padding.
Each snap and crumble of the coals felt like a raindrop striking the back of his neck, like biting into lumpy corn grits -- startling and tactile. He checked his pulse.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe fast.
He listened to something scrabbling along a tree branch fifty yards away, to the earthworms popping up out from their burrows, and to the thousands of tiny claws shifting around in the beams of the shack. He couldn't taste the vamp's thin blood anymore. Was he hungry? He was a little hungry. His head still hurt, but now the moonlight was making it worse.
He was thirsty, too, but now that he thought about it, he hadn't had anything to drink for the past . . . since coffee. He'd had coffee. And blood.
Weak, nasty blood.
His gums itched. There still wasn't anything under them.
Sam drummed his fingers on his thigh and stalked around and around the shack, squinting in the moonlight, muttering the mantra for Dean. An owl swooped softly to the ground behind him. Something died in its claws. The natural cycle. Something deep in the woods behind Sam spilled its hot blood on the owl's claws.
Unless it had been a bug. Sam hadn't quite paid enough attention to the owl's prey.
He hoped he didn't try to eat Dean when he found him.