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Sam fell so long ago that he’s begun tracking the hours through the passing of the days—the sun sets, rises, twelve hours… the sun sets, rises, another twelve hours… the sun sets, rises, somewhere around 36 hours total since the tree branch first broke out from under him, sixty some feet in the air. Sam himself lays at the bottom, his head perilously close to an outcropping of rock and both his legs twisted like the roots he landed on.
All around him are trees, trees, and more trees, all thick with leaves turning various colors as fall begins. The slightest bit of sunlit blue pokes through the canopy, lighting the forest floor. It’d be a stunning sight if he weren’t stuck where no one would ever find him.
His legs aren’t the only things that broke in the fall—his phone is so wrecked he can’t even get it to turn on, let alone hope for wifi. He hadn’t even told Dean, Cas, or Bobby where he was going, determined to tackle the case on his own and avoid being a nuisance for once, and as a result the odds of them finding him before he dies of dehydration are about as good as the ones of them defeating Lucifer.
Sam groans at the thought and beats a fist against the hard-packed earth. He can’t move, not with his legs like this. And contrary to what some media says, he’s not getting used to the pain. It’s the only thing that seems constant to him now, besides the view of the trees above him, so there’s no hope of him managing to drag himself to civilization after the pain dulls.
There’s no hope of him living on to help send Lucifer back to hell.
Not that Sam was all that great at keeping the literal devil there to begin with, but with the demon blood out of his system he’d thought he could at least be a little useful. But if he dies? Sam snorts. If he dies he’s less than useless.
And, at 36 hours down, with hunger and thirst clawing at his stomach, it’s all but a given that he won’t make it out of this forest.
Three days without water. That’s all it will take. The only funny thing about the situation is how bizarrely unexpected it is for him to die such a non-violent death. Like sure, his legs are broken, and probably in multiple places at that, but he always thought death would be, if not faster, then more bloody. A vampire sucking him dry, or landing badly after a ghost flings him across a room. Werewolves, or witches, or any number of supernatural beings that they’ve encountered over the years. Even getting stuck by an angel blade.
Never… this.
Sam stares up at the leafy canopy again, idly counting the number of leaves that are still, stubbornly, green with the leftover hints of summer. He’s already counted the yellow leaves, and the red, and the ones that have bits of both colors. There’s nothing else for him to do but wait.
So wait is what he does.
Sometime during the day, between hours 36 and 48, Sam tries to fix his phone for the third time. The screen doesn’t so much as flicker.
His stomach has stopped growling, but there’s still a sharp pain in his abdomen that won’t go away.
Sam falls asleep before the sun goes down, and when he wakes up it’s still daylight; with the leaves blocking the sun’s actual movements, he has no way of knowing if he woke up before dusk or after dawn. He tries to count the time until the sun sets again, but he loses track so many times that he gives up.
The sun sets—it’s been 48 hours. Or 72. He decides that if he’s still alive by the next night, then he’ll call that the 72 hour mark. Dehydration in three days, after all.
His mouth is so dry by the morning that he tries to suck dew from the grass.
By nightfall he’s too tired to even open his eyes, and he lets himself fall asleep like that, exhausted at the bottom of a tree where no one will ever find him.
“Hey, Sammy,” Lucifer says. “If a tree falls in the middle of a forest when there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
Sam opens his eyes.