Lost Without a Trace

1 - Found

Sam Winchester was thoroughly, fully sick of the local radio. Montana had to have the worst DJs of all time; for days on end, he had heard nothing but Janet Jackson and Europe, and he was more than ready to simply blot out the noise by punching his radio until his fist was run through by the tiny shards of broken stereo glass and Janet's dulcet tones were silenced.

When the song changed to Unskinny Bop, Sam groaned and raised his fist to shut the radio off for good. Dean would understand why he'd mutilated the Impala. It was for a worthy cause.

A dull, heavy thud interrupted his train of thought, followed by the feeling of the car's hood stopping short and something rather large rolling off. Horrified, Sam pulled the handbrake and fumbled with his belt. He bolted out of the car, nearly tripping over his own feet in his desperate attempt to help whoever or whatever he had hit.

The first thing he noticed was a sizable pool of blood, seeping into cracks in the asphalt and tinting the dark grey black and brown. The next was a man. Tall, but Sam was taller. Sam thought he was blond, but with so much blood soaked into the man's hair and clothes, he had no way of being sure. It might have been light brown, or red. He was unconscious. Stubble lined his jaw and the edge of his throat. His left arm was askew in a hideous angle, obviously broken in several places. His right looked unharmed, but both his legs were the worse for it; his thighs were crushed, a mess of blood and splintered bone, his right shin mutilated beyond belief.

Stunned, Sam knelt beside the man, lifted his hand, and tested his wrist for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Sam dug his phone out of his pocket, dialed 9-1-1, and hit Call. He waited anxiously for the dial tone, and when the line picked up, he found he'd actually been holding his breath pent in. In a low whimper, he released it and took another deep breath to steady himself. He answered the standard questions, voice shaking, mind reeling, feeling barely coherrent.

Something shifted in the corner of his peripheral vision. Startled, he glanced down. The man's eyes had opened, huge and unfocused, pale, striking blue. He didn't seem to realise what was going on; sweat beaded his forehead and cheekbones, his mouth was slightly open, his breathing quick and shallow. Sam quickly shoved his phone into his pocket again and wiped a thin film of grime and sweat from his cheek. His skin was ice-cold, damp. Shock seemed a likely prospect.

Not quite knowing what to do, Sam took off his jacket and awkwardly covered the man's torso with it. Blue eyes narrowed in confused exhaustion, pupils shrinking considerably. The man closed his mouth and began breathing through his nose. He seemed to have regained consciousness. Sam didn't have the slightest idea what to do. He hoped the man wasn't in pain, but if he was, what could he do? He hardly had anything with him that would help with injuries of such gravity.

A blaring noise in the distance told him that an ambulance was arriving. Blue light tinged the surrounding area in cold, angled shadows. Sam carefully brushed a bit of hair out of the man's forehead. Blood clung to his fingers like a film. The ambulance pulled up beside the pair.

The doors swung out, and a paramedic exited the driver's cab. She looked disheveled and stressed, her hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail, her clothes crumpled and worn. Dark rings circled her eyes. Sam felt a twinge of pity for her; he regretted having called her. She was probably exhausted.

"Let him down, sir," she sighed and took a key ring from her pants. She unlocked the back of the ambulance and pulled a stretcher from inside. Sam set the man down as gently as he could, not wanting to hurt him, and anxiously watched as the paramedic heaved him onto the litter. Throughout the procedure, he never made a noise. Perhaps he'd passed out again.

When she had finished, the paramedic looked up at Sam through narrowed eyes and wiped a hand across her brow. 

"Could you help me lift him? He's a bit heavier than he looks," she muttered and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. Even exhausted and stressed out, she remained pretty. Sam found himself wondering what she looked like wearing makeup, and whether she wore it at all. He bent and helped her lift the litter carefully. She was right. The man was heavy.