[[OOC: Continued from here (http://community.livejournal.com/crossing_lostrp/105224.html?thread=3473928#t3473928).]]
Sam was exhausted again and in excrutiating pain. He'd been in labor -- (Not me. Ami. Not me!) -- for what felt like days, and had decided that he wasn't going to do it. Naturally, neither his (Ami's) mother, Scott's mother Jenny, nor Scott was convinced.
"Ami, dear, you know the baby is going to come whether you want it to or not." Mum dabbed his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. "There's no point fighting it, you're just making yourself tense and making it hurt more. You need to relax."
He shook his head frantically, sweat drenched locks of hair sticking to his face and throat. The room was too hot, even though he'd managed to shed the silly paper thin hospital gown hours ago. The sheets were sticky with perspiration, the pulse oxygen monitor on his finger was itchy and the continual attachment to the intravenous pump was growing older with each passing moment.
"Why don't you climb up here and relax, then, Mum?" he heard himself demand. "You think you're some kind of bloody expert 'cause you've had a go at this before – "
The rest of his rant was lost in the throes of a powerful contraction, his uterine muscles clamping and spasming, contracting and retracting in preparation for the inevitable birth. He screamed out, body tightening and tensing against the powerful waves that emanated from within. He rode the wave as best he could, only vaguely aware of being urged to relax and breathe and when it was over, he collapsed against the hospital bed, thirsty, sweatier and more tired.
Someone slipped a few ice chips between his lips and he managed to be grateful for that even if he couldn't find the words or the energy to express it. Another contraction would follow soon, again and again until the pain likely killed him or he delivered Isabelle, whichever came first.
His mother and Jenny took turns petting him, giving useless advice and pep talks while trying to remind him of all those stupid breathing exercises, when what he really needed was his husband. Not the man who was dutifully holding his hand and rubbing his back or his legs, feeling calm and empty because he'd gone and *bloody fucking hid* in that bloody fucking Algeiban void of his.
(Algeiban?)
"You're doing good, Ami. Eight centimeters," Scott said softly. "You're almost there."
"Fuck. You," he ground out right before another contraction hit. He purposefully threw their link open as far as she could, even knowing the pain wouldn't touch Scott in the place where he was now. This time, at least, he managed to breathe.
When he came back down again, it was Jenny dabbing the washcloth over her face and body. "You're doing beautifully, Ami. The nurse went to alert the doctor. Another hour at the most. Your mother and I are so proud of you."
"Doesn't matter," he panted, savoring the feeling of the ice chips melting in his mouth and the coldness of the water that dripped across his body from the sweating cup. "I can't do this alone. I can't."
"You're not alone."
He glared at his husband. "Yes I am."
Blood. Sulfur. Dean's god-awful aftershave. A blinding (but way better than labor pains) headache. "I'm back. Thank god."
"Um, yeah." Dean sounded rattled. Sam felt his brother's arm wrap around him. "Gotta get you on your feet. Fugly's dead -- finally! -- but there might be more."
Sam opened his eyes. They wouldn't quite focus yet, but that was okay. Dean would help him, and Sam felt strong again. Compared to the fucked-up vision from hell, his headache was easy to ignore.
He stood with his brother's help. "Where's my gun? I want to kill something."
OOC: Sam's vision is based on fikgirl's post here (http://community.livejournal.com/amiscott/1514.html). There's more, but I didn't think that Sam deserved any more torture. ;)
[Sam] Getting away from it all -- part II
Sam was exhausted again and in excrutiating pain. He'd been in labor -- (Not me. Ami. Not me!) -- for what felt like days, and had decided that he wasn't going to do it. Naturally, neither his (Ami's) mother, Scott's mother Jenny, nor Scott was convinced.
"Ami, dear, you know the baby is going to come whether you want it to or not." Mum dabbed his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. "There's no point fighting it, you're just making yourself tense and making it hurt more. You need to relax."
He shook his head frantically, sweat drenched locks of hair sticking to his face and throat. The room was too hot, even though he'd managed to shed the silly paper thin hospital gown hours ago. The sheets were sticky with perspiration, the pulse oxygen monitor on his finger was itchy and the continual attachment to the intravenous pump was growing older with each passing moment.
"Why don't you climb up here and relax, then, Mum?" he heard himself demand. "You think you're some kind of bloody expert 'cause you've had a go at this before – "
The rest of his rant was lost in the throes of a powerful contraction, his uterine muscles clamping and spasming, contracting and retracting in preparation for the inevitable birth. He screamed out, body tightening and tensing against the powerful waves that emanated from within. He rode the wave as best he could, only vaguely aware of being urged to relax and breathe and when it was over, he collapsed against the hospital bed, thirsty, sweatier and more tired.
Someone slipped a few ice chips between his lips and he managed to be grateful for that even if he couldn't find the words or the energy to express it. Another contraction would follow soon, again and again until the pain likely killed him or he delivered Isabelle, whichever came first.
His mother and Jenny took turns petting him, giving useless advice and pep talks while trying to remind him of all those stupid breathing exercises, when what he really needed was his husband. Not the man who was dutifully holding his hand and rubbing his back or his legs, feeling calm and empty because he'd gone and *bloody fucking hid* in that bloody fucking Algeiban void of his.
(Algeiban?)
"You're doing good, Ami. Eight centimeters," Scott said softly. "You're almost there."
"Fuck. You," he ground out right before another contraction hit. He purposefully threw their link open as far as she could, even knowing the pain wouldn't touch Scott in the place where he was now. This time, at least, he managed to breathe.
When he came back down again, it was Jenny dabbing the washcloth over her face and body. "You're doing beautifully, Ami. The nurse went to alert the doctor. Another hour at the most. Your mother and I are so proud of you."
"Doesn't matter," he panted, savoring the feeling of the ice chips melting in his mouth and the coldness of the water that dripped across his body from the sweating cup. "I can't do this alone. I can't."
"You're not alone."
He glared at his husband. "Yes I am."
Blood. Sulfur. Dean's god-awful aftershave. A blinding (but way better than labor pains) headache. "I'm back. Thank god."
"Um, yeah." Dean sounded rattled. Sam felt his brother's arm wrap around him. "Gotta get you on your feet. Fugly's dead -- finally! -- but there might be more."
Sam opened his eyes. They wouldn't quite focus yet, but that was okay. Dean would help him, and Sam felt strong again. Compared to the fucked-up vision from hell, his headache was easy to ignore.
He stood with his brother's help. "Where's my gun? I want to kill something."
OOC: Sam's vision is based on