[ Air. Wound Assessment. Shelter. Treatment. Water. Food.
The survival hierarchy runs through Sam's mind, shrill like an alarm. Teeth clenched, he sucks in his breaths, focuses on dragging Daryl just a little further.
Air isn't a problem. They're not enclosed. Even unconscious, Daryl is breathing.
Wound assessment - blunt force head trauma. Among other things, but no signs point to devastating internal issues that prevent moving Daryl.
Shelter is... an issue.
Sam trips, falls. Catches himself and scrapes up his hands and arms a bit. Part of him just wants to stay down. Wants to lie here in the dimming light and not get up again. His body's screaming for peace, for respite, but Sam's not alive these days because he's ever made it a habit of listening to anyone who wants him to take the easy way. Fighting back a pained groan, he pushes himself back up. ]
Sorry, man...
[ Not that Daryl can hear.
Used to be a time where Sam could have fully picked Daryl up, carried him the way he was trained to way back when. Pararescue ain't a joke. But he's lost some muscle mass these past few weeks, chained to a dirty matress in a damp basement, barely fed to keep him weak, constantly felt up by alphas desperate for his next heat to make him breedable whether he wants them or not. Sam's body is littered with bruises and bites. He feels dizzy, can't even think to carry Daryl. So he's half-carrying, half-dragging the deadweight of an alpha. Daryl is fucking heavy for a man who's not all that bulky. Goddamn wolves. Goddamn alphas. Goddamn everything.
Shelter comes by accident rather than design, in the end. Sam sees what looks like an old, overgrown path. At the end of it lies a small cabin. He does what he can to secure it before getting Daryl in there. Upstairs, to ensure the only easy access point are the stairs. In case Sam has to defend them - from Walkers, from Alphas. The place is rundown and practically derelict. ]
Not quite the cozy situation we talked about for our little heat getaway, hm?
[ The joke falls on nothing but deaf ears, and Sam can't even pretend to smile at it himself. That was.... a long time ago. A lifetime, feels like. Almost three months - after his last heat. When their solid, steadfast friendship had continued deepening, when they'd gotten to a point of comfortable with one another Sam shares with few people, and Daryl with fewer still. Some would say it's the natural outcome of the way Daryl had always been with Sam, protective and territorial - they'd literally met when Daryl saved Sam from a bunch of alphas and betas wanting to get their dicks wet.
Omegas were a rare luxury these days.
Over the years of their friendship, Sam didn't actually think him and Daryl would ever become... a thing, past the thing they already were. But maybe that's the point. Neither of them is particularly interested in hookups, neither of them is particularly quick to let others close - Sam's just good at pretending to be like that in ways Daryl doesn't bother to be.
Truth is, Sam appreciates Daryl. Oh, not always. They've had ugly fights. They've fought, too - very interesting, in hindsight, truth be told. But most of all, Daryl's been protecting Sam, and Sam's been a shockingly steadfast friend to him. Unlikely friendship as it may have been at first. But Daryl doesn't consider Sam weak, and Sam doesn't consider Daryl a dog, and somehow, they've worked.
Worked so well they'd started having tentative conversations about Sam's heats. Worked so well they almost...
But then their luck ran out. Sam got taken. He doesn't know for how long, just that it hasn't yet been three months - he's not had another heat. He's been in a basement the entire time, knowing he was being kept to become a pack's broodmare. He'd rarely been alone - kept naked for alphas to paw at, scent, his neck mottled with bruises from where they mawled it while pleasuring themselves, knowing they couldn't bite yet, couldn't mount yet.
He didn't think anyone would come for him - not because he thought they wouldn't try, but because he had no clue how far he'd been taken, how strong that places defenses were.
When a huge wolf tore through the place, Sam had been shocked, but in hindsight, shouldn't have been surprised. Of course Daryl would run himself to the ground and risk his neck to get Sam. Of course he'd do the single stupidest, most pig-headed, most beautifully dangerous thing he possibly could.
They escaped. A mad dash into the woods, but in trying to dodge gunfire, they'd stumbled down a ravine, and Sam thinks the sickening crack of Daryl's skull meeting rock will be forever imprinted in his mind. The fact that Daryl was alive was a miracle, the fact that his skull wasn't cracked all the way open another. Unconscious, which isn't shocking but still concerning. The stream at the bottom of the ravine masked their scents well enough for Sam to begin hauling Daryl away from their pursuers.
They're not out of the woods yet (ha ha, Sam), but for now, at least, the imminent danger has cooled down. Sam gets Daryl into a bed upstairs, and takes the man's shirt off to wear on his own bruised torso. He'd grabbed pants off someone back at the compound, before they made it out. Mask that omega scent is the name of the game. If Sam layers alpha wolf scent over omega human, that'll deter most curious noses in a wide radius. Walkers don't give a shit, but Sam's not sure if they're even the biggest threat to his and Daryl's safety right now.
Over the course of the next few hours, Sam cleans and dresses the wound on Daryl's head as best he can - not gauze, but strips of cloth. Sam rations the water, uses some of it to clean the wound, drinks a sip, pours some into Daryl's mouth, saves the rest. He'll have to find water for them soon, and then food. But for now... shelter still has needs to meet.
So Sam gets to work trying to make the place a little more secure. As much as he can.
They can't stay here. But they also cannot leave while Daryl is unconscious.
It's fine.
It'll be fine when Daryl wakes up. They can fight their way back to the group. They can do pretty much anything.
Sam doesn't have a weapon on him right now - which is honestly pretty fucking inconvenient, and he's upset bc he had a really nice knife that Daryl and him once found in an abandoned hunting lodge, and that thing has done Sam a good service for so long now. But what he's lost in that horrid place, Daryl has in spades. So Sam takes a knife out of his pants, and the crossbow. ]
You can yell at me when you wake up. But I need to be able to keep guard while you get your beauty sleep, hm?
[ And so for the next few hours, Sam settles in to guard Daryl's body and their shitty ass makeshift shelter. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Woof with Amnesia - for @trailmark
The survival hierarchy runs through Sam's mind, shrill like an alarm. Teeth clenched, he sucks in his breaths, focuses on dragging Daryl just a little further.
Air isn't a problem. They're not enclosed. Even unconscious, Daryl is breathing.
Wound assessment - blunt force head trauma. Among other things, but no signs point to devastating internal issues that prevent moving Daryl.
Shelter is... an issue.
Sam trips, falls. Catches himself and scrapes up his hands and arms a bit. Part of him just wants to stay down. Wants to lie here in the dimming light and not get up again. His body's screaming for peace, for respite, but Sam's not alive these days because he's ever made it a habit of listening to anyone who wants him to take the easy way. Fighting back a pained groan, he pushes himself back up. ]
Sorry, man...
[ Not that Daryl can hear.
Used to be a time where Sam could have fully picked Daryl up, carried him the way he was trained to way back when. Pararescue ain't a joke. But he's lost some muscle mass these past few weeks, chained to a dirty matress in a damp basement, barely fed to keep him weak, constantly felt up by alphas desperate for his next heat to make him breedable whether he wants them or not. Sam's body is littered with bruises and bites. He feels dizzy, can't even think to carry Daryl. So he's half-carrying, half-dragging the deadweight of an alpha. Daryl is fucking heavy for a man who's not all that bulky. Goddamn wolves. Goddamn alphas. Goddamn everything.
Shelter comes by accident rather than design, in the end. Sam sees what looks like an old, overgrown path. At the end of it lies a small cabin. He does what he can to secure it before getting Daryl in there. Upstairs, to ensure the only easy access point are the stairs. In case Sam has to defend them - from Walkers, from Alphas. The place is rundown and practically derelict. ]
Not quite the cozy situation we talked about for our little heat getaway, hm?
[ The joke falls on nothing but deaf ears, and Sam can't even pretend to smile at it himself. That was.... a long time ago. A lifetime, feels like. Almost three months - after his last heat. When their solid, steadfast friendship had continued deepening, when they'd gotten to a point of comfortable with one another Sam shares with few people, and Daryl with fewer still. Some would say it's the natural outcome of the way Daryl had always been with Sam, protective and territorial - they'd literally met when Daryl saved Sam from a bunch of alphas and betas wanting to get their dicks wet.
Omegas were a rare luxury these days.
Over the years of their friendship, Sam didn't actually think him and Daryl would ever become... a thing, past the thing they already were. But maybe that's the point. Neither of them is particularly interested in hookups, neither of them is particularly quick to let others close - Sam's just good at pretending to be like that in ways Daryl doesn't bother to be.
Truth is, Sam appreciates Daryl. Oh, not always. They've had ugly fights. They've fought, too - very interesting, in hindsight, truth be told. But most of all, Daryl's been protecting Sam, and Sam's been a shockingly steadfast friend to him. Unlikely friendship as it may have been at first. But Daryl doesn't consider Sam weak, and Sam doesn't consider Daryl a dog, and somehow, they've worked.
Worked so well they'd started having tentative conversations about Sam's heats. Worked so well they almost...
But then their luck ran out. Sam got taken. He doesn't know for how long, just that it hasn't yet been three months - he's not had another heat. He's been in a basement the entire time, knowing he was being kept to become a pack's broodmare. He'd rarely been alone - kept naked for alphas to paw at, scent, his neck mottled with bruises from where they mawled it while pleasuring themselves, knowing they couldn't bite yet, couldn't mount yet.
He didn't think anyone would come for him - not because he thought they wouldn't try, but because he had no clue how far he'd been taken, how strong that places defenses were.
When a huge wolf tore through the place, Sam had been shocked, but in hindsight, shouldn't have been surprised. Of course Daryl would run himself to the ground and risk his neck to get Sam. Of course he'd do the single stupidest, most pig-headed, most beautifully dangerous thing he possibly could.
They escaped. A mad dash into the woods, but in trying to dodge gunfire, they'd stumbled down a ravine, and Sam thinks the sickening crack of Daryl's skull meeting rock will be forever imprinted in his mind. The fact that Daryl was alive was a miracle, the fact that his skull wasn't cracked all the way open another. Unconscious, which isn't shocking but still concerning. The stream at the bottom of the ravine masked their scents well enough for Sam to begin hauling Daryl away from their pursuers.
They're not out of the woods yet (ha ha, Sam), but for now, at least, the imminent danger has cooled down. Sam gets Daryl into a bed upstairs, and takes the man's shirt off to wear on his own bruised torso. He'd grabbed pants off someone back at the compound, before they made it out. Mask that omega scent is the name of the game. If Sam layers alpha wolf scent over omega human, that'll deter most curious noses in a wide radius. Walkers don't give a shit, but Sam's not sure if they're even the biggest threat to his and Daryl's safety right now.
Over the course of the next few hours, Sam cleans and dresses the wound on Daryl's head as best he can - not gauze, but strips of cloth. Sam rations the water, uses some of it to clean the wound, drinks a sip, pours some into Daryl's mouth, saves the rest. He'll have to find water for them soon, and then food. But for now... shelter still has needs to meet.
So Sam gets to work trying to make the place a little more secure. As much as he can.
They can't stay here. But they also cannot leave while Daryl is unconscious.
It's fine.
It'll be fine when Daryl wakes up. They can fight their way back to the group. They can do pretty much anything.
Sam doesn't have a weapon on him right now - which is honestly pretty fucking inconvenient, and he's upset bc he had a really nice knife that Daryl and him once found in an abandoned hunting lodge, and that thing has done Sam a good service for so long now. But what he's lost in that horrid place, Daryl has in spades. So Sam takes a knife out of his pants, and the crossbow. ]
You can yell at me when you wake up. But I need to be able to keep guard while you get your beauty sleep, hm?
[ And so for the next few hours, Sam settles in to guard Daryl's body and their shitty ass makeshift shelter. ]