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[littlemissfutility]

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[withmeinparadise]

Sam starts when he hears her voice. He knows it, a little hoarsened by whispering, but it takes a second to place it. She gets close enough that he can see her face, and then he knows it's Ellie. Jesus Christ - of all the gin joints, right?

"Hey," he says back. His grin's not missing any teeth, at least - but the bruises and swelling in his face give his face the wrong shape. So does the scraggle of beard fuzzing his jaw and curling over the birds tattooed on his neck. His other tattoos are hidden under a filthy shirt, or within the near-black bruising on his knuckles, his fingers bent in directions fingers shouldn't bend.

He could blame his hands for the fact that he hasn't made any effort to get up, but the bruising on his torso's got a lot to do with it, too. Good thing that's covered - Ellie's not about to scare easy, but it's still nothing she needs to see right now. "Did you kill 'em on the way down here, kid?"

[notathreat]

It takes a moment. One horrible moment. Before his voice goes from being faintly familiar to wholly so. Before the shadows materialize into the tattoos she knows well. Before she sees the broken fingers and the swelling and realizes he's been down here for-

"Sam," she breathes, and reaches out, touching his hair. She hasn't really touched him before, not like this, but she can't help it.

But once he asks, her eyes harden, and the horror fades to terrible calm purpose.

"Three Venatori," she says quietly. "One with a beard, one with red robes, and one with a staff shaped like lion's head. Any more I should look for?"

[withmeinparadise]

"Hell if I know." She smooths back his greasy hair like he's a kid, and all he can think for a second is poor thing. She might be the kind of girl who stabs three people to death on the way to a basement without thinking twice, but that doesn't mean he wants her to be. He'd definitely prefer she wasn't getting a load of him here, in enough pain that he can't be assed to sit up. "I wasn't exactly getting the run of the place, believe it or not."

Ha, ha. Hilarious. With a grunt, he shifts some of his weight onto his elbows, careful not to press down with his hands. His entire body aches with the effort, but it's not screaming stabs of pain at the moment. So that's something. Give him another couple of minutes, he'll even be able to lever himself off the mattress without help.

[notathreat]

"Yeah, but they were getting the run of you," Ellie says quietly. Super hilarious, the both of them. Automatically, Ellie shifts to lay the palm of her hand across the back of his shoulders and oh god, she can feel the heat and swelling. What marks are under there?

"They keeping anyone else in here?" she asks, though she hasn't heard voices. The cellar doesn't seem to extend very far. But god, if there's someone else here, if Nate-

[withmeinparadise]

"Nah." His thoughts don't go to Nathan. God willing, his brother's in Heaven where he belongs, if he's anywhere at all. Or back on Earth, better yet, but in this moment, he'd probably be willing to admit it: a fall like that, Nathan wasn't exactly goning to walk off. With effort, he forces his muscles to clench, to raise him up until he's sitting on his ass. "I pulled the short straw. This is real, right? This better not be a dream."

[notathreat]

Good, she's not sure she could reliably get anyone out if they're in any shape similar to this. Ellie pulls a slow breath, keeps her hand where it is, mostly so she can feel him breathing. She's all right, but seeing him like this brings back very specific, very awful memories, and she needs to keep her shit together if she's going to help him.

"No, it's real," she says quietly, and shifts, bracing against the bed.

"Do you think you can stand up, if I help?" She can feel how unsteady he is. Given how strong he's always been, how easy he can shake off pain and keep trucking, that's more alarming than the rest.

[withmeinparadise]

"Yeah." No. Well - maybe. Only one way to find out, right? He's spent so much time lately getting dragged around by the collar that he hasn't had to put much effort in. "C'mere, Ell - watch the hands -"

It's an effort, and his voice goes from thin to nothing in the process. He doesn't even breathe, putting all his energy into getting his feet under him. More with the abs - Jesus, fuck, does it hurt to bend - and balancing, his arms awkward and stiff at his sides. (They can't hang limp. He'll bang his fingers against his legs.) But he gets up, a wobbly but unquestionably living giant next to her.

[notathreat]

It's a process, figuring out where to stand so she can brace him. So she doesn't hurt him worse. There's no one wound to work around, nothing urgent to work with. By the way he stands, it's not just that he's injured. She wonders how much he's gotten up to stretch, with injuries like this.

She doesn't imagine it's been a lot.

She situates herself under one of his arms, more to make sure she can hold onto him if he starts to fall, and they head toward the cellar stairs. She left the door cracked at the top.

"Lean on me," she says quietly as they get to the bottom of the stairs, holding onto the handrail. They'll go slow.