starbright73 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starbright73) wrote2008-09-22 06:05 pm
starbright73) wrote2008-09-22 06:05 pm
Fic: His Father's Son (4/7)
Title: His Father's Son (4/7)
Author: *bright
Rating: Gen. PG-13
Spoilers: None, pre-series.
Character: Sam, Dean, John
Category: Limp!Sam, angst, h/c. Teen!Sam gets hurt.
Summary: A road-trip, a hunt gone wrong and the Winchesters' exploration of their family's dynamic.
Author's note: I wrote this just because hurting Sam is fun! And then I wanted to explore the Sam and John dynamic that was never fully dealt with on the show. This one was intended to be a short one-shot; the bugger grew out of my hands. Not beta'd. The original character have nothing to do with accidental namesakes. Was unable to come up with a nifty title *sighs*
Words: around 34.000
Disclaimer: Me own zip and nada, ‘cept an over active imagination. Everything belongs to Kripke & Co.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Dean was taken to the ER waiting room and told to wait. That's when the panic took over. The moment the paramedic left, Dean was walking the long and dwindling corridors of the ER, looking into every examination room. Staring at every face he met to see if there was anyone he recognized from before. Bumping into nurses that tried to stop him.
He had to draw deep breaths; it seemed that the air didn't reach his lungs anymore. When he turned a corner, he spotted a door flung wide open and people hurriedly filing in and out. Machinery was pulled in and voices ordered tests in continuation.
Heavy steps closed in on him and he felt a hand on his elbow. His father gruffed something about quitting to run off.
“Sammy's in there,” Dean said, absolutely certain. Dad still kept his hand curled around his elbow when they made their way to the door. He sensed dad's hand shivering when they stopped and took in the sight through the window.
Sam was still on his side, face covered with the mask. A woman holding one hand on his brow, the other on his shoulder. Dean only registered snippets of what was happening; images slammed in to his brain one by one. The next that registered was Sam's chest, covered with what looked like angry red welts. Sam being moved over to another gurney, propped up to lie slumped over, bent forward and a gloved hand pressing on his back.
Dean closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. The sounds of Sam's heart beat were too fast and too irregular and all numbers on the screen were blinking in orange and red. He wasn't able to comprehend the words spoken inside the room, the scream inside his head was too loud.
“Step back!” John ordered and pulled Dean flush against the wall.
When Dean opened his eyes, he saw Sam being wheeled out of the room towards the open elevator straight across the isle. Metal slammed against the walls, the heavy sighs of the vent felt like punches and the fast orders between the white and green clad figures bounced off the walls and echoed in Dean's head. Like bells of doom.
“Sam!” He finally got the word out when the elevator door closed and left them behind.
“You Sam Winchester's family?” Someone asked at his side but Dean was unable to stop staring at the closed door.
“I'm his father, and Dean's his brother.”
Dad's voice sounded shell-shocked and when Dean looked at him, he was rattled to his core.
Dad's face was nearly as white as Sam's. Lips pressed into a thin bloodless line and his brow was wrinkled, turning the usually stoic features into a grimace of absolute horror and pain over what he just had witnessed.
Neither of them seemed capable of speech. Dean had long since lost the ability of rational thought; everywhere he looked, Sam's prone figure flashed before his eyes. The blood and the cord strapped around his neck, Sam with a tube down his throat and Sam being dragged over to the gurney, offering no resistance, no signs of life. He rubbed his eyes in a desperate trial to rid himself of the images.
“Let's find somewhere to talk, would you follow me, please? We need to assess you too, run some tests to ensure that you're not going to suffer long-term consequences by the smoke-inhalation.” The voice continued and Dean finally steeled himself enough to turn and watch the face of the speaker, expecting to see hopelessness and defeat.
The woman's face was absolutely blank, revealing nothing. And somehow Dean found that worse than an actual show of emotion, any emotion. He looked at the woman; graying hair and reading glasses, sharp eyes watching him intently before she moved her gaze to John, standing still behind him.
“This way,” she said and Dean followed without question.
She stopped three doors down and beaconed them inside an examination room with two simple stretchers aside each other. The light was sharp and white and Dean felt the room starting to suck the air out of his lungs.
“Sit down, Dean. Head between your knees! You too Mr. Winchester.” Hands on his shoulders pushed him backwards until the back of his legs felt the bed's metal frame and he clumsily hoisted himself up to sit. Then his head was forced down and held there. And that's when he realized he must really have been out of it because he didn't even find it in himself to protest. Slowly his head cleared and he actually made sense of his surroundings. The doc, whose name he hadn't even noticed was telling somebody what tests she wanted and to start with John Winchester because she really didn't like the sound of his breathing.
Dean pulled his head up and looked over at his father. Lying on the stretcher with an oxygen cannula under his nose. “Dad?”
“I'm fine, Dean. Nothing wrong with my breathing. You just keep that head down because you look about ready to faint.” Dad was looking at him, eyes narrow, investigating slits.
“We'll see who faints first when they pull out the big ass needles to draw blood!”
The the sadist female doc pushed him down to lie on the white paper sheet and hooked him up too.
“It's always the toughest that fall the hardest,” she stated with a totally non-committal voice as she pulled a chair from the wall and seated herself between the gurneys while a nurse stepped in and filled a couple of test tubes with their blood. It fucking hurt and Dean wondered how many times Sam would be prodded before all this was over?
“You want us lying down before you tell us about Sam? That it?” He just had to ask.
”I want you lying down because I'm going to get the glass splinters off your face and check your breathing. I can't tell you anything about Sam right now, except that he was still alive when he was taken to the OR. We will get word if something drastic happens, until then, I intend on taking care of you and your father.”
A syringe appeared in her hand and Dean scowled: “What the hell is that?”
“A mild sedative, I've seen bigger boys than you crash.”
Dean got the feeling that you didn't play with this dame or she'd have you on psych eval and committed for bad-assery in no time.
“Sam's the girl of the family, he mopes right up there with the best of them.” Dean started but the usually handy quips failed him. What the fuck was he jabbering about? Sam had taken steel pegs and a fucking cabinet after being half choked to death and was still fighting! Sam had gone after whatever hell was in that ancient barn turned to storage-slash-carpentry-slash-ghoul nest and fought with whatever he could find in there. He'd lain under all that weight, and still refused to quit before the fucking thing was dead and gone!
He must have made a sound because the small tweezers made a stop in the air and the doc looked at him. “Only two left, then you'll be as good as new.”
He closed his eyes under the harsh light; he's rather have his face and ass full of splinters as long as Sam made it. At least that pain would be more durable than the fucking fear that made him want to scream and kick. He couldn't help Sammy now, wasn't able to do anything but wait and see and trust Sam to pull through this. It was not that he didn't trust his little brother, he did. Sam was the most stubborn son of a bitch he knew, even worse than dad at times. But it wasn't all up to Sammy now, and that drove Dean crazy. No evil had ever scared him like the thought of losing Sammy did.
There were steps approaching and Dean opened his eyes and held his breath. A nurse was handing the doc a small stack of papers and Dean felt the panic flare through him. Sammy?
His fingers gripped the edge of the bed, his heart pounded and he had to actively suffocate the will to scream.
“Good news,” the doctor nodded content. “Your lab results are fine and your 0-stats are holding. There's no residual effect of the smoke inhalation.“
Dean stared. Did the woman think he cared about any of that? He'd been promised news about Sam! The more the bitch dragged out on telling them, the crazier he got. If she didn't spill soon, he'd be taking the stairs and finding Sam by himself. Banging down every door, to find out what was going on.
“And Sam? Why is there no word?” Dad's voice was irritated enough to send the nurse swabbing his face with sterilizing liquid to take a hurried step back. When she wanted to continue the task, dad gave her one of his patented stares of death and she turned on her heels and walked out.
“I won't lie to you, it doesn't look good. I m in fact amazed he made it to the hospital with the blood loss he'd suffered. He was in hypovolemic shock and his heart was suffering from the strain. We had a pretty good idea that one vein was nicked by the steel peg and we were right, luckily it seems the metal served as a tamponad, otherwise he would have died right away. This way the injury had time to start the coagulating process and slowed the bleeding enough for us to counter with transfusions.”
She looked up from the last document.
Dad pulled himself up to a sitting position, hands rubbing his face. “I nearly killed him by pulling that junk off him?”
“I don't think you had any alternative. From what I hear it was either that or your son would have died in the fire.”
The images of Sam whirled before Dean's eyes and he sank back. Staring up into the light nearly blinding him.
“There's still some internal bleeding. And that is the major problem in the OR right now. We have two teams working on him to prevent keeping him under for too long in his weakened state.”
She paused, turning the page.
“One of his lung was pierced and collapsed. There's bound to be more internal injuries but that's what they've found so far. His shoulder is dislocated and his left collar bone is broken, as are several of his ribs and his wrist. Babinski was negative so there should not be any major neurological damage. His reflexes were weak but still present so we don't expect any spinal cord injuries. It is touch and go, will probably remain so for a couple of days if he survives the surgery. The good thing is that he is young, in very good shape and his coagulation is excellent. Sam may come out of this with flying colors, it's only a question of how strong he is. The main concern will be infections and averse effects of the transfusions if he survives the surgery. The rest can be fixed.”
Dean had to swallow and close his eyes. Silence settled in the room, a screaming silence, filled with questions he wasn't able to articulate. The rustle of paper had him turn his head and watch his father. Without a word John rose and walked out of the room, never looking back.
“Dad?” Dean crawled up into a sitting position.
“Sir?” The doctor inquired.
Dean's eyes followed his stride until John turned the corner and was out of sight. Then Dean rid himself of the nasal cannula and stood up, facing the doctor.
“I need to get to Sam,” he declared. “I need to be close in case something happens.”
“Your brother will be in the OR for hours, you should get some rest.” She tilted her head to the side, watching him with the intent grayish eyes, like he were a guinea pig in a maze, stamina and resilience tested. When she opened her mouth to continue, Dean cut her off with words spoken in a tone that tolerated no discussion.
“Where's Sammy?”
John didn't stop until he was out of the ER, away from the stench of sterilizing liquids, freed from the harsh light baring his fears for everyone to see, naked and revealed. There was nothing but an anger so fierce it almost choked him. That thing, had almost taken his son and made him, the father, the supposed protector to take actions that nearly ended his son's life. If Sam did die, he'd have his son's blood on his hands in more ways than one. Maybe he should have listened to Sam, done more research? He definitely shouldn't have let Sam wander off all on his own. Sam wasn't Dean; Sam didn't take well to orders. Sam questioned, Sam needed to understand the whys. John had never had the patience for that, you never asked why when lives where at stake. He'd been to late to save Mary, he had stood there, wondering why blood dripped off the ceiling and onto his son? Those precious seconds of pondering had sealed Mary's fate.
He hadn't hesitated to act since. Reflection was a waste of time when in danger. But this time, maybe he should have stopped and figured things out? Maybe they should have concentrated on killing the fire? At least until help arrived?
If they lost Sammy, those questions would be haunting him for the rest of his life, just like the guilt of Mary's death was his daily companion.
He didn't stop until he reached the parking lot, suddenly remembering that he had no car, had no means of transportation at all. What he wanted right now was to get back to the house and make sure the bastard of a spirit that was responsible for Sam's desperate clinging to life, was gone, destroyed. The need to do something, something that actually made a difference was making him fist his hands, much like Dean had before, over and over. His entire body was screaming for revenge, the anger was more pure now than after Mary had died, because this time he knew. Those things were out there, hiding in the darkness, lingering in the shadows, to come out to take lives and destroy families. He wanted them all eradicated. Once and for all.
And here he was, stranded, the sun rising at the horizon and his son fighting for his life inside, while he was helpless to do anything that mattered. He'd lost track of time, didn't remember how he actually got here, only that he had pushed through herds of people to get out and away. Faces had seemed mere blotches, raised voices had only registered as white noise between his own heavy and rushed heartbeats.
And Dean was left inside. Dean whose face was ashen and drawn with worry for the little brother he had practically raised. The only person in his life that was always there, brooding and sullen at times, but always present. John knew painfully well that he wasn't, and hadn't ever been, the model parent.
At least that was something he could fix, this time he'd be there for Dean. He scanned the surroundings in search of a diner, a hamburger joint or anything that would provide him with an alibi. That would be his little white lie; he hadn't made a run for it, he'd gone to get food.
Dean would probably not believe him, but he'd never say so. Sam would.
It took John Winchester four hours to find a decent hamburger with bacon and cheese, with onions on the side for his son. He even remembered to get some pie.
Dean woke with a start when a hand landed on his shoulder. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in the OR waiting room, the last reserve of his energy finally depleted. The cops arriving to ask him questions had jarred him, not that he didn't expect there to be an inquest but their interest in Sam was unnerving. The repeated questioning on why a sixteen year old was working at night, if it happened often and what kind of work they really did and how they got along with their father was not the line of questions Dean was expecting. Neither was the older female officer's faked sympathy. To Dean it seemed she was fishing for intel, wanting to nail them for just about anything. The fact that he couldn't tell them where dad was had made the officer scribble furiously in a notebook. The entire thing felt fishy. Sure, if they started looking at Sam's multiple moves to different locations, dug into his school's health-care, they wouldn't be too happy. Dean still remembered the time they got the call from the couch, wondering where Sam had got all his bruises from at the age of twelve. They had moved out of town that same night. Sam had had one of his growing spurts and he kept falling over his own feet during training. And then there had been the occasional encounter with some evil son of a bitch that they hadn't been able to keep Sam safe from. Their records didn't look good, he knew that. And Sam was still a minor.
There had been no news in hours about Sam and while he sat there, waiting, nauseated and oddly numb thanks to the medication, he'd finally had to cave, unable fight the exhaustion.
He blinked up at John, standing there with a take-out bag in his hand, like it was an ordinary day.
“Where were you?” His voice was gravelly and full of accusation while he glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Went to get some food.” His father's voice was non-committal and Dean snorted in disbelief.
“Sam's still alive by the way, ” he spoke, unable to hide the bitter anger in his voice. “Not much more than barely, last I heard.”
“I know, talked to a nurse.” John sat down heavily, placing the bag on the table. “Might be hours still. Depending on if there's more bleeding. Can't keep him under much longer, he's too weak for that. Told me to pray.”
That's when Dean noticed that his father smelled of cheap whiskey. He groaned inwardly. “Eat something, dad. You're gonna need it.”
He couldn't stand it any longer and stood up, walking the vending machine, digging for cash in his pocket. This was the sure sign that dad was falling apart and he needed to stop the downward spiral fast. Last time he remembered dad resorting to drinking was when he got home from a hunt, all banged up and tight-lipped with a sense of doom hanging over him for weeks. Dean never got to know what had happened.
He pushed the button for a double espresso, tapping his fingers impatiently against the fancy colored front of the vending machine. When he tasted the concoction, it was just as bad as he thought, but strong. He sipped on his own while he waited for the second dose of caffeinated venom, glancing over at the couch and dad. Watching dad sit slumped over, desolated, had the images of Sam, those he'd been actively suppressing, wash over him, ruthlessly. Like a punch to his guts.
His hand trembled, making the coffee splash over his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he walked over and extended the Styrofoam cup to his father. “Drink up! We gotta stay sharp, for Sam, remember? The cops questioned me, they're looking for you.”
“I figured as much, you know what that means, don't you?” His father looked pointedly at him.
“That child-services are sharpening their pencils and we need to get Sam out of here.”
John nodded and opened the paper bag. “Eat!”
And Dean did. He chewed on the burger, tasteless like cardboard, growing in his mouth until he had to force himself to swallow. Was this what it was going to be like without Sam? Would the two of them grow to hate each other, blaming one another for what happened? Would they end up talking with monosyllabic words thrown in each others faces? Would he ever be able to look at dad and not remember Sam? Would he only remember Sam all beaten up and dying? How would they be able to move Sam without risking his life if he made it through surgery? This was hell, nothing else than pure hell. They risked losing Sam either way. To death or to the system.
He dropped the half-eaten burger back into the bag, suppressing the gagging reflex.
“Dean?”
“Not hungry, dad. What are you going to tell the cops? How do we keep them from digging in to our history when they get wind of Sam's earlier injuries? He's a minor dad, they will have a field day with this.” He rested his face in his palms, trying to quell the nausea, shaking his head. “I just keep seeing Sam under all that stuff in there. Why did I let him take off all alone? Why didn't I give him the fucking shovel when he asked for it? If I'd done that, none of this would have happened! Dad, we made him feel useless, having him stand there doing nothing but holding that fucking flashlight. I was just jerkin' him around!”
“He was given an order, Dean, and he disobeyed.” John's eyes were blank and directed at the Styrofoam cup.
Something exploded inside Dean, an anger so searing that he had to gasp for air. Right in that instance he wanted to lash out, scream at their father, remind him of the gravity of the situation. What the fuck was wrong with the man? This was no the time to give him lectures, drilling the importance of disciplined warfare into him. “Sam's no Marine, dad, he's my little brother and your son!”
“Dean, I love Sammy, you know that. But this wasn't your fault. He did disobey an order, that's the fact. I'm not saying this is all his fault, but it is a consequence of disobeying a direct order.”
Dean turned to look at his father, the anger bristling inside of him, threatening to consume him. “Or maybe we should have listened to him when he tried to tell us our plan may be wrong, that we needed to do more research?”
“No Dean, you're wrong. I should have listened to him, I should have helped him do the research. I didn't and now Sam's fighting for his life. Don't you think I know that? Don't you know I'll be carrying this with me for the rest of my life? I failed him, Dean, not you. And if we lose him,” he paused, diverting his eyes to the floor. “Losing Sam's not an option Dean, we have to do anything it takes to keep him with us. Anything!”
The silence that followed was stifling and Dean's anger abated in the face of their father's remorse.
“I'll take care of this son. I'll fix this.”
Dean nodded, wanting to believe dad so desperately. But whichever way he looked, chances were that this time, they were in over their heads. Watching dad's slumped figure, eyes now focused on the pattern of the linoleum, face creased with concern, Dean leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
They didn't speak for hours, they just sat there, captured in their own personal limbo.
When steps finally came their way, Dean nervously shifted his eyes to the right. The surgeon approaching had missed a spot of what was undeniably Sam's blood on her green pants. The top seemed new and pristine and Dean wondered what the scrubs she'd changed out of had looked like?
“Winchester?” The woman stopped a few feet away, looking at them with tired eyes.
Dean merely nodded, his mouth going so dry that his tongue seemed glued to his palate. In the corner of his eyes, he watched his father rise to his feet. Jaw clenched tight.
“I'm Claudine Nessler, the surgeon in charge of Sam Winchester.” She paused and studied them both, as if estimating how much they could handle. “Sam is now in post-op and will shortly be moved to the ICU. He's going to be closely monitored for some days due to his internal injuries. If he makes it through the first twenty-four hours, chances are that he will survive. He will obviously be heavily medicated and sedated, so do not expect him to be coherent or even awake. I don't want you to be scared when you see him; he's not a pretty sight right now. Our main concern is to keep his organs from collapsing, and that is what we will be concentrating on. He has minor traumas to his liver and one kidney, but they will, with proper medication, heal with time. He's proved to be strong so I hold more hopes now than I initially did. Now it's just a question of time and getting him through the first days. We won't be able to check his neurological status before he's completely coherent, but it looks promising. Doesn't seem like his brain was starved for oxygen for too long.”
“Can we see him?” Dad's voice was low and gravelly. Dean didn't find his own.
Doctor Nessler nodded. “Only briefly. I'll have nurse Logan take you to him when he's settled. Then I'd suggest you go home to rest, someone will phone you if there's a change in Sam's condition.”
“Thank you,” John croaked and Dean's leg gave in and he sank back onto he coach, trying to steel himself for what he was going to see. He was torn, he wanted to see that Sam was alive and breathing, just to get those images of him lying in the dirt, half choked to death, out of his mind. But if he was going to get a new set of Sam beaten into a bloody pulp and hooked up to machines, only to have Sammy die on him in the end, he wasn't sure he'd cope. He just wasn't sure he'd cope, period. He wanted this to be a fucking nightmare and Sam to wake him up and tell him to get a fucking grip already.
When the nurse arrived to escort them, Dean had to fight himself to follow instead of running to plant a fist through the wall or throw a chair through the window. Maybe kick the TV, with the crappy talk shows running on endlessly, into oblivion. Like this fucking reality he was currently stuck in and couldn't turn off.
But he bit down, focused on the back of the nurse's head and followed.
Then he stood there, at the side of Sam's bed and his breath hitched painfully. Sam was covered in bandages, and the parts that were not, were covered in multi-colored bruises. Dean noted with relief that Sam's eyes were no longer taped shut, that the blood had been washed off the pale face and even his hair had been rinsed and combed. And that was what had tears prick behind his eyelids; Sam's bangs falling all wrong over his forehead.
His fingers strayed there by themselves, shifting a strand to the left, the way it fell by itself when Sam was all right. The bruised skin was warm against his fingertips, but Sam didn't wake up and throw him a glare for being a fucking sentimental whack-job. Dean shifted slightly, letting his eyes run down the too still form under the cover. The only part that didn't have any tubes or lines were his fingers, sticking out from the cast. Sam's knuckles were scraped and Dean ran the pad of his thumb over the raw skin. The fingers were cool to his touch and Dean's voice broke when he finally spoke: “Jesus, Sammy!”
He lifted his eyes at the sudden, brusque movement of his father, standing at the opposite side of the bed and watched John pivot and walk out.
John stalked out, for the second time in just one day. But this time he had an actual goal; the nearest restroom. The sign at the end of the corridor felt like a blessing as he repeatedly swallowed down the sour taste of already ingested coffee and booze rising in his throat. Cold sweat was dripping off his forehead, burning in his eyes when he stumbled inside the booth.
John Winchester threw up, emptied his stomach thoroughly, sinking to his knees by the stool, heaving until there was nothing left. What had rippled through his brain back in that room had made what he so actively was trying to suppress, surface like a vengeance. For just a second, when he watched his youngest, beaten and broken, he had thought that maybe it had been better if Sam had been allowed to die. That it would have been better if he'd held him close and let him go gently, without pain. Maybe, just maybe, there was a heaven? Maybe Mary would have been there to take Sammy into her arms and heal him? He wanted to believe . But after having hunted as long as he had, he'd lost all hope of any goodness, any exit from all the evil. And seeing Sammy like that, knowing the kind of pain he'd have to sustain before he was well again, that was if he actually did pull through, was too much to bear. The kid didn't have one patch of skin that wasn't bruised! And the internal injuries? Breathing alone was going to cause him pain. And the way they currently lived? Fourth floor without an elevator? Crammed up in a two room apartment with a tiny kitchenette? With the water brownish and smelly? Most of the windows that wouldn't even open? He'd have to find somewhere decent to live, he just couldn't take Sammy back to that place. He'd have to settle until Sam was back on his feet, find a job to get Sam the medical care he needed, just plain stick around. And that would mean that they'd grate each other's nerves constantly. They always did.
And for that he had wished his son to die? He'd turned into one of the monsters he hunted, he'd become less than human. Sam was his son and he loved him despite all and that thought, that Sam would have been better off dead had actually crossed his mind? Who was he to wonder if the snippets of intel about Sam being different, Sam maybe turning into something evil, were true? He himself had crossed that line inside that hospital room, crossed the line into the dark side without any possible destiny aiding him in the crossing.
He'd wished his son would die, how would he ever be able to face Sam again?
Dean looked at his brother through the window. All they had given him were five minutes, five! Rules and regulation they'd said, and that he'd be welcome back tomorrow, during visiting hours. They kept telling him Sammy might die and then they give him five fucking minutes? He had a lot to say to Sammy, loads of things he'd never said before. The words just wouldn't come out in freakin' five minutes. The words still alluded him, but the desperate need to keep Sam with them was constantly present. The more hope he got, the more crazy he felt at the thought of Sammy disappearing on him. Little brothers don't die, they hang around long enough to mock you in your old age. Little brothers are there to be instructed by awesome, older brothers. They're there to be impressed and in awe. Not that Sam was ever too impressed, but he was fucking there. He was the one constant in Dean's life. Wordlessly rolling his eyes at him, dramatically sighing and casting weird glances when he thought Dean was being a pain in the ass. He was there to discuss different chicks' degree of hotness, even if they totally disagreed on what was hot. Sam was such a nerd that he went for geek-girls, the brainy things that half bored Dean to death. Sam was always there, going all twitchy when nervous, all suspiciously vigilant after a prank or hilariously bitchy, brooding and incredibly sharp in his observations. That was all his Sammy, and so much more Dean hadn't yet fully discovered about him. Because Sam really was capable of hiding in plain sight.
Dean jumped when a hand nudged his elbow.
“Winchester?”
A nurse he'd never seen before as standing at his side, looking at him. He nodded, still not finding words.
“There's a phone call waiting for you at the nurses' desk. Louise Kulick. She says she has been trying to call but gets no answer. Will you take the call?”
With a look to Sam, he nodded and followed.
Louise Kulick sounded weird on the phone. Like she regretted disturbing them. Her voice shook when she asked how Sam was doing. Dean only gruffed 'fine' into the phone and didn't elaborate. Louise took the hint.
“I have your car here, I figured, I mean if you need it I can leave the key at the ER or something.”
Dean finally managed to formulate a 'thank you', which came out more scratchy and gravelly than he had expected.
Louise was silent for a moment, clearly wondering how to continue without putting her foot in her mouth. “I was thinking, that maybe, while you wait for Sam to get better you'd like a room or something? Our doors are always open but I,” she swallowed. “I guess you're not so interested in seeing the place again so I thought I'd get you a room here in town, closer to the hospital?”
“We already have a room,” Dean cracked.
“Oh, well then -. “ There was another long pause before she continued, sounding guilty, words rushing out of her in penance. “Look, me and Tom are so sorry for what happened, and anything you need, you just call us. Anything. We want to pay for that room, as long as you need to stay for Sam to get better. I mean. I can't begin to tell you how sad I am about all this. We never wanted anyone to get hurt! If you need some rest, I'll sit with Sam, I know it's not the same but -.”
“We're fine,” Dean replied curtly.
“You don't understand! I need to help. I keep seeing Sam on that gurney, all – . I was talking to him before, he was so polite, you know. I have sons, and just thinking if it were -. I need to help out! Anything, please!”
She sounded like she was close to tears and Dean realized that Sam had gotten to them. He'd made an impression, he'd do that sometimes. Swipe people off their feet without ever knowing he did it. Probably gave her the puppy eyes of doom. That did it every time.
“'Kay,” he said. “I'll be at the Er's information desk in a minute. Just stay put, I'll find you.”
He hung up before she could answer, her pleas were tugging at his very soul. He should go look for John but instead he walked back to Sam's room and pressed his fingers to the window pane.
“Don't you dare go anywhere while I'm gone, Sammy! You hearing that? You stay right here or I'll smack you!”
When he turned to walk away, he wondered if he was going to regret leaving for the rest of his life? Maybe he should have asked Louise to bring the key to him instead? He just didn't want anyone to see Sam this vulnerable. Sammy would hate it, he wasn't a control freak for nothing. Dean stuck his hands in his coat pockets, just like Sam always did when he stalked off. And Dean wanted all that back, all the stupid things his brother did!
Author: *bright
Rating: Gen. PG-13
Spoilers: None, pre-series.
Character: Sam, Dean, John
Category: Limp!Sam, angst, h/c. Teen!Sam gets hurt.
Summary: A road-trip, a hunt gone wrong and the Winchesters' exploration of their family's dynamic.
Author's note: I wrote this just because hurting Sam is fun! And then I wanted to explore the Sam and John dynamic that was never fully dealt with on the show. This one was intended to be a short one-shot; the bugger grew out of my hands. Not beta'd. The original character have nothing to do with accidental namesakes. Was unable to come up with a nifty title *sighs*
Words: around 34.000
Disclaimer: Me own zip and nada, ‘cept an over active imagination. Everything belongs to Kripke & Co.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Dean was taken to the ER waiting room and told to wait. That's when the panic took over. The moment the paramedic left, Dean was walking the long and dwindling corridors of the ER, looking into every examination room. Staring at every face he met to see if there was anyone he recognized from before. Bumping into nurses that tried to stop him.
He had to draw deep breaths; it seemed that the air didn't reach his lungs anymore. When he turned a corner, he spotted a door flung wide open and people hurriedly filing in and out. Machinery was pulled in and voices ordered tests in continuation.
Heavy steps closed in on him and he felt a hand on his elbow. His father gruffed something about quitting to run off.
“Sammy's in there,” Dean said, absolutely certain. Dad still kept his hand curled around his elbow when they made their way to the door. He sensed dad's hand shivering when they stopped and took in the sight through the window.
Sam was still on his side, face covered with the mask. A woman holding one hand on his brow, the other on his shoulder. Dean only registered snippets of what was happening; images slammed in to his brain one by one. The next that registered was Sam's chest, covered with what looked like angry red welts. Sam being moved over to another gurney, propped up to lie slumped over, bent forward and a gloved hand pressing on his back.
Dean closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. The sounds of Sam's heart beat were too fast and too irregular and all numbers on the screen were blinking in orange and red. He wasn't able to comprehend the words spoken inside the room, the scream inside his head was too loud.
“Step back!” John ordered and pulled Dean flush against the wall.
When Dean opened his eyes, he saw Sam being wheeled out of the room towards the open elevator straight across the isle. Metal slammed against the walls, the heavy sighs of the vent felt like punches and the fast orders between the white and green clad figures bounced off the walls and echoed in Dean's head. Like bells of doom.
“Sam!” He finally got the word out when the elevator door closed and left them behind.
“You Sam Winchester's family?” Someone asked at his side but Dean was unable to stop staring at the closed door.
“I'm his father, and Dean's his brother.”
Dad's voice sounded shell-shocked and when Dean looked at him, he was rattled to his core.
Dad's face was nearly as white as Sam's. Lips pressed into a thin bloodless line and his brow was wrinkled, turning the usually stoic features into a grimace of absolute horror and pain over what he just had witnessed.
Neither of them seemed capable of speech. Dean had long since lost the ability of rational thought; everywhere he looked, Sam's prone figure flashed before his eyes. The blood and the cord strapped around his neck, Sam with a tube down his throat and Sam being dragged over to the gurney, offering no resistance, no signs of life. He rubbed his eyes in a desperate trial to rid himself of the images.
“Let's find somewhere to talk, would you follow me, please? We need to assess you too, run some tests to ensure that you're not going to suffer long-term consequences by the smoke-inhalation.” The voice continued and Dean finally steeled himself enough to turn and watch the face of the speaker, expecting to see hopelessness and defeat.
The woman's face was absolutely blank, revealing nothing. And somehow Dean found that worse than an actual show of emotion, any emotion. He looked at the woman; graying hair and reading glasses, sharp eyes watching him intently before she moved her gaze to John, standing still behind him.
“This way,” she said and Dean followed without question.
She stopped three doors down and beaconed them inside an examination room with two simple stretchers aside each other. The light was sharp and white and Dean felt the room starting to suck the air out of his lungs.
“Sit down, Dean. Head between your knees! You too Mr. Winchester.” Hands on his shoulders pushed him backwards until the back of his legs felt the bed's metal frame and he clumsily hoisted himself up to sit. Then his head was forced down and held there. And that's when he realized he must really have been out of it because he didn't even find it in himself to protest. Slowly his head cleared and he actually made sense of his surroundings. The doc, whose name he hadn't even noticed was telling somebody what tests she wanted and to start with John Winchester because she really didn't like the sound of his breathing.
Dean pulled his head up and looked over at his father. Lying on the stretcher with an oxygen cannula under his nose. “Dad?”
“I'm fine, Dean. Nothing wrong with my breathing. You just keep that head down because you look about ready to faint.” Dad was looking at him, eyes narrow, investigating slits.
“We'll see who faints first when they pull out the big ass needles to draw blood!”
The the sadist female doc pushed him down to lie on the white paper sheet and hooked him up too.
“It's always the toughest that fall the hardest,” she stated with a totally non-committal voice as she pulled a chair from the wall and seated herself between the gurneys while a nurse stepped in and filled a couple of test tubes with their blood. It fucking hurt and Dean wondered how many times Sam would be prodded before all this was over?
“You want us lying down before you tell us about Sam? That it?” He just had to ask.
”I want you lying down because I'm going to get the glass splinters off your face and check your breathing. I can't tell you anything about Sam right now, except that he was still alive when he was taken to the OR. We will get word if something drastic happens, until then, I intend on taking care of you and your father.”
A syringe appeared in her hand and Dean scowled: “What the hell is that?”
“A mild sedative, I've seen bigger boys than you crash.”
Dean got the feeling that you didn't play with this dame or she'd have you on psych eval and committed for bad-assery in no time.
“Sam's the girl of the family, he mopes right up there with the best of them.” Dean started but the usually handy quips failed him. What the fuck was he jabbering about? Sam had taken steel pegs and a fucking cabinet after being half choked to death and was still fighting! Sam had gone after whatever hell was in that ancient barn turned to storage-slash-carpentry-slash-ghoul nest and fought with whatever he could find in there. He'd lain under all that weight, and still refused to quit before the fucking thing was dead and gone!
He must have made a sound because the small tweezers made a stop in the air and the doc looked at him. “Only two left, then you'll be as good as new.”
He closed his eyes under the harsh light; he's rather have his face and ass full of splinters as long as Sam made it. At least that pain would be more durable than the fucking fear that made him want to scream and kick. He couldn't help Sammy now, wasn't able to do anything but wait and see and trust Sam to pull through this. It was not that he didn't trust his little brother, he did. Sam was the most stubborn son of a bitch he knew, even worse than dad at times. But it wasn't all up to Sammy now, and that drove Dean crazy. No evil had ever scared him like the thought of losing Sammy did.
There were steps approaching and Dean opened his eyes and held his breath. A nurse was handing the doc a small stack of papers and Dean felt the panic flare through him. Sammy?
His fingers gripped the edge of the bed, his heart pounded and he had to actively suffocate the will to scream.
“Good news,” the doctor nodded content. “Your lab results are fine and your 0-stats are holding. There's no residual effect of the smoke inhalation.“
Dean stared. Did the woman think he cared about any of that? He'd been promised news about Sam! The more the bitch dragged out on telling them, the crazier he got. If she didn't spill soon, he'd be taking the stairs and finding Sam by himself. Banging down every door, to find out what was going on.
“And Sam? Why is there no word?” Dad's voice was irritated enough to send the nurse swabbing his face with sterilizing liquid to take a hurried step back. When she wanted to continue the task, dad gave her one of his patented stares of death and she turned on her heels and walked out.
“I won't lie to you, it doesn't look good. I m in fact amazed he made it to the hospital with the blood loss he'd suffered. He was in hypovolemic shock and his heart was suffering from the strain. We had a pretty good idea that one vein was nicked by the steel peg and we were right, luckily it seems the metal served as a tamponad, otherwise he would have died right away. This way the injury had time to start the coagulating process and slowed the bleeding enough for us to counter with transfusions.”
She looked up from the last document.
Dad pulled himself up to a sitting position, hands rubbing his face. “I nearly killed him by pulling that junk off him?”
“I don't think you had any alternative. From what I hear it was either that or your son would have died in the fire.”
The images of Sam whirled before Dean's eyes and he sank back. Staring up into the light nearly blinding him.
“There's still some internal bleeding. And that is the major problem in the OR right now. We have two teams working on him to prevent keeping him under for too long in his weakened state.”
She paused, turning the page.
“One of his lung was pierced and collapsed. There's bound to be more internal injuries but that's what they've found so far. His shoulder is dislocated and his left collar bone is broken, as are several of his ribs and his wrist. Babinski was negative so there should not be any major neurological damage. His reflexes were weak but still present so we don't expect any spinal cord injuries. It is touch and go, will probably remain so for a couple of days if he survives the surgery. The good thing is that he is young, in very good shape and his coagulation is excellent. Sam may come out of this with flying colors, it's only a question of how strong he is. The main concern will be infections and averse effects of the transfusions if he survives the surgery. The rest can be fixed.”
Dean had to swallow and close his eyes. Silence settled in the room, a screaming silence, filled with questions he wasn't able to articulate. The rustle of paper had him turn his head and watch his father. Without a word John rose and walked out of the room, never looking back.
“Dad?” Dean crawled up into a sitting position.
“Sir?” The doctor inquired.
Dean's eyes followed his stride until John turned the corner and was out of sight. Then Dean rid himself of the nasal cannula and stood up, facing the doctor.
“I need to get to Sam,” he declared. “I need to be close in case something happens.”
“Your brother will be in the OR for hours, you should get some rest.” She tilted her head to the side, watching him with the intent grayish eyes, like he were a guinea pig in a maze, stamina and resilience tested. When she opened her mouth to continue, Dean cut her off with words spoken in a tone that tolerated no discussion.
“Where's Sammy?”
John didn't stop until he was out of the ER, away from the stench of sterilizing liquids, freed from the harsh light baring his fears for everyone to see, naked and revealed. There was nothing but an anger so fierce it almost choked him. That thing, had almost taken his son and made him, the father, the supposed protector to take actions that nearly ended his son's life. If Sam did die, he'd have his son's blood on his hands in more ways than one. Maybe he should have listened to Sam, done more research? He definitely shouldn't have let Sam wander off all on his own. Sam wasn't Dean; Sam didn't take well to orders. Sam questioned, Sam needed to understand the whys. John had never had the patience for that, you never asked why when lives where at stake. He'd been to late to save Mary, he had stood there, wondering why blood dripped off the ceiling and onto his son? Those precious seconds of pondering had sealed Mary's fate.
He hadn't hesitated to act since. Reflection was a waste of time when in danger. But this time, maybe he should have stopped and figured things out? Maybe they should have concentrated on killing the fire? At least until help arrived?
If they lost Sammy, those questions would be haunting him for the rest of his life, just like the guilt of Mary's death was his daily companion.
He didn't stop until he reached the parking lot, suddenly remembering that he had no car, had no means of transportation at all. What he wanted right now was to get back to the house and make sure the bastard of a spirit that was responsible for Sam's desperate clinging to life, was gone, destroyed. The need to do something, something that actually made a difference was making him fist his hands, much like Dean had before, over and over. His entire body was screaming for revenge, the anger was more pure now than after Mary had died, because this time he knew. Those things were out there, hiding in the darkness, lingering in the shadows, to come out to take lives and destroy families. He wanted them all eradicated. Once and for all.
And here he was, stranded, the sun rising at the horizon and his son fighting for his life inside, while he was helpless to do anything that mattered. He'd lost track of time, didn't remember how he actually got here, only that he had pushed through herds of people to get out and away. Faces had seemed mere blotches, raised voices had only registered as white noise between his own heavy and rushed heartbeats.
And Dean was left inside. Dean whose face was ashen and drawn with worry for the little brother he had practically raised. The only person in his life that was always there, brooding and sullen at times, but always present. John knew painfully well that he wasn't, and hadn't ever been, the model parent.
At least that was something he could fix, this time he'd be there for Dean. He scanned the surroundings in search of a diner, a hamburger joint or anything that would provide him with an alibi. That would be his little white lie; he hadn't made a run for it, he'd gone to get food.
Dean would probably not believe him, but he'd never say so. Sam would.
It took John Winchester four hours to find a decent hamburger with bacon and cheese, with onions on the side for his son. He even remembered to get some pie.
Dean woke with a start when a hand landed on his shoulder. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in the OR waiting room, the last reserve of his energy finally depleted. The cops arriving to ask him questions had jarred him, not that he didn't expect there to be an inquest but their interest in Sam was unnerving. The repeated questioning on why a sixteen year old was working at night, if it happened often and what kind of work they really did and how they got along with their father was not the line of questions Dean was expecting. Neither was the older female officer's faked sympathy. To Dean it seemed she was fishing for intel, wanting to nail them for just about anything. The fact that he couldn't tell them where dad was had made the officer scribble furiously in a notebook. The entire thing felt fishy. Sure, if they started looking at Sam's multiple moves to different locations, dug into his school's health-care, they wouldn't be too happy. Dean still remembered the time they got the call from the couch, wondering where Sam had got all his bruises from at the age of twelve. They had moved out of town that same night. Sam had had one of his growing spurts and he kept falling over his own feet during training. And then there had been the occasional encounter with some evil son of a bitch that they hadn't been able to keep Sam safe from. Their records didn't look good, he knew that. And Sam was still a minor.
There had been no news in hours about Sam and while he sat there, waiting, nauseated and oddly numb thanks to the medication, he'd finally had to cave, unable fight the exhaustion.
He blinked up at John, standing there with a take-out bag in his hand, like it was an ordinary day.
“Where were you?” His voice was gravelly and full of accusation while he glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Went to get some food.” His father's voice was non-committal and Dean snorted in disbelief.
“Sam's still alive by the way, ” he spoke, unable to hide the bitter anger in his voice. “Not much more than barely, last I heard.”
“I know, talked to a nurse.” John sat down heavily, placing the bag on the table. “Might be hours still. Depending on if there's more bleeding. Can't keep him under much longer, he's too weak for that. Told me to pray.”
That's when Dean noticed that his father smelled of cheap whiskey. He groaned inwardly. “Eat something, dad. You're gonna need it.”
He couldn't stand it any longer and stood up, walking the vending machine, digging for cash in his pocket. This was the sure sign that dad was falling apart and he needed to stop the downward spiral fast. Last time he remembered dad resorting to drinking was when he got home from a hunt, all banged up and tight-lipped with a sense of doom hanging over him for weeks. Dean never got to know what had happened.
He pushed the button for a double espresso, tapping his fingers impatiently against the fancy colored front of the vending machine. When he tasted the concoction, it was just as bad as he thought, but strong. He sipped on his own while he waited for the second dose of caffeinated venom, glancing over at the couch and dad. Watching dad sit slumped over, desolated, had the images of Sam, those he'd been actively suppressing, wash over him, ruthlessly. Like a punch to his guts.
His hand trembled, making the coffee splash over his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he walked over and extended the Styrofoam cup to his father. “Drink up! We gotta stay sharp, for Sam, remember? The cops questioned me, they're looking for you.”
“I figured as much, you know what that means, don't you?” His father looked pointedly at him.
“That child-services are sharpening their pencils and we need to get Sam out of here.”
John nodded and opened the paper bag. “Eat!”
And Dean did. He chewed on the burger, tasteless like cardboard, growing in his mouth until he had to force himself to swallow. Was this what it was going to be like without Sam? Would the two of them grow to hate each other, blaming one another for what happened? Would they end up talking with monosyllabic words thrown in each others faces? Would he ever be able to look at dad and not remember Sam? Would he only remember Sam all beaten up and dying? How would they be able to move Sam without risking his life if he made it through surgery? This was hell, nothing else than pure hell. They risked losing Sam either way. To death or to the system.
He dropped the half-eaten burger back into the bag, suppressing the gagging reflex.
“Dean?”
“Not hungry, dad. What are you going to tell the cops? How do we keep them from digging in to our history when they get wind of Sam's earlier injuries? He's a minor dad, they will have a field day with this.” He rested his face in his palms, trying to quell the nausea, shaking his head. “I just keep seeing Sam under all that stuff in there. Why did I let him take off all alone? Why didn't I give him the fucking shovel when he asked for it? If I'd done that, none of this would have happened! Dad, we made him feel useless, having him stand there doing nothing but holding that fucking flashlight. I was just jerkin' him around!”
“He was given an order, Dean, and he disobeyed.” John's eyes were blank and directed at the Styrofoam cup.
Something exploded inside Dean, an anger so searing that he had to gasp for air. Right in that instance he wanted to lash out, scream at their father, remind him of the gravity of the situation. What the fuck was wrong with the man? This was no the time to give him lectures, drilling the importance of disciplined warfare into him. “Sam's no Marine, dad, he's my little brother and your son!”
“Dean, I love Sammy, you know that. But this wasn't your fault. He did disobey an order, that's the fact. I'm not saying this is all his fault, but it is a consequence of disobeying a direct order.”
Dean turned to look at his father, the anger bristling inside of him, threatening to consume him. “Or maybe we should have listened to him when he tried to tell us our plan may be wrong, that we needed to do more research?”
“No Dean, you're wrong. I should have listened to him, I should have helped him do the research. I didn't and now Sam's fighting for his life. Don't you think I know that? Don't you know I'll be carrying this with me for the rest of my life? I failed him, Dean, not you. And if we lose him,” he paused, diverting his eyes to the floor. “Losing Sam's not an option Dean, we have to do anything it takes to keep him with us. Anything!”
The silence that followed was stifling and Dean's anger abated in the face of their father's remorse.
“I'll take care of this son. I'll fix this.”
Dean nodded, wanting to believe dad so desperately. But whichever way he looked, chances were that this time, they were in over their heads. Watching dad's slumped figure, eyes now focused on the pattern of the linoleum, face creased with concern, Dean leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
They didn't speak for hours, they just sat there, captured in their own personal limbo.
When steps finally came their way, Dean nervously shifted his eyes to the right. The surgeon approaching had missed a spot of what was undeniably Sam's blood on her green pants. The top seemed new and pristine and Dean wondered what the scrubs she'd changed out of had looked like?
“Winchester?” The woman stopped a few feet away, looking at them with tired eyes.
Dean merely nodded, his mouth going so dry that his tongue seemed glued to his palate. In the corner of his eyes, he watched his father rise to his feet. Jaw clenched tight.
“I'm Claudine Nessler, the surgeon in charge of Sam Winchester.” She paused and studied them both, as if estimating how much they could handle. “Sam is now in post-op and will shortly be moved to the ICU. He's going to be closely monitored for some days due to his internal injuries. If he makes it through the first twenty-four hours, chances are that he will survive. He will obviously be heavily medicated and sedated, so do not expect him to be coherent or even awake. I don't want you to be scared when you see him; he's not a pretty sight right now. Our main concern is to keep his organs from collapsing, and that is what we will be concentrating on. He has minor traumas to his liver and one kidney, but they will, with proper medication, heal with time. He's proved to be strong so I hold more hopes now than I initially did. Now it's just a question of time and getting him through the first days. We won't be able to check his neurological status before he's completely coherent, but it looks promising. Doesn't seem like his brain was starved for oxygen for too long.”
“Can we see him?” Dad's voice was low and gravelly. Dean didn't find his own.
Doctor Nessler nodded. “Only briefly. I'll have nurse Logan take you to him when he's settled. Then I'd suggest you go home to rest, someone will phone you if there's a change in Sam's condition.”
“Thank you,” John croaked and Dean's leg gave in and he sank back onto he coach, trying to steel himself for what he was going to see. He was torn, he wanted to see that Sam was alive and breathing, just to get those images of him lying in the dirt, half choked to death, out of his mind. But if he was going to get a new set of Sam beaten into a bloody pulp and hooked up to machines, only to have Sammy die on him in the end, he wasn't sure he'd cope. He just wasn't sure he'd cope, period. He wanted this to be a fucking nightmare and Sam to wake him up and tell him to get a fucking grip already.
When the nurse arrived to escort them, Dean had to fight himself to follow instead of running to plant a fist through the wall or throw a chair through the window. Maybe kick the TV, with the crappy talk shows running on endlessly, into oblivion. Like this fucking reality he was currently stuck in and couldn't turn off.
But he bit down, focused on the back of the nurse's head and followed.
Then he stood there, at the side of Sam's bed and his breath hitched painfully. Sam was covered in bandages, and the parts that were not, were covered in multi-colored bruises. Dean noted with relief that Sam's eyes were no longer taped shut, that the blood had been washed off the pale face and even his hair had been rinsed and combed. And that was what had tears prick behind his eyelids; Sam's bangs falling all wrong over his forehead.
His fingers strayed there by themselves, shifting a strand to the left, the way it fell by itself when Sam was all right. The bruised skin was warm against his fingertips, but Sam didn't wake up and throw him a glare for being a fucking sentimental whack-job. Dean shifted slightly, letting his eyes run down the too still form under the cover. The only part that didn't have any tubes or lines were his fingers, sticking out from the cast. Sam's knuckles were scraped and Dean ran the pad of his thumb over the raw skin. The fingers were cool to his touch and Dean's voice broke when he finally spoke: “Jesus, Sammy!”
He lifted his eyes at the sudden, brusque movement of his father, standing at the opposite side of the bed and watched John pivot and walk out.
John stalked out, for the second time in just one day. But this time he had an actual goal; the nearest restroom. The sign at the end of the corridor felt like a blessing as he repeatedly swallowed down the sour taste of already ingested coffee and booze rising in his throat. Cold sweat was dripping off his forehead, burning in his eyes when he stumbled inside the booth.
John Winchester threw up, emptied his stomach thoroughly, sinking to his knees by the stool, heaving until there was nothing left. What had rippled through his brain back in that room had made what he so actively was trying to suppress, surface like a vengeance. For just a second, when he watched his youngest, beaten and broken, he had thought that maybe it had been better if Sam had been allowed to die. That it would have been better if he'd held him close and let him go gently, without pain. Maybe, just maybe, there was a heaven? Maybe Mary would have been there to take Sammy into her arms and heal him? He wanted to believe . But after having hunted as long as he had, he'd lost all hope of any goodness, any exit from all the evil. And seeing Sammy like that, knowing the kind of pain he'd have to sustain before he was well again, that was if he actually did pull through, was too much to bear. The kid didn't have one patch of skin that wasn't bruised! And the internal injuries? Breathing alone was going to cause him pain. And the way they currently lived? Fourth floor without an elevator? Crammed up in a two room apartment with a tiny kitchenette? With the water brownish and smelly? Most of the windows that wouldn't even open? He'd have to find somewhere decent to live, he just couldn't take Sammy back to that place. He'd have to settle until Sam was back on his feet, find a job to get Sam the medical care he needed, just plain stick around. And that would mean that they'd grate each other's nerves constantly. They always did.
And for that he had wished his son to die? He'd turned into one of the monsters he hunted, he'd become less than human. Sam was his son and he loved him despite all and that thought, that Sam would have been better off dead had actually crossed his mind? Who was he to wonder if the snippets of intel about Sam being different, Sam maybe turning into something evil, were true? He himself had crossed that line inside that hospital room, crossed the line into the dark side without any possible destiny aiding him in the crossing.
He'd wished his son would die, how would he ever be able to face Sam again?
Dean looked at his brother through the window. All they had given him were five minutes, five! Rules and regulation they'd said, and that he'd be welcome back tomorrow, during visiting hours. They kept telling him Sammy might die and then they give him five fucking minutes? He had a lot to say to Sammy, loads of things he'd never said before. The words just wouldn't come out in freakin' five minutes. The words still alluded him, but the desperate need to keep Sam with them was constantly present. The more hope he got, the more crazy he felt at the thought of Sammy disappearing on him. Little brothers don't die, they hang around long enough to mock you in your old age. Little brothers are there to be instructed by awesome, older brothers. They're there to be impressed and in awe. Not that Sam was ever too impressed, but he was fucking there. He was the one constant in Dean's life. Wordlessly rolling his eyes at him, dramatically sighing and casting weird glances when he thought Dean was being a pain in the ass. He was there to discuss different chicks' degree of hotness, even if they totally disagreed on what was hot. Sam was such a nerd that he went for geek-girls, the brainy things that half bored Dean to death. Sam was always there, going all twitchy when nervous, all suspiciously vigilant after a prank or hilariously bitchy, brooding and incredibly sharp in his observations. That was all his Sammy, and so much more Dean hadn't yet fully discovered about him. Because Sam really was capable of hiding in plain sight.
Dean jumped when a hand nudged his elbow.
“Winchester?”
A nurse he'd never seen before as standing at his side, looking at him. He nodded, still not finding words.
“There's a phone call waiting for you at the nurses' desk. Louise Kulick. She says she has been trying to call but gets no answer. Will you take the call?”
With a look to Sam, he nodded and followed.
Louise Kulick sounded weird on the phone. Like she regretted disturbing them. Her voice shook when she asked how Sam was doing. Dean only gruffed 'fine' into the phone and didn't elaborate. Louise took the hint.
“I have your car here, I figured, I mean if you need it I can leave the key at the ER or something.”
Dean finally managed to formulate a 'thank you', which came out more scratchy and gravelly than he had expected.
Louise was silent for a moment, clearly wondering how to continue without putting her foot in her mouth. “I was thinking, that maybe, while you wait for Sam to get better you'd like a room or something? Our doors are always open but I,” she swallowed. “I guess you're not so interested in seeing the place again so I thought I'd get you a room here in town, closer to the hospital?”
“We already have a room,” Dean cracked.
“Oh, well then -. “ There was another long pause before she continued, sounding guilty, words rushing out of her in penance. “Look, me and Tom are so sorry for what happened, and anything you need, you just call us. Anything. We want to pay for that room, as long as you need to stay for Sam to get better. I mean. I can't begin to tell you how sad I am about all this. We never wanted anyone to get hurt! If you need some rest, I'll sit with Sam, I know it's not the same but -.”
“We're fine,” Dean replied curtly.
“You don't understand! I need to help. I keep seeing Sam on that gurney, all – . I was talking to him before, he was so polite, you know. I have sons, and just thinking if it were -. I need to help out! Anything, please!”
She sounded like she was close to tears and Dean realized that Sam had gotten to them. He'd made an impression, he'd do that sometimes. Swipe people off their feet without ever knowing he did it. Probably gave her the puppy eyes of doom. That did it every time.
“'Kay,” he said. “I'll be at the Er's information desk in a minute. Just stay put, I'll find you.”
He hung up before she could answer, her pleas were tugging at his very soul. He should go look for John but instead he walked back to Sam's room and pressed his fingers to the window pane.
“Don't you dare go anywhere while I'm gone, Sammy! You hearing that? You stay right here or I'll smack you!”
When he turned to walk away, he wondered if he was going to regret leaving for the rest of his life? Maybe he should have asked Louise to bring the key to him instead? He just didn't want anyone to see Sam this vulnerable. Sammy would hate it, he wasn't a control freak for nothing. Dean stuck his hands in his coat pockets, just like Sam always did when he stalked off. And Dean wanted all that back, all the stupid things his brother did!
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Oh and "Last time he remembered dad resorting to drinking was when he got home from a hunt, all banged up and tight-lipped with a sense of doom hanging over him for weeks. Dean never got to know what had happened...." Does this have anything to do with Jo's father?
Looking forward to the next chapter and hope, you don't kill him by accident... or something *giggle*
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I'm so enjoying 'pulling teeth' on all three of them, slowly. Heh heh. I'm such a sick puppy!
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