starbright73 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starbright73) wrote2008-09-24 07:04 pm
starbright73) wrote2008-09-24 07:04 pm
Fic: His Father's Son (5/7)
Title: His Father's Son (5/7)
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
Part IV
Part V
John groaned when he rinsed his face with cold water, he was long overdo for a change of clothes and a shower or he'd be considered a biological hazard. Dean needed it too, and some food. He'd barely eaten anything of the burgers John had gotten. He needed to take care of Dean right now, before he crashed. Looking at himself in the mirror, John shook his head at the reflexion. The blood-shot eyes and the haggard, pale look on his face made him think of vampires.
Walking out to the restroom, he held his head down, staying close to the wall. The need to stay under the radar was so imprinted in him that it took over with automation every time he was inside any public building. But his eyes scanned every angle and corner. Stopping at the door to Sam's room, he knitted his brow. Dean was nowhere to be seen and that was one ting he hadn't expected.
It wasn't any easier looking at Sam now. It was worse. Sam seemed to be in distress; John picked up on the minute movements of the fingers on his right hand. The tubes almost covered them but it was there, not more than a quiver. Sam seemed tense and in pain and John jerked the door open.
Laying a hand on his son's brow, feeling for a fever, he jumped at Sam's eyes suddenly opening to a small crack. A spasm ran through Sam's body and tears welled from under the dark lashes. John looked to the door, expecting someone to have noticed the changes and come charging in. It sounded like Sam was fighting the vent, not quite awake but clearly very distressed.
“I need help in here!” He bellowed, scrambling for the call-button. When he looked back to Sam, he was met with confused and panicked eyes, pupils blown and his son's hand was twitching repeatedly. Then Sam blinked and his eyes hazed over with pain and one of the machines his son was connected to started beeping with alarm.
It was the stabbing pain that finally brought him through the darkness that wouldn't let go. The pressure on his chest had him fight it and try to move away from the harsh wind filling his lungs. It was abrasively torrid and damned uncomfortable. He tried to turn his head away but was unable to do so. That was just so wrong that he reflexively worked to get away from whatever was holding him down and clawing at his chest. That was when pain exploded in every fiber of his body. From having been just a dull, throbbing ache it spread like burning fire. His eyes shot open to meet a fuzzy gray. It slowly started to clear at the edges, rendering distorted lines and swimming black dots. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Every time the wind blew, someone stabbed him. He fought against it with all he had, trying to get away from whatever thing was having a go at him.
Then someone hollered angrily for help and his eyes searched the figure out. It sounded like dad and he was pissed. Where was Dean? His dad was never there, Dean was. And if Dean wasn't -. Panic surged through him. Had something happened to Dean? Was he the cause and that was why dad sounded so pissed at him? What had he done? Dean? He coughed, vision was blacking out while something kept trying to push him down. There was a wail in the room, thickening the fog in his head. Voices washed over him, calm and soothing. He was too tired to try and understand, all he wanted to know was where Dean was. Was he all right? He could take anything as long as Dean was all right.
He tensed in pain when something was pulled out of his throat, leaving it burning before the softer air suddenly streamed into his lungs. He gasped for more, trying to clear his head. Dean. Ask for Dean! The pain started to fade, along with his capacity to think. He just needed to tell dad he was sorry. About the mess, about Dean, about everything. Nobody seemed to be paying attention, the voices sailed around him, soft and elusive. One last time he tried to formulate the one word most important to him right now: Dean. The unknown voice sent him back to the darkness.
John was pushed out of the way, to the far wall when the room filled with white and blue-clad personnel.
His eyes were on Sam, fighting the vent and the snippets of rushed words '0 sat sinking, cramps, need to de-tube him, push some muscle relaxant, temp rising, get the tube out now!' mingled with one of the physicians' calling out his son's name to get his attention. Sam's pulse rose and John heart beat with it. The numbers on the monitor turned from orange to red and another alarm went off.
Then the vent was out and Sam gasped for air with a low raspy whimper.
The physician dispatched orders without taking her eyes off Sam. “Give him humidified oxygen at 80 percent, let's see if he stabilizes with a mask. And push some atropine and pain meds! It's all right Sam, you had a tube in your throat to help you breathe. It's all right, just concentrate on breathing in and out slowly now. I've given you something to ease the pain. Try to relax, we're here to help you. No, don't try to talk, it'll only hurt you right now. Add 2 of Droperidol to the IV!”
John's eyes were fixed at the monitor, heart beating in his throat. Slowly the numbers changed and finally they returned to orange and the alarms ceased.
“That's it Sam, the meds are starting to work and you won't feel pain now. A nurse will stay right here with you. It's all right, Sam. Just go to sleep and we'll take care of you.”
She stepped back and turned to the nurse at her side. “Stay with him, re-run the post-op tests and check his fever every five minutes. Call me if it shows tendencies to rise. We can't risk that to happen.”
“What was he trying to say?” The nurse asked, her fingers checking that the oxygen mask was in place.
“I don't know, he's still half-delirious. Sounded like 'Dee' something.” The doctor looked back at her patient.
The nurse glanced down at the chart in her hand. “His brother's name is Dean. Cute kid, I talked to him before. A woman called him on the phone and I think he left.”
“At least we know that his neurological status isn't too impaired if he remembers his brother.” The doctor smiled weakly at the nurse before walking out.
John felt like Sam had slapped him.
When his eyes followed the doctor out of the room, he saw Dean and the Kulick woman behind the window. Dean's face was white, his eyes on Sam, lips pressed to a thin line.
John was finally able to move and he took a step forward, trying to get Dean's attention. The nurse by Sam's bed whipped around, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm his father, and if I hadn't been here, nobody would have noticed what was going on with Sam! He was hurting a long time before the equipment notified you. And nobody was here to see it!” He growled, vexed, and took another step towards the nurse. “After what I saw, I'm not leaving Sam alone here.”
“Sir, you shouldn't be in here, visiting hours are over.” She placed herself like a shield between him and the bed.
“I'm staying with my son, I'm staying right here beside him until he's well enough to tell me not to.”
The nurse looked out the window to the corridor, searching for back up. John's followed her desperate gaze and spotted Dean's questioning, doubtful and haunted stare.
John wondered if everybody saw the remnants of the horrid thought that had assaulted him? Was it visible on his face? Was he already marked?
His first instinct was to run, just leave, but instead he steeled himself and walked out of the room to talk to the son that was staring at him with fearful eyes. And Dean didn't scare easily.
“Tell the doctor, or whomever you need to alert, that I'm staying with my son tonight,” he ordered curtly over his shoulder.
Dean had started running the moment he saw the red lamp above Sam's door; white-clad figures filing in hurriedly, slamming the door shut on him. Pressing the palm of his hand to the window, he tried to see what was going on. Sam was spasming, neck tensed back, swallowing around the tube in his throat. He caught the panicked expression, the hand twisting and the crease of pain on Sam's brow. Then a nurse blocked his view and he felt Louise's hands trying to hold him back. His fingers clawed at the glass, his breath faltering until the nurse stepped back and Sam's face was covered with an oxygen mask, the pained expression slowly fading as his body relaxed.
A female doctor was talking to Sam, whose head lolled to the right. The movement caused Dean's heart to jump a beat until he lifted his eyes off Sam and realized that the physician's face showed no alarm and she kept talking to his brother. Not until then did Dean's breathing start to level out.
When the commotion inside the room ebbed out, he noticed his father by the wall; eyes blood-shot and stance close to catatonic. John looked devastated by guilt. Dean felt another wave of fear run through him. What had happened? What had put stoic John in that frame of mind? The moment the nurse turned to him and spoke, John's features changed to one of a deadly hunter's. He bared his teeth, stepping forward like he was ready to attack and Dean instinctively moved backwards, unable to take his eyes off the feral grimness on John's face. There was very little humanity in John's eyes, only barely controlled anger.
Dean wondered if that was what he would look like after a life of hunting? Marginalized from society, appearing downright dangerous? His eyes followed John when he walked out of the room. Suddenly it seemed like the weight of the world was on dad's shoulders, and it struck him how much of dad there was in Sam. A slight obsession of sorts; only that John's was directed at fighting the evil with all means possible, while Sam wanted to understand and conquer without too much blood loss.
“What happened, dad?” He asked when John shut the door behind him.
John shook his head in resign. “I don't know. He just looked so panicked and then he started fighting the vent and his pulse went through the roof. I'm not even sure he was really awake.”
“Just like that?”
“I don't know, when I got here he was twitching and in pain. He looked at me but I don't think he actually saw me. They think he asked for you, but they couldn't make out exactly what he was trying to say.”
Dean felt the room sway before his eyes. Sam had asked for him and he wasn't there! What was Sam remembering, what was he thinking? That they had left him? Was he thinking he'd have to sort all this out on his own?
“I just left for a moment,” Dean mumbled to himself. “I was just getting the key to the car!”
John looked up, surprised , before letting his eyes drift over Dean's shoulders to land on Louise. “Oh.”
“She found Sam's book on the backseat. Geek's so clumsy at times.” Dean had forgotten all about the book Louise had given him the moment she spotted him. The gesture so earnest it had stood out as so mundane in the midst of all the messed up shit Dean was dealing with.
“Dean, take the car, get to the motel and get some rest. I'll stay with Sammy.” John spoke softly.
“No, dad!” Dean shook his head. “ You go, he asked for me. I wanna stay.”
“It's an order. You look like hell, Dean. If Sam sees you like this, you'll scare him.”
Dad was trying to sweet talk him into leaving but his faltering smile was failing him. If anybody would scare the crap out of Sam right now, it was dad. Dean opened his mouth to renew his protest but this time John turned the military stare on him.
Dean sighed, looking at the floor, debating with himself if it was wise to have a round with dad in a hospital corridor? He was sure security would take one look at their gritty appearances and toss them out. “'Kay,” he finally relented, the tiredness aiding him in making the decision not to revolt. “I'll be back first thing in the morning. Keep him safe, will you? Don't let him go anywhere while I'm away, please!”
“I will.”
Dean extended his father the book he had been clutching since Louise gave it to him. “If he gets antsy, read to him, that always works. Just don't start discussing the book, that'll get you in deep.”
“Get some sleep, son” John smiled, sadly amused.
Dean took a last look at his little pain the ass brother through the window and tapped the glass in a salute. Louise walked up to his side, silent as a mouse and Dean raised his eyebrows. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
The woman smiled apologetically. “I'll drive you to the motel and phone for Tom to pick me up. My cell died on me.”
Dean smiled, the woman was a con-artist all right. Of course she'd check that he got to the motel in one piece. She had all the characteristics of a mother hen, he should know, he had them too.
“Thank you,” he smiled his faked, flirty smile at her and she snorted, bemused.
John dragged the plastic chair closer to Sam's bed. The nurse that stepped in to check on Sam turned her head to watch him with guarded eyes. He tried to smile reassuringly at her but it didn't seem to convince her. She checked the device in her hand twice, worrying at her bottom lip.
“Is he developing a fever?” He kept his voice low, watching Sam's face, but it was still relaxed. No signs of discomfort.
“It's slightly raised, but after a surgery like his, it may be his body reacting to the stress. I'll have to check with the doctor.”
John nodded and kept his eyes on Sam until the door slid shut behind the nurse. He then reached out, placing his palm on his son's forehead and yes, he seemed hot. “Oh, Sammy. You need to fight this son, with all you've got. I wish I could take this fight for you, Sammy, but I can't. I'm sorry, Sam.”
When the door creaked and the female doctor strode in, a concerned wrinkle on her brow, he removed his hand to give her room.
She listened to Sam's heart and lungs, frown deepening. John's palms felt sticky of sweat and he just didn't dare ask for a prognosis, even as the doc's face spoke volumes.
She sighed and turned to him, adjusting the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “Sam may be developing pneumonia. The problem is that we already have him on a broad spectrum antibiotic that really should take care of business. I'll give it another couple of hours to kick in, if it doesn't, we'll do a culture to establish what type of infection we are dealing with. I don't want to medicate him too much since his liver and renal functions are already compromised. We really have to tread carefully here, I'm sorry.” It was her turn to try an assuring smile, but she failed just as badly as he had earlier.
John scooted the chair closer to the bed, laying his fingertips gently on Sam's arm, avoiding the bruises and the tubes. Then he looked at the book in his hand, noticing the paper tucked in between the pages.
He opened it at the mark and started reading, voice low and raw. It wasn't for Sam, not really, it was to not go completely stir raving insane. To fill the void with words; Sam had always loved words.
It was two pages into the third chapter, after numerous visits from the nurse and Sam's breathing getting more and more labored that he heard the gasp for air and lifted his eyes. Sam's eyes were wide open, staring into nothing, his breath faltering. John rose from the stool, dropping the book and holding his breath when he heard running in the corridor. Sam's eyes were rolling back just as a crash cart was rolled into the room. He staggered backwards. Hitting the wall hard and the images before his eyes had the bile rise in his throat. Was it time to call Dean now? Was this it? His brain blanked out and all he saw was Sam, struggling for breath and murky liquid running out of his nose.
A long thick needle was being inserted in his son's side, gleaming in the blue light from the device held to his son's bruised skin. The head end was raised and Sam blinked, face strained, when a cough rattled his body.
“It's okay Sam,” the physician consoled. “You've been gathering liquid in your left lung, it was pressing on your right one too, so I'm draining it right now. You'll feel much better as soon as we get it all out. I'm putting you on another antibiotic as soon as the culture is back. You'll breathe easier with your head elevated like this, don't worry. It'll just be for a while, as soon as I get the results back, it'll fix things. Just hang in there.“
Sam's eyes were sliding shut, but he fought to keep them open. John was literally able to see the effort Sam made to adhere to the order of hanging in there. His eyes were unfocused, dark against the pale skin, but fighting to stay open. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and John couldn't help the sound that escaped him. It was a primal, pained groan of fear.
“Push epi and atropine,” the doc ordered without taking her eyes off Sam's face.
The breaths slowly begun to run easier and Sam's eyes cleared and tried to focus, first on the doctor then they slid away, searching the room.
“You're a trooper, Sam!” The words were sincere and heart-felt and John's eyes darted to the physician's face. The alarm was gone, replaced with awe. “Your lungs are clear now, I got it all out. Just try and rest now, I'll stay here with you for a while.”
Sam seemed to respond, making a small nod just as a lab-tech rushed in with a document in her hand. “Gram-negative!”
“Call Neffer, stat!”
John noticed the smile on the woman's face faltering and her voice lowered an octave. “The nurse who's been taking care of you tonight, her name is Pat, is going to make you more comfortable. Your dad is right here, he'll stay with you and I'll be back shortly.” She motioned for John to step up closer when she turned and made her way out of the room.
He walked up to stand by the bed, hesitant of what to say to Sam. How much did he understand about what was happening? Did he realize how bad things were? He forced a smile. “Hey, Sammy!”
Sam's eyelids opened partly and he moved and swallowed as if to find the strength to talk.
“It's all right, son. No need to talk right now. There'll be time later.”
Frustration flickered over the pale face. Sam swallowed painfully again, lifting his eyes to John's, battling to find his voice. The nurse reached over and lifted the oxygen mask partially off Sam's face.
“You in pain sweetie?”
Sam's frustration grew and he opened his lips and breathed out something that sounded like 'Dnnn'.
“Dean? He's not here right now, Sammy.” John tried.
Sam swallowed again, blinking rapidly while tears formed and wet the lashes. Not until then did John understand Sam. “He's fine, Sammy, I set him to the motel to get a shower and rest up. He'll be back first thing in the morning.”
It was like someone lifted a burden off Sam; he relaxed and let out a hitching exhale. Tears continued to stream down his cheeks and he continued to fight them. He tried to turn his head away, to hide the tears, John suspected, but he was simply too weak to do it.
“Sam, it's okay to cry,” He reached out to to wipe the tears off his son's face, fighting his own tears. Sam made an other effort to speak and John lifted he mask to hear him.
“M'sor'.”
It was not just a slap this time, it was like a punch that rattled him throughout. It took his breath away, shattered his resolve and made the walls crumble. He had no words left, and he was afraid to touch his son in case he would cause more pain. Sam's eyes were closed now and he was hot to the touch while shivering slightly from the cold of rising fever. And John did not know what to do. Had no idea how to console or make the pain lesser. He found no reassuring or encouraging words, he just kept his hand on the wet cheek, letting it rest in his palm and gave in to the tears.
Sam didn't move any longer, didn't fight and didn't cry, he just lay there, broken, while his body occasionally was wracked with shivers. John's tears dripped down on the hospital gown he held in a tight-fisted grip above Sam's rapidly beating heart.
Dean slept maybe two hours, he wasn't sure. Kept waking up and checking his cell, just in case he'd missed a new call. There had been plenty of them when he switched his cell back on. None that interested him, except the ones from Pastor Jim. He'd called back when he's swallowed down the burger without even tasking it, just to still the hunger pains in his stomach. Pastor Jim had picked up on the first signal.
Louise had spilled the beans about the incident.
The man had already arranged for them to rest up at his place as long as needed. His house needed a total paint-job anyhow and he'd pay Dean to do it. John was welcome to pitch in at his cousin's shop, lots of cars needing tune-ups these day. Dean loved Pastor Jim more than ever, he never said 'if' Sam makes it', to him it was clear that he would. Dean promised to have his father call him and arrange things.
He's showered quickly and pulled on fresh clothes. With his shoes on, he lay down to rest but the room was too empty. The empty bed that was supposed to be Sam's screamed at him. It didn't help switching beds either. He dozed off to the drone of a Hallmark movie. Sam would have laughed his ass off if he knew. The talk-show reruns that followed reminded him of the hospital, the news of the misery in the world.
At the crack of dawn he couldn't take it anymore. He phoned the hospital and heard the news about Sam's condition, that the new antibiotic was finally kicking in and his fever was breaking. Dean felt cold shivers run down his spine. Dad hadn't called, he'd promise to call! Not being able to breathe was a change in condition for fuck's sake! He scrambled for the keys, his fingers uncooperative and his heart in his throat. Why wouldn't Dad have called? Was he thinking he'd spare Dean? Didn't he understand that if he wasn't there, he'd be haunted with the images from the fucking tool shed, or whatever, for the rest of his life?
He ran two lights, got several angry honks and almost nicked a car on the way to an empty lot. When he finally got to the ICU, he was short of breath and sweaty.
He burst through the door, all attention directed at his brother, catching his father's surprise in the corner of his eyes. With three strides he was at Sam's bedside, laying his hand on the sweaty brow. “Sammy?”
A screeching sound of a chair moving over linoleum had him look back just as dad's hand landed on his shoulder. “Dean?”
“Why didn't you call me, dad, you promised!” He tried to keep his voice low and even, not to rattle Sam, but the anger seeped through.
“You needed the rest.”
“I needed to be with Sam, dad! He was bad, I called the nurses' desk, they told me. You should have called, I asked you to!” His voice rose and Sam flinched and Dean turned back to his brother.
“Hey, hey, Sammy. It's just me, no baddies here gonna get ya!” He watched Sam fight to open his eyes. “You just rest, you lazy bum. I'm right here. Get some sleep, you look like hell.”
Bleary eyes opened to a slit, slowly focusing on him. Sam's left hand struggled to move.
“Would you lie still already? You're gonna scare the crap outta someone if you don't stop twitching like that.” The relief of seeing Sam nearly coherent had a jolt of relief run through him and he smiled down at his dazed, pain in the ass, little brother. And he read the question loud and clear.
“I'm awesome, not a scratch. More than I can say about you, you're lookin' like a Frankenstein fuck-up.”
Sam blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“And you're so not quitting on me, bro. Told you not to pull anything while I was away! Yeah, I did, did you miss that?”
Sam tried to open his eyes again, pupils fluttering underneath the lids.
“Now close the eyes and get some sleep. You know puppy eying me won't get you outta nothing, dude. Go to sleep, I'll be right here. Watching over your ugly butt.”
Sam actually made half a snorting sound and Dean's face split up in a full-fledged smile. He stood there, hand on Sam's hot brow, until the breathing became more regular. Then he looked up at the monitors and found a new addition; the fever curve. The curve peaked at 107, from 2. A.M to 2. 15. It was now holding steady at 103.
“He'll have more antibiotics at seven,” his father informed him. “It should go down after that. They cool him down with a thermo-blanket.”
“Why did it take them so long to find the right antibiotics?” Dean asked tersely.
“Gram-negative infections are hard to battle and Sam's still weak. They didn't want to over medicate him with another broad-spectrum med, they needed the results from the culture.”
“You should have called me!” Dean remained leaned in over Sam, he didn't want to face John right now, he was still too pissed at having been left out. “Go get some rest, dad. I'll take care of business.” He tossed the key and the parking lot sticker to his father.
“I'll get you some coffee and breakfast from the canteen before I leave. I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet?”
“There's a vending machine right down the hall, by the lounge, got everything I need.” He wasn't used to talking to his dad like this, so dismissively. But the fact that John didn't care enough to even call him had shook his very foundations. He should be able to trust dad completely.
“All right, you'll call me if something changes, right? I'm gonna – just stay with him.”
Dean merely nodded, still unsure if he'd be able to keep the anger from his voice. His eyes narrowed when they followed John's route out of the room. Dad hadn't touched Sam once, hadn't talked to him, barely even looked at him when he walked out, nothing. He'd just been there, like a calm observer, no emotions involved.
And Dean felt angry and betrayed on Sam's behalf. Sammy could be a major pain in the ass at times, but he didn't deserve this! He was hurt, badly, and dad acted like a damned general, watching over an easily exchangeable private simply because no one else was there to do the job. This was not the time to pull the power card and show who was the boss. So Sammy had disobeyed an order, Dean was sure that Sam was going to hear about it, but now? Sam wasn't even really there, all zoned out and sliding in and out of consciousness. Was it really necessary to take the stoic stand right now? And dad had been wrong too, so had he; they should have listened to Sam. Why was it so hard for dad to reach out to Sam?
He turned to pull the chair closer with his foot. Sinking down to sit, he folded his hand around Sam's forearm and sighed. “What am I gonna do with the two of you?”
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
Part IV
Part V
John groaned when he rinsed his face with cold water, he was long overdo for a change of clothes and a shower or he'd be considered a biological hazard. Dean needed it too, and some food. He'd barely eaten anything of the burgers John had gotten. He needed to take care of Dean right now, before he crashed. Looking at himself in the mirror, John shook his head at the reflexion. The blood-shot eyes and the haggard, pale look on his face made him think of vampires.
Walking out to the restroom, he held his head down, staying close to the wall. The need to stay under the radar was so imprinted in him that it took over with automation every time he was inside any public building. But his eyes scanned every angle and corner. Stopping at the door to Sam's room, he knitted his brow. Dean was nowhere to be seen and that was one ting he hadn't expected.
It wasn't any easier looking at Sam now. It was worse. Sam seemed to be in distress; John picked up on the minute movements of the fingers on his right hand. The tubes almost covered them but it was there, not more than a quiver. Sam seemed tense and in pain and John jerked the door open.
Laying a hand on his son's brow, feeling for a fever, he jumped at Sam's eyes suddenly opening to a small crack. A spasm ran through Sam's body and tears welled from under the dark lashes. John looked to the door, expecting someone to have noticed the changes and come charging in. It sounded like Sam was fighting the vent, not quite awake but clearly very distressed.
“I need help in here!” He bellowed, scrambling for the call-button. When he looked back to Sam, he was met with confused and panicked eyes, pupils blown and his son's hand was twitching repeatedly. Then Sam blinked and his eyes hazed over with pain and one of the machines his son was connected to started beeping with alarm.
It was the stabbing pain that finally brought him through the darkness that wouldn't let go. The pressure on his chest had him fight it and try to move away from the harsh wind filling his lungs. It was abrasively torrid and damned uncomfortable. He tried to turn his head away but was unable to do so. That was just so wrong that he reflexively worked to get away from whatever was holding him down and clawing at his chest. That was when pain exploded in every fiber of his body. From having been just a dull, throbbing ache it spread like burning fire. His eyes shot open to meet a fuzzy gray. It slowly started to clear at the edges, rendering distorted lines and swimming black dots. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Every time the wind blew, someone stabbed him. He fought against it with all he had, trying to get away from whatever thing was having a go at him.
Then someone hollered angrily for help and his eyes searched the figure out. It sounded like dad and he was pissed. Where was Dean? His dad was never there, Dean was. And if Dean wasn't -. Panic surged through him. Had something happened to Dean? Was he the cause and that was why dad sounded so pissed at him? What had he done? Dean? He coughed, vision was blacking out while something kept trying to push him down. There was a wail in the room, thickening the fog in his head. Voices washed over him, calm and soothing. He was too tired to try and understand, all he wanted to know was where Dean was. Was he all right? He could take anything as long as Dean was all right.
He tensed in pain when something was pulled out of his throat, leaving it burning before the softer air suddenly streamed into his lungs. He gasped for more, trying to clear his head. Dean. Ask for Dean! The pain started to fade, along with his capacity to think. He just needed to tell dad he was sorry. About the mess, about Dean, about everything. Nobody seemed to be paying attention, the voices sailed around him, soft and elusive. One last time he tried to formulate the one word most important to him right now: Dean. The unknown voice sent him back to the darkness.
John was pushed out of the way, to the far wall when the room filled with white and blue-clad personnel.
His eyes were on Sam, fighting the vent and the snippets of rushed words '0 sat sinking, cramps, need to de-tube him, push some muscle relaxant, temp rising, get the tube out now!' mingled with one of the physicians' calling out his son's name to get his attention. Sam's pulse rose and John heart beat with it. The numbers on the monitor turned from orange to red and another alarm went off.
Then the vent was out and Sam gasped for air with a low raspy whimper.
The physician dispatched orders without taking her eyes off Sam. “Give him humidified oxygen at 80 percent, let's see if he stabilizes with a mask. And push some atropine and pain meds! It's all right Sam, you had a tube in your throat to help you breathe. It's all right, just concentrate on breathing in and out slowly now. I've given you something to ease the pain. Try to relax, we're here to help you. No, don't try to talk, it'll only hurt you right now. Add 2 of Droperidol to the IV!”
John's eyes were fixed at the monitor, heart beating in his throat. Slowly the numbers changed and finally they returned to orange and the alarms ceased.
“That's it Sam, the meds are starting to work and you won't feel pain now. A nurse will stay right here with you. It's all right, Sam. Just go to sleep and we'll take care of you.”
She stepped back and turned to the nurse at her side. “Stay with him, re-run the post-op tests and check his fever every five minutes. Call me if it shows tendencies to rise. We can't risk that to happen.”
“What was he trying to say?” The nurse asked, her fingers checking that the oxygen mask was in place.
“I don't know, he's still half-delirious. Sounded like 'Dee' something.” The doctor looked back at her patient.
The nurse glanced down at the chart in her hand. “His brother's name is Dean. Cute kid, I talked to him before. A woman called him on the phone and I think he left.”
“At least we know that his neurological status isn't too impaired if he remembers his brother.” The doctor smiled weakly at the nurse before walking out.
John felt like Sam had slapped him.
When his eyes followed the doctor out of the room, he saw Dean and the Kulick woman behind the window. Dean's face was white, his eyes on Sam, lips pressed to a thin line.
John was finally able to move and he took a step forward, trying to get Dean's attention. The nurse by Sam's bed whipped around, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm his father, and if I hadn't been here, nobody would have noticed what was going on with Sam! He was hurting a long time before the equipment notified you. And nobody was here to see it!” He growled, vexed, and took another step towards the nurse. “After what I saw, I'm not leaving Sam alone here.”
“Sir, you shouldn't be in here, visiting hours are over.” She placed herself like a shield between him and the bed.
“I'm staying with my son, I'm staying right here beside him until he's well enough to tell me not to.”
The nurse looked out the window to the corridor, searching for back up. John's followed her desperate gaze and spotted Dean's questioning, doubtful and haunted stare.
John wondered if everybody saw the remnants of the horrid thought that had assaulted him? Was it visible on his face? Was he already marked?
His first instinct was to run, just leave, but instead he steeled himself and walked out of the room to talk to the son that was staring at him with fearful eyes. And Dean didn't scare easily.
“Tell the doctor, or whomever you need to alert, that I'm staying with my son tonight,” he ordered curtly over his shoulder.
Dean had started running the moment he saw the red lamp above Sam's door; white-clad figures filing in hurriedly, slamming the door shut on him. Pressing the palm of his hand to the window, he tried to see what was going on. Sam was spasming, neck tensed back, swallowing around the tube in his throat. He caught the panicked expression, the hand twisting and the crease of pain on Sam's brow. Then a nurse blocked his view and he felt Louise's hands trying to hold him back. His fingers clawed at the glass, his breath faltering until the nurse stepped back and Sam's face was covered with an oxygen mask, the pained expression slowly fading as his body relaxed.
A female doctor was talking to Sam, whose head lolled to the right. The movement caused Dean's heart to jump a beat until he lifted his eyes off Sam and realized that the physician's face showed no alarm and she kept talking to his brother. Not until then did Dean's breathing start to level out.
When the commotion inside the room ebbed out, he noticed his father by the wall; eyes blood-shot and stance close to catatonic. John looked devastated by guilt. Dean felt another wave of fear run through him. What had happened? What had put stoic John in that frame of mind? The moment the nurse turned to him and spoke, John's features changed to one of a deadly hunter's. He bared his teeth, stepping forward like he was ready to attack and Dean instinctively moved backwards, unable to take his eyes off the feral grimness on John's face. There was very little humanity in John's eyes, only barely controlled anger.
Dean wondered if that was what he would look like after a life of hunting? Marginalized from society, appearing downright dangerous? His eyes followed John when he walked out of the room. Suddenly it seemed like the weight of the world was on dad's shoulders, and it struck him how much of dad there was in Sam. A slight obsession of sorts; only that John's was directed at fighting the evil with all means possible, while Sam wanted to understand and conquer without too much blood loss.
“What happened, dad?” He asked when John shut the door behind him.
John shook his head in resign. “I don't know. He just looked so panicked and then he started fighting the vent and his pulse went through the roof. I'm not even sure he was really awake.”
“Just like that?”
“I don't know, when I got here he was twitching and in pain. He looked at me but I don't think he actually saw me. They think he asked for you, but they couldn't make out exactly what he was trying to say.”
Dean felt the room sway before his eyes. Sam had asked for him and he wasn't there! What was Sam remembering, what was he thinking? That they had left him? Was he thinking he'd have to sort all this out on his own?
“I just left for a moment,” Dean mumbled to himself. “I was just getting the key to the car!”
John looked up, surprised , before letting his eyes drift over Dean's shoulders to land on Louise. “Oh.”
“She found Sam's book on the backseat. Geek's so clumsy at times.” Dean had forgotten all about the book Louise had given him the moment she spotted him. The gesture so earnest it had stood out as so mundane in the midst of all the messed up shit Dean was dealing with.
“Dean, take the car, get to the motel and get some rest. I'll stay with Sammy.” John spoke softly.
“No, dad!” Dean shook his head. “ You go, he asked for me. I wanna stay.”
“It's an order. You look like hell, Dean. If Sam sees you like this, you'll scare him.”
Dad was trying to sweet talk him into leaving but his faltering smile was failing him. If anybody would scare the crap out of Sam right now, it was dad. Dean opened his mouth to renew his protest but this time John turned the military stare on him.
Dean sighed, looking at the floor, debating with himself if it was wise to have a round with dad in a hospital corridor? He was sure security would take one look at their gritty appearances and toss them out. “'Kay,” he finally relented, the tiredness aiding him in making the decision not to revolt. “I'll be back first thing in the morning. Keep him safe, will you? Don't let him go anywhere while I'm away, please!”
“I will.”
Dean extended his father the book he had been clutching since Louise gave it to him. “If he gets antsy, read to him, that always works. Just don't start discussing the book, that'll get you in deep.”
“Get some sleep, son” John smiled, sadly amused.
Dean took a last look at his little pain the ass brother through the window and tapped the glass in a salute. Louise walked up to his side, silent as a mouse and Dean raised his eyebrows. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
The woman smiled apologetically. “I'll drive you to the motel and phone for Tom to pick me up. My cell died on me.”
Dean smiled, the woman was a con-artist all right. Of course she'd check that he got to the motel in one piece. She had all the characteristics of a mother hen, he should know, he had them too.
“Thank you,” he smiled his faked, flirty smile at her and she snorted, bemused.
John dragged the plastic chair closer to Sam's bed. The nurse that stepped in to check on Sam turned her head to watch him with guarded eyes. He tried to smile reassuringly at her but it didn't seem to convince her. She checked the device in her hand twice, worrying at her bottom lip.
“Is he developing a fever?” He kept his voice low, watching Sam's face, but it was still relaxed. No signs of discomfort.
“It's slightly raised, but after a surgery like his, it may be his body reacting to the stress. I'll have to check with the doctor.”
John nodded and kept his eyes on Sam until the door slid shut behind the nurse. He then reached out, placing his palm on his son's forehead and yes, he seemed hot. “Oh, Sammy. You need to fight this son, with all you've got. I wish I could take this fight for you, Sammy, but I can't. I'm sorry, Sam.”
When the door creaked and the female doctor strode in, a concerned wrinkle on her brow, he removed his hand to give her room.
She listened to Sam's heart and lungs, frown deepening. John's palms felt sticky of sweat and he just didn't dare ask for a prognosis, even as the doc's face spoke volumes.
She sighed and turned to him, adjusting the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “Sam may be developing pneumonia. The problem is that we already have him on a broad spectrum antibiotic that really should take care of business. I'll give it another couple of hours to kick in, if it doesn't, we'll do a culture to establish what type of infection we are dealing with. I don't want to medicate him too much since his liver and renal functions are already compromised. We really have to tread carefully here, I'm sorry.” It was her turn to try an assuring smile, but she failed just as badly as he had earlier.
John scooted the chair closer to the bed, laying his fingertips gently on Sam's arm, avoiding the bruises and the tubes. Then he looked at the book in his hand, noticing the paper tucked in between the pages.
He opened it at the mark and started reading, voice low and raw. It wasn't for Sam, not really, it was to not go completely stir raving insane. To fill the void with words; Sam had always loved words.
It was two pages into the third chapter, after numerous visits from the nurse and Sam's breathing getting more and more labored that he heard the gasp for air and lifted his eyes. Sam's eyes were wide open, staring into nothing, his breath faltering. John rose from the stool, dropping the book and holding his breath when he heard running in the corridor. Sam's eyes were rolling back just as a crash cart was rolled into the room. He staggered backwards. Hitting the wall hard and the images before his eyes had the bile rise in his throat. Was it time to call Dean now? Was this it? His brain blanked out and all he saw was Sam, struggling for breath and murky liquid running out of his nose.
A long thick needle was being inserted in his son's side, gleaming in the blue light from the device held to his son's bruised skin. The head end was raised and Sam blinked, face strained, when a cough rattled his body.
“It's okay Sam,” the physician consoled. “You've been gathering liquid in your left lung, it was pressing on your right one too, so I'm draining it right now. You'll feel much better as soon as we get it all out. I'm putting you on another antibiotic as soon as the culture is back. You'll breathe easier with your head elevated like this, don't worry. It'll just be for a while, as soon as I get the results back, it'll fix things. Just hang in there.“
Sam's eyes were sliding shut, but he fought to keep them open. John was literally able to see the effort Sam made to adhere to the order of hanging in there. His eyes were unfocused, dark against the pale skin, but fighting to stay open. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and John couldn't help the sound that escaped him. It was a primal, pained groan of fear.
“Push epi and atropine,” the doc ordered without taking her eyes off Sam's face.
The breaths slowly begun to run easier and Sam's eyes cleared and tried to focus, first on the doctor then they slid away, searching the room.
“You're a trooper, Sam!” The words were sincere and heart-felt and John's eyes darted to the physician's face. The alarm was gone, replaced with awe. “Your lungs are clear now, I got it all out. Just try and rest now, I'll stay here with you for a while.”
Sam seemed to respond, making a small nod just as a lab-tech rushed in with a document in her hand. “Gram-negative!”
“Call Neffer, stat!”
John noticed the smile on the woman's face faltering and her voice lowered an octave. “The nurse who's been taking care of you tonight, her name is Pat, is going to make you more comfortable. Your dad is right here, he'll stay with you and I'll be back shortly.” She motioned for John to step up closer when she turned and made her way out of the room.
He walked up to stand by the bed, hesitant of what to say to Sam. How much did he understand about what was happening? Did he realize how bad things were? He forced a smile. “Hey, Sammy!”
Sam's eyelids opened partly and he moved and swallowed as if to find the strength to talk.
“It's all right, son. No need to talk right now. There'll be time later.”
Frustration flickered over the pale face. Sam swallowed painfully again, lifting his eyes to John's, battling to find his voice. The nurse reached over and lifted the oxygen mask partially off Sam's face.
“You in pain sweetie?”
Sam's frustration grew and he opened his lips and breathed out something that sounded like 'Dnnn'.
“Dean? He's not here right now, Sammy.” John tried.
Sam swallowed again, blinking rapidly while tears formed and wet the lashes. Not until then did John understand Sam. “He's fine, Sammy, I set him to the motel to get a shower and rest up. He'll be back first thing in the morning.”
It was like someone lifted a burden off Sam; he relaxed and let out a hitching exhale. Tears continued to stream down his cheeks and he continued to fight them. He tried to turn his head away, to hide the tears, John suspected, but he was simply too weak to do it.
“Sam, it's okay to cry,” He reached out to to wipe the tears off his son's face, fighting his own tears. Sam made an other effort to speak and John lifted he mask to hear him.
“M'sor'.”
It was not just a slap this time, it was like a punch that rattled him throughout. It took his breath away, shattered his resolve and made the walls crumble. He had no words left, and he was afraid to touch his son in case he would cause more pain. Sam's eyes were closed now and he was hot to the touch while shivering slightly from the cold of rising fever. And John did not know what to do. Had no idea how to console or make the pain lesser. He found no reassuring or encouraging words, he just kept his hand on the wet cheek, letting it rest in his palm and gave in to the tears.
Sam didn't move any longer, didn't fight and didn't cry, he just lay there, broken, while his body occasionally was wracked with shivers. John's tears dripped down on the hospital gown he held in a tight-fisted grip above Sam's rapidly beating heart.
Dean slept maybe two hours, he wasn't sure. Kept waking up and checking his cell, just in case he'd missed a new call. There had been plenty of them when he switched his cell back on. None that interested him, except the ones from Pastor Jim. He'd called back when he's swallowed down the burger without even tasking it, just to still the hunger pains in his stomach. Pastor Jim had picked up on the first signal.
Louise had spilled the beans about the incident.
The man had already arranged for them to rest up at his place as long as needed. His house needed a total paint-job anyhow and he'd pay Dean to do it. John was welcome to pitch in at his cousin's shop, lots of cars needing tune-ups these day. Dean loved Pastor Jim more than ever, he never said 'if' Sam makes it', to him it was clear that he would. Dean promised to have his father call him and arrange things.
He's showered quickly and pulled on fresh clothes. With his shoes on, he lay down to rest but the room was too empty. The empty bed that was supposed to be Sam's screamed at him. It didn't help switching beds either. He dozed off to the drone of a Hallmark movie. Sam would have laughed his ass off if he knew. The talk-show reruns that followed reminded him of the hospital, the news of the misery in the world.
At the crack of dawn he couldn't take it anymore. He phoned the hospital and heard the news about Sam's condition, that the new antibiotic was finally kicking in and his fever was breaking. Dean felt cold shivers run down his spine. Dad hadn't called, he'd promise to call! Not being able to breathe was a change in condition for fuck's sake! He scrambled for the keys, his fingers uncooperative and his heart in his throat. Why wouldn't Dad have called? Was he thinking he'd spare Dean? Didn't he understand that if he wasn't there, he'd be haunted with the images from the fucking tool shed, or whatever, for the rest of his life?
He ran two lights, got several angry honks and almost nicked a car on the way to an empty lot. When he finally got to the ICU, he was short of breath and sweaty.
He burst through the door, all attention directed at his brother, catching his father's surprise in the corner of his eyes. With three strides he was at Sam's bedside, laying his hand on the sweaty brow. “Sammy?”
A screeching sound of a chair moving over linoleum had him look back just as dad's hand landed on his shoulder. “Dean?”
“Why didn't you call me, dad, you promised!” He tried to keep his voice low and even, not to rattle Sam, but the anger seeped through.
“You needed the rest.”
“I needed to be with Sam, dad! He was bad, I called the nurses' desk, they told me. You should have called, I asked you to!” His voice rose and Sam flinched and Dean turned back to his brother.
“Hey, hey, Sammy. It's just me, no baddies here gonna get ya!” He watched Sam fight to open his eyes. “You just rest, you lazy bum. I'm right here. Get some sleep, you look like hell.”
Bleary eyes opened to a slit, slowly focusing on him. Sam's left hand struggled to move.
“Would you lie still already? You're gonna scare the crap outta someone if you don't stop twitching like that.” The relief of seeing Sam nearly coherent had a jolt of relief run through him and he smiled down at his dazed, pain in the ass, little brother. And he read the question loud and clear.
“I'm awesome, not a scratch. More than I can say about you, you're lookin' like a Frankenstein fuck-up.”
Sam blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“And you're so not quitting on me, bro. Told you not to pull anything while I was away! Yeah, I did, did you miss that?”
Sam tried to open his eyes again, pupils fluttering underneath the lids.
“Now close the eyes and get some sleep. You know puppy eying me won't get you outta nothing, dude. Go to sleep, I'll be right here. Watching over your ugly butt.”
Sam actually made half a snorting sound and Dean's face split up in a full-fledged smile. He stood there, hand on Sam's hot brow, until the breathing became more regular. Then he looked up at the monitors and found a new addition; the fever curve. The curve peaked at 107, from 2. A.M to 2. 15. It was now holding steady at 103.
“He'll have more antibiotics at seven,” his father informed him. “It should go down after that. They cool him down with a thermo-blanket.”
“Why did it take them so long to find the right antibiotics?” Dean asked tersely.
“Gram-negative infections are hard to battle and Sam's still weak. They didn't want to over medicate him with another broad-spectrum med, they needed the results from the culture.”
“You should have called me!” Dean remained leaned in over Sam, he didn't want to face John right now, he was still too pissed at having been left out. “Go get some rest, dad. I'll take care of business.” He tossed the key and the parking lot sticker to his father.
“I'll get you some coffee and breakfast from the canteen before I leave. I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet?”
“There's a vending machine right down the hall, by the lounge, got everything I need.” He wasn't used to talking to his dad like this, so dismissively. But the fact that John didn't care enough to even call him had shook his very foundations. He should be able to trust dad completely.
“All right, you'll call me if something changes, right? I'm gonna – just stay with him.”
Dean merely nodded, still unsure if he'd be able to keep the anger from his voice. His eyes narrowed when they followed John's route out of the room. Dad hadn't touched Sam once, hadn't talked to him, barely even looked at him when he walked out, nothing. He'd just been there, like a calm observer, no emotions involved.
And Dean felt angry and betrayed on Sam's behalf. Sammy could be a major pain in the ass at times, but he didn't deserve this! He was hurt, badly, and dad acted like a damned general, watching over an easily exchangeable private simply because no one else was there to do the job. This was not the time to pull the power card and show who was the boss. So Sammy had disobeyed an order, Dean was sure that Sam was going to hear about it, but now? Sam wasn't even really there, all zoned out and sliding in and out of consciousness. Was it really necessary to take the stoic stand right now? And dad had been wrong too, so had he; they should have listened to Sam. Why was it so hard for dad to reach out to Sam?
He turned to pull the chair closer with his foot. Sinking down to sit, he folded his hand around Sam's forearm and sighed. “What am I gonna do with the two of you?”