starbright73 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starbright73) wrote2008-09-27 12:47 pm
starbright73) wrote2008-09-27 12:47 pm
Fic: His Father's Son (6/7)
Title: His Father's Son (6/7)
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 had to sit in the car for a while, resting his brow on the steering wheel. The moment he turned his cell on, he noticed the call from the unknown number with the local prefix. He knew at once it was the cops looking for him. He just couldn't deal with that right now, if ever.
It had been literal hell for most of the night. And Dean wondered why he hadn't called? Would he have liked to see his brother shaking from fever, convulsing when it got too high and his heartbeat skyrocketed? John wished he hadn't, because it had ripped his heart out, shredded it to a bloody pulp. They had pumped his son full of meds, pushed another needle in to get more liquid out and tried to ice him down. John could tell that their hope was fading fast, just as fast as Sam seemed to slip away from him. Watching your son fight for his life like that, just hanging on barely before another complication set in and nulled the small victories, was devastating.
At the end, just before the antibiotics kicked in and Sam was shivering from cold and painful barely audible whimpers escaped him while his eyes flickered under the closed lids, he'd just thrown his arms around him and held him. He'd prayed, for the first time in more than a decade. Begged for Sam to be relieved from the pain. If it was hard for him to watch, he couldn't fathom what it was like for Sam to live through it. He'd had no tears left, no rational thought, only a fear so strong it almost suffocated him. Then Sam's fever started to drop, slowly climbing down from the lethal numbers on the screen. He was soaked in minutes, sweat running down his temples, wetting the hospital gown and the doctor had been worried he'd go into shock from dehydration. John hadn't let go of Sammy while another IV-port was inserted in the vein of his ankle, filling him with the fluids he was rapidly losing. He'd sat there, holding him until Sam had finally started to relax, breath running easier and his body slackened from pure exhaustion.
He'd still held Sam's hand when the nurse washed him up and changed his gown and the soaked sheets.
He hadn't let go until the doc assured him that Sam was finally asleep, not unconscious, just in a deep, much needed, sleep.
That's when he had finally stood up and stretched his aching body. Tremors took over and he had to sit down and concentrate on breathing and finding some semblance of sanity.
That's when Dean had showed up.
John knew he should have called, he had promised. But having Dean witness what he had witnessed would have been cruel. Dean had been through enough in his life without having to see his little brother fight for his life like that. The doc had said Sam was finally over the worst now and John prayed that it was really the case. Sam wouldn't survive another crisis, of that he was sure. Leaving Dean alone with Sam didn't scare him for any other reason than having Dean go through what he went through while watching over Sam.
And he had known, clear as a day, while he was holding his trembling son, that even it the rumors and innuendos about Sam and the other kids somehow being tied to the devil, panned out, he'd never be able to kill him. Whatever Sam may turn into, the memory of holding him while he fought for every breath, was enough for John to know that taking his son's life, for any reason, would never happen.
He looked up at the clear morning light and turned the key to start the engine. It was hard to tweak the hand off the steering wheel to put the car into drive. It was even harder to drive off the lot.
Leaving his sons behind, at times like these, was the measure of a man. Dean needed time with his brother now, when Sam was as close to stable as possible. He'd just shower and take a nap and then he'd drive back and wait in the lounge. Just to be there in case things got worse.
He flicked the turn signal to the left and floored the pedal.
Sam's fever did lower when the got the meds, at least some. Two long days of vigil and it was still high enough Dean to worry. How long would he sustain a fever before his insides were fried? He was already messed up enough. The physician said Sam needed some proteins to keep his strength up but he
was never awake enough to swallow. Two days of waiting for a miracle, two days of less than restful sleep when dad came to sit with Sam. Time had ceased to make sense to Dean.
When orderlies strolled into the room and the doc informed him that Sam would undergo a double dialysis to help his kidneys and liver with the metabolites of the meds, he broke out in cold sweat. The doc on duty looked at him and ordered him to go eat something, this would take hours and then Sam would be moved to a regular ward. He tried to protest but the doc was adamant; the room needed to be as sterile as possible and having Dean tag along was out of the question. At Dean's continued protests, the physician had pulled the guilt card and asked if Dean really wanted his brother's best? It pissed Dean off to no end but he relented.
Dean was left behind, staring at the empty spot where Sam's bed had been, while he debated with himself if he should call dad? He was all jittery and decided not to, he'd probably make dad nervous with his babbling anyhow. He'd been constantly keeping up imaginary discussions with Sam in his head, just to not go stir crazy. However much he tried to deny it, he knew he was already halfway there. When the cleaning crew arrived, he went to the canteen for a fatty burger and to read a newspaper, Sam would do that. He remembered next to nothing when he turned the pages. The burger and fries were gone, and he couldn't even recall eating them. Because really, all he did was watch the clock on the wall, every second minute.
Until the female cop appeared again, dragging out the chair opposite him and sitting down. She wasn't as pleasant this time, when asking him where John was. When Dean didn't tell, she opened a dossier and started quoting from Sam's school history, pointing out the pattern of two months here and four there. Visits to the school-nurse, cuts and bruises. Absences, sudden relocations, everything. Dean knew it didn't look good, not from an outsider's point of view. He wondered who had reported them? The doc after seeing Sam's x-rays? The nurse watching John flip out in Sam's room? By the look on the woman's face, they were in deep shit and she had taken a personal interest in the case. A cop with a calling was always the worst.
Dean realized that dad was right; they needed to get Sam out. Dad was always right.
Sounds were the first thing Sam became aware of. He was still in some kind of nowhere land, with darkness and heavy limbs refusing to obey him. He'd been there since forever. But the sounds trickled in and soft voices became painfully clear:
It took a while before the implications sunk in. When they did, Sam's body went rigid.
The moment a hand landed on his chest, his eyes opened in fear. There was a blurry ghostlike face hovering over him and he tried desperately to crawl away.
“Hey? I'm nurse Simone, you're in hospital. We're just finishing up your dialysis and we'll take you to your room shortly. Just try to relax. You're feeling better? Right? We got all those metabolites out of your system and your fever is coming down nicely.”
Sam stared dumbfounded at the whiteness before his eyes, blinking to try and focus on what seemed like a floating entity. Speaking was out of the question since his tongue was glued to his palate. Had he seen Dean before in another place? Why was he floating? Psych-ward? Had he gone mental? Was he imagining things? Those words he'd head, were they a figment on his imagination?
“Don't worry Sam Winchester,” the eyes over the mask smiled at him. ”You're safe here.”
The panic rushed through him. Someone was digging around because he had ended up here with his real name? The one thing that was never supposed to happen. They needed to keep a low profile, never stand out and draw attention from the authorities. That was the golden rule of the Winchesters. And he was breaking it!
“You're all done now, Sam, I'll just wipe you off and put a new gown on you and we'll take you to your room.“
There was something heavenly cool wiping his chest and neck before the nurse lifted him up and put the gown on him. A glimpse told him that he was completely naked, except for the bandages. He was sure he went all red. A naked helpless heap of frickin' bad luck? Just perfect. Dad had all the rights in the world to consider him a failure. He needed to fix this, he needed to get lost and make them forget he was ever here.
His hand was freed and he moved it up to pull up the blanket to shield himself. The stab at his ribs had him moan.
“Cold?” The eyes over the white mask smiled at him.
“No,” he croaked, sounding like he'd swallowed gravel. Sam put another cross on the mental list of stupid things he'd done in public. The list was impressive by now.
“The orderlies will take you to your room and get you some crushed ice. I hope I won't see you here again, Sam. Take care!” .
Sam managed a weak smile of gratitude. The nurse was damned right, he shouldn't have been here in the first place.
The short distance he traveled, flat on his back, while trying to look for an escape route almost had him puke. It wasn't until then he realized that the odd white thing to his right was his own plastered arm in some contraction. It occurred to him that it might be too early for him to make a run for it. His brain was obviously totally fried.
Another nurse leaned over him, rising the head end of the bed when the orderlies had parked his bed. There had been so many white clad persons hovering over him lately that they all swan together into a symbol that signaled nothing but pain. Dad always told them to breath through pain, and he did, while scanning the room for a way out of this mess. The window? Would he be able to climb out?
He was startled when another voice addressed him.
“Hi I'm nurse Emily. Doing better?”
Sam nodded, tentatively. Better than what exactly?
“Ready for some chipped ice?”
Sam nodded again. He'd like to take a bath in it, to be truthful. If only he had his trunks.
“I'm going to take the oxygen mask off and put you on a nasal cannula.”
“Thanks!” He tried a smile, embarrassed by his squeaky, voice.
“Sammy?”
That was definitely Dean, rattling off a thunder of questions. “He awake? How long? Fever down? Did that thing you did to him work? Can he talk?”
He should be offended by questions like 'can he talk' but instead he reached out and grabbed Dean's leathery coat. “Jerk.” he coughed and the nurse fed him a spoonful of ice.
“Bitch!” Dean's face split up in a silly grin like he'd just won the lottery. The nurse looked at them like they both needed to be in the Psych ward. Sam suspected she was right regarding him.
“Jesus Sammy,” Dean exhaled. “You scared the crap outta me!”
Sam narrowed his eyes. His memory was a bit foggy at the moment. What exactly had he done? He wanted to ask but the nurse was waving the spoon at him. This time he didn't quite succeed to open his mouth enough and cold water dribbled down his neck. He looked down with embarrassment and his fingers around Dean's coat trembled with strain. He let go, he didn't want to but he had to. The dull ache in his body had kicked up a notch. Trying to shift position and push it away, he bit back a moan. How the hell was he going to get out of here if he wasn't even able to suck ice off a spoon without drooling all over himself?
“I think you need some rest, Sam. You're doing incredibly well, considering. I'll be right outside, want me to lower your head?
“M'fine,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Dean sprinted for the chair, dragging it over the floor. “I'll sit with him. I've spoon fed this freak enough to do it in my sleep.”
Sam tried his best glare but his eyes were closing. He didn't want to fall sleep on Dean. There was so much he wanted to know. Weird memories he couldn't explain lurked in the back of his mind, accompanied by flashes of images that he couldn't quite catch and decipher. He needed to understand what he had done wrong.
“Wha' happ'nd?”
“You kicked the crap outta that thing, Sammy. I'll tell you all about it when you can actually hold your eyes open. Gonna lower the bed now, I'm not falling for the stubborn 'fine and dandy' shit you're trying to pull.”
Sam smiled. Dean was here, everything was all right. He didn't care about anything else, as long as Dean was all right, he too was just fine. Even if he's slowly going freakishly crazy, he was all right.
John walked in on a picture of perfect peace after having got the phone call that his son had been moved. Sam was sleeping restfully, Dean munching on fries, looking like he was in heaven. He had to swallow the mouthful before he grinned. “Hey, dad!”
The day must have been good. He looked at the monitor and noted the fever had sunken to a manageable 100 and Sam's breathing ran even. His color was not much better, but at least he seemed relatively pain free. John walked over to rest his hand on the bed's railing. “How's he been?”
“After they did that, dialysis mojo, he actually talked. Doesn't seem to remember much, though. But it was all Sam, for about five minutes. Then he went out like a light, totally wiped. Been sleeping for hours now.”
Sam stirred and Dean leaned in closer. “Talkin' 'bout the devil,” he grinned. “Want my fries, Sammy? Sorry dude, I think you're on jello for now.” He stretched his arm to press the call button.
Sam's eyes opened fully, focusing on John's shirt briefly before they traveled up to his face. “Dad?”
“Yeah, Sammy. Feeling better now? At least you're out of the ICU. Good work, son. ”
Sam lifted his hand slowly, dragging it up toward his face. He didn't quite make it and the arm settled on his chest. “M'nose is itchin',” he pouted.
John leaned over and rubbed his thumb on either side of his son's nose. Sam mumbled a 'thanks', clearly confused and embarrassed. The damned wall was still there, risen by Sam this time. John sighed. The memory of Sam trembling in his hold, so heartbreakingly defenseless and helpless, was still haunting him. Between haunted dreams and half-wake; Sam had never left his mind. Not for a second. But maybe the reality was that Sam himself had left him a long time ago. The one Sam was reaching out to now was Dean. The one he was asking for was his brother. John may have, at some point, tried to keep his distance, act with unemotional distance just to keep his sons safe and done such a good job that he'd become just that, not a father, but a drill-sergeant. He had succeeded in alienating one of his sons. He should be content, mission accomplished. Instead it felt like Sam stuck a knife in his heart, twisting it every time he refused to meet with his eyes.
A nurse came in, carrying a glass with a straw, smiling at Dean and nodding at John. Obviously his eldest had worked his magic and had already dazzled the young lady.
“Hey, Sam Winchester! We haven't met yet. I'm Amanda Lear and I'm here to look after you this evening.” She elevated the bed enough for Sam to half sit and looked, head tilted for better inspection range, at Sam. “Brought you some water, you have to be thirsty.”
John noted the change in Sam, the immediate tension in him. He looked over to Dean, trying to understand. But Dean didn't look at him, all his attention was directed at his brother, .
“Dude! You've graduated from spoon feedin' to straw sucking! Not bad for a geek.” Dean popped a couple of fries into his mouth.
Amanda held the glass for Sam, the straw in perfect angle for him to reach. “Geeks rule, right Sam?”
John watched, amazed at how easily the young nurse seemed to connect with Sam. It seemed like the two effortlessly reached a common ground. That seemed close to impossible for the two of them to accomplish. It had been easier when Sam was little, Sam had been happy every time he got home, to wherever home had been at the time. Sam hadn't questioned things back then, not like now when he questioned everything.
Sam lifted his hand and tried to grip the glass. The nurse pulled it away. “Not too much Sam, don't want to spoil your appetite!”
Sam's eyes widened.
The nurse smiled. “Doc wants you to try a protein shake. Think you can manage that? You need to start eating something. There's banana, vanilla or chocolate, your pick!”
Sam looked at Dean, clearly dubious at the though of drinking something with substance. Then he turned back to Amanda, looking at her from under the long bangs. “Uh, vanilla sounds fine.”
“Be right back!” The nurse twittered and walked away.
John would never have guessed that vanilla was Sam's choice. He'd guessed banana, because that had been Sam's favorite when he was five.
“Vanilla? Sam! What a wuss!” Dean shook his head. “You've learned nothing from your awesome big brother.”
John watched Sam make a frown. “I remember beer and Rocky Road. Didn't end so good, did it?” He struggled to move to the side of the bed. Casting a glance at John as a sign for him to sit down on the freed spot.
Dean laughed with his mouth full of fries. John felt a sense of sorrow descend on him. He had missed so much of his boys' growing up. For a moment he was back, wondering how their lives would have looked like if nothing that happened that dreadful November? It pained him to think about it, and still, every now and then he'd remember their lives when Dean was just a toddler. There had been hardships, yes. But the laughter and the good times were what he remembered. That and the hopefulness about a long, happy life together. And most of all; the lack of evil.
“When?” Sam asked out of the blue.
“When what?” Dean asked, reaching for the coffee on the nightstand.
“Do we sneak outta here?”
“Huh?” John was ripped out of his reminiscing to stare, flabbergasted, at his youngest. Dean looked equally stunned.
“What the hell, Sammy?”
“Real name, can't stay here,” Sam looked down on the blanket covering him. “When?”
John threw a glance at Dean just as the door opened and Amanda, the nurse, returned with the protein shake.
“Here you go, Sam, try some. You need your strength back.” She extended the Styrofoam container, equipped with the drinking straw, to Sam. “Think you can hold it?”
Sam's hand shook when he took it.
“Need me to help you out?” She looked a little concerned at the tremor in Sam's hand.
“No thanks,” Sam replied and lifted the mug, taking a long swig before leaning back and letting his hand sink. “M'fine,” he promised, disgust momentarily playing over his face. John recognized the look.
“Take it easy, son,” he warned.
“M'fine,” Sam repeated stubbornly after the third taste. He even managed a small smile at the nurse but he didn't fool John.
A 'Code Blue' alarm went off and Amanda looked perturbed “I have to take this,” she said, backing hurriedly, eyes still on Sam.
“We've got him,” Dean reassured, his brow in a deep crease while he watched Sam with preoccupation.
“Sammy, you 'kay?”
Sam nodded and his hand gripped the Styrofoam hard enough to make the top come off with the pressure his grip caused. Then he tensed, his face dropped and he gagged. Dean had the kidney-shaped basin in his hand just as John reached out to put his hand on the nape of his son's neck. Sam pulled in air, gagged, swallowed reflexively and started coughing violently. The mug fell out of his hand when he tried to jack-knife in on himself.
“Jesus Sam! No!” Dean threw his arm around Sam's shoulders and pushed the basin in under his face.
“The call button, Dean!” John's hold on Sam's neck tightened, he tried to lift his son's head to give him freer airways. “Sam! Get it all out.“ The coughs sounded powerless now, but Sam's body was hard as steel as it tried to free itself from the intrusion in the windpipes. Only Sam had no strength to fight it. Every time he took a breath, he coughed, his body twitching from the force. But it was evident that no air reached his lungs.
John was watching the door, waiting for someone to run in and help them. When Sam started going limp under his hand, he finally reached the point where he functioned on pure instinct. He snapped Sam's broken arm free from the metal rig holding it elevated, pulled Sam into his hold and tilted his son's head down and to the side. Sam's back was pressed to John's middle and he jerked when he coughed up the thick liquid and finally inhaled with a gargling, whimpering sound.
“Get it all out son, I've got you. I'm taking you away from here, Sam. They're not gonna hurt you and prod you anymore, son. I've got you. Dean, grab the car keys in my pocket and get the car. Park at the ambulance bay and bring Sam some clothes and the blanket.”
When there wasn't the immediate movement he'd expected, he looked up and found Dean staring at him. He pulled Sam closer, holding him with one arm while digging in his pocket for the key. Tossing it to his eldest, he narrowed his eyes and ordered: “Now, Dean!”
“Dad, no! Look at him, dad. Sam needs to stay!” For the first time Dean looked like he was going to disobey a direct order. His eyes were on Sam, watching his little brother limp in his father's arms, occasional coughs and pained inhales rattling the exhausted body.
“Son, Pastor Jim is five hours away. We'll get a doc to meet us there. If we wouldn't have been here, Sam would have choked to death, Dean! See any nurses around here? How long have you been calling for help? Still trust them? Now go!”
John read distrust and fear when Dean finally looked up and met with his eyes. “I've got him, Dean,” John promised and Dean finally turned and ran out, almost knocking over the help finally arriving.
There was an instant buzzing around Sam, question about what happened asked, somebody trying to pry his son out of his hold. John didn't let go; Sam felt so weak, so fragile in his hold that he was afraid that laying him back down in the bed would break him. Holding Sam like this made John feel very heartbeat, every breath and shiver and he wished he could carry the pain just like he was carrying the weight of his son's body.
“Sir,” the physician spoke, eyes investigating John while she reached for the suctioning tubes. “I need for you to let go so I can listen to his heart and suction his airways. Please!”
Sam was breathing much easier now, the gargling sound were almost gone and the coughs were far less frequent. But he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, just like that first night when John was sure that he'd lose Sammy forever. John looked down at his son's face, framed with the too long, sweaty hair. His eyes were closed, clammed shut with pain. John had his left arm circled around Sam's good shoulder, his right draped around Sam's middle, hand supporting the injured ribcage that fluttered against the palm of his hand. Even if only part of his son's weight rested against his own torso, his son felt too light, like a fragile bird. John wondered how much weight Sam had lost during these five days alone? If this continued, there would be nothing left of his son. Sam's good hand was trapped between John's arm and his own abdomen, the tubes from the IV-port in disarray. Sam wasn't small any more, he'd grown up but John wasn't able to get rid of the feeling that he was still holding the child he'd just ripped out of the crib and carried to the safety of his big brother's arms. This was how it was supposed to be; Sam belonged to them. They were the ones to help Sam through this.
He nodded at the doc, moving to lay Sam back to bed, just until Dean returned and they'd take him home.
“I'm taking Sam away from here,” he stated, positioning Sam on the bed, careful not to hurt him. “Get the discharge paper ready, or you'll get summoned for leaving my son alone to die.” He didn't look at anyone, just kept his voice low and his eyes on Sam. Hand resting on Sam's good shoulder, keeping him from falling over. The small breathless whimper that Sam let out when the doctor slid the suctioning tube into his throat had his heart clenching. When Sam gagged with a full-body jolt, he couldn't take any more.
“Enough!”
“Sir, he may have aspirated and -.”
“And you're trying to suck up his lungs? Sam's breathing, he got it all up and no thanks to you! You could have killed him!” He didn't even try to mask the anger in his voice. There was no margins for error, not in his line of work and certainly not here.
“Sir, we had a Code -.”
“This is my son, I don't really care about anyone else and I want him prepped for transport. Am I making myself clear? I want his wounds checked before I take him out of here, I want the medication controlled and packed for seven hour ahead, just in case. I want you to make him as comfortable as possible for the trip.” He moved away enough for the doc to listen to Sam's lungs and heart.
She threw a glance at John over her shoulder. “Sir, with all due respect, he's too -.”
John met her eye calmly. “Too weak to be left alone? I know, still you did just that. Now prep him for transport and I'll take full responsibility for my son.”
“He needs his meds in the IV, and the oxygen. He's just not in any kind of shape to be -.”
“I'm sure the hospital will bill the insurance company for the equipment Sam needs to be moved. Portable oxygen tanks have been invented and whatever he needs can be fixed for a price, am I right?”
The physician straightened her back to face John. “You understand that our responsibility ends when he's signed out, right? You do realize that your son is badly hurt? That he needs to be admitted to another hospital for care? If not, you're risking his life.”
“I understand,” John nodded. “Now get on with the paper-work and get my son ready.”
The doctor shook her head in disbelief. There was a brief staring contest before she dejectedly lowered her eyes to look at Sam.
“Take a last batch of tests for the chart and prep him,” she ordered the nurse. “Give his father what he needs to keep Sam comfortable. And may God be with you on this trip, John Winchester.”
She walked out, and never looked back.
John brushed Sam's bangs off the sweaty forehead. “It's gonna be all right, Sammy,” he promised but his son seemed too wiped out to even register the words. John let his hand rest on the top of Sam's head. Just like he had when Sam was a baby, resting in his arms and watching him with curiously sage and bright eyes.
Dean flat out ran to the car, he needed to get back to Sam as soon as possible. This was all so fucked up! Sam needed to stay put, not get tucked in a car and shaken and stirred for five hours. His fingers shook when he opened the door and climbed into the backseat to look for Sam's bag. Rummaging through it, he pulled up the hoodie and the sweatpants, looked at them and noticed how worn they were. He didn't want his brother to have to wear these, not if -. He shook his head and stuffed the clothes back in the duffel. He wasn't going to think like that, not now. Instead he should try to make the backseat as comfortable as possible. Sam was so fucking tall already that fitting him in here was close to impossible. He pushed the back support down, took one of the blankets and stuffed it in the chink, evening the surface out. His eyes fell on his own packed bag, that was supposed to still be in the motel room. And in that moment he realized that dad had been ready all the time, ready for the escape. His foundations took another hit. Dad's reactions hadn't been earnest, maybe not even in Sam's best interest. Dean stilled, staring at the bag, trying to understand how John was able to put everything aside to ensure the well-being of the family unit, even at the expense of Sam's health. To Dean, Sam had always come first, to dad it seemed he was only a peg to be moved according to necessities. And for the first time, Dean felt bitter resentment against John Winchester. Only now was not the time to stop and smell the crap, it was time to get the truck ready for Sam.
Going for his own bag, he baled his t-shirts up to a pillow, arranged his coat up against the door so Sam wouldn't hit his head. They needed more blankets, they needed a fricken mattress!
He stopped, looked at the impromptu bedding and rested his face in his hands. This was insane, Sam was too hurt to have to go through this. Just getting him inside would hurt like a bitch! What if something went wrong? What if he started bleeding from all the tossing around? If the ribs got jarred and broke all over? Had dad even thought about that? Had Sam? They were both stubborn sons of bitches, stubborn and proud. It would probably be the death of them both. He should stop this, but how could he when they both had gone mental at the same time? Damage control was all he could manage right now, but would that be enough?
With a last look at the space he'd arranged, he shook his head and crawled over to the driver's seat. Cruising out of the parking lot, he truly considered flooring it and leaving the stubborn asses without a car. That would at least temporarily stop the whacked up plan. But he didn't put it past dad to steal a car to get Sam away. Dean didn't see the reason for the escape, but he remembered the haunted eyes of his father that one morning. It was one of the few times Dean had seen naked emotions on his father's face; sorrow, fear and dejection. It was the look of a man that was one step away from losing everything, a man barely hanging on.
Dean wished he'd never find himself in that situation.
He had to wait for close to forty-five minutes to find a free slot by the ambulance bay. Which just reminded him how ridiculous this plan was. Sam would have put up a fight if it were him in there, laid up and defenseless. Sam wouldn't let dad spring him, not like this. The one time they'd come home from a hunt and he'd had the mother of all headaches, blurred vision and dizziness, Sam had taken one look at him and bitched all the way until dad had stopped at a free clinic to get him checked out. That time he'd ended up in hospital for three days and he'd been royally pissed at his bro. And here he was, helping dad? He should look out for Sam, fight for him to be left where he was at. Even if Sam was too fucked up to realize it right now, he needed to stay where he was at and Dean should be the one thinking straight. But he wasn't Sam, the truth was that Sam was stronger than him in many ways. And this time he wished he had Sam's strength to stand up to dad.
He locked the doors and stepped away from the car, wishing they had the Impala instead of this piece of crap. At least he trusted his baby to take Sam to Pastor Jim's. This thing he was watching? He had no confidence at all it wouldn't break down halfway there.
Gripping Sam's duffel bag tighter, he turned and walked to the ward, wishing dad would change his mind. It was just that hell would have to freeze over before that happened. And right now he wouldn't trust that to have happened, the grapevine should have been sizzling if it had.
He took the stairs, three at the time, hoping for a miracle. What he found instead was a very annoyed father, ripping the bag out of his hand and pulling the hoodie out of it.
Sam was on his side, all patched up with shiny new gauze, matching the pallor of his face.
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 had to sit in the car for a while, resting his brow on the steering wheel. The moment he turned his cell on, he noticed the call from the unknown number with the local prefix. He knew at once it was the cops looking for him. He just couldn't deal with that right now, if ever.
It had been literal hell for most of the night. And Dean wondered why he hadn't called? Would he have liked to see his brother shaking from fever, convulsing when it got too high and his heartbeat skyrocketed? John wished he hadn't, because it had ripped his heart out, shredded it to a bloody pulp. They had pumped his son full of meds, pushed another needle in to get more liquid out and tried to ice him down. John could tell that their hope was fading fast, just as fast as Sam seemed to slip away from him. Watching your son fight for his life like that, just hanging on barely before another complication set in and nulled the small victories, was devastating.
At the end, just before the antibiotics kicked in and Sam was shivering from cold and painful barely audible whimpers escaped him while his eyes flickered under the closed lids, he'd just thrown his arms around him and held him. He'd prayed, for the first time in more than a decade. Begged for Sam to be relieved from the pain. If it was hard for him to watch, he couldn't fathom what it was like for Sam to live through it. He'd had no tears left, no rational thought, only a fear so strong it almost suffocated him. Then Sam's fever started to drop, slowly climbing down from the lethal numbers on the screen. He was soaked in minutes, sweat running down his temples, wetting the hospital gown and the doctor had been worried he'd go into shock from dehydration. John hadn't let go of Sammy while another IV-port was inserted in the vein of his ankle, filling him with the fluids he was rapidly losing. He'd sat there, holding him until Sam had finally started to relax, breath running easier and his body slackened from pure exhaustion.
He'd still held Sam's hand when the nurse washed him up and changed his gown and the soaked sheets.
He hadn't let go until the doc assured him that Sam was finally asleep, not unconscious, just in a deep, much needed, sleep.
That's when he had finally stood up and stretched his aching body. Tremors took over and he had to sit down and concentrate on breathing and finding some semblance of sanity.
That's when Dean had showed up.
John knew he should have called, he had promised. But having Dean witness what he had witnessed would have been cruel. Dean had been through enough in his life without having to see his little brother fight for his life like that. The doc had said Sam was finally over the worst now and John prayed that it was really the case. Sam wouldn't survive another crisis, of that he was sure. Leaving Dean alone with Sam didn't scare him for any other reason than having Dean go through what he went through while watching over Sam.
And he had known, clear as a day, while he was holding his trembling son, that even it the rumors and innuendos about Sam and the other kids somehow being tied to the devil, panned out, he'd never be able to kill him. Whatever Sam may turn into, the memory of holding him while he fought for every breath, was enough for John to know that taking his son's life, for any reason, would never happen.
He looked up at the clear morning light and turned the key to start the engine. It was hard to tweak the hand off the steering wheel to put the car into drive. It was even harder to drive off the lot.
Leaving his sons behind, at times like these, was the measure of a man. Dean needed time with his brother now, when Sam was as close to stable as possible. He'd just shower and take a nap and then he'd drive back and wait in the lounge. Just to be there in case things got worse.
He flicked the turn signal to the left and floored the pedal.
Sam's fever did lower when the got the meds, at least some. Two long days of vigil and it was still high enough Dean to worry. How long would he sustain a fever before his insides were fried? He was already messed up enough. The physician said Sam needed some proteins to keep his strength up but he
was never awake enough to swallow. Two days of waiting for a miracle, two days of less than restful sleep when dad came to sit with Sam. Time had ceased to make sense to Dean.
When orderlies strolled into the room and the doc informed him that Sam would undergo a double dialysis to help his kidneys and liver with the metabolites of the meds, he broke out in cold sweat. The doc on duty looked at him and ordered him to go eat something, this would take hours and then Sam would be moved to a regular ward. He tried to protest but the doc was adamant; the room needed to be as sterile as possible and having Dean tag along was out of the question. At Dean's continued protests, the physician had pulled the guilt card and asked if Dean really wanted his brother's best? It pissed Dean off to no end but he relented.
Dean was left behind, staring at the empty spot where Sam's bed had been, while he debated with himself if he should call dad? He was all jittery and decided not to, he'd probably make dad nervous with his babbling anyhow. He'd been constantly keeping up imaginary discussions with Sam in his head, just to not go stir crazy. However much he tried to deny it, he knew he was already halfway there. When the cleaning crew arrived, he went to the canteen for a fatty burger and to read a newspaper, Sam would do that. He remembered next to nothing when he turned the pages. The burger and fries were gone, and he couldn't even recall eating them. Because really, all he did was watch the clock on the wall, every second minute.
Until the female cop appeared again, dragging out the chair opposite him and sitting down. She wasn't as pleasant this time, when asking him where John was. When Dean didn't tell, she opened a dossier and started quoting from Sam's school history, pointing out the pattern of two months here and four there. Visits to the school-nurse, cuts and bruises. Absences, sudden relocations, everything. Dean knew it didn't look good, not from an outsider's point of view. He wondered who had reported them? The doc after seeing Sam's x-rays? The nurse watching John flip out in Sam's room? By the look on the woman's face, they were in deep shit and she had taken a personal interest in the case. A cop with a calling was always the worst.
Dean realized that dad was right; they needed to get Sam out. Dad was always right.
Sounds were the first thing Sam became aware of. He was still in some kind of nowhere land, with darkness and heavy limbs refusing to obey him. He'd been there since forever. But the sounds trickled in and soft voices became painfully clear:
“I hear social services are investigating him and they are not finding a whole lot on this family.”
“Yeah, I've heard. Mom apparently died when this kid was just a baby. Guess dad took his anger out on his sons or something. I know they are trying to backtrack the history and see if there's something they can indict the father for. Abandonment or something. They can't do anything for the oldest, but maybe this one can be saved?”
It took a while before the implications sunk in. When they did, Sam's body went rigid.
The moment a hand landed on his chest, his eyes opened in fear. There was a blurry ghostlike face hovering over him and he tried desperately to crawl away.
“Hey? I'm nurse Simone, you're in hospital. We're just finishing up your dialysis and we'll take you to your room shortly. Just try to relax. You're feeling better? Right? We got all those metabolites out of your system and your fever is coming down nicely.”
Sam stared dumbfounded at the whiteness before his eyes, blinking to try and focus on what seemed like a floating entity. Speaking was out of the question since his tongue was glued to his palate. Had he seen Dean before in another place? Why was he floating? Psych-ward? Had he gone mental? Was he imagining things? Those words he'd head, were they a figment on his imagination?
“Don't worry Sam Winchester,” the eyes over the mask smiled at him. ”You're safe here.”
The panic rushed through him. Someone was digging around because he had ended up here with his real name? The one thing that was never supposed to happen. They needed to keep a low profile, never stand out and draw attention from the authorities. That was the golden rule of the Winchesters. And he was breaking it!
“You're all done now, Sam, I'll just wipe you off and put a new gown on you and we'll take you to your room.“
There was something heavenly cool wiping his chest and neck before the nurse lifted him up and put the gown on him. A glimpse told him that he was completely naked, except for the bandages. He was sure he went all red. A naked helpless heap of frickin' bad luck? Just perfect. Dad had all the rights in the world to consider him a failure. He needed to fix this, he needed to get lost and make them forget he was ever here.
His hand was freed and he moved it up to pull up the blanket to shield himself. The stab at his ribs had him moan.
“Cold?” The eyes over the white mask smiled at him.
“No,” he croaked, sounding like he'd swallowed gravel. Sam put another cross on the mental list of stupid things he'd done in public. The list was impressive by now.
“The orderlies will take you to your room and get you some crushed ice. I hope I won't see you here again, Sam. Take care!” .
Sam managed a weak smile of gratitude. The nurse was damned right, he shouldn't have been here in the first place.
The short distance he traveled, flat on his back, while trying to look for an escape route almost had him puke. It wasn't until then he realized that the odd white thing to his right was his own plastered arm in some contraction. It occurred to him that it might be too early for him to make a run for it. His brain was obviously totally fried.
Another nurse leaned over him, rising the head end of the bed when the orderlies had parked his bed. There had been so many white clad persons hovering over him lately that they all swan together into a symbol that signaled nothing but pain. Dad always told them to breath through pain, and he did, while scanning the room for a way out of this mess. The window? Would he be able to climb out?
He was startled when another voice addressed him.
“Hi I'm nurse Emily. Doing better?”
Sam nodded, tentatively. Better than what exactly?
“Ready for some chipped ice?”
Sam nodded again. He'd like to take a bath in it, to be truthful. If only he had his trunks.
“I'm going to take the oxygen mask off and put you on a nasal cannula.”
“Thanks!” He tried a smile, embarrassed by his squeaky, voice.
“Sammy?”
That was definitely Dean, rattling off a thunder of questions. “He awake? How long? Fever down? Did that thing you did to him work? Can he talk?”
He should be offended by questions like 'can he talk' but instead he reached out and grabbed Dean's leathery coat. “Jerk.” he coughed and the nurse fed him a spoonful of ice.
“Bitch!” Dean's face split up in a silly grin like he'd just won the lottery. The nurse looked at them like they both needed to be in the Psych ward. Sam suspected she was right regarding him.
“Jesus Sammy,” Dean exhaled. “You scared the crap outta me!”
Sam narrowed his eyes. His memory was a bit foggy at the moment. What exactly had he done? He wanted to ask but the nurse was waving the spoon at him. This time he didn't quite succeed to open his mouth enough and cold water dribbled down his neck. He looked down with embarrassment and his fingers around Dean's coat trembled with strain. He let go, he didn't want to but he had to. The dull ache in his body had kicked up a notch. Trying to shift position and push it away, he bit back a moan. How the hell was he going to get out of here if he wasn't even able to suck ice off a spoon without drooling all over himself?
“I think you need some rest, Sam. You're doing incredibly well, considering. I'll be right outside, want me to lower your head?
“M'fine,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Dean sprinted for the chair, dragging it over the floor. “I'll sit with him. I've spoon fed this freak enough to do it in my sleep.”
Sam tried his best glare but his eyes were closing. He didn't want to fall sleep on Dean. There was so much he wanted to know. Weird memories he couldn't explain lurked in the back of his mind, accompanied by flashes of images that he couldn't quite catch and decipher. He needed to understand what he had done wrong.
“Wha' happ'nd?”
“You kicked the crap outta that thing, Sammy. I'll tell you all about it when you can actually hold your eyes open. Gonna lower the bed now, I'm not falling for the stubborn 'fine and dandy' shit you're trying to pull.”
Sam smiled. Dean was here, everything was all right. He didn't care about anything else, as long as Dean was all right, he too was just fine. Even if he's slowly going freakishly crazy, he was all right.
John walked in on a picture of perfect peace after having got the phone call that his son had been moved. Sam was sleeping restfully, Dean munching on fries, looking like he was in heaven. He had to swallow the mouthful before he grinned. “Hey, dad!”
The day must have been good. He looked at the monitor and noted the fever had sunken to a manageable 100 and Sam's breathing ran even. His color was not much better, but at least he seemed relatively pain free. John walked over to rest his hand on the bed's railing. “How's he been?”
“After they did that, dialysis mojo, he actually talked. Doesn't seem to remember much, though. But it was all Sam, for about five minutes. Then he went out like a light, totally wiped. Been sleeping for hours now.”
Sam stirred and Dean leaned in closer. “Talkin' 'bout the devil,” he grinned. “Want my fries, Sammy? Sorry dude, I think you're on jello for now.” He stretched his arm to press the call button.
Sam's eyes opened fully, focusing on John's shirt briefly before they traveled up to his face. “Dad?”
“Yeah, Sammy. Feeling better now? At least you're out of the ICU. Good work, son. ”
Sam lifted his hand slowly, dragging it up toward his face. He didn't quite make it and the arm settled on his chest. “M'nose is itchin',” he pouted.
John leaned over and rubbed his thumb on either side of his son's nose. Sam mumbled a 'thanks', clearly confused and embarrassed. The damned wall was still there, risen by Sam this time. John sighed. The memory of Sam trembling in his hold, so heartbreakingly defenseless and helpless, was still haunting him. Between haunted dreams and half-wake; Sam had never left his mind. Not for a second. But maybe the reality was that Sam himself had left him a long time ago. The one Sam was reaching out to now was Dean. The one he was asking for was his brother. John may have, at some point, tried to keep his distance, act with unemotional distance just to keep his sons safe and done such a good job that he'd become just that, not a father, but a drill-sergeant. He had succeeded in alienating one of his sons. He should be content, mission accomplished. Instead it felt like Sam stuck a knife in his heart, twisting it every time he refused to meet with his eyes.
A nurse came in, carrying a glass with a straw, smiling at Dean and nodding at John. Obviously his eldest had worked his magic and had already dazzled the young lady.
“Hey, Sam Winchester! We haven't met yet. I'm Amanda Lear and I'm here to look after you this evening.” She elevated the bed enough for Sam to half sit and looked, head tilted for better inspection range, at Sam. “Brought you some water, you have to be thirsty.”
John noted the change in Sam, the immediate tension in him. He looked over to Dean, trying to understand. But Dean didn't look at him, all his attention was directed at his brother, .
“Dude! You've graduated from spoon feedin' to straw sucking! Not bad for a geek.” Dean popped a couple of fries into his mouth.
Amanda held the glass for Sam, the straw in perfect angle for him to reach. “Geeks rule, right Sam?”
John watched, amazed at how easily the young nurse seemed to connect with Sam. It seemed like the two effortlessly reached a common ground. That seemed close to impossible for the two of them to accomplish. It had been easier when Sam was little, Sam had been happy every time he got home, to wherever home had been at the time. Sam hadn't questioned things back then, not like now when he questioned everything.
Sam lifted his hand and tried to grip the glass. The nurse pulled it away. “Not too much Sam, don't want to spoil your appetite!”
Sam's eyes widened.
The nurse smiled. “Doc wants you to try a protein shake. Think you can manage that? You need to start eating something. There's banana, vanilla or chocolate, your pick!”
Sam looked at Dean, clearly dubious at the though of drinking something with substance. Then he turned back to Amanda, looking at her from under the long bangs. “Uh, vanilla sounds fine.”
“Be right back!” The nurse twittered and walked away.
John would never have guessed that vanilla was Sam's choice. He'd guessed banana, because that had been Sam's favorite when he was five.
“Vanilla? Sam! What a wuss!” Dean shook his head. “You've learned nothing from your awesome big brother.”
John watched Sam make a frown. “I remember beer and Rocky Road. Didn't end so good, did it?” He struggled to move to the side of the bed. Casting a glance at John as a sign for him to sit down on the freed spot.
Dean laughed with his mouth full of fries. John felt a sense of sorrow descend on him. He had missed so much of his boys' growing up. For a moment he was back, wondering how their lives would have looked like if nothing that happened that dreadful November? It pained him to think about it, and still, every now and then he'd remember their lives when Dean was just a toddler. There had been hardships, yes. But the laughter and the good times were what he remembered. That and the hopefulness about a long, happy life together. And most of all; the lack of evil.
“When?” Sam asked out of the blue.
“When what?” Dean asked, reaching for the coffee on the nightstand.
“Do we sneak outta here?”
“Huh?” John was ripped out of his reminiscing to stare, flabbergasted, at his youngest. Dean looked equally stunned.
“What the hell, Sammy?”
“Real name, can't stay here,” Sam looked down on the blanket covering him. “When?”
John threw a glance at Dean just as the door opened and Amanda, the nurse, returned with the protein shake.
“Here you go, Sam, try some. You need your strength back.” She extended the Styrofoam container, equipped with the drinking straw, to Sam. “Think you can hold it?”
Sam's hand shook when he took it.
“Need me to help you out?” She looked a little concerned at the tremor in Sam's hand.
“No thanks,” Sam replied and lifted the mug, taking a long swig before leaning back and letting his hand sink. “M'fine,” he promised, disgust momentarily playing over his face. John recognized the look.
“Take it easy, son,” he warned.
“M'fine,” Sam repeated stubbornly after the third taste. He even managed a small smile at the nurse but he didn't fool John.
A 'Code Blue' alarm went off and Amanda looked perturbed “I have to take this,” she said, backing hurriedly, eyes still on Sam.
“We've got him,” Dean reassured, his brow in a deep crease while he watched Sam with preoccupation.
“Sammy, you 'kay?”
Sam nodded and his hand gripped the Styrofoam hard enough to make the top come off with the pressure his grip caused. Then he tensed, his face dropped and he gagged. Dean had the kidney-shaped basin in his hand just as John reached out to put his hand on the nape of his son's neck. Sam pulled in air, gagged, swallowed reflexively and started coughing violently. The mug fell out of his hand when he tried to jack-knife in on himself.
“Jesus Sam! No!” Dean threw his arm around Sam's shoulders and pushed the basin in under his face.
“The call button, Dean!” John's hold on Sam's neck tightened, he tried to lift his son's head to give him freer airways. “Sam! Get it all out.“ The coughs sounded powerless now, but Sam's body was hard as steel as it tried to free itself from the intrusion in the windpipes. Only Sam had no strength to fight it. Every time he took a breath, he coughed, his body twitching from the force. But it was evident that no air reached his lungs.
John was watching the door, waiting for someone to run in and help them. When Sam started going limp under his hand, he finally reached the point where he functioned on pure instinct. He snapped Sam's broken arm free from the metal rig holding it elevated, pulled Sam into his hold and tilted his son's head down and to the side. Sam's back was pressed to John's middle and he jerked when he coughed up the thick liquid and finally inhaled with a gargling, whimpering sound.
“Get it all out son, I've got you. I'm taking you away from here, Sam. They're not gonna hurt you and prod you anymore, son. I've got you. Dean, grab the car keys in my pocket and get the car. Park at the ambulance bay and bring Sam some clothes and the blanket.”
When there wasn't the immediate movement he'd expected, he looked up and found Dean staring at him. He pulled Sam closer, holding him with one arm while digging in his pocket for the key. Tossing it to his eldest, he narrowed his eyes and ordered: “Now, Dean!”
“Dad, no! Look at him, dad. Sam needs to stay!” For the first time Dean looked like he was going to disobey a direct order. His eyes were on Sam, watching his little brother limp in his father's arms, occasional coughs and pained inhales rattling the exhausted body.
“Son, Pastor Jim is five hours away. We'll get a doc to meet us there. If we wouldn't have been here, Sam would have choked to death, Dean! See any nurses around here? How long have you been calling for help? Still trust them? Now go!”
John read distrust and fear when Dean finally looked up and met with his eyes. “I've got him, Dean,” John promised and Dean finally turned and ran out, almost knocking over the help finally arriving.
There was an instant buzzing around Sam, question about what happened asked, somebody trying to pry his son out of his hold. John didn't let go; Sam felt so weak, so fragile in his hold that he was afraid that laying him back down in the bed would break him. Holding Sam like this made John feel very heartbeat, every breath and shiver and he wished he could carry the pain just like he was carrying the weight of his son's body.
“Sir,” the physician spoke, eyes investigating John while she reached for the suctioning tubes. “I need for you to let go so I can listen to his heart and suction his airways. Please!”
Sam was breathing much easier now, the gargling sound were almost gone and the coughs were far less frequent. But he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, just like that first night when John was sure that he'd lose Sammy forever. John looked down at his son's face, framed with the too long, sweaty hair. His eyes were closed, clammed shut with pain. John had his left arm circled around Sam's good shoulder, his right draped around Sam's middle, hand supporting the injured ribcage that fluttered against the palm of his hand. Even if only part of his son's weight rested against his own torso, his son felt too light, like a fragile bird. John wondered how much weight Sam had lost during these five days alone? If this continued, there would be nothing left of his son. Sam's good hand was trapped between John's arm and his own abdomen, the tubes from the IV-port in disarray. Sam wasn't small any more, he'd grown up but John wasn't able to get rid of the feeling that he was still holding the child he'd just ripped out of the crib and carried to the safety of his big brother's arms. This was how it was supposed to be; Sam belonged to them. They were the ones to help Sam through this.
He nodded at the doc, moving to lay Sam back to bed, just until Dean returned and they'd take him home.
“I'm taking Sam away from here,” he stated, positioning Sam on the bed, careful not to hurt him. “Get the discharge paper ready, or you'll get summoned for leaving my son alone to die.” He didn't look at anyone, just kept his voice low and his eyes on Sam. Hand resting on Sam's good shoulder, keeping him from falling over. The small breathless whimper that Sam let out when the doctor slid the suctioning tube into his throat had his heart clenching. When Sam gagged with a full-body jolt, he couldn't take any more.
“Enough!”
“Sir, he may have aspirated and -.”
“And you're trying to suck up his lungs? Sam's breathing, he got it all up and no thanks to you! You could have killed him!” He didn't even try to mask the anger in his voice. There was no margins for error, not in his line of work and certainly not here.
“Sir, we had a Code -.”
“This is my son, I don't really care about anyone else and I want him prepped for transport. Am I making myself clear? I want his wounds checked before I take him out of here, I want the medication controlled and packed for seven hour ahead, just in case. I want you to make him as comfortable as possible for the trip.” He moved away enough for the doc to listen to Sam's lungs and heart.
She threw a glance at John over her shoulder. “Sir, with all due respect, he's too -.”
John met her eye calmly. “Too weak to be left alone? I know, still you did just that. Now prep him for transport and I'll take full responsibility for my son.”
“He needs his meds in the IV, and the oxygen. He's just not in any kind of shape to be -.”
“I'm sure the hospital will bill the insurance company for the equipment Sam needs to be moved. Portable oxygen tanks have been invented and whatever he needs can be fixed for a price, am I right?”
The physician straightened her back to face John. “You understand that our responsibility ends when he's signed out, right? You do realize that your son is badly hurt? That he needs to be admitted to another hospital for care? If not, you're risking his life.”
“I understand,” John nodded. “Now get on with the paper-work and get my son ready.”
The doctor shook her head in disbelief. There was a brief staring contest before she dejectedly lowered her eyes to look at Sam.
“Take a last batch of tests for the chart and prep him,” she ordered the nurse. “Give his father what he needs to keep Sam comfortable. And may God be with you on this trip, John Winchester.”
She walked out, and never looked back.
John brushed Sam's bangs off the sweaty forehead. “It's gonna be all right, Sammy,” he promised but his son seemed too wiped out to even register the words. John let his hand rest on the top of Sam's head. Just like he had when Sam was a baby, resting in his arms and watching him with curiously sage and bright eyes.
Dean flat out ran to the car, he needed to get back to Sam as soon as possible. This was all so fucked up! Sam needed to stay put, not get tucked in a car and shaken and stirred for five hours. His fingers shook when he opened the door and climbed into the backseat to look for Sam's bag. Rummaging through it, he pulled up the hoodie and the sweatpants, looked at them and noticed how worn they were. He didn't want his brother to have to wear these, not if -. He shook his head and stuffed the clothes back in the duffel. He wasn't going to think like that, not now. Instead he should try to make the backseat as comfortable as possible. Sam was so fucking tall already that fitting him in here was close to impossible. He pushed the back support down, took one of the blankets and stuffed it in the chink, evening the surface out. His eyes fell on his own packed bag, that was supposed to still be in the motel room. And in that moment he realized that dad had been ready all the time, ready for the escape. His foundations took another hit. Dad's reactions hadn't been earnest, maybe not even in Sam's best interest. Dean stilled, staring at the bag, trying to understand how John was able to put everything aside to ensure the well-being of the family unit, even at the expense of Sam's health. To Dean, Sam had always come first, to dad it seemed he was only a peg to be moved according to necessities. And for the first time, Dean felt bitter resentment against John Winchester. Only now was not the time to stop and smell the crap, it was time to get the truck ready for Sam.
Going for his own bag, he baled his t-shirts up to a pillow, arranged his coat up against the door so Sam wouldn't hit his head. They needed more blankets, they needed a fricken mattress!
He stopped, looked at the impromptu bedding and rested his face in his hands. This was insane, Sam was too hurt to have to go through this. Just getting him inside would hurt like a bitch! What if something went wrong? What if he started bleeding from all the tossing around? If the ribs got jarred and broke all over? Had dad even thought about that? Had Sam? They were both stubborn sons of bitches, stubborn and proud. It would probably be the death of them both. He should stop this, but how could he when they both had gone mental at the same time? Damage control was all he could manage right now, but would that be enough?
With a last look at the space he'd arranged, he shook his head and crawled over to the driver's seat. Cruising out of the parking lot, he truly considered flooring it and leaving the stubborn asses without a car. That would at least temporarily stop the whacked up plan. But he didn't put it past dad to steal a car to get Sam away. Dean didn't see the reason for the escape, but he remembered the haunted eyes of his father that one morning. It was one of the few times Dean had seen naked emotions on his father's face; sorrow, fear and dejection. It was the look of a man that was one step away from losing everything, a man barely hanging on.
Dean wished he'd never find himself in that situation.
He had to wait for close to forty-five minutes to find a free slot by the ambulance bay. Which just reminded him how ridiculous this plan was. Sam would have put up a fight if it were him in there, laid up and defenseless. Sam wouldn't let dad spring him, not like this. The one time they'd come home from a hunt and he'd had the mother of all headaches, blurred vision and dizziness, Sam had taken one look at him and bitched all the way until dad had stopped at a free clinic to get him checked out. That time he'd ended up in hospital for three days and he'd been royally pissed at his bro. And here he was, helping dad? He should look out for Sam, fight for him to be left where he was at. Even if Sam was too fucked up to realize it right now, he needed to stay where he was at and Dean should be the one thinking straight. But he wasn't Sam, the truth was that Sam was stronger than him in many ways. And this time he wished he had Sam's strength to stand up to dad.
He locked the doors and stepped away from the car, wishing they had the Impala instead of this piece of crap. At least he trusted his baby to take Sam to Pastor Jim's. This thing he was watching? He had no confidence at all it wouldn't break down halfway there.
Gripping Sam's duffel bag tighter, he turned and walked to the ward, wishing dad would change his mind. It was just that hell would have to freeze over before that happened. And right now he wouldn't trust that to have happened, the grapevine should have been sizzling if it had.
He took the stairs, three at the time, hoping for a miracle. What he found instead was a very annoyed father, ripping the bag out of his hand and pulling the hoodie out of it.
Sam was on his side, all patched up with shiny new gauze, matching the pallor of his face.