Supernatural
Hospitals
Dean hates hospitals. For as long as he can remember, he has avoided the places unless it was absolutely necessary, he wasn't sure why, maybe it was because more often than not whenever he went there he was watching his family members in pain and suffering.
And this time was no different.
The room was quite big, but looked smaller due to the bed which dominated the room. There was a bedside table, which had on it; Sam's phone, which was smashed up and covered in dried blood, now a rusty brown colour, but Dean kept it anyway, Dean's wallet and an empty cardboard coffee cup, purchased from the hospital cafeteria that morning. There was one comfortable chair, occupied by Dean, and there was one chair that looked as though it belonged in a dining room. The room was decorated in comfortable colours, designed to be restful, but it came across to Dean as akin to a decorator's choice for a funeral home. Desperately trying to look like someone's bedroom, but lacking personality. The floor was covered with a cold, institutional tile floor. There was one window that looked out over the town and had a nice view of the sunset in the mornings. The bed was nothing spectacular, the brothers had stayed in a lot worse, and the mattress was lumpy with padding and sterile white sheets that tried to cover the thick padding covering the mattress. There was a pale blue blanket that covered Sam, hiding the bandages around his ribs and chest, and the bruises littering every inch of his body. It didn't hide the bandage over his head, Dean almost wanted to pull the blanket over Sam's head, to hide the bandage, but Dean figured the hospital wouldn't approve. There were far too many machines attached to Sam.
The room was silent apart from the load beeps filling the air due to the heart monitor.
It was fairy nice for a hospital room, Dean thought.
Dean could remember every second of it, even though he doesn't want to. That's strange, he realizes, how he can remember the accident so clearly, but can't recall what he ate for breakfast that morning, if he had anything that is.
The day started out like any other.
Sam was bitching about the hunt, nothing unordinary there. Dean hated the constant bitching; now, he'd pay money to hear it.
It was a pretty ordinary hunt, nothing exciting, a salt and burn the bones type job. A spirit was haunting a house in the town, and in the past four years five families had lived there, and the father of each family had been found dismembered in the bathroom, which was locked from the inside, with no signs of forced entry or a struggle. The only problem was that they weren't sure whose bones to burn. There was a family; the farther had murdered the two children, a six year only boy, and a two year old girl, before killing his wife and then himself. At best guess, it was the father, but the fact that the victims the spirit had gone after were all middle aged white guys, that were almost exactly like the father of that family, even down to the two kids, kinda put a spanner in the works.
Dean had figured that they could salt and burn the bones of everyone in the family, but that took effort and time that the brothers did not have. Instead they figured it was easier to burn the bones of the father, and if that failed, regroup and figure out whose bones to burn next.
It hadn't taken much time to find where the father was buried. It had taken even less time to travel to the graveyard and even less time to locate the grave, the grave was close to the entrance to the graveyard, the first grave on the left side. It was old, a grey crumbling stone covered in a layer of moss, surrounded by grass at the base of the grave. A lonely dead rose lay at the base of the grave. The only words on the stone were the suspected ghost's name: Richard Jones.
They had started to dig up the grave straight away after finding it, and they were finished just over an hour later, by this time darkness had spread across the sky like an inky black poison.
It was only when they broke open the coffin that things went wrong.
As Dean broke the coffin lid, using the shovel, the air dropped cold, until he could he his breath puff out in front of him. He had turned around to shout a warning to Sam, just in time to see him go flying through the air and crash into a tomb about 10 meters away. He slid to the floor and didn't move again.
Dean started to rush, desperately searching in the bag for the gasoline and salt. He grabbed the salt and flung it over the skeleton, closely followed by the gasoline. He couldn't see what the ghost was doing, but he could hear it attacking Sam, Dean didn't look what was happening, he didn't want to. As he lit the lighter and threw it onto the corpse, the spirit shrieked, and went up in flames, a sight he would usually stop and admire if it wasn't for the fact that his little brother was lying lifeless and covered in blood on the ground.
Sam's eyes were shut. A long gash covered his face, from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his right eye, and judging from how he had been thrown against that tomb, he had broken at least one rib. His hair was matted and stuck up in funny spikes on the side of his head, the blood staining his hair a darker colour.
That wasn't even the worst. As Dean got nearer he noticed a dark blue pole, sticking out of the ground, he remembers thinking, who puts poles in graveyards?, before he realized where the pole stuck up from. The end of the pole stuck out of his brother's chest, just below his rib cage.
And Sam didn't look to be moving.
Dean took a second to notice how peaceful his brother looked, his face looked younger, years of constant worrying gone from his face. Dean could almost imagine his brother was asleep.
Almost.
Panic overtook Dean. He had always prided himself on being brave, but seeing his younger brother lying there still caused a different panic in Dean, one he hoped he never experience again. His heart was beating that fast he thought that it would burst out of his chest, nausea rolled up his throat threatening to overcome him.
No. This can't be happening.
Please?
He can't be dead
He had desperately felt for a pulse and sighed in relief as he had felt the faint beat under his fingers. He had looped his arm over Sam' shoulder and put one arm around his hip and dragged him into a standing position, being careful with Sam's injuries. His brother hung limp, like a dead weight, in his arms.
And Jesus Christ when did his younger brother get so heavy?
It was all a blur after that, the car journey to the hospital, the cover story Dean had made up, Sam being whisked away by doctors in white coats, people telling him to sit down, and oh my god the waiting, sitting in hard plastic chairs for hours and hours and hours and hours. Watching patients come and go, getting on first name basis with most of the staff, the bitter hospital coffee. It all blended into one big blur that Dean desperately wanted to forget.
He looked over at Sam, lying there lifeless, attached to wires and machines that do god-knows-what. The constant beating of the heart monitor filled the room. He wished he couldn't hear it, that this was all a bad dream and he'd wake up in the motel with Sam in the bed next to his.
But he knew it wouldn't happen.
Deans not sure what he hates about hospitals, but he's starting to get an idea.
It's the waiting. The uncertainty about whether the person in the bed will ever wake up.
Dean's never been a patient person, he's more of the shoot first ask questions later type.
But maybe it's the way the whole place screams to him about death and illness. The nagging feeling in his heart and the voice in his head; but what if Sammy never wakes up?
But he knows Sam will wake up, he just doesn't know when.
And until then, he will continue to wait.
Sam's not aware of what's going on around him. He has no idea where he is.
His head hurts, but faintly, like someone's stuffed his head full of cotton wool to block out the pain. It isn't working very well. He feels like he's floating, and it scares him, he knows he has somewhere to be, he can hear someone talking to him, but it sounds so far away, and to be honest, Sam would rather stay in this place. He doesn't know how, but he knows that if he heads towards the sound of the voice, the pain in his head will increase, the cotton wool will get taken away, and he doesn't want that to happen, so for the time being, he's happy to stay in this space, floating aimlessly.
He can hear a beeping sound now, getting loader and louder. He knows that he's waking up, even though he doesn't want to. It takes him a moment to realize that the beeping is monotonous, a dull beep beep beep that pierces the silence in his head, bringing him closer to conscious.
Sam vaguely wonders what happened to him, where is he? Did Dean bring him here? To the place with the cotton wool and the monotone beeps?
Maybe it's another hotel room, he wonders bitterly.
The feeling starts to return to his body, different areas of his body are now screaming in pain, not just his head.
The pain is more focused around his chest though, he doesn't know why, maybe he busted a rib on the last hunt.
Wait? Hunt?
Memories start to flood back into Sam's head, a sea of memories almost drowns him, he isn't used to the memories, he is used to the floating around, but the memories ground him, anchoring him to the surface.
He can feel more things now, not just the pain; he can feel the lumpy mattress underneath his back, the soft blankets that lay draped over his chest and legs.
He can also hear things; the beeping noise is louder, echoing around his head. It vaguely reminds him of his alarm for school when he was younger. Every time the beep sounds, a fresh wave of pain fills his brain, a tidal wave of suffering, getting larger each time.
He guesses that means that he's waking up.
Great.
Smell is the next sense to return. He can smell something bitter, probably coffee, and disinfectant. It isn't a good smell combo.
The last sense to return is taste. Sam misses the time without it. His mouth tastes like dirt, and slightly coppery, blood.
He guesses that he's in a hospital, but he isn't sure.
It's probably a hospital, guessing from the blood taste in his mouth, and the beeping, which he's worked out that it's a heart monitor.
He wants to wake up now, he wants to see the sun, and get out of this stupid hospital.
He desperately tries to open his eyes; it feels like such a difficult job, he knows it shouldn't be like this. Sam guesses he's concussed.
When he finally manages to pry open his eyes, he is greeted by a room so white it almost blinds him, he blinks once experimentally, then again, each time it becomes easier.
Someone's moving next to him, a dark shape that Sam can't work out.
"Sammy? Are you awake?"
Sam realizes that that dark shape must be Dean.
His head feels foggy, no longer like cotton wool, more like a fine mist is protecting him from the pain, and if he so much as shakes his head it will evaporate, and the pain will overcome him.
Sam tries to speak, to answer the Dean-blob-thing; all he manages is a strangled groan.
He tries again.
"D'n?" he manages to mutter.
"It's ok Sammy, I'm right here." He hears. The familiar sound of Deans voice spurs him to come fully into consciousness.
He opens his eyes again; the light doesn't seem as bright this time, it's easier to see.
The walls are white, the floor is white, the bed is white, everything is white. Apart from the blue blanket on his bed.
He considers the possibility that he is in heaven, but then he remembers that heaven doesn't exist, and even if it did he wouldn't get there anyway, and he's in pain. He wonders if he is in hell, but then he figures that his pain would be worse and Dean wouldn't be here.
He vaguely registers Dean shouting for a doctor. He feels someone poke at him, gentle fingers assessing his condition. Sam knows that Dean won't listen to when the doctor says he can go, their fake insurance can run out at anytime and Dean knows that, Sam has maybe three or four days left in the hospital until he has to leave, depending on how long he was unconscious for, then Dean will have to look after him.
As soon as the doctor leaves, Sam asks Dean when they leave, Dean replies with a sigh and whispers
"Tomorrow"
The day flies by, Sam in various states of unconsciousness, and Dean either chatting up the hot nurse, or drinking the cheep coffee and watching Sam sleep. At one point, Dean heads back to the motel, to shower and change his clothes, but he's back by Sam's side in an hour, just in time to see him wake up again.
During the early hours of the morning, Dean rings Bobby, asking for a place to stay until Sam gets better, Bobby agrees to let them stay and Dean breathes a sigh of relief; that's one less thing he has to worry about.
It's at around 6am when they make their escape, Sam walking groggily, still half asleep and drugged up on pain medication, Dean with one arm around his brother to support him.
They make it out of the hospital without a fuss. It's getting into the impala that's the problem. Sam's all long limbs and drug-induced haziness, and Dean has to move Sam's legs into the car himself. As soon as the door closes Sam leans his head against the window and is asleep straight away. He'll wake again in a few hours, complaining about the lack of pain medication and his cramp/headache/broken ribs/any other injury he has.
But Dean will let him, because Sam is his little brother, and that's what little brothers do: complain.
The next time Sam wakes up, afternoon light is shining through the windows of the impala, and Dean isn't next to him.
The driver's seat is unoccupied.
Sam is alone in the car.
His heart thuds against his rib cage as he scans the surrounding buildings. As Sam spins the full 360° looking for any sign of his brother, he notices a gas pump. Then he reads the sign above the closest building: Highway Gas. So his brother must be getting petrol he reasons with himself. His theory is confirmed a second later by Dean walking out of the shop and over to the car. Dean smiles when he sees that Sam is awake. He holds up a plastic carrier bag and grins, Sam suddenly realizes how much he needs something to eat and a drink.
The impala door slams shut as Dean gets in and hands Sam a medium sized bottle of water. Sam greedily pulls the top off a takes a drink, gulping rapidly. He gets about halfway through the bottle before he remembers to breath. Dean laughs at Sam gasping for breath.
Sam reaches further into the bag and his hand closes around a warmer box. He pulls it out and opens it to reveal a cooked chicken sandwich. He sighs in content and begins to eat as Dean pulls the impala out of the garage and onto the road. Sam eats fast, swallowing faster than should be possible, before setting the box back into the empty bag.
"Didn't you get anything to eat?" he asks.
"Wasn't hungry" Dean replies.
And silence fall over the two of them. Not an awkward silence, just a comfortable silence. The silence is broken only by Sam's soft snores as he falls into unconsciousness.
It's two hours later when they arrive at Bobby's and the sun has just started to set, a mixture of colours spreading over the horizon. Sam is still asleep, drooling slightly as his head rests against the window. Dean gets out of the car and knocks on Bobby's door. The older hunter opens the door and lowers his gun when he sees its Dean. Dean thinks about making some sort of smartarse remark, but the days driving combined with his lack of sleep in the last few days convinces him not to. Bobby walks back into his house and leaves the door open for the two brothers to follow.
Instead of shaking his brother awake, Dean opens the car door and puts one arm behind his brother's head to stop him falling out of the car, before beginning the task of removing said brother from the car, and Jesus fucking Christ it's a lot harder than he thought it would be. Dean's careful with his brothers injuries, but his stomach still twists itself into knots when quiet pained moans escape his brothers mouth. Bobby has left his house and is now stood next to Dean, silently asking if there is anyway he can help. Dean nods his head in approval, and Bobby picks up Sam on his other side, together they begin to carry him into the house. Bobby nearly falls over once, Dean walks into the stairs, and then Dean nearly falls down the stairs. It's exhausting work, but eventually they get Sam into their shared bedroom and gently lay him down on the bed. Dean removes his shoes and socks, and softly lifts him up to remove his coat, then he lays his brother down and pulls the duvet up over him. Dean smiles victoriously when he realizes that his brother didn't wake up during his move from the car to the house.
Pleased with his work, Dean changes his clothes and gets ready for some well earned sleep, before sitting on his bed and looking across at Sam. He notices the bruises lining his face, the bandage on his head that should be ready to be changed in the morning, along with the bandages on his ribs that are covered with Sam's clothes and the duvet. The long gash on his face has scabbed over and looks even worse in the ill-lit room. Dean watches the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest, and the way his face looks so relaxed and peaceful, years off worry faded from his face. And suddenly Dean realizes what he hates about hospitals.
It's not the waiting. It's not the crappy coffee (though that does come in at a close second).
It's the fact that Dean has to take his little brother out of the hospital before he is healed. It's the fact that Dean has to take his brother away from the good pain medication. It's the fact that they can't stay in a hospital for the amount of time they need without being caught for having fake insurance. It's the fact that they even need fake insurance.
In the end it all boils down to the fact that Dean hates hunting just as much as his brother does. It's the fact that this job will be the reason that Dean never has a normal life, that Sam will never have a normal life. It's the fact that both of them will probably die before they reach 50.
And Dean hates every bit of it.