A/N: I'm so glad I finally had the chance to start this story! :)
It will be a mix of supernatural and science. Don't take the medical part too seriously, though - while I did have some classes related to neuroscience, I'm not a doctor. This is all fiction.
Before we start, here's a definition of PVS: "A persistent vegetative state (commonly, but incorrectly, referred to as "brain death") sometimes follows a coma. Individuals in such a state have lost their thinking abilities and awareness of their surroundings, but retain non-cognitive function and normal sleep patterns."
The title is inspired by medieval dream literature and means 'nightmare', 'dream' or 'vision', depending on the context.
Nothing indicated that the turning point Dean had been begging for would come today. His morning started as usual; he woke up with a pounding heart, eyes roaming to seek out the familiar figure in the other bed, never finding their target. In a moment of blurry panic, he reached for his gun - then the memories came back. Cold Oak, the wound, closing that Hellgate, killing the demon - and the endless hours he had spent in the hospital afterwards, even though it was already too late, even though he should have been there all along.
They told him that the first time Sam opened his eyes, he was lucid and in a vast amount of pain the doctors couldn't get to subside before he lost consciousness again. He wasn't supposed to come to it then. They don't even know how he did it, only that his brain shut down then and there. He should have stayed in a medically induced coma for another day, but the psychic little shit fought his way through. That was the last chance - Dean's last chance to talk to him. And he wasn't there. He missed it. He was too busy ganking that yellow-eyed motherfucker miles away from his brother when it happened. And it just figures, right, that Sam wouldn't really wake up again. He always liked to be all contrary and stubborn, didn't he? Always such a pain in the ass. Alright, Dean keeps thinking, it is on. It is so on. See if I'll give up, Sasquatch.
It's PVS, persistent vegetative state. Which means he's practically brain dead. Gone, murdered, deceased. A goddamn vegetable on a bunch of machines. No matter that his spine is all patched up, he's a lost cause. That's what those know-it-all docs have been telling Dean for weeks now. But he knows better. Sam is still alive, and he is going to fight anyone who dares claim otherwise. He has proof now, real, tangible proof. The EEG reports he stole from Dr. Robert's cabinet. The line on the last paper wasn't even close to straight, no, it was a ragged, high-frequency wave, a testament that shows a part of Sam's brain is still alive. And you can bet your ass Dean will fight tooth and nail to keep that line from flattening out.
A few minutes ago, the doctor was trying to convince him to start making Decisions. That's right, with a capital letter, because Sam's diagnosis opens the possibility of ending life support. Don't prolong your suffering, she said, he's only tethered to this world by his body. Let him go. Like hell. Sam is on the brink of coming back, Dean is sure. This - this in-between state, this condition or whatever, can't be permanent. No fucking way. Every single time Sam's eyes flutter open, he can swear he sees more light and sharpness in them than the day before. He just needs some time to heal, is that too hard for this high and mighty woman to understand?
"I'm so sorry Mr. Winchester." She rushes back into her office from a quick consultation with a nurse, not at all apologetic in spite of her words. "That was an emergency. As I was saying -"
"You know, Dr. Roberts, I don't have a medical certification, nor do I write useless letters before my name. But I do know one thing." He cuts in brusquely, then slaps the sheets on the table between them. She jumps. "This isn't the brain activity of a dead person."
Her eyes flicker down, then back up to Dean's face, stalling. "Mr. Winchester -"
"Don't." He snaps. "That line isn't flat."
"That's only cortical theta rhythm -"
"The hell is that?"
She lets her eyes slip closed for a second as though she had to hold herself back from flipping out at Dean's lack of medical knowledge. Screw her. "It's the type of brain activity we can detect during sleep or deep meditation. But -"
Dean raises both eyebrows. "You mean, he's actually sleeping? Has he been sleeping all this time, even with his eyes open?"
"No. Please, let me explain -"
Her voice doesn't reach Dean's racing mind. No one bothered to tell him the specific details of Sam's condition, he had no way to understand why Sam would look at him without ever seeing, but now - geez, if only he knew it was as simple as that. Sleeping. Bobby must have a spell or something that could work better than the drugs they are pumping into Sam's veins here. This might be the clue he has been waiting for, the point when he can change everything for the better at last.
"Theta means sleeping, you said it yourself, doc. He's just sleeping, right? How do we wake him up? Should I - Should I read to him and shit?"
Dr. Roberts purses her lips, not quite managing to suppress a sigh. Dean would very much like to bristle, but his elation at the possibilities this revelation brings far outweigh the irritation her manners cause.
"You may do that, but his condition is very unlikely to improve. Theta rhythm is normal in vegetative patients, because their sleep-wake cycles are intact. He is still in control of his respiratory functions, he can produce EEG activity and he might even dream. However, the chances of him recovering awareness are abysmal."
Dean frowns. Now, that's even more concrete. "Dream? Is he locked in a dream?"
"No. Mr. Win- Dean. Focus on me." She tries to grab his full attention. "Your brother has no self-awareness. These are just functions, empty mechanisms, okay? His soul isn't here anymore."
Dean doesn't believe a word she says. She doesn't know about the supernatural either - how would she know if this issue was truly irreversible? No way, that's how. Solving this problem is officially in Dean's hands now, he declares soundlessly. He's done believing in ordinary human miracles.
"He's gone." Dr. Roberts goes on, oblivious. She puts a hand on Dean's, the Monday morning sound of compassion so dull and empty in her voice. "I'm sorry."
Three days later, Dean is only closer to breaking through Sam's invisible wall in theory. Fortunately, he's desperate enough to be hopeful about theories alone. Okay, he might have surpassed desperate and ventured right into the state of derangement, but it could be chalked up to the fact that he has been living on vending machine candy and coffee since Cold Oak and he's not planning to stop anytime soon. Unless Sam reacts so well today that it renders the rest of his plan unnecessary.
Currently, he's trying his absolute best not to laugh himself sick at the sight of Bobby's military disguise. It's a battle he seems to be losing.
"Colonel." He snickers and mock salutes, empty M&Ms bag scrunching in his hand.
Bobby casts a withering glare in his direction. "Shut up, idjit." He sneers. "I had nothing else on hand."
"You could have come as, you know, yourself."
"And what would we do then if someone walked in at the wrong time? We would be busted."
Tentatively, Dean slips one of the last two m&ms into his mouth. His fingers feel all sticky from holding it too long, but he doesn't dare lick them clean while Bobby's grumbling.
"But people respect the uniform. It could save our asses, boy." Bobby goes on, then grunts. The pink tip of Dean's tongue darts out and he pushes his last piece of candy between his lips, eyes never leaving Bobby to avoid being reprimanded for not paying attention. "Well? Are we going to stand here all day?"
The familiar gruffness of Bobby's voice pulls a cheeky smirk from Dean's lips. He turns on his heel and starts off in the direction of the elevators. "Sorry, sir. I will lead the way, sir."
Bobby cuffs the back of his head. "Cut it out."
One of the nurses who is regularly assigned to this part of the building passes them on their way to Sam, pushing a cart of liquid mash that Dean recognises as lunch that Sam must have been oh-so-delighted to gag down. If he's truly inside his body, he must be writhing in disgust, Dean is pretty sure about that. The nurses haven't been tube feeding him for a week now because that carved out, hollow shell of him in the hospital bed can still swallow reflexively if they give him very small portions, but - obviously - he can't chew. Therefore, appalling pulp is the way to go. It kind of works out in the favour of Dean's plan. He knows next to nothing about feeding tubes, but he can use a mixer. When they sneak Sam out of this place, he'll be able to spoon feed him at Bobby's just fine.
Dean winks and leers at the nurse out of habit, but he doesn't get an appreciative look anymore, only a grimace filled with pity and a bittersweet hint of fondness he never wanted to see on a pretty girl's face as a reaction to his flirting.
"You look like shit." Bobby remarks right on cue, just to add insult to injury.
Dean snorts, jamming his hands into his pockets. His fingers close around his keys to feel the soothing coldness of them that reminds him of home. "Just wait until you see Sam."
Bobby hasn't been around since the days right after the hellgate mishap. It's understandable - the world doesn't stop just because the Winchesters are out of commission. Hell's monsters are still out there, Bobby needed to go back to work. It's cool. Dean had been managing things here perfectly well on his own. It's not like there's much to do. And they kick everyone out after visiting hours are over, so. Would be kind of awkward to spend days with the old grouch in a shared motel room, huh? Geez, imagine waking up to that mug instead of Sam's prissy face. No, it was better this way. Yep, definitely better.
Anyway, today Dean is going to try entering the dream Sam is stuck in. Bobby's got some herbs and made a killer cocktail that should hook Dean right up into Sammy's beautiful mind. It's gonna be a blast, he tells himself, despite the hint of trepidation he feels about it. What if all he's going to find is rumble and dust? The tatters of Sam's consciousness strewn across an unhinged dream? That would be one hell of a nightmare to sleep through.
They round the corner to the quiet corridor where patients like Sam are holed up, in their own separate little wing in this hospital. It's almost like a place for corporeal ghosts and bound spirits, eerie-still and empty except for the breeze of death that seems to haunt every nook and cranny around here. Dean tenses up every time he steps inside, chasing shadows of imaginary reapers with his gaze, away from the door at the end of the hall, away from his brother.
The mood turns somber once they enter Sam's room and see him lying there, lifeless and pale. He must have fallen asleep again after his lunch - his breathing is so slow the movements of his chest barely raise his blanket. Despite his carefully measured nutrition, he is losing weight at an alarming speed. The sight of his sunken, pallid cheeks and fragile frame stabs Dean in the gut with spikes of poisonous sorrow. If only I could give him the flesh on my bones, Dean's mind keeps whispering, I have more than enough to share.
Heaving a sigh, he gestures for Bobby, who seems frozen from shock, to step over the threshold. "Go on. Say hello."
Bobby sends an unreadable look his way. "Hey, Sam." He croaks out after another beat of silence. He sounds wrecked. "Good to see you, boy."
With a strained smile plastered on his face, Dean saunters over to Sam's supine form and strokes a hand along his right arm. "Hey, sleepyhead. Rise and shine."
No answer comes, of course, but this greeting and the subsequent small talk - well, monologue, really - are parts of Dean's daily routine now and he'll be damned if he reined himself in just because Bobby is watching. "If you had wanted some time off, you could have just said so. We could have gone to a beach somewhere, hell, maybe even California, and I could be sick of salt then, instead of chlorine."
Keeping up the steady flow of chatter, he moves over to the foot of the bed and lifts the blanket, uncovering Sam's giant legs, then takes a toothpick out of his pocket and runs it up the sole of Sam's left foot. Technically, he wasn't told to do any kind of testing on his brother, but he saw Dr. Roberts doing this one day and he just… he needs some visible reassurance that Sam might be able to recover from this, that he might be able to stand up again, to look down at Dean and roll his clever eyes at yet another bad joke. Much to his relief, the toes move, curling the same way the doc labelled as normal for someone with the extent of spinal injury Sam suffered. Dean is hit by the absurd urge to thank his brother's reflexes for not being completely unresponsive like the rest of Sam's body is. They have no means to know how well the operations on Sam's spine went, because in this mental state he won't make any conscious movement, but at least they know he has some sensation left down there. At least he isn't dead.
Bobby steps further into the room, gaze filled with uncharacteristic solemnity. "Dean, you didn't tell me…" He trails off, unable to say it out loud that - that they cut Sam's hair.
Not that Dean is any better at it. Even in his mind, he prefers to ignore it altogether, pretends there's nothing different, nothing wrong, because however insignificant the change seems to be, his hair has always been a big part of Sam's independence. Losing his control over that is the ultimate sign that he is slipping away.
Dean swallows and arranges the blanket back to its original state, smoothing his hand up along Sam's side to his chest to get rid of the creases in the fabric. Sam likes neat things.
"Yeah, well. It's easier to examine his brain this way." Bending down, he cards his fingers through Sam's short strands, his thumb rubbing over his forehead once, just a quick, imperceptible swipe that has a chance to go unnoticed by Bobby.
"And I won't have to deal with the sight of his bed hair every freaking day. It's a good thing that your impractical bird's nest is gone now, right, buddy?" He smiles at Sam's sleeping face, then casts his eyes around, desperate for a new subject.
"Look at that! Bobby bought you flowers." He exclaims when he remembers the bouquet in Bobby's hand, snatching it away to take it to the vases on the windowsill.
"Pink ones. Girly pink." He teases as he drags the carnations to a sunny spot. It's the only well-wishing item there - Dean doesn't bring gifts that could be trashed within a day's time and he sure as hell doesn't bring personal items. It is only a matter of time until the hospital figures out he can't pay the bills anymore. They should be able to move out any minute if push comes to shove. The more stuff they have here, the more they are hindered in case of a necessary escape.
Speaking of which. "So. Still sticking to the plan?"
Bobby grunts. "Yeah. We have to move him out this week."
"Did you pay the EMT?" It's not going to be a joyride. For one, Sam needs an ambulance, ordinary cars won't do, for another, Bobby's place is four hours away. Four hours during which Dean will have to trust a corrupt paramedic to look after his barely living brother.
"Do you think I'm an amateur, boy? Of course I paid the damn EMT."
"Good." Dean nods and goes back to Sam's head to whisper into his ear. "What do you think, Sammy, you ready to get outta here? Hope you are." God knows I am, he thinks bitterly. "Why don't you open those puppy eyes and say hi to Bobby, hm? I know you wanna."
Sam's nose twitches. Sometimes he does things like that - Dean would be blabbering on about one thing or another and all of a sudden, a part of Sam's body would jerk. According to the doctor, they are just spontaneous non-purposeful movements, but Dean can't help hoping they are signs of Sam struggling to get it across that he hears Dean. "Yeah, he looks ridiculous. You should check it out, Sam, have a good laugh."
Dean winks at Bobby, then starts fussing with the pillow under Sam's head, mouth spouting new strings of words. "I'm starting to think this is your grand scheme to give me some time to woo your pretty, pretty nurse. Nice of you, bud, real nice of you. But I figure I've missed my chance to tap that a while ago, so… how about ending this little vacation to dreamland you've gone on, hm?"
"Do you do this every day?" Bobby asks with an odd lilt in his voice. As though he was talking to a stray dog that could snap anytime.
"Huh?" Dean replies, distracted by the tiny radio on the bedside table. He is trying to tune it in to Sam's favourite radio station - at least, he assumes it must be his favourite, since the one and only time the corners of his lips twitched into a smile, Dean was listening to that.
"Never mind."
There it is! Dean grins in triumph as the notorious sounds of Heat of the Moment blare through the device. He watches Sam's face with avid attention, but his lashes don't flutter.
"C'mon, Sammy, I thought you liked this song. It's Asia!" Nothing. The unnatural stillness envelops them like an otherwordly veil, pierced only by the intense gaze prickling at the back of Dean's head.
"What?" He mutters defensively.
Bobby shakes his head. "Nothing."
"Oh, shut up, old man." Dean mutters and switches off that stupid radio. He just really wanted Bobby to see Sam awake before they started rooting around in his mind.
"I think we should get on with the plan." Bobby tells him and places a small thermos of African dream root tea in his hand.
"Yeah, you're right." Dean sighs and runs a hand through Sam's hair again, pulling a strand free. "Do you think it will work?"
"Wish I knew, kid."
Dean wakes up with a pounding heart, eyes roaming to seek out the familiar figure in the other bed, and he finds Sam lying there, curled up like a baby. In a moment of confusion, he reaches for his gun - then the memories come back. Cold Oak, the wound, the hospital, their plan with Bobby, until he heaves a huge, grounding breath and realises he is dreaming. Or rather, he has entered Sam's dream. His thoughts swirl around in languid nonchalance, dampened by either the drink he tossed back in the real world or the haze of sleep. He shakes his head and the room pulsates, filling with fog. God, this is going to be way harder than he thought so.
It's their usual motel set up, that much is obvious. Strangely, he expected Sam to dream them into a classy suburban house with white picket fence or in the middle of a fantasy land filled with orcs, magicians and fairies, something a nerd like his brother would like. A roadside motel seems so… ordinary. Boring. On the other hand, it is loads better than the worst case scenario of post-nuclear apocalypse world Dean was trying to gear himself up for.
Mindful of the wobbling ground under him, Dean slides off the bed and shuffles in the direction of Sam's. The bizarre fog makes him cough and double over, but he concentrates on the fact that it's not real, that this isn't the real world, and soon enough he is breathing through the itch of his windpipe with little to no difficulty. If Bobby's right, he should be able to control parts of the dream in time, currently, however, it's almost impossible to have power over anything but his own reactions. He struggles, feels as though his legs are stuck in mud, then glances down and sees that they truly are.
"Damnit, Sammy, let me get closer!" He swears and huffs through a squelching step. "I'm here to help."
Sam appears to be just as deep in sleep as he is in the real world. No wonder he never responds to anything - he's unconscious even in his own dream. Perhaps the real challenge is to wake him up here, not in the reality waiting for them outside.
"Is that the best you got? A little mud won't deter me, kiddo." Dean pants, reaching for Sam's peaceful face, almost there, almost -
"Oh no, you don't." Someone says behind him, amused, and snaps his fingers.
Dean wakes up gasping, slumped over in the chair pushed up to Sam's hospital bed. "There was a guy in there." He wheezes and grips Bobby's upper arm in a death grip.
"What?"
"A guy. He - He just zapped me -"
He can feel cold sweat sliding down his back and the trembles of inexplicable fear curling in his chest. It's similar to waking up from a nightmare you can't remember and trying to shake the last shards of ice out of your veins. Briefly, Dean wonders if he can recall everything or if there's something missing, something crucial, but however hard he thinks, he can't identify the mysterious guy. Then he glances at Sam, his knee-jerk response to a riddle beyond his comprehension, and has to do a double-take. Sam is looking back.
"Hey." He says in a burst of happiness before he realises that the usual lightless, blank look is still there. His joy dims by a fraction, but Sam's current "awake" mode is still better than nothing.
"Hello there." He continues a little more gently. "How are you feeling today?"
Sam's hazel eyes slide past, roll back and forward without seeing. "Did you hear me inside? I bet you did." Dean feels a tinge of embarrassment for the way he's talking, especially in front of Bobby, but a second later he brushes it off. He doesn't care. All that matters is Sam, the off chance that he is hearing some of this, that he feels how much Dean needs him back. "Took pity on your big brother, didn't you?"
The rustle of Bobby's uncomfortable shifting forces him to compose himself somewhat. He clears his throat and holds up a finger in front of Sam's bleary eyes. "Do you think we could try this again? Can you follow my fin -"
In the hallway, someone upends a cart that connects with the ground in a loud metallic crash. To Dean's astonishment, Sam blinks and startles at the sound.
"Woah. You - You reacted!" He exclaims. "Sam, did you hear that? Are you here?" With careful hands, he cups Sam's cheeks and turns his head an inch to the side. Makes it easier to lock eyes, just in case Sam regains the ability to do so. "Sammy?"
"Dean." Bobby puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, rubbing in soothing circles until the bubble of Dean's composure deflates and reality rushes back in like an ugly flood.
"Okay." Dean closes his eyes and moves away from the touch. "It's okay. Come here."
He folds himself over Sam's form and hugs him as tight as he can, breathing in the spicy-familiar scent of his skin mingled with the hospital's sterile stench. His forehead slides against the crown of Sam's head, then stills. Childhood nights spent on the Impala's backseat flash and fade like fen fire behind his eyelids.
"I lied. I totally miss your stupid hair." He whispers into Sam's ear and tries not to smear wetness on the too-pale skin pressed to his lashes.
A/N:
Feedback is welcome. :)