Takes place sometime during season one. In honor of my baby cousin, who had been in a coma for a week when I wrote this. He's perfectly fine now, but I needed to vent some of my angst.
Dean is numb. He can't feel anything, not the hunger that claws at his stomach or the fatigue that bags his eyes or the aching pains in his back and left arm. All he knows is an all-consuming fear.
It's been three days.
His hands are folded together, fingers locked and pressed to his lips as if he were in prayer. Between his palms is a cell phone. He keeps hoping it'll ring, but it remains silent and still in his hands.
Everything is still and silent.
And Dean is numb.
It's been three days.
He's always hated hospitals. He doesn't like that they're cold, that they smell of death and decay beneath all the antiseptics. He hates the sounds, the beeps that echo heartbeats and the alarms that go off for no apparent reason, scaring him every time.
He hates hospitals, but he sits in one. His broken arm is bandaged and in a cast. Broken in three places, the doctors had advised surgery. It still aches.
It's been three days.
The sheets are crisp and white, tucked all around Sammy like a cocoon. Half of Sam's head is shaved, a big white bandage covering the gaping wound beneath. Dean had pressed his shirt to that wound while he waited for the paramedics, his hands stained scarlet with his brother's blood.
Sam is stable, except for the hemorrhage in his brain.
It's been three days.
And Sam still hasn't woken up.
Dean presses his lips tighter together, until they're white. It's the only defense he has left against the sobs that are stuck in his throat, choking him. His hands tighten, knuckles colorless, and it sends sharp echoes of pain up his left arm.
Sammy almost looks like he's sleeping, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. But Dean knows that Sam talks in his sleep, mumbles and mutters under his breath, and he never stays still. He twists and turns and kicks his legs, rolls from wide side of the bed to the other. He gives Dean bruises when they have to share a bed and on more than one occasion, Dean's woken to Sam's feet in his face instead of his head. And he drools like a goddamn dog.
Sam is never still. He's never silent.
Except he has been. For three days.
Dean tries to take a breath in, but he chokes and breaks and shatters.
Sammy is his responsibility. His to keep safe, his to look after.
And he failed.
And it's been three days and Sammy isn't getting better.
And Dean's filled up Dad's voicemail already, but he hasn't called back, hasn't shown up.
Dean isn't numb anymore.
He hunches over Sam's bed and sobs.
If Sammy doesn't wake up, he might never quit.