Of Other Fathers III: Sam

They'd grinned at one another, had Sam and Dean, united in that moment by relief beyond words, by the knowledge of what might have happened, by what nearly had: Dean, as it turned out, bleeding heavily, though without telling Sam; later, a resultant fever spiking so high it left him unconscious or delirious. But the bleeding had stopped, and Bobby's field medic experience with dosing, patching up, and, as it turned out, the knowledge of how to set needle and catheter and hang an IV of fluids, brought him through. Dean's temp finally had dropped low enough that he felt less like what he'd described as—and markedly resembled—really, really bad roadkill.

Oh, he was far from 100%, Sam knew. Sam saw the ragged edges still, the pallor, the occasional squint of discomfort as Dean shifted on the couch, and the slowness and lack of grace in his movements when he rose and walked. Sam had pretty much ripped his older brother a new one about keeping quiet on the drive to Bobby's following the shooting. Yeah, sure, he—Sam—had a bullet wound through his shoulder and he'd hurt like hell and felt woozy and disconnected, but it hadn't bled much and was hardly fatal. Yet Dean had stuffed him into the Impala, tended him briefly at a gas station stop, and got him into Bobby's house with nary a word about his own wound. A bullet had driven through his back to stop just shy of exiting on the front side next to a rib. A couple of days before, now certain Dean was on the mend, Sam had cleaned up the front seat of the Impala. Too many towels had come away brown with old blood.

They were twenty-four and twenty-eight. Men, not boys. But Sam's bane was that even as he himself grew out of childhood, Dean seemed to believe him still firmly rooted in it. That it simply wasn't necessary to inform his baby brother of his own physical condition. Bruises, cuts, scrapes, claw wounds, you name it: nothing was ever said. He tended them himself; rarely, very rarely, he'd wanted Sam's help. If so, it was because he couldn't reach something, or an arm was too messed up, as it had been, once, with a dislocated shoulder. Then he'd grudgingly asked for aid, though he accepted it with a less than a stellar attitude.

Even now, he was up too often, moving around Bobby's house. Earlier he'd gone outside, saying he was sick of being cooped up. He'd wanted to work on one of the old cars sitting up on blocks, but Bobby had called him an idjit and shamed him back into the house. He did not, Bobby said, wish to see his handiwork transformed into a man measuring his length upon the ground because he pushed himself too hard, too soon.

Sam was taller and would make a bigger impact. But Dean was, in his lace-up workboots, well over 6'2" and massed 190 pounds. It would be a prodigiously hard meeting, body and ground.

Since that admonition had been about Bobby's efforts, not Dean's condition—though the implication was heavy—Dean had returned indoors, pulled a beer from the fridge, paced a few minutes to walk off the annoyance of what he undoubtedly considered coddling, and now sat on the couch looking elaborately disgruntled. But his color had paled and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his face. Dean scraped at it with a henley-sleeved forearm, then picked up the remote and punched on the TV.

Bobby, who'd gone into town on a supply run, didn't have cable or satellite. The reception for local stations wasn't always good. Surfing turned up muddy images that jumped annoyingly. Dean finally tossed the remote aside. "And I'll bet he doesn't have any porn DVDs."

Sam, seated at the table working on his laptop, smiled. "Wouldn't that be a wonderful bonding experience, the three of us watching porn together."

Dean shot him a wide-eyed glance. "Dude, you don't watch porn with guys! It's not a team sport!" Then he said consideringly, "Well, unless a girl's with you and she wants to try out all the moves."

Sam, distracted as typed, shook his head. "He's probably got some Clint Eastwood flicks."

"The question is," Dean said meditatively, "since this is Bobby, are they on Betamax tapes or DVDs?"

"Dude, does it matter? It's Clint Eastwood."

"True." Dean pushed himself halfway up, hitched and stilled, then completed the transition from couch to standing.

The awkward motion had been accompanied by a couple of hard inhalations he probably believed had gone unheard. Sam glanced over sharply. "Dean, I can get them. Sit down."

"- up, now," Dean said. "You finding anything that looks like a job?"

"Actually, I'm looking up news about the shooting and the cop who died."

Dean was on his way to the cabinet and shelving surrounding the old TV. "Any word about us?"

"Says three known dealers were killed in the shooting. One cop killed, another wounded, a third fine. There's a line about a fourth suspect getting away . . . I'm assuming that may be one of us. But no descriptions, nothing about any kind of manhunt."

"They might not say anything about it in the media." Dean was squatting by the TV, digging through debris. "But I don't think anyone got a good look at us. Too many bullets flying. I'd say we should go back there and finish off the job, but probably the cops'll have that building buttoned up tight."

"Ironic," Sam observed absently as he searched for other reports. "There we are chasing down Casper the Unfriendly Ghost, and end up stumbling into a drug bust." He felt briefly at a still-bandaged shoulder wound. "With very corporeal results. And you're not going anywhere for a while. Our resident doctor won't allow it, and I'll play the big bad orderly if I have to and sit on you. Dude, trust me, you don't want 220 pounds on top of you."

Dean didn't answer. When Sam glanced up, he found his brother standing beside the TV looking almost baffled.

Sam's brows rose. "No Clint?"

"What?—oh. No, not that I found. But I have established that we do need to buy him a DVD player for his birthday if he's to be remotely relevant."

Sam blinked. "Do we even know when Bobby's birthday is?"

"Whatever day we decide it is." Dean walked slowly back to the couch, contemplated it a moment, then turned with great care and sat down.

Sam frowned. "You want something for the pain?"

"Nope. That would interfere with my enjoyment of alcoholic beverages." Dean settled more deeply into the couch, recaptured his beer, took a hefty pull on the longneck.

"Dean, you got shot a week ago. I got shot a week ago, and I hurt. There's nothing wrong with seeking medicinal aid. Better living through chemistry."

"You taking drugs, Sammy?"

"No, but—"

"Then shut up."

"I got shot through the shoulder, Dean. That's a bit different from what happened to you. Hell, Bobby dug a bullet out of your chest."

"No, Bobby removed a bullet that was just under the skin," Dean clarified.

"After it traveled through all of your chest!" Sam protested.

Dean drank again. "Besides, Clint's never gone all girly and taken painkillers, now, has he?"

Sam wondered if his brother had actually cataloged whether Eastwood's characters had ever taken painkillers in any of his films. Knowing Dean and how he felt about the man, maybe he had. He didn't himself know—and it would never have occurred to wonder - so he countered with, "Those are movies, Dean. They're not real. I'll bet in real life, Clint Eastwood has taken painkillers."

"That's okay, Sammy. I've got mine. Beer works wonders." He paused. "And whiskey. I could go for some whiskey." Dean tilted his head back, peering across a shoulder. "How 'bout some whiskey, Sammy? Play Nurse Nancy for me."

Muttering "Nurse Nancy" in disgust, Sam pushed to his feet and went looking. He found a bottle, a glass, splashed in two fingers' worth. Delivered it to his brother.

Dean took it with a murmur of thanks, threw back the whiskey, then set down the glass upon the coffee table. His expression was an odd mixture of uncertainty and speculation. Sam was about to ask about it when he heard the engine outside, the crunch of gravel. "Bobby's back." He rose. "You stay put; I'll help."

Dean grunted, sucking down more beer.

Sam went out, blocked Bobby at the car. "The last time you cleaned Dean's wound you said it looked okay."

The older hunter pulled plastic bags out of the trunk, thrust them at Sam. "Yeah. He's healing well. It's not something you just snap back from, but I don't see any cause for alarm. Why? What's up?"

Sam shook his head as he juggled the groceries. "He just seems a little off. "

Bobby's head and mind were back in the car. "He'd never admit it, but he's probably feeling vulnerable."

Sam snickered. "You're right, he'd never admit it. 'Vulnerable' translates to 'girly.' But I'm serious, Bobby."

"So am I. Vulnerable. Fragile. Mortal. Call it what you will. It's somethin' about the innards, Sam. I've heard men say they've cried like babies after having their chest cracked for surgery, and it had nothing to do with the pain. Just not the same with an arm or leg. But something through the middle—well, it just seems to take longer for a man to get over, even once he's healed." Bobby pulled up the rest of the bags from the trunk. "He'll be okay."

A few hours later, over dinner, Bobby said, "You're not okay."

Dean looked up from his plate and was clearly startled to find himself the object of Bobby's comment. "What?"

Feeling vindicated, Sam put down his fork and waited.

Bobby repeated, "You're not okay."

Dean's confusion was manifest. "I'm fine, Bobby—"

"You took two bites of a steak so rare it's still mooing, just the way you like it, and ever since then you've just played with your food. When's the last time you didn't finish off half a cow and ask for the other half? And not one word about pie. I brought two home from the store. Apple and cherry." Bobby pointed. "You saw 'em—they're sitting right there on the counter."

"Bobby, I—"

Bobby cut him off. "And you should look at yourself in the mirror, boy. That roadkill you mentioned a few days ago?—well, it's back. So, I want to take another look at your wounds."

Sam rose and hastily cleared the table, stacking dishes and beer bottles beside the sink. Without being asked he rounded up the big first aid box, carried it to the table, thumped it down. He fixed his startled brother with a hard stare that threatened retribution if he didn't do as ordered.

"But—"

"Shut up," Bobby commanded. "Flip that chair, take off your shirt. I'm taking a look."

Sam nearly offered to help, but Dean's expression was transforming from open confusion to narrow-eyed annoyance. But he rose, flipped the chair and sat down to straddle it, facing the back, yanked off his knitted henley shirt, then swore as the motion pulled at his back.

It was obvious to Sam that the wound was healing cleanly. Where the bullet had entered was a small purplish depression hedged by slightly raised flesh, but there was nothing about it or the surrounding area that suggested a problem. Even Bobby looked puzzled. He touched the wound, pressed the flat of his hand against it as if checking for heat, then applied fingertips and pushed. "That hurt?"

As he flinched, Dean's tone was outraged. "Not until you poked at it! Damn, Bobby, what the hell - ?" But it was cut off, because Bobby stuck a thermometer into his mouth. Around it, Dean slurred, "Have you gone crazy? I feel fine!"

"You don't look fine," Sam declared.

Dean gave him a smoldering glare, then yanked the thermometer from his mouth as it beeped. He played keep-away as Bobby reached for it, reading the numbers to himself. His brows rose. "Oh."

Sam reached over and plucked it from Dean's hand. He looked at Bobby. "100.1."

"That's not so bad," Dean said, scowling. "That's hardly above normal!"

"Turn around," Bobby told him, gesturing in a circle.

Sighing, Dean rose again, turned to face Bobby. He did not sit down. He stuck his arms out from his sides in a broadly displayed 'See'? gesture that was obviously sarcastic, and fixed Sam with a glare as Bobby examined the two scalpel cuts. To Sam, they were barely visible. Bobby's work had been tidy.

"Okay," Bobby said after a moment. "The entry wound and the incisions look fine to me. But you don't, Dean. You're lookin' downright peaked."

"'Peaked.'" Dean slid his arms through the henley sleeves and began to pull the shirt on over his head. "Peaked? Roadkill? Just full of compliments today, aren't you?" He shot Sam a pointed look once his head emerged from the shirt. "You were awful quick to pull that first aid box over. Did you two plan this?"

"No," Bobby answered before Sam could respond, "I told him I thought you were okay. But you're not. Why don't you go lie down and get some rest?"

"I'm fine," Dean said thinly.

Sarcasm threaded Bobby's tone. "Then how about a nice big slice of pie? Hell, son, have two. One of each. Oh—that's right! You didn't finish your supper."

Dean gestured broadly. "What, because a man doesn't finish a meal he's at death's door all of a sudden? Jesus, you're both crazy." He swung, headed back toward the living room. But he pulled up and turned back, fixing Bobby with an inquiring glance. "You got any Clint Eastwood movies?"

"I do, but the VCR's broke."

Dean shot Sam a look that very clearly informed him that yes, and very soon, they would be investing in a DVD player for Bobby. And probably a slew of DVDs for movies Bobby might not even care about, but would magically suit Dean's tastes. In silence, Sam narrowed his eyes and beamed a thought to his brother: No porn.

# # #

The first few days after their arrival at Bobby's, Dean had been a resident of the couch because he'd seen to it that a wounded Sam was settled in the bed before asking for Bobby's help. After the surgery, Bobby hadn't wanted him moved. But a few days later Sam had insisted Dean move from the couch to the narrow bed in the window cubby by the kitchen to complete his convalescence.

Now Sam himself used a sleeping bag on the couch, nearly doubling his legs. He was in the midst of trying to unkink his unhappy knees in the middle of the night when he realized Dean was out of bed and in the bathroom just off the living room. The walls were thin, the door didn't seat tightly, and it wasn't difficult to realize that Dean was losing what little he'd had for dinner.

He debated saying anything when his brother exited, decided against it. Dean wasn't going to want to discuss anything after they'd busted his ass earlier, especially after throwing up his dinner. But when he heard Dean muttering as he crossed the living room, heading toward the kitchen, Sam heard, too, the strain in his tone, the muted hiss of breath being expelled as if in pain.

Sam did not even attempt to hide that he was awake. "Hey?"

Dean was ill-defined against the faint yellow illumination of the porch bug-light spilling through windows. His voice was tight. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam reached up and turned on the floor lamp. Now visible, it was obvious Dean indeed was in discomfort. His posture radiated it. His face was taut, pale, and he squinted. Dean just didn't look like that, unless there was a problem.

Sam sat sharply upright. "Dean—what's going on?"

Dean seemed to have decided the traditional "I'm fine" no longer applied. "I don't know, Sammy."

"You're hurting." Sam was on his feet. "Is it the wound? I mean, Bobby said sometimes a man can feel really . . ." He trailed off in the face of his brother's suspicious scowl.

"Really what?" Dean asked irritably.

Sam finished it lamely. ". . . vulnerable."

"Vulnerable? I feel vulnerable? No, Sam, I don't feel vulnerable. I just feel . . . " But he seemingly ran out of words and twisted into himself, pressing one hand against his abdomen.

"Dean, sit down." Sam reached him, closed hands around his upper arms and steered him toward the couch. "I'll get Bobby."

Dean didn't protest being aimed toward the couch, nor did he hesitate to sit down. But he declared, "I don't need Bobby. Let the man sleep."

Sam overrode him. "Then I need Bobby. Just sit tight. And yes, you do look like roadkill, so shut up. Oh, wait . . . " Sam took a few long strides into the kitchen, scooped the thermometer from the table, returned, and pointed it at Dean definitively. "You can do it yourself, or I can do it for you. Got it?"

Scowling, Dean pressed the button to reset the digital temp and inserted the thermometer into his mouth. His expression was mutinous, but he nonetheless obeyed.

Sam knocked on Bobby's door, answered the question when it came with a terse, "Dean's sick," then returned to the living room. Wordlessly, Dean handed him the thermometer. He read it. "Okay, it's elevated. That tells us something."

"Tells us what?" Dean asked sourly.

"That . . . it's elevated." Sam tossed the thermometer onto the table. "You still feel like puking?"

"I'm trying not to think about that," Dean said tightly, "and asking me about it isn't helping."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Perplexed, Sam gazed down at his brother. "I didn't think a bullet wound could do this."

Bobby, coming into the room in a t-shirt and hastily-donned jeans, grunted. "Give me the symptoms, Dean. Just like you used to do for your daddy."

It had been a routine when they came back from a hunt, if anyone had gotten hurt. Injuries mattered, and the treatment of them, the timing of the treatment. Illness could be a sign of something passed on by one of the big bads they fought. Triage was routine.

"We never even found the ghost," Dean protested, but then complied. Sam listened to the litany, his frown deepening.

"Uh-huh," Bobby said when Dean finished. "Well, I got a good idea what this might be. But you should have said something before now. Something other than 'I'm fine,' ya idjit. You, no appetite? No pie?" He glanced at Sam. "Looks like we'll be driving into Sioux Falls, stopping in at the hospital."

Dean and Sam blurted it simultaneously: "No hospital!"

"This isn't about a bullet wound; and anyway, that's not what they'll be lookin' at." Bobby gave them a baleful glare. "I'm good, but I ain't up to performing an appendectomy."

And again simultaneously, but this time in shock, "Appendectomy!"

Bobby gazed at Dean speculatively. "When did it start?"

Like a kid, Dean looked away. "This morning."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Jesus, Dean . . . why didn't you say something? Appendicitis?"

Dean glared at them both aggrievedly. "How the hell was I supposed to know that's what it is? If that's what it is?"

"What, you've never watched medical shows?" Sam asked, who knew very well the answer was yes.

Bobby sighed. "Come on, son, let's get you in the car. You ride in the back. Sam'll drive, and I'll hold your hand if need be."

"Dammit, I'm—"

But before he could complete the comment, Bobby and Sam overrode him as one: "—not fine!"

Dean gave up. He rose, winced, pressed a hand against the right side of his abdomen. "Okay."

"Roadkill," Sam suggested.

"Yeah," was the glum agreement, which was considerably more admission than Sam had expected.

# # #

The nurses that Dean's highly appreciative expression deemed were "hot" wouldn't allow Bobby to stay within the curtained-off ER cubical because of space constraints, but Sam they did. He tried to remain out of the way as the doctor came in repeatedly, pressing Dean's belly. The fifth time he did so, Dean growled at him. The sixth time, he nearly levitated off the bed.

"Okay," the doctor said, paying no attention whatsoever to Dean's patented Laser Stare of Death, "now we're ready. And, young man, I'm not impressed by this tough-guy act you've been giving all the nurses. There's nothing weak about taking painkillers. And stupidity doesn't impress them, either."

Dean glared at him. "I have a high pain threshold."

The doctor smiled thinly. "Not just now you don't. Or shall I palpate your belly again?" And when Dean only stared at him in wide-eyed, stricken silence, one arm out in a blocking gesture, he nodded again. "I'll have the OR alerted, and we'll haul you off to surgery when a room's open. In the meantime, I'll send a nurse in with morphine."

Smiling, Sam watched the IV injection, the (hot) nurse's pat on his Dean's forearm as he complained about the acid burn in his vein. Once the morphine drained his brother of pain as well as coherency, he stepped to the side of Dean's bed, leaned down close, and asked very quietly, "Has Clint Eastwood ever had appendicitis?"

Dean blinked slowly, owlishly, squinting as he tried to puzzle out what the hell his brother was asking. "What . . . ?"

"Clint Eastwood."

Dean's words were slurred. "What about . . . Clint Eastwood . . . ?"

"Has he ever had appendicitis?"

Dean no longer looked twenty-eight. Sam thought maybe about twelve. Then downgraded it to ten. "Sammy . . . what . . . ?"

Sam grinned. "If he has, or if he did, I'm pretty sure he'd go with painkillers earlier than you did. Hot nurses or no."

His brother licked his lips, thinking it over with great diligence.

"Which means, Dean, that you're a tougher man than Clint."

It took a moment, but Dean worked that out. His smile, when it came, was distinctly loopy and lopsided. "Dude . . . that . . . that is just . . . so frickin' cool . . . "

~ end ~

A/N: Like Dean, I, too, experienced an attack of appendicitis. But I missed the bathroom and nearly threw up on a paramedic's shoes. And when I was in the ER waiting for them to haul me away to surgery (for some reason they are looking for a specific response and you don't go to the OR until they get it; and yes, you do then almost levitate), I did turn down several offerings of morphine. I wasn't trying to be tough; it just wasn't the worst pain I'd ever experienced. And while I didn't have hot nurses, I did have a very, very hot surgeon. Unfortunately, he saw me looking like roadkill!