Sleep When I'll Die
K Hanna Korossy
Awareness is more of a process than one moment. Dark turned to dreams turned to perception. The touch of hands moving from Jess to Sarah to Madison to…another woman, familiar and strange at once.
The Dean from his reveries slips away and doesn't come back.
It takes a while, another process, before he's sure his eyes are open and he's seeing what is: white walls, a curtained window, hospital equipment. There's a kind face above him he doesn't recognize, the owner of the hands he knows he's been feeling for some time. It takes even longer before he can push a sound out of his mouth instead of just thinking he's moving his lips, or gaping like a fish.
"Deeeee." It's garbled, strange. Dean would be able to understand it, but that's the point.
"It's okay, Sam, don't try to talk yet. You've been asleep a very long time—let yourself wake up."
"D'n," he manages finally.
"Who? I don't know a Dean, honey, but I'll ask around, okay?"
The words sink in by degrees. I don't know a Dean…asleep a long time…Sam.
He coerces his eyes into sliding toward the window, where birds are singing in lush green trees. It was fall, sliding into winter, when he last remembered: bare branches, cold winds, and grey skies.
Asleep a long time.
They'd still had eight months left on Dean's deal. The one that was going to come due in the spring.
He waits desperately for the kind-faced woman. "'S it spring?" he gasps when she finally comes.
"Honey, it's summer outside, hot as blazes."
An anchor sinks inside him. I don't know a Dean.
And a whole other process begins in Sam: grief.
00000
He slept through it. All the promises he made to save Dean, and not only didn't he keep them, he wasn't even there to say goodbye. No, he played Sleeping Friggin' Beauty instead. And Dean…
He stops talking to the kind nurse, no matter how much she coaxes him.
Bobby. He should probably call Bobby, find out… But he can't make himself do it. To know would make it final, definite. And Sam's not… Part of him still thinks Dean will walk through the door any minute, and he can't quite lose that yet.
The numbness seems bone-deep. "Sleeping" a long time means muscle atrophy and weakness, and he sweats just from moving his limbs, sitting up, standing. Sam keeps pushing, though, when he's alone—too often—because he can't stay there. He has to go…somewhere, probably South Dakota and Bobby, and start figuring out how to fix this because, oh God, Dean's already down there and any time is too long. Sam promised he'd save him, and instead he'd gone to sleep.
Coma, of course, is what they call it. Something about a bad fall. He still aches along his back and side, his legs. He soon learns he's in the longer-term hospital care wing, where the patients go who might not wake up again. Bobby would probably know the details, but Sam doesn't need to know badly enough to call him. He's just holding it together as it is, and if he hears the old man's voice, hears his sorrow…
He has to get out of there.
He can't dress himself; it takes too much out of him. But there's a robe, and a wheelchair just sitting in the hall. His feet drag and his head is swimming and he can't seem to raise his hands higher than his waist. It's enough to get him to the chair, though. There he rests a minute, then slowly starts wheeling himself to the elevator, unsure what he'll do next.
No, that's not true. They researched when there was still luxury of time to find an answer. That time's gone, and he's not leaving Dean in Hell any longer. Sam's going out to find the nearest crossroad, even if he has to wheel himself the whole way, and make a deal.
Having a plan, oddly, is the first thing to penetrate his unnatural calm, and his hands are shaking as he finally makes it into the elevator and down. The doors slide open on the ground floor.
Dean's standing right in front of him.
Sam blinks.
Relief replaces surprise on his brother's face, then a frown of worry. And then Dean's moving, stepping into the elevator cage and taking the handles of Sam's chair and pushing him out.
Sam gets lightheaded from how fast they're moving, and he's pretty sure he's breathing too hard.
They go out the sliding front doors, veer left, stop at some benches under a shady tree, a secluded spot. Only there does Dean circle around in front of the wheelchair and crouch down, storm clouds in his face, mouth open to start yelling.
But Sam's so cold, he's rattling the chair. Maybe it's summer, but he's freezing, teeth chattering, and…it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. He shoves a hand against his forehead, where the confusion presses hardest against bone.
Dean ends up not saying anything. There's a pause, then he's wrapping what feels like his coat around Sam, pulling his head down against his shoulder, hand splayed wide across Sam's back. When he finally speaks, it's just one word: "Sam."
Then they just sit.
Sam swallows a lot, the tears that wouldn't come before having gathered hot and wet in his throat. Dean's coat and skin and hand are warm, though, and it helps thaw his frozen brain. He finally teases a question free from the mess. "Did Bobby s-save you?"
"What?" He can hear the frown of puzzlement in Dean's voice.
"You're still…you're here. How did you…you kn-now, the deal?"
"Dude." Dean shies back a little, but Sam just chases the warmth and, with a sigh, Dean relents, pressing back in. "How long do you think you were out?"
"It's s-summer," Sam whispers.
"It's September. Not like it matters in Florida. Two weeks ago we were freezing our asses off in Connecticut."
September. Dean's deal is still coming due. Sam flinches, trying to tug the flap of Dean's jacket closer. He's not dead yet, though. Not too late.
"We've still got time, okay? I'm still here."
He kinda stops processing at that point, just is.
After a while, a long while but not long enough, Dean pushes him gently back and gets to his feet. He rolls Sam out to the parking lot, the waiting car. There's enough blankets there to stock a small linen store, and he wraps Sam in every one, but his teeth won't stop chattering. Then Dean gets in the car, taps Sam's knee that's somewhere under all the layers, and starts up the engine.
They drive. Sam dozes, mind still not quite awake.
After that he's vaguely conscious of spoon-fed soup, a bed, mild mashed potatoes going down smooth. Lots of water. Even more sleep.
Awareness is a process, a slow realization he's not imagining the hum of the car or Dean's profile against the window. The regular rubs of the top of his head or the back of his neck by rough fingers. It's a long time until he's sure he's seeing not just what he hopes to see, but what really is. And it's only then that his eyes finally fill with tears.
The car pulls off the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and stops. Dean silently hands him the mangled roll of paper towels they keep under the seat and, hand perched on Sam's leg, starts talking.
"You were out nine days."
Sam stares at him.
"So, uh, you remember Connecticut, the rabbit's foot?"
He nods slowly.
"How about driving down to Florida after? There was somebody you wanted to talk to down here."
Sam grimaces. Last thing he remembers is…their burning the foot, and the heat of the bullet wound in his shoulder.
"Yeah, 'course you wouldn't." Dean sighs, eyes cutting away as he rubs a hand over his face. It's just beginning to dawn on Sam how tired he looks, how unkempt. He's got a good start on a beard, and his eyes are rimmed with red. "I knew that bitch shot you, but I didn't think…I mean, it only looked like a scratch and you seemed totally fine—well, fine for you—until you fell asleep in the car in the middle of Florida and I couldn't wake you up." Dean's face twists. "Guess the rabbit's foot got in a parting shot. They said something about a slow bleed inside and shock, that you'd slipped into a coma." He clears his throat, glances out the windshield. "Weren't sure you'd wake up."
Sam waits, feeling Dean's fingers flex even through all the blankets.
"Bobby said the ritual stopped the bad luck, but turns out it only kept new stuff from happening. Didn't keep the old from getting worse." Dean's talking to the road now, free hand rubbing along his mouth. "I had to leave you in the hospital to go back to Connecticut and figure it out."
"You did," Sam says, hushed.
"I did. Turns out you were still, I don't know, bound?, to the old bad luck. There was another ritual, kinda like a reverse binding spell, that cuts you off completely, like some kind of, I don't know, retroactive good luck charm."
"Oh."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, oh."
They sit a long time. Sam's face is finally dry and he feels a little steadier when he says, "I'm not just letting you go, Dean."
Dean looks back at him. "I know."
They weren't supposed to talk about this, silently complicit in denial, but he has to say it. "I'm gonna do everything I—"
"I know that, too."
Even if it doesn't work, Dean knows. Sam gulps, nods his head, and looks away.
After a minute, he shoves off a couple blankets and pulls his legs up onto the seat. Making himself comfortable under the covers he's got left, he digs his toes under Dean's leg and leans back against the door. He's already tired, but then, being comatose for over a week will do that to you.
He's already half asleep when Dean pats his feet, starts the car, and they get back on the road and drive.
The End