A/N: Because I do, in fact, just really love good old fashioned hurt/comfort, and I do, on occasion, write stories with happy endings. Enjoy, you lot. I'm not a doctor, so I don't know medical stuff, so everything included in this story I found on the Internet. So if it isn't accurate, sorry. Title comes from the song Under Pressure. Kind of. I used to mishear the lyrics at the end. It's really "this is ourselves" but I used to think it was "this is our song" and I've been listening to that song for ages on repeat this week, so I thought "hey, I used to mishear this and it wORKS as a title!" So, that's that.
-Jaq
Disclaimer (I realized I really ought to add these more often, oughtn't I...): If I owned Supernatural then I would be a) slightly less of a loser, b) Sam Winchester would be canonically asexual, c) who am I kidding I'm not good enough to write for a tv show. Not making any money off of this, believe me. Don't sue me; I'm broke. That's it, I think. Onto the actual story bit that you people opened up this silly little page for anyway.
The room is dark. Not dark in the having to squint kind of way, dark in the smothering black velvet kind of way. The kind that you can't even talk in, because all of your words are snatched away and lost to the darkness. Swallowed by it, devoured. The only sound in the dark is a drumbeat, a steady drum like the opening of a song without any lyrics. All the lyrics are devoured by the dark. And he knows, somehow, that he's supposed to be able to sing the lyrics. He's supposed to live them, to be able to scream and sing and...
He sits in a corner, but really, everywhere's a corner (and nowhere, at the same time). There isn't a floor, but he's definitely not moving. Existing, maybe. There's no space in the room, but there's everywhere, too. It's vague.
Somehow, he knows he has to get out of the dark, but...there isn't a door. Maybe there never was. The desire to leave isn't very strong, anyway. All he knows is the place pressing down all around him, forcing itself into him, smothering.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The drumbeat continues, waiting for lyrics that never come. No matter how long he waits, the lyrics don't come. They sit just beyond the dark, but he can't reach that far.
The air in the room isn't cold or hot, humid or dry. In fact, there might not be air at all. But in a way it's peaceful. If he leaves, it won't be like that. So he curls up, hiding in the dark and composing a song to his heartbeat.
-:-
Dean walks into the tiny room, plunking down onto a plastic chair. He can take a hit. In fact, he can take four or five without cracking. But this isn't something that can be measured in terms of hits. This is more like a life-shattering blow. He's cracking, and he knows it.
"One year, Sammy," he says quietly, running a hand through his hair and feeling a little bit stupid for talking to somebody who can't answer. "It's been one year."
He stands up, blinking, shoves his hands into his pockets, and looks down at his brother. Sam looks peaceful, lying on the bed. Content, almost. Like he isn't trapped inside his head. Like he's just sleeping.
Suddenly, swallowing is very hard. Dean manages anyway, and turns around, talking to the wall but somehow to Sam at the same time.
"Tried to bring in your gun, but I couldn't get it inside. I dunno. You think you'd wake up faster with your gun beside you, Sammy?" His voice cracks, and he tries to smile. But it's more of a grimace, and one more blink and he'll start frigging crying, so he just waits for an answer.
There isn't an answer. There never is.
"Please, Sam." Dean pauses, turning back to look at his brother. His voice, when he tries again, is broken, begging. "Just wake up."
-:-
One year previously
"Shut up, Dean. Wendigos don't like chocolate. They like human flesh," Sam said, rolling his eyes. His flare gun is held at ready, and he's stalking between the trees, glancing every which way.
"I don't know," Dean replied, smirking. "Everything likes chocolate."
Sam suddenly shot an arm out, preventing Dean from walking any farther. He put his finger to his lips, raising his flare gun. Dean nodded, looking over at where Sam was pointing. There was a decent-sized cave in the rocky mountainside, big enough that they couldn't see the back wall. Creeping silently, they walked closer.
Reaching the cave, Dean nodded and the two walked back-to-back, guns up, rotating slowly. Dean was leading when he reached a smaller, subsection of the cave, and he stopped short. Pointing, he turned to his brother. The opening was several feet up, high enough that he couldn't see into it. Sam's three inches on him wouldn't do much, but it wouldn't hurt.
"I can't get a shot from this angle," Sam mouthed silently. Stepping out to get a clearer shot, he swiveled, putting both of their backs to the entrance of the cave. And that was their mistake. Without warning, the wendigo pounced. Sam fired. Dean fired. And then, it was all such a mess of flames and blood and cursing that Dean wasn't sure what was happening. He felt Sam fall away from him, and he dropped to a crouch. The flare had seared his eyes, and he couldn't see straight.
A couple seconds later, when he had regained his vision, he saw the creature, on fire, dragging Sam behind it. Dean tried to run, but somehow in the last couple seconds he had definitely sprained his ankle. Nevertheless, he hobbled after it, cursing and yanking another flare gun from his backpack. Sam yelled, and then the monster bounded up to the ledge and subsection of the cave.
After about two minutes, despite the ankle, Dean had scrambled up to the ledge. Keeping his second gun up, he crept into the smaller cave.
The cave-lair- smelled bad. Like really, really bad. And it didn't look that great either, from what he could see. But Dean kept going. As the smell grew, Dean began to realize that it smelled a lot like burning flesh. Last time he had seen the wendigo, it had been on fire. After a couple minutes, he found it. The wendigo was smoldering, but clearly dead. Sam, on the other hand...
The wendigo had dragged his brother by one leg, which was (from Dean's guess) probably dislocated. And his ankle was broken. And he was unconscious and covered in blood, with a nasty-looking gash on his head. And-
Pulling out his cellphone, he called 911, forcing himself to stop listing off injuries. Screw the no-hospitals rule, this was serious.
"911, what is your emergency?" came a female voice from the other end.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Dean replied. "Hi, I'm Dean Smith, I'm in Costom Forest, my brother's just been attacked by a bear..."
Dean carefully pulled Sam out of the cave and into the glen by the time the paramedics arrived. He didn't know how bad it was, but it was very bad. He knew that your pupils were supposed to contract in the light, but when he carefully carried Sam out of the cave and pried open an eyelid, the pupil was unresponsive.
He didn't know just how bad, however, for several hours. Then, the news.
"Mr. Smith...I'm sorry. Your brother is in a coma."
-:-
2007
The dark is pretty much all he's ever known, he thinks. It's nice, quiet...lonely.
There's not a lot he can do about it, so it's good that it's nice. Still. He wants someone else.
There's a name, but it slips away every time he wants to concentrate. Something like...well, more like Darrel than Phillipa, but that's about as far as he gets.
Turn on the lights, he thinks. Maybe we aren't alone. Just...turn on the lights.
The lights don't come on. They never do.
Day 378
"Morning, Mr. Smith," the doctor says. Dean nods in response, walking towards Sam's room. Maybe today would be the day...
Day 402
Or maybe today...
Day 421
Or...
Day 500
It's snowing, and Dean almost breaks down, because he's missed Christmas and Sammy still isn't better and why the hell is their life so unfair?
Day 508
Dean sits in the plastic chair, recounting the day's uneventful happenings. The garage he found a temporary job at had an old Comet come in today. It was teal colored, and didn't run very well, but it was a cool car.
He sighs and resumes staring in silence at the still form before him.
Suddenly, Sam's eyelid twitches. Dean immediately stands up, the plastic chair tipping over behind him. He swallows hard, eyes scrutinizing the eyelid. It twitches again.
Dean yells for the doctor, not caring that it's more volume than necessary. The middle aged woman rushes in, adjusting her glasses.
"Mr Smith? What is it?"
"His eyelid moved," Dean says, leaning over Sam and searching desperately for some kind of movement.
The doctor's face remains impassive. "His heart rate elevated at two twenty three this afternoon. He could be waking up, or..." she didn't finish. Dean knew, though. Elevated heart rate and slight movement were also signs that a coma patient was about to die.
Dean glares at her, though he's obviously distracted. "He's waking up," he says firmly. "That's what's happening."
In a couple minutes, the eyelid twitches again. Then the other eyelid. And then his heartrate speeds up noticeably, causing lots of beeps and sounds that mean that Dean's brother is alive.
-:-
Turn on the lights. He forces them on. Pushes back at the dark. Makes it go away. And then it's gone...
The lights are so bright, they hurt. They hurt, so he closes his eyes. But the light still shines through his eyelids, creating an eerie yellow-red glow.
There are some noises, garbled voices and much shouting of 'Sammy.' He wonders, who's Sammy? He hopes that they are okay. It would be bad if they weren't; they seem important to the person screaming.
-:-
Dean remembers what the doctors had said. 'Your brother scored a five on the Glasgow scale, it's likely he'll never wake up, it's likely that even if he does he won't be how you remember him...'
He doesn't care. Sam remained awake and responsive to stimuli for seven minutes and forty one seconds. It's all going to be okay. It's going to be okay, he tells himself.
-:-
He tries to stay awake, tries so hard...but he falls back asleep. Not to the dark place, just asleep. And the next time he wakes up, he tries harder.
-:-
Dean stays all night, not sleeping. Why sleep? His brother could wake up. There's no reason to sleep.
He keeps himself going on black coffee and adrenaline, watching Sam's monitors for the tiniest blip.
Fourteen hours later, he gets it. Immediately, he rushes to Sam's bedside. This time, Sam opens his eyes and doesn't close them right away. Probably because of the dim lighting. Sam's eyes search Dean's face, unfocused.
"Sammy, can you hear me?"
Sam looks at him and makes a hoarse noise that Dean can't identify.
"How about this- one blink yes, two blinks no?"
Sam blinks. Once, twice...three times?
"Hey, it's okay. You're gonna be okay," Dean soothes, pressing Sam's hair away from his forehead. "It's gonna be okay."
-:-
Dean. That's it. That's the name. He tries to say it, but he can't. Just makes a hoarse little noise. The lyrics to his song are coming back to him now, but he can't say them. Can't tell himself to say anything.
-:-
It gets longer. Sam stays awake for minutes, and then hours. He doesn't talk. Dean wants him to, but he isn't gonna rush Sam. He's waited a year and a half. He can wait a little longer.
-:-
It's all very confusing. He can't talk, or move very well. And the kind person who calls him Sammy keeps talking to him. He doesn't mind that, though, so he stares off and smiles when the person comes in. He wishes he could talk, though. That'd be nice. For now, he struggles to remember the lyrics.
-:-
Sam just smiles and stares at Dean, and it makes him want to cry. Really, he's just happy that Sam's awake, but he wants Sam to talk, too. The doctors warned him, said that this might happen, but Dean isn't willing to accept that. Sam will talk.
Or, maybe he won't. And that's...okay. He's been teaching Sam signs (and struggling to learn them himself), and his brother is picking them up well. Dean thinks his memory is starting to come back, too, but he can't be sure. He doesn't know the sign for memory yet.
Is the nice man who makes the pretty signs and calls him Sammy Dean? He doesn't know. But he thinks that maybe he is. He knows the signs for letters. His...dad made him learn them. For something. It's all very confusing.
D. E. A. N.
The man's eyes widen, and he nods furiously.
-:-
Slowly, the lyrics come back. Although they aren't lyrics, just memories. Sam remembers Dean, and their dad, and how they grew up, and everything. But not some small things. He doesn't remember how to tie shoelaces. Or hack WiFi. But Dean can show him how. Really, there's only one big thing that's missing. And that's the fact that he can't talk.
-:-
Dean makes sure that they leave the hospital as soon as possible, and the very next thing he does is buy a giant book called "Learning American Sign Language." He takes it back to the apartment he's been renting and plunks it down on a table, giving Sam a look.
"Nod for yes, shake your head for no. Are you ever gonna talk? Just being blunt, I gotta know."
Sam swallows, shame coloring his face slightly. He shakes his head.
"Hey, man, that's cool, okay? Look, Sammy. Hey, hey. Look. We're gonna figure this out. And I bought a big-ass book on how to do it, okay?"
-:-
One year later
Dean roars down the highway, smiling as the radio blares. At last, a good station. With annoyance, Sam reaches over to turn it down.
"Aw, come on, Sammy! It's good!"
It's just screaming and guitars. And it's too loud, Sam signs.
Dean just smirks and turns it up. "Can't hear you, Sammy." He revs the engine, speeding down the road at eighty miles per hour.
Like that one's original.
"Whatever."
Sam smiles, but he doesn't complain when Dean turns it up again.
He's here, in the car, with his brother. And the dark couldn't be farther away.
A/N 2: Yay for happy endings! And mute!Sam is kind of awesome, right? Anyways, thanks so much for taking the time to read this. If you liked it, mind leaving a review or even just favoriting this? They just...make me so happy...have a nice weekend, all.
-Jaq
Song of the Day: Under Pressure, by Queen (dude. this song is LIFE). But, like. Have you heard the cover by My Chemical Romance and The Used? Because if you haven't, I charge you with listening to it as soon as you finish favoriting and reviewing this story. Okay? It's (dare I say it?) better than Queen's (If anyone asks, I never blasphemed Queen like that, but...man, can Gerard Way hit those notes).