A.N.; this is my first 'finished' story on my little world of Bella, Dean and Sam. I don't know where it came from. The idea just now popped into my head. It is indeed a oneshot in my little world here.
Also, there is a part here where it implies that Dean 'looks' at Bella. I would like to add that Bella is around twenty in this particular story. Please be kind with your reviews (if i get any, that is), and don't be rude. s is always accepted but there really is no need to tell me that I 'suck'. I know I make mistakes with grammar and whatnot. That kind of thing is appreciated as well. Thankyouu. --IsabellaWinchester
With Sam in that hospital bed, I don't think I've ever felt so scared in my entire life. Scared for someone else.
Dean is beside me. We don't speak or touch, but we're sitting close, our chairs pressed up against each others, the arms of them touching.
The oldest of the Winchesters sits with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. He sort of looks like he's about to be sick, and honestly, I can't blame him.
I sit back in my seat, stiff and unmoving, completely tense. With fear and nervousness. I stare at the side of Dean's face for awhile, taking in the detail of his five o'clock shadow, and the pale skin underneath. He's become so familiar to me over the last two years.
So has Sam.
Sweet Sam, who is fighting for his life.
I never thought I'd become so attached again. To anyone.
Especially these two.
But I loved them both from the beginning. I loved their banter, their witty insults, their odd closeness.
I love them. I love Sam. I hate seeing Dean like this, fear and agony so obvious in his posture that it almost makes me reach out and hold him.
Almost.
Boundaries are important. I know this. They know this. Certainly, we were close. Of course, that happens when you sleep in the same room, sometimes the same bed. When you change in the back of a Chevy Impala with both men sitting awkwardly in the front seat, trying not to look.
I know Dean better than that. He always glances back. Sam never did.
But right now, touching isn't allowed. Dean needs his space, however little it is, and I'm afraid of breaking down. I'm having trouble holding it together as it is, without someone trying to comfort me.
After awhile, I stop staring at Dean, only to watch the doctors and nurses pass by. It's late at night, and there isn't much activity going on in this small town hospital.
Visiting hours are over, but we won't leave. Not unless we're pulled kicking and screaming out of the place.
And I don't think even that would work.
One look at Dean tells most of the nurses that trying to be friendly and saying something like,
"Hunny, maybe you should go home and get some rest?"
is completely futile.
One look at me confirms not only is their assumptions correct, but also, if they try anyway, I will hurt them.
He can't take even the mention of that level of separation from his brother right now, let alone actually considering it.
The hours pass, and still we sit, saying nothing. It's deep into the night when I stand, not saying a word, and take the elevator to the floor above us. I'm back within minutes, to crappy cups of coffee in my possession. I give one to Dean, who says nothing, barely looks at me, and takes the cup. I know he's greatful. He doesn't have to say it.
He knows I know.
I sit back down, sipping the coffee as the agonizing minutes tick by. Neither Dean nor I have a watch on, but there is a clock behind the nurses desk.
I rarely look at it, and I'm fairly certain Dean hasn't looked at it yet.
Just after dawn, after a million horrible thoughts, a billion 'what ifs', hundreds of shifted positions, a dark haired doctor walks directly in front of Dean and I.
We both look up. Honestly, I don't see the man. I don't look at the details.
I only see him as my hope, as Dean's, and my own, future semi-happiness.
"He's going to be okay," The doctor says.
The news is, I'm certain, one of the best things I've ever heard. Despite all this, I watch Dean, once more, lean forward in his seat, his hands covering his face. I take the initiative and look at the doctor once more.
"Can we see him?" I ask the man, who's eyes, I now notice, are a light blue. Soft, very caring.
"Of course, but you can't stay long. Sam needs his rest." He smiles a little at me, but I can't bring myself to smile.
Yet. Not until I've seen Sam for myself, until I know for certain that he is perfectly okay. Or that he'll be perfectly okay very soon.
I lean forward, my posture matching Deans as I attempt to speak to him for the first time in hours. "Do you want to go in now? With me? Or alone?"
Dean looks over at me. "No..we'll go together." He stands up, and I follow his lead as he walks quickly into the room Sam is in.
Sam truly looks awful. He's bruised from head to toe, cuts here and there.
The guilt nearly drowns me, because I know what the blankets are covering. The gunshot wounds that were very nearly fatal.
I know Dean feels the same. That it's his fault. His fault that his baby brother is lying in a hospital bed, bruised and nearly broken.
Sam looks up at us and smiles.
Boundaries be damned, I thought, as I rush over and collapse onto the chair beside him, taking his larger hand in both of my own. I'm dying to do more, to throw my arms around his battered form, but I don't want to risk causing him any pain.
Sam smiles briefly at me, and then his eyes find Deans. I watch them both, Dean still standing at the door. I wonder why he doesn't come in any closer.
"Hey, Sammy," He says shakily. And I understand. Truly. "How ya feelin'?"
He's afraid. Sam looks so very fragile right now. A stiff wind could take him out. But Dean is blowing this out of proportion, in my opinion.
"Awesome," Sam jokes, smiling still. "Never been better."
Moments pass, and Dean moves further into the room, walking to the opposite side of the bed. Sam's eyes follow him as he goes, and so do mine. We both watch as Dean pauses, about to sit in the chair.
He glances at Sam, then at me. I slowly reach up and tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, just as Dean picks up the chair and begins moving it around the bed, and places it beside me.
Dean sits down. I watch the two of them watch each other.
"Well," Dean answers, a smile tugging at his lips, "You look good. I'm sure you'll be back on your feet in no time."
"Aw, no wheelchair?" Sam asks.
"You wish. I know I'm not pushing a wheelchair with either of you two lazy freaks in it," I add. My hands are still holding Sams, and I give it a light squeeze.
"Lazy? Us? Says little Miss 'it's the weekend, wake me up in fifteen minutes'?" Dean laughs.
The sound is amazing. Both Sam and I laugh, though Sam's is admittedly weaker than mine. It's wonderful though, for all of us to be like this.
To be happy despite the often tragedy.
After the laughing dies out, we just sit there in comfortable silence. During the quietness, I pull one of my hands from Sam's, and, boundaries be damned, I take Dean's.
For a minute, Dean looks at me with the strangest expression. Sam looks back and forth at us as we look at each other.
The awkwardness passes, and Sam starts talking again. I join in, as does Dean. The easy conversation continues until an older nurse peeks in.
"Excuse me," She says kindly. "Morning visiting hours are almost up." Her voice has an apologetic note to it, but it does not make me resent her any less.
"Thank you," Dean says sharply.
The three of us glance at each other. Finally, Sam speaks.
"Go on. Go get some breakfast or something. I'll still be here when you get back." He sounds tired.
I'm the first to stand, hopefully setting a good example. I squeeze Sam's hand again, and let go.
It feels naked without him now, and I can't say that I like this feeling.
As I think about how awkward this is, Dean leans over, with his free hand, and ruffles Sam's hair. Sam looks annoyed, but only half-heartedly.
"Get some rest, Sammy," Dean's tone is very reluctant.
Together, hand in hand, we leave the hospital room to get some breakfast.
Dean and I hold hands until we part to get in the Impala. I wait, but only for a few moments, before Dean is the first to make contact again. I smile as we pull out of the parking lot.
Boundaries me goddamned.