Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own the show, the boys or the network. Don't hate, don't sue =)
Another warning: This story contains curse words and detailed violence. It includes discriminative/offensive comments that do not represent my opinion as an author.
I'd like to thank my wonderful Betas: Jennifer, general mastermind and guardian of commata & MagicianMana, personal cheerleader& giver of ticking-offs
About this part:
Wherever you see (A), take a look at the author's notes. Apparently footnotes don't work too well here, so I had to weasel my way around that. Dream sequences or memories will be in italics, indentations didn't seem to work.
I don't have the medical knowledge to describe the recovery process Dean goes through in a realistic way and the injuries he received may take longer to heal in real life. I also don't know whether the boys had chickenpox or not - that part's due to poetic license.
This part is set between Born Under A Bad Sign (2.14) and Tall Tales (2.15), I'm just stretching the time between the two episodes a little. I know it was probably less than a month, but bear with me.
This part contains references to: Pilot (1.01), Scarecrow (1.11), Faith (1.12), Nightmare (1.14), Devil's Trap (1.22), Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things (2.04), Simon Said (2.05), Croatoan (2.09), Hunted (2.10), Playthings (2.11), Houses Of The Holy (2.13)
Some series facts you need to have in mind:
John has gone to hell and handed the Colt over to Azazel, they have met Gordon and found out what a batshit crazy guy he really is and Sam has discovered that not only is he able to move things with his mind and see people dying before they actually do, no, he's also some kind of supernatural freak immune to a demonic virus. Sam has rescued Dean when Gordon took his brother hostage and Sam has killed another hunter (Steve Wandel) while being possessed by Meg.
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PERSISTENCY
Shipwreck the sun, I'm on your side
An army of one, onward we'll ride
And whisper your songs, birds to the air
We'll bury all of our burdens there
*Audioslave – Heaven's Dead*
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Seeing Dean in that hospital bed took all Sam had not to cry. He almost choked on the lump in his throat, but he knew he'd never live it down if Dean caught him crying over him. It just wouldn't do to go all maudlin on the guy, who'd tried to make Sam cut it out since he was four.
So Sam sucked it up and counted Dean's heartbeats instead, just to check if the machines were actually working. They were. Everything covered by Marty Kaukonen's(A1) insurance.
He never could stand Dean drumming his fingers on the arm of a chair or clicking his tongue while he waited as Sam did the research. It was as if Dean's waiting habits were designed to annoy the crap out of Sam, he was either pacing, bouncing his legs or clearing his throat as if there was a weasel stuck in there. Right now though, the damn silence was eating at Sam and he'd give anything to hear something other than the constant beeping indicating Dean's pulse rate.
Hell, of all the times to suddenly go dead to the world Dean had to pick one of the worst. Not that there actually was something like a good time to be shot and pass out, especially for a Winchester. But right now the demon was on their tracks or they were on his, considering on what end of the supernatural food chain you were, and apparently they had a very skilled hunter looking for Sam, wanting to put his head on a spike. Great.
Sam assumed that Gordon's little performance in the bar had a lot to do with how he was immune to some weirdo demon virus, how he could move cabinets with his mind, and how Dad had told Dean to kill him if things got out of hand. Gordon had tried to hunt him down twice now but Dean had been there to play human shield again. Unfortunately, with Dean's determination to get himself killed, they were quickly running out of supernatural back doors. This time there was no faith healer and no father who could sell his soul.
It hurt a little to think that Gordon mistook him for some demon's bitch.
Not that he really cared what Gordon thought about him – no, even Dean was cured of that - he'd just thought that with his family background nobody would assume him easy to corrupt.
He was trained to fight the supernatural and he had all reason to.
He was no renegade. The damn thing had killed Jess and Mom, and Dad had gone to hell for this. So Gordon should know better.
He kinda wished Dad was around. He hadn't realized how safe Dad's mere existence made him feel, even though he'd been more than three states away most of the time. Only when he'd seen John Winchester's impressive form burning on that pyre did he realize that there was no one between them and the demon now.
Under all the layers of defiance, justified suspicion and carefully built up distance, he'd always had unfaltering faith in the man. He hadn't liked Dad's decisions and his people skills left a lot to be desired, but when it came to hunting he'd always believed Dad could take down anything and that he'd always be there to save their asses when things went south.
He'd trusted his father with their lives, and now Dean put the same trust in him. Sam sighed again and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes.
John hadn't just been a hero to Dean. In his own stubborn, twisted, totally screwed-up Winchester way he'd been a hero to many other hunters. Hell, even Bobby admired him. And although Sam hadn't been able to see it when his father was still alive, he admired him, too. John had always stepped between his sons and evil, and that broad back was a reassuring sight.
Now, so many years after he rebelled against it, he realized why Dad hadn't gone back to normal after his mother's death. Sure, he wanted revenge, but he also needed to feel he did everything to protect his family. Strange, how protecting his kids in their family had meant making them spend their childhood in such a blur of cities, schools, and classes so that in the end the only thing they vaguely identified as "home" had four wheels and a sheet metal roof.
Sam sighed for the hundredth time in an hour and busied himself with fluffing Dean's comforter. His brother's shin hung out, Dean just took up too much space. Sam tried to make himself smaller than he was most of the time, whereas Dean walked the Earth like he owned it, all giddy energy and false bravado. His sleeping position just fit the pattern; Dean managed to occupy every bit of the bed and then some. More often than not he'd find Dean completely tangled in the sheets, lying diagonally across the bed, one arm always under the pillow, clutching the knife.
Now though, Dean was defenseless. He was propped up against the hospital pillows, his skin as white as the sheets, eyes closed, an IV in his arm and a tube down his throat helping him to breathe. They'd given him painkillers that'd take down an elephant and flooded his system with antibiotics, hoping to fend off infection that usually followed gun-inflicted wounds.
Dean had lost a lot of blood and was still in critical condition, but he'd been released from intensive care two hours ago. For the first time in a very long time Dean, king of back talk, keeper and defender of the last word in every discussion, had no way of slipping in one of his quick retorts and Sam should have made the most of it, but he couldn't think of anything to say.
Instead he just pulled his chair closer to the bed, crossed his arms and settled in for another night in a hospital chair that already had to be too small for people Dean's size.
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After Ellen had told him Sam was in Indiana – why the hell Indiana? - he had pushed the Impala to its limits. Usually he wouldn't even admit his baby had limits, but under these circumstances 130 mph wasn't enough. Rolling to a stop in front of yet another run-down fleabag,
Dean watched as Sam stepped over to the window and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank God you're okay," he said, sounding weird in his own ears. Sam hadn't been gone for more than a few days and he was already turning into the Winchester pendant of a cat lady. Minus the pussy, in every sense of the word.
He watched Sam pull the curtain aside a bit, revealing a dark-haired girl. This time the comment just rolled off his lips. "Oh, you're better than okay. Sammy, you sly dog!"
Why the hell his brother had run off in the middle of the night to get laid, especially after the whole "Dad asked me to kill you" talk, didn't really compute, but Sam had always been the weirder one and- was that a laser spot on Sam's jacket?
He was out of the car before he knew it, trying to find out where the sniper was, but he heard the first bullet fly and Sam was chatting along, oblivious of the fact that-
"SAAAAAAM!"
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Sam was awakened by his brother strepitously choking on the tube intruding his trachea. "Dean, Dean!" He was at his side, gently holding him down, telling him to let the machines breathe for him. Upon hearing Sam's voice, his brother seemed to relax enough to lean back again. "I'm here. You saved me, OK? You saved me."
Sam didn't even know whether Dean could hear him, but he kept talking after that. He talked about their hunts, the shows Dean liked, the ones he hated, the wagon loads of food he'd get his brother once the tubes came out…
He basically talked until his throat was sore and he fell asleep again.
By the time Dean could keep his eyes open and squeezed Sam's hand once for 'no' and twice for 'yes' when asked a question, the doctors were used to seeing Sam's huge form crumpled in the chair right beside the bed each morning. They also knew better than to touch Sam when he was sleeping. Two days ago he'd lashed out and jumped to his feet when some poor nurse wanted to offer him a cup of coffee.
When Dr. Evans entered the room, he made sure he was heard, clearing his throat before he approached the man sitting in a no doubt uncomfortable posture. The noise obviously startled the man and his reflexes left nothing to be desired.
Jumping to his feet sent a jolt of pain through Sam's back and he cursed as he carefully straightened up to his full height.
"Dr. Evans" he croaked, wondering if it came out as the question it was meant to be. The doctor gave him a warm smile and stepped closer to the foot of Dean's bed so he could check the chart.
"Looks like we can take the tubes out today" he announced sunnily and patted Sam's back in an awkwardly familiar way.
"He's gonna be as good as new in a month."
Sam managed a smile, but his heart stuttered in his chest. A month. A month during which they couldn't be on the road, couldn't hide, couldn't hunt. But then again, what had he expected?
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(A1) Both Marty Balin and Jorma Kaukonen were guitarists and singers for the band Jefferson Airplane (and later Jefferson Starship / Starship / Jefferson Starship - The Next Generation)