Dots on the Page
Summary: Dean's drifting. Sam's worried. He should know better than to doubt big brother.
No specific spoilers, some minor language.
Disclaimer: Not mine, props all go to Kripke and company.
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"Dean?"
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A hand on his shoulder. Just a little pressure, nothing too much.
"Dean? You there?"
Dots in front of his eyes. They grow in size until they coalesce into a world of black.
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"Well, his vitals are still stable, and he's breathing on his own. From what we can tell there shouldn't have been lasting brain damage. He's in there, son."
"But you said he—he should be awake by now, I mean, he—shouldn't he be awake by now?"
"You just have to keep your faith in him. We've done everything we can, the rest is up to him."
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The black ebbs away for just a moment. There's someone there, sitting next to him. A hand on his shoulder again.
Sammy? That you? Hey man, what's going on?
"Dean? Come on man, wake up. Please."
I am awake you goof. Here, lemme show you. Just gotta open my eyes…
Dots appear again in front of his dark vision, and the black smoke envelops him again.
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"—and then she freaked out, like full-on panic attack. Dude, I thought she was gonna kill you. I've never seen an old woman look so threatening with a stapler." Sam pauses. "You always did know how to pull the best pranks on the motel secretaries."
Heh heh, I'm just that good.
"You know, not that I don't love having one-sided conversations with myself, but my voice is getting a little sore. Feel like waking up any time soon?"
Sure thing, man.
"Come on, Dean, you're making all the hot nurses around here wait for you, that's not fair. I'm sure they want to see your big greens sometime soon."
He hears a small intake of breath, like a sob, almost too soft to pick up. Dean's got pretty good hearing, though, even if his eyes don't seem to cooperate.
That you, man? What's wrong?
"Dean…please. You gotta wake up man. I can't…I can't do this without you. Please."
Wake up? I am awake!
Well, you probably can't tell, on account of me being a fricken statue here and all. Where the heck am I, anyway? Sammy? What happened?
"Please? Come on, man."
Hey dude, no tears. You know I hate chick-flick moments. Here, you want me awake, I'm awake. Just gotta…open my eyes for a sec…hm. Well that doesn't seem to work. O-kay, let's try this.
Huh. Ix-nay on the hands too. Maybe a finger twitch? Yeah, that's try that. Start small.
Oh crap.
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That's it. I'm done with this shit. Wake up, Dean, this is ridiculous. Open your fricken eyes.
"Hey, doc."
Sam's voice sounds broken, a shell of what it was. Usually there's an undertone of compassion, or more often when dealing with Dean, annoyance, but now…it's just bland. Empty.
"Son, shouldn't you be getting some rest? You know we'll call you if there's any change."
"No, I'm good."
"It's just, you've been here for a while now. We want to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Wouldn't want to have to admit you too."
"I said I'm good, thanks."
"Sam. I know this is hard. If it's meant to be, he'll wake up. You shouldn't just—"
"I can't, alright. I can't go yet. He's here, he's just stuck. I need to be here to help him wake up."
Sam, don't do this to yourself. I am here, you're right, but sitting here sulking isn't going to do anything. Dude, go get some sleep or drink or something. I don't want you wasting your time sitting vigil over me. I'm okay.
The doctor leaves, with his head down. He's been at this long enough to know the odds. After this long a period of time, if the patient hasn't woken up, there's a very good chance he's never going to.
Then again, he's never met anyone quite like those boys. The younger one almost never leaves. He carried his brother in bloody and broken to the front desk, refused to leave until they took him to surgery, and afterwards bullied every doctor and nurse in the ICU to be allowed to sit by his bedside. They refused for a while, until he snuck in for half an hour and the patient's spotty vitals immediately improved.
Maybe those two will get lucky. He certainly hopes so.
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The blackness shifts again into scattered dots which thin out until he's left with the usual dark of his closed eyelids. Except this time it's different. The familiar antiseptic smell of hospital is stronger, clearer, and the light in front of his closed eyes is brighter. Sam's hand on his shoulder—always his shoulder, Dean's figured out that's probably one of the few places he didn't manage to bash up—keeps its light pressure, grounding him, pulling him a little further away from that calming void and into the harsh waking world.
He knows he's been here for a while, maybe longer than a while. He can't remember how it happened, but he gets flashes, bits of a night gone horribly wrong. Getting tossed and twisted. Pain. Black. Light. More pain. He can see his brother over him, tears falling from those watery hazel eyes that look even greener when he's upset. His brother yelling at him to stay awake from the front seat of the car. Black dots. Lights. Stranger's hands on him, checking, poking, prodding. Blood all over his brother, all over the hands. Pain. PAIN. Then the black dots had filled in completely once again.
His brother's always there when he wakes up. Dean's starting to wonder if the kid's gotten any sleep or showered since they've been here. Sam alternates between telling Dean stories, from their childhood, from their time hunting together, from his time at Stanford, and begging quietly to Dean to wake up.
And it's that broken tone of his, those soft pleas that spur Dean on, that tell him not to fall back into the black that's always right behind him, so inviting. Sure, he's tired, and it would be so nice to simply fall back down into that sweet bliss of oblivion and not wake up. But he can't, because Sam's not there. Sam's out in the light and he needs his brother and damnit if Dean is going to fail him this time.
So he pushes the black dots away and concentrates on his brother's voice, his brother's hand, and forces his way into the light.
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"Dean?!"
End