Hey all - so I'm back. I think I tol a lot of you that the Hanging on by a Thread sequal was next, but the requests continued to pour in and eventually the blind Dean story ended up taking point. Unfortunately, I'm struggling with a serious case of writer's block and I need your help. This is six chapters in, so it's not entirely at a standstill, but I need feedback to continue. I will post a chapter a week until I get further ahead - then might be able to post closer together. Please send in your love, your suggestions, your desires - anything that might help make this move forward. All will be a blessing. And, as promised, all 4 suggested storylines will be posted eventually. Hope everyone enjoys tonight's episode. Looks like we're in for at least another 4 come May - whoo hoo!
Disclaimer: All standard ones apply. They're not mine, never have been, and never will be. Now excuse me while I go pout...
Agonized screaming fills the air, coming close to destroying what little bit of sanity Dean feels he has left to hold onto. His immediate thought - the only thought he can force through the shrill sound - is of Sam. His Sammy. Is he hurt? Is that why Sam is screaming so loud? I have to get to him - I have to help him.
But it's not Sam's screams that pierce the air. And it's several more minutes before Dean realizes this, before he realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth, his own throat.
As soon as that realization slams into him several more seem to flood through his consciousness as well.
Pain is the first. His eyes feel like they're on fire. He has never felt such intense heat in his life, even when he pulled Sam from the fire in their own house when he was four years old the heat didn't reach him the way this seems to.
Dean reaches his own hands up to his face, frantically trying to tear at the cause of such torture and still unable to stop the sounds coming from his own body. Within seconds he feels firm fingers wrap around his wrists and bring them away from his eyes, down to his sides. He fights the grip, desperate for whoever is restraining him to realize the pain he's in. This has to stop, he can't take it much longer.
"Shhh, Dean, it'll be okay. Don't touch it," he hears whispered soothingly in his ear. It is Sam's voice; firm and calming. Yet Dean can still hear the hint of panic that just won't go away, and he knows it's bad. Whatever it is, is really bad.
"Sammy?" Dean cries out, substituting the name for the wordless cries he had previously been calling. It helps, having something to latch onto, and he instantly finds himself calming just a little.
His hands twist around in the grip, instantly aware that it is Sam's fingers that hold him so firm, and his own fingers finally find purchase on his brother's callused hands. Dean clenches down hard, knowing Sam can take the pain, and needing that outlet. Something's gotta give. Somehow he has to draw this pain away from his eyes, his face, and move it to somewhere more manageable.
"Help's coming," Sam continues to whisper. "They're on the way. We're gonna take care of this, I promise. I'm gonna take care of you."
For the life of him Dean can't remember what this is, can't remember why he's screaming the way he is, or why his face feels like it's about to be seared off the bones. The pain is just too intense to think of anything else, and besides, he doesn't want to remember. All he wants right now is for this scorching agony to go away
Sam slips one of his hands from Dean's grip, tightening the other around both hands in exchange, and a few seconds later Dean feels something cool hit his face. "This will help," Sam soothes as he presses the wet cloth down against Dean's eyes.
Dean screams at the pressure and Sam immediately lessens his hold as a frenzied string of apologies spews from his mouth. He sounds frantic. Desperate. Completely unsure of himself. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. None of the books said anything about what to do if this happens."
That just doesn't sound right. Sam's usually so sure of himself; so calm, reserved. This uncertainty just isn't becoming. And it sure as hell isn't helping.
"Sammy please, make it stop," Dean moans, fingernails digging into his little brother's wrist in his agony.
Then again, Dean's weakness doesn't seem to be doing much to help the situation either, so he supposes they're even.
The sound of sirens pierce the air as Sam leans over his brother to whisper in his ear again. The cloth is still across his eyes, but Dean can feel Sam's hand against his hair line and he realizes Sam doesn't want to add any unnecessary pressure to his eyes. He's grateful for his brother's sensitivity.
"I can hear the ambulance, Dean. They're coming. We're going to fix this."
Mouth open, Dean's breath comes in short, frantic gasps. It's about the only response he's able to yield to Sam's ramblings.
"It hurts, Sam. God, it hurts," Dean moans.
"I know, Dean. I know it hurts. Help is coming."
And then the sirens grow unbearably loud, mixing with the sound of tires cutting through gravel, before the sirens shut off abruptly.
"Please, we're over here!" Sam cries out. Dean can feel his brother's hand pulling within his own grip, and knows Sam is frantically waving down the paramedics. "Please, he needs help!"
More voices join them, these just as urgent as Sam's, but not nearly as panicky.
"What's happened?" a husky male voice questions close to his ear.
Sam's answer is short and succinct, yielding just enough information to get Dean the help he needs and not an ounce more. "Acid of some sort - it got in his eyes. I don't know. I tried to flush it out."
His little brother's voice is trembling, and Dean wants nothing more than to console him. But how can he when it's all he can do to keep the screams at bay. Please, Sammy, stay strong for me. Don't lose it. I don't have the strength to protect you right now. His hand clamps down tighter against little brother's fingers, drawing strength for himself as much as it yields comfort back out.
Dean hears more voices spewing indecipherable medical jargon, feels the cloth pulled from his eyes and hands pawing at his face and his arms. A needle pierces his skin in the crook of his arm and he jumps a little - Dean doesn't think he'll ever get used to needles regardless of how many times he's had them jammed into his skin.
"Buddy, you're gonna be just fine. You with us?"
Seconds pass and Sam squeezes his hand three times before Dean realizes the question is aimed at him. He gives a feeble thumbs up, relaxing only when the pain killers they have inserted into the IV line begin to work.
Soon he feels himself begin to move, an almost floating sensation for a while, and then a quick jerk upwards before sirens wail and Dean loses his fight for consciousness.
The ER is a bustle of activity today, and the waiting room is crammed full of patients and anxious family members. A dull roar of voices seems to permeate the air from every corner, the sound all blending together. People sneeze and cough and groan, some scream obscenities, while others whimper prayers. But Sam hears none of it.
Right now, his world consists only of his concern for Dean.
He stares straight ahead, gaze never wavering from the automatic double doors that Dean disappeared behind almost two hours ago, surrounded by a slew of medical personnel, tubes and wires trailing from all over his body. He tenses every time a scrubs clad doctor emerges from the room, but they never call for him. And every time, a little more tension builds up in his body in his quest for an answer.
A mantra seems to have found itself to Sam's lips, He's gonna be fine, he's gonna be fine, he's gonna be fine, and if he was really paying attention he would have noticed the rocking back and forth of his body as he is unconsciously pulled into a cocoon of comfort. All around him others have pulled back, weary of the jumpy stranger in the corner.
At some point a nurse had thrust a clipboard into Sam's hands and demanded he fill in the medical and insurance information. But that's already a distant memory, and he doesn't even know what he wrote. He doesn't know what names he used.
The doctor has to call three times before Sam registers that Gorby is the last name he's given for himself and his brother. He finally looks up, pulling a muscle in his neck he turns his head so fast.
"That's me!" Sam cries desperately. "I'm Sam. Sam Gorby. My brother is Dean."
The doctor nods, all seriousness and businesslike in his demeanor. He holds out a hand as he introduces himself as Dr. Hartman, and encourages Sam to follow him back through the doors and down the hall.
Neither one says a word until they arrive in a small room. The doctor motions to the grouping of chairs against one wall and Sam sinks bonelessly into one of them immediately.
"My brother, doc, how is he?"
"He's holding his own," the doctor sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and sits in a chair opposite Sam. "The EMT's said he'd gotten some acid splashed in his eyes?"
Sam flinches. It's never good when doctors avoid offering details and begin asking questions instead. It means they don't believe the story that's been spun. That, or they need more details to solve the problem. Either way, Sam isn't looking forward to the conversation that is inevitably about to transpire. But if it's going to help Dean, he'll do just about anything.
"I don't know what kind, if that's what you're asking. We were at a friends farm, working out in the barn. There was a whole shelf of cans - I don't know what was in most of them - and they got bumped. It all happened so fast, doc. One minute Dean was standing, and the next he was on the ground, screaming about how his eyes were on fire."
The lie slides out velvety smooth, and Sam knows immediately that the doctor is buying every word of it.
"So you don't know what the substance was that got in your brother's eyes? Any chance you might be able to get a sample of it?"
Sam shakes his head, feeling the remorse immediately. He would give anything to be able to give them exactly what they need, what Dean needs. But there is nothing left. The poison was saliva from a Klower demon, and he'd killed it just after it had spit at Dean. The hail of bullets made of consecrated iron and holy water had eviscerated the demon, making it disappear in a cloud of smoke soon after the last bullet had entered through its skull.
"You're sure there's nothing you can tell me about the substance?" The doctor looks more than disappointed. He actually looks discouraged, anxious, possibly even...scared.
Suddenly it sinks in, and Sam is on his feet a half second later. "Doc, what's going on with my brother? What aren't you telling me?"
Dr. Hartman swallows hard and pinches his lips together, clasping his hands and leaning in towards Sam. "I've called in the consult of an ocular surgeon and a plastic surgeon on your brother's case," he begins. "They should both be here within the hour."
"That's not making me feel better, doc. What do you need them for? What's happened?"
"Sam–" There is a long hesitation, the doctor looking everywhere but at Sam as Sam bores holes into the doctors skull with his eyes. "Sam, whatever it was that was spilled on your brother's face has done severe damage to his eyes and the surrounding skin. We haven't been able to pinpoint the chemical makeup of the substance, but it's acting like an alkali - worse than an acid. Even after flushing out the area the chemical is still eating away at the tissue. We're doing everything we can to reduce the damage, but–"
"But what," Sam demands, bringing himself up to his full height and towering over the doctor. "He's going to be fine, doc, right? Tell me he's going to be fine."
For his part, Dr. Hartman manages to remain calm in light of the giant overshadowing his much smaller stature. "Mr. Gorby, please sit down. This is why I have called in a consult with the experts. I can't tell you what the ultimate result will be until these two doctors have a chance to see your brother."
"Just give it to me straight, doc. Worst case scenario. What are we looking at here?"
"It's too early to tell, Sam. Anything I tell you would just be speculation."
The man looks away, and Sam can tell right there that he's lying. That he's already formed the worst case scenario in his head. That worst case scenario is probably a better bet than best case scenario.
"That's bullshit, doc. I need to know. I need to know what we're dealing with here, what could happen. Please."
Dr. Hartman drops his head into his hands, clearly unnerved by the ferocity of Sam's insistence. Another minute passes, Sam breathing heavily over top of the doctor, until the man finally looks up and offers a weak, "Fine. Sit down. I'll give it to you straight."
Nodding, Sam obeys the request and seats himself across from the doctor again. He waits impatiently, foot tapping nervously against the tiled floor.
"Worst case scenario...severe scarring, headaches, vertigo. And blindness."
Sam feels his heart skip a beat, feels his stomach lurch up into his throat, and it's all he can do to keep the bile from rising up with it. "No," he hears himself say. Although the voice doesn't sound like his own. It echoes and dins with unfamiliar tones. "Nononononono. You must have done the tests wrong. You can't mean...he can't–"
"Sam, I–" The doctor reaches out a hand and places it on Sam's knee in a comforting gesture, but Sam is quick to push it away.
"NO! You can't mean it. My brother can't be blind. He CAN'T!"
They make Sam wait another twenty minutes while they get Dean settled into a room, and then a nurse leads him up the elevator to the fifth floor and then down the hall to his brother's room. Dr. Hartman is already in there, along with another nurse, and between the two of them they have managed to completely block Sam's view of Dean.
The first nurse, Cheryl on her nametag, holds the door open patiently as she waits for Sam to make a commitment to entering the room. He hesitates just long enough for the doctor to realize he's standing there, and then it's too late. Dr. Hartman shifts, offering full view of his brother, and it's all Sam can do to suppress the choked gasp that threatens to escape.
The bed is raised to a forty-five degree angle with Dean leaning motionless against its head. Most of the top half of his head is swathed in white bandages, with just a few spikes of hair sticking out from the top and from the tip of his nose down. As Sam steps closer he can see angry red blisters peeking menacingly from beneath the bandages. He winces at the sight, registering for the first time Dr. Hartman's words, realizing that the scaring extended beyond Dean's eyes.
He can't speak for fear that he might say the wrong thing, in the wrong way. He's afraid of what his voice will do, of how much it might betray him. And yet, on some other level, he knows that's the only way Dean will know he's here. He's blind, Sam. You idiot. He can't see you.
"Dean," Sam says hesitantly, taking another tentative step forward.
"Sammy." Dean's voice comes out weak and scared as he rolls his head against the pillow in the direction of his brother's voice. "Sammy, you're here."
"We have him sedated to help with the pain," Dr. Hartman tells Sam quietly before stepping to the side to allow the brothers time to reconnect.
Sam nods his acknowledgment to the doctor, then closes the remaining distance between himself and Dean. He clamps his large hand down firmly against his brother's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "Yeah, Dean, I'm here. It's going to be okay."
"It hurts," Dean whimpers in a very uncharacteristic, childlike voice.
"I know, Dean. I know."
"Can't see, Sam."
"You have gauze on your eyes, Dean. You won't be able to see through it." And god does Sam hope he speaks the truth on that front. He'll give anything for the gauze to be the only reason Dean can't see him.
"It hurts," he moans again, his lucidity clearly waning. "Sam, please."
"I'm here, bro. We're going to get this thing taken care of. Just hold on. Fight the pain." Squeezing Dean's shoulder again, Sam shoots a look of desperation to the doctor. He speaks low, hoping his brother can't hear the desperation in his voice as he demands, "Isn't there something else you can give him?"
Hartman shakes his head apologetically as he pulls Deans chart from where he had set it on the table beside the bed. He scans over it once more, double checking his work. "I'm sorry, no. It's too soon to give him more medication. But I think it's starting to work. He's getting tired."
Looking over at Dean, face swathed in bandages, Sam can't see how the doctor knows whether Dean is getting tired or not. And yet, no sooner does Sam find himself doubting Dr. Hartman's words then he hears his brother's breathing even out and watches his head sink further into the pillow as the sedatives go into effect.
"I'll leave you to sit with your brother," the doctor says, tucking Dean's chart under his arm and nodding at the nurse who, up til now, has been standing quietly in the shadows of the room watching the scene play out. "We will be back in when the consult team arrives. Do you need anything before then?"
Sam shakes his head and sinks heavily into the rolling chair beside Dean's bed. "No, thank you. I think I just need some time to absorb all this so far."
Oppressive silence reigns supreme once the doctor and nurse leave. In the past, trips to the hospital always included the irritating din of a heart monitor, the steady hiss of an oxygen tank, at times even the rise and fall of a respirator. But this is not a life threatening injury, and the heart monitor Dean is hooked up to is merely precautionary because of the medication they have pumping through his system. As a result, they have turned the volume down on the heart monitor. The only sound that breaks in is the rare inflation of the blood pressure cuff on Dean's arm as takes his readings every fifteen minutes.
Even Sam can't bring himself to break the silence despite the unnerving feeling of claustrophobia he is suddenly experiencing. God, Dean, what the hell are we going to do if this thing is permanent?
Instead, he bows his head, forehead against his brother's arm, and prays to a God he's not sure he even believes in. And when he's out of pleas he can't bear to move, to look up. So he stays in that same position for the next half hour until the silence is broken by a solid knock on the doorframe of Dean's hospital room.
Looking up, Sam sees Dr. Hartman standing there flanked on either side by two doctors he doesn't know but assumes they are the consults Dr. Hartman had spoken of earlier. He only knows they're doctors by the white lab coats they wear with their names embroidered on the pocket. Sam stands quickly, crossing the room in an attempt to keep the initial conversation from Dean's ears, and allows Dr. Hartman to make his introductions.
The ocular surgeon is pleasant and sincere, greeting Sam with a genuine smile that immediately instils confidence despite her youth and petite frame. She can't be more than mid-thirties, if that, but Sam immediately feels at ease. Dr. Hartman introduces her as Dr. Korpashan, and she takes Sam's outstretched hand within her two smaller ones, sandwiching them as she offers words of reassurance.
"Dr. Hartman has already filled me in on your brother's preliminary diagnosis, Sam. I just want you to know that I'm going to do everything in my power to help Dean."
He smiles gratefully, immediately hopeful. "Thank you for that. You have no idea. My brother, he uh– he's not going to be able to survive without his sight. You've just...just thank you."
The plastic surgeon is older, in his mid to late fifties, and comes off with an air of cockiness that immediately sets Sam back to a feeling of unease. He barely acknowledges Sam, and certainly offers no words of comfort. Instead, the doctor, last name Reddig, breezes past the group in the doorway and approaches the sleeping Dean while Dr. Hartman shrugs apologetically as he impresses upon Sam the fact that "Dr. Reddig is the best in his field."
Sam tries to find comfort in the fact that Dr. Hartman clearly knows the man is a prick, yet has chosen Reddig to work on his team regardless. If that isn't a sign of talent, Sam isn't sure what is.
It doesn't take long, though, for Sam to find himself on edge as he watches Dr. Reddig reach for the bandages on Dean's face with no regard for the young man buried beneath them, and begins to tug them off. Sam knows Dean wasn't awake before, but he also knows that the amount of personal space intrusion Reddig is bestowing on Dean is enough to make the hunter convert into lethal mode despite the amount of drugs in his system.
"Sir, you need to back off," Sam snaps, lunging for the plastic surgeon at the same time he sees his brother's fingers twitch on both hands. He's across the room in a second, grabbing at the surgeon's shoulder and shoving him back just as Dean's hand comes up with warp speed, grabbing air where Reddig's neck had been just seconds before.
"He's kinda jumpy," Sam explains, backing off as Reddig jerks out of Sam's hold as though he hadn't just protected him from what very well could have been a strangle hold.
"Sam!" The panic in Dean's voice is unmistakable in spite of the haze of drugs still holding him prisoner in a fog of incoherency.
Taking a second to glare threateningly at the arrogant doctor, Sam hurries to Dean's side and resumes his position of strong hand clenched comfortingly on his brother's shoulder. "It's alright, Dean. You're safe."
The other two doctors in the room stare, confusion mixed with surprise on their faces, but neither steps forward to intervene as Sam stares off with Dr. Reddig.
"I need to check him out if I'm going to have any idea of whether or not I can fix the scars," Reddig growls, taking a step towards the brothers.
"I have no problem with that," Sam replies. "But you're going to have to respect Dean's space. The least you can do is tell him what you're doing."
"He was asleep."
"And now he's awake."
Choosing not to allow Reddig another opportunity to continue arguing, Sam turns back to Dean and pats his chest with his open palm. "Dean, there are some doctors here that are going to take a look at you. They're going to remove the bandages and look at the damage so they can figure out how to fix it, okay?"
Sam waits patiently for a response that is slow in coming. It seems to take Dean far longer than usual to back down, for his breathing to ease and his shoulders to relax. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly before he finally responds. "You trust them?"
Looking from face to face Sam isn't sure exactly how to answer. Hartman and Korpashan are no brainers; they have both managed to make him feel at ease from the get-go. But Reddig leaves a lot to be desired with his bedside manner, and truth be told Sam wouldn't trust the guy as far as he can throw him. But telling Dean that means his brother doesn't get the help he needs. Is that selfish or smart? Sam wonders, weighing his options.
In the end it comes down to a matter of trusting himself to look out for Dean. And that, there is no doubt. "Yeah, Dean. I trust them."
The last of the tension leaves Dean's stance and he relaxes back into the pillows, shoulder to shoulder with Sam, as he allows the doctors to do their work.