Author's Note: Well, here is my first attempt at a full Supernatural fic. This is a "holiday" oriented fic that takes place during the second season but before the events of "Hunted."
I would like to thank my two BETAs for their hard work. I wouldn't be able to put this out if it were not for them!
Standard disclaimer applies meaning that I own NOTHING except for the troubled thoughts in my mind!
Enjoy!
Twenty-three year old Sam Winchester glanced at his older brother, Dean, watching as anger seemed to come off the older man in waves. It always annoyed Sam how Dean was able to get under his skin and now was no exception. If possible, the small motel room they were sitting in seemed to be getting smaller with each passing minute. The air between the brothers was palpable.
The thing that bothered the young hunter the most was Dean continued to be angry at him even after he thought he'd been profusely apologizing for days since it happened. Why couldn't Dean just let it go? Why did he have to continue to hold a damn grudge? It was Christmas Eve, for cripes sakes. Wasn't Christmas the season for forgiveness?
Sam glanced at his brother again. Dean quickly turned his head away. He knew Dean was trying to hide the fact that he'd been glaring at Sam, but he was doing a piss-poor job of it. Dean was usually able to hide his feelings from everyone—or practically everyone, Sam being the only one who could see through his defenses.
The brothers were as different as night and day when it came to their emotions and how they dealt with them. Dean chose to keep things bottled up and refused to talk things through. He plastered that charming smile on his face and made a joke about everything, even if it wasn't appropriate at the time. Sam, on the other hand, wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a sensitive soul and he wanted to talk his problems and feelings out. He had enough to deal with in his head without his emotions taking up residence up there.
So, here the brothers were, sitting in silence, each battling their own conflicting thoughts and Sam was quickly getting tired of it.
"Dean, you've got to talk to me eventually, man," Sam said, looking at his brother.
Dean took a deep, steadying breath and met his younger brother's gaze with an intense one of his own. His right shoulder was killing him, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk it out with his brother. "I told you I don't want to deal with this now, Sammy."
Sam drew his lips into a tight line. "It's Sam," he bit off, "and we are going to talk about this now."
"No, Sam, we're not," Dean returned.
"I don't get it, Dean," Sam said, rubbing his hands over his face. "How many times to I have to apologize to you?"
"This isn't something you can just brush under the rug! You could have been hurt, Sam. Hell, we both could have!"
Sam rolled his eyes. "It wasn't that bad, Dean. We weren't even supposed to be in any real danger."
"How can you say that?" Dean asked. "Did you have a heart-to-heart with the ghost? Did she tell you she wasn't going to try to kill us? Where was I when the two of you had this conversation?"
"I did the research, Dean," Sam said, sulking. "We weren't even supposed to be dealing with a malevolent spirit."
Several days before, the Hunters had come to Memphis, Tennessee to investigate reports of a ghost sighting at the abandoned Potter Plantation. Digging into the history of the home had been an easy task for the youngest Winchester. He quickly found out the decrepit mansion had been built in 1823 by William Potter, an affluent lawyer and philanthropist. The home remained in the family until 1982 after Matilda Potter drowned there. Not willing to live on the estate anymore after his wife's death, Nathan Potter packed everything he had and moved to California.
It was shortly after that the sightings began. Buyers who came to view the home were quickly deterred when they said they swore they saw a ghost haunting the place. And the couple of people who did actually buy the place never lasted more than a few months before, they too, packed up and left. Realtors stopped bothering to try to sell the place and it soon fell into total disrepair. Since then the Potter Plantation served as a local haunt for teens and college students looking for a cheap thrill.
The property remained incident free until last week when a teen mysteriously drowned there. At first glance, the boys didn't think it involved anything supernatural until they found out from the teen's friends there had been no signs of water in their friend's lungs or anywhere in the house.
That night, they headed over to the Potter Plantation in hopes of dealing with what was supposed to be an easy hunt. But in Dean's words, Matilda was turning out to "be a bitch" and she wasn't making their job any easier. She created nothing but havoc for the hunters and they would have vanquished her ass sooner if Sam had provided a better diversion for Dean so he could salt and burn her bones.
Instead, Sam didn't pay attention, allowing Matilda to get in a few shots at Dean. Sam tried to rectify his mistake by burning the bones himself while Dean dealt with an injury, but Dean wouldn't hear anything of what Sam had to say.
That happened four hours ago and Sam's guilt was growing by the minute.
Four hours ago…
Sam glanced up from the stack of papers in his lap and snapped off his flashlight as the Potter Plantation came into view. Even in the dark, he could clearly see the state of ruin and disrepair the once magnificent structure now stood. With its boarded up windows, flaking white paint, and neglected landscape, the home, in his opinion, desperately needed the attention of the Extreme Makeover team.
"Looks like no one's home," Dean commented as he brought the Impala to a stop.
"According to the research, there hasn't been anyone here for nearly twenty years."
Dean chuckled to himself as he got out of the car and made his way to the trunk. "I'm a little surprised Ty Pennington hasn't worked his magic on this place."
The look Sam shot his brother as he stepped out of the car was one of utter shock and amusement. "How the hell do you know who Ty Pennington is?"
Dean grabbed his small duffel out of the trunk after making sure it was packed with their necessary supplies. Before closing the trunk, he grabbed two sawed-off shotguns that were loaded with rock salt. "I'm not sheltered, Sam. I do actually get to watch television every once and a while."
"Yes, you do, but it's usually some cheesy action or sci-fi movie grabbing your attention."
"What can I say? Maybe I wanted to get some culture in my life."
"Forget I said anything."
"Fine." Dean tossed a rifle to Sam, then throwing the duffel over his shoulder, he led the way towards the looming mansion.
Sam shook his head and let the cool night air seep into his bones as he followed his brother. The night was moonless and there wasn't a single star in the sky, but Sam still found it beautiful. It was as if everything was at peace and trying to convince him he could be the same. But the young hunter knew it was something he wouldn't have in a long time, if ever.
"You coming?"
Sam glanced up to see Dean was standing in front of the door, never realizing he stopped walking. Shooting his brother a sheepish grin, he quickly made his way up the rickety stairs and joined Dean.
"What were you doing down there?"
"It was nothing."
"Whatever."
Finding the door unlocked, they braced themselves on either side, Sam on the left, Dean on the right. Dean nodded jerkily to Sam and the younger man reached out cautiously, grasping the old brass knob in his hand. Taking a deep breath with gun at the ready, he pushed the door open, stepping back to allow his brother passage. Flicking his flashlight on, Sam followed, seeing Dean held the EMF meter in his hand.
"Anything?"
Dean shook his head as he continued to sweep it around. "Where did you say Matilda was buried?"
"Back yard. There's supposed to be a small fenced off cemetery back there."
"All right; I'm going to go see if I can find it. You stick around here and keep watch. If you see Matilda, keep her busy. The last thing I need is a pissed off bitch ghost after my ass."
Sam didn't say anything as he heard Dean exit the home. There really was no point in it; he was used to Dean's orders by now and he learned it was best to go along with them, with little or no argument.
Shining the light around the home, Sam made his way into the living room. Once again, he was charmed by the beauty this place once held. During his research, he came across pictures of the interior and found the Potter home had once been tastefully decorated in warm country colors such as blues, yellows, and creams, with antique furniture back from the Civil War era. Looking around, he saw a couple pieces of furniture still remained, but they were nothing but broken shells now.
Sam's thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash coming from one of the other rooms. He tensed, aimed his shotgun, and slowly made his way towards the noise. He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of movement, but he wasn't having any luck as he walked through the kitchen, into the dining room. Blaming the crash on rats or some other vermin, he lowered his weapon, continuing his search.
He finished his search of the lower level and was about to make his way to the second floor when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The air around him grew considerably colder, and he knew it wasn't because of the dropping temperature outside. Turning around, he never had time to bring up his weapon before he was thrown across the foyer, crashing into a wall.
The last thing he saw before fading into unconsciousness was a beautiful woman with long, flowing brown hair, dressed in an elegant blue dress, smiling wickedly at him.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
"I'm a friggin' idiot," Dean told himself as he shined his flashlight around the small graveyard, trying to find the headstone belonging to Matilda Potter. What other answer could he come up with for continuously volunteering himself for the grunt work while Sam got to handle the easy stuff. But Dean knew why he did it—he would always choose the more dangerous of the jobs if it meant Sam would be safe, even if that meant digging up a grave in temperatures hovering just above freezing.
Finally finding Matilda's headstone, he threw down the duffel and extracted a small shovel from it. He broke into the hard ground and began his excavation.
A good twenty minutes later, Dean hit pay dirt as the tip of his shovel pierced through wood. He tore at the coffin with his shovel until the decaying bones of Matilda Potter were fully exposed.
"Good evening, Mrs. Potter." He looked down at her. Tossing the shovel aside, he pulled himself out of the grave. He reached into his duffel and took out the salt, lighter fluid, and box of matches.
He was beginning to salt the bones when he heard a noise off to his right. He lifted his head, keeping his green eyes alert for anything and everything. "Sammy, is that you?"
No answer.
Blaming it on his imagination, but not entirely believing that, the seasoned hunter continued with his task, making sure he sprinkled a generous amount of salt all over the bones. He was moving on to the lighter fluid when a strong, solid breeze knocked him flat on his ass.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean quickly got off the ground, grabbed his shotgun, eyes darting around. He knew, without a doubt, the gust of wind wasn't nature's way of telling him, "Hi." It was a spirit and a seriously pissed off one, at that. And that meant one thing to Dean—Sam was not keeping Matilda occupied like he was supposed to be. Great, the last time I give him the easy job…
"You won't be needing that."
Dean whirled around and found himself face-to-face with the ghostly form of Matilda Potter. He didn't even have time to get off a shot before the gun was ripped from his hands and tossed aside like it was yesterday's garbage.
"Hey, that gun cost a lot of hard-earned money!" Okay, so maybe that wasn't true. It cost around $200 and it wasn't Dean who paid for it, it was Tommy Morrison and the good folks over at Visa.
Matilda grinned evilly at him and threw him aside, crashing him into a headstone, breaking it in half. He cursed softly and grabbed his right shoulder, which took most of the impact. Definitely going to have some bruising there tomorrow, he thought ruefully as he shakily got to his feet.
"I thought Sam was supposed to take care of you," he muttered, still holding onto his shoulder.
"Sam? Is that his name?" Matilda tossed her head back, laughing. "He wasn't much of a challenge."
Dean's eyes blazed as he felt fear and anger coursing through his body. It certainly explained why Matilda was standing before him and not Sam—the kid actually let a ghost get the better of him. But Dean would tease him about that later; right now, he had to deal with the psycho-ghost. After all, you didn't get to hurt Dean Winchester's kid brother and not expect to walk away severely maimed or killed. But considering the woman before him was already dead, he only had one option.
"I'm sending your ass back to Hell, bitch." Ignoring his throbbing shoulder, Dean rolled on the ground and grabbed his shotgun. In the next instant, he was pulling the trigger, shooting Matilda full of rock salt.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
The throbbing pain in his head caused Sam to jerk awake. He quickly sat up and instantly regretted that action as nausea overtook him. Luckily, he was able to hold it back as his eyes took in the scene around him and a rush of memories flooded through his muddled mind. He had been searching the Potter home when he suddenly gained the ability of flight and went crashing into a wall—that explained the killer headache. He lifted a hand and gently touched the base of his neck where he felt a good-sized lump. And then he remembered a woman—Matilda Potter—smiling down at him before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Glancing down at his watch, he saw he had been out for fifteen minutes. I bet Dean's worried about me now…
"Oh, shit! Dean!"
Ignoring the headache and nausea, Sam quickly stood, located his shotgun and ran out the door. He had one job, one job, and he failed miserably. He allowed himself to get caught off-guard and now he probably left his brother in a dangerous situation. He would never hear the end of this by the time Dean got a hold of him.
If I'm not too late…
Stop it, Sam! Don't think like that! Dean is perfectly capable of taking care of himself! As if to prove that point, a lone gunshot echoed through the quiet December night. Hoping it was Dean doing the shooting but not entirely convinced of that, Sam put on a burst of speed towards the small cemetery.
"Dean!" he yelled coming up over a small hill. He saw his brother fall to the ground, clutching his shoulder, agony written all over his face. "Dean!"
"Hurry and burn the bones, Sam! The rock salt won't hold her for long!"
"But—" Sam's concern for his brother was far outweighing his need to burn the bones.
"Dammit, Sammy, don't argue with me! Just do it!"
Spotting the lighter fluid and matches lying on the ground, Sam quickly picked up both items. He doused the bones in the liquid and threw a few lit matches onto the bones just as Matilda was beginning to rematerialize again. Her deathly scream caused Sam to cover his ears and then it was gone, nothing but the smell of burning bones permeating through the air. He discarded the box of matches and rushed to Dean's side just as he was starting to stand up. "Let me help you."
Dean swatted him away. "Get away from me, Sam."
Hearing the pissed off tone in his brother's voice, Sam backed away, his concerned eyes never leaving Dean.
"What happened?"
Dean scoffed. "What happened? Casper the bitchy ghost decided to see if I could fly."
"Could you?" Sam grinned, but it disappeared quickly when he saw the murderous glare his brother sent him.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
"I don't want to hear it, Sam. Grab the stuff and get in the car."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Maybe you should have done a better job of the research, Sammy," Dean said. "Just because it said she wasn't a malevolent spirit, doesn't mean squat. We've been hunting long enough for you to know to always expect the unexpected."
Sam let the nickname slide this time. "I said I was sorry. I wasn't thinking."
"That's right, Sam. You weren't thinking," Dean said. "And you're supposed to be the smart one in the family," he added, muttering.
Sam saw red and raised his voice several octaves. "Don't hold that over my head just because I went to Stanford. It was a mistake, Dean, an honest mistake. Everyone makes them—including you."
"But I didn't make this one!" Dean said, matching his brother's vocal dynamics.
And there it was—what Sam was finally waiting for his brother to say. And though he didn't say it directly, Sam knew the meaning behind his brother's words—yes, it was a mistake on his part, but it was something that Dean would continue to hold over his head. However, if the roles had been reversed and it was Dean who had made the mistake, he would have merely shrugged it off as if it was nothing and they would have moved on.
"Maybe it would be better if you started to hunt without me," Sam said quietly.
"Maybe it would," Dean said, agreeing quickly.
Sam looked at his brother in mild surprise. He didn't think Dean would actually agree with his suggestion, especially since he rarely let his brother out of his sight since the encounter with the yellow-eyed demon. Getting over his surprise, Sam got up from the bed and grabbed his jacket.
"Where are you going?" Dean asked.
"I need to get out of here for a while," Sam said. "I think we both could use some time away from each other."
"Sam, you don't have to leave."
Sam heard the hint of guilt that crept into Dean's voice, but he didn't care. He was
pissed and he'd be damned if he was going to let Dean sucker him into staying.
"Yeah, I do, Dean," Sam said, reaching for the door. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in a little while."
"Sam—" Dean began, but the door clicked shut behind Sam before he could finish.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
As Sam walked down the street, he couldn't help but notice the empty feeling building inside of him. Sure, he and Dean bickered from time to time, but it never went on for this long. They usually found a way to apologize to each other and then move on. So why was this time proving to be different?
Sam pulled his jacket tighter against his body as the cold December wind seemed to cut through him. He smiled politely as he passed a mother and child who had their hands full with last-minute purchases. He felt a pang of jealousy as his hazel eyes took in the shoppers who were bustling to and from the different shops lining the streets. It was something he never really got to experience growing up and it was something he regretted. But that was just the Winchester way—they never felt the need to really celebrate Christmas; not when they knew about all the evil that existed in the world.
But that wasn't saying that Sam never got to experience Christmas, because he did. He remembered when he was growing up Dean would go out of his way to ensure his baby brother got at least one Christmas present. And the great thing about Dean was he never expected anything in return. It was almost as if Sam's happiness was enough of a gift for him.
Sam smiled at the memory and became lost in his treasure trove of thoughts. He seemed to notice a pattern as he was going over them. The only time he was truly happy was because of Dean. God knows his father was barely around enough to make sure that Sam was happy. That was Dean's job—always had been. And now that they were fighting with each other, it was hurting Sam more than he cared to admit. He never wanted to cause his older brother any grief, but when he thought about it, he did it quite often. Dean never got the chance to experience childhood because he was always watching out for Sammy. Sammy was his job, his responsibility.
Sam cringed as a new thought entered his mind. Would Dean be better off without him altogether?
Sam was so focused on that thought alone he never realized he was crossing the street. He never realized a car was barreling straight towards him, not even when the driver pounded on the brakes and the loud squeals filled the cold night air. He didn't realize it until his body connected with the front end of the SUV.
For a brief second, Sam felt himself flying through the air. But that feeling was quickly replaced with one of pain as his tall frame made contact with the cold pavement.
He never even heard the screams of panic as his world became shrouded in darkness.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dean absently flipped through the basic cable channels on the 13-inch television, not really finding anything that caught his attention. Of course, considering there were mainly Christmas shows on, it was hard for the hunter to find anything that called out to him. But the truth was he really wasn't interested with what was on. It was just something for him to do in order to keep his mind off of Sammy.
He didn't understand why he always had to give his kid brother such a hard time. It just seemed that ever since their father died, he needed something to lash out at and, unfortunately for Sam, he just always happened to be the unsuspecting victim of Dean's anger. But now Dean told himself his anger was under control, he was handling it. He still felt guilty as hell for decking Sam all those weeks ago, but at the time he just couldn't control his rage. Sam just kept saying the right things at the wrong time and he had paid for that.
The amazing thing was that Sam wasn't even angry at him for hitting him. Sure, there had been hurt in Sammy's eyes, but there had also been understanding. Sam knew why he'd done it and he never chastised him for it. Even when he offered Sam a free shot at him, Sam declined and they had taken off for their next hunt. That was what Dean admired most about his baby brother—no matter what happened between the two of them Sam continued to have a level head and reach out to him.
Dean threw down the old remote and leaned his head back against the motel room's poor excuse for pillows. So why do I always have to pick a fight with the kid? Why do I always have to try and find an argument in everything he does? Why do I have to blame him for everything? And why the hell did I let him walk out that door?
Because Sam needed space. And even though every instinct told Dean to follow his brother, he had to learn when to hold back and let Sam have some time to himself. And Dean admitted he'd been suffocating Sam a lot in the last few months. But he couldn't help it. He promised his father that he would continue to protect Sammy. And, if anything, Dean always kept the promises he made to his father.
But who was he kidding? Dean knew no matter what, he would protect Sam; he didn't need the promise he made to his father to tell him that. He'd been protecting his baby brother since the day he was born and he would continue to do so until his dying breath. To tell Dean Winchester to stop protecting his brother, well, you might as well tell him to stop breathing.
Only if Sammy really knew the reason I was protecting him now…
Dean's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of squealing brakes and frantic screams. He couldn't figure it out, but those sounds filled him with a sense of foreboding—he could feel his heart beating faster and a chill running down his spine. He quickly jumped off the bed and bolted for the door. Practically tearing it off its hinges, he ran outside to see a crowd was forming on the street, about a block from his motel.
Dean didn't even bother grabbing his jacket as he ran towards the commotion. He stopped short as he recognized the form that was lying in the middle of the crowd.
"Sammy…" he whispered.
He pushed through the crowd of people. "Move out of the way—that's my brother." He got a few nasty remarks but he didn't care. The only thing on his mind was his kid brother, lying hurt on the ground and not moving.
"What happened?" Dean demanded to no one in particular.
"He just—he just walked out in front of—of me," a high-pitched, stuttering female voice said. "I—I didn't see him until it was too late."
Dean quickly glanced at the hysterical woman seeing she was completely unnerved by what happened by the way she was clutching her shirt and the tears that were forming in her dark eyes. But he didn't have time to take her by the hand and tell her that it would be okay. Sammy was the only thing that mattered now…
He looked down and his stomach did a flip-flop as he saw the small pool of blood forming under Sam's mop of brown hair. Full-blown terror unlike anything he ever felt seized Dean and he frantically felt for a pulse. He let out a small sigh of relief when he felt one. It was very faint, but the fact that it was there meant that Sam was still alive.
"Someone call for an ambulance!" Dean shouted.
A small, balding man held up his phone so Dean could see it. "I just called—they're on their way."
Dean nodded as tears began to sting his eyes. "You hear that, Sammy? Help is on the way. You just have to hold on for me."
Dean grabbed one of Sam's hands in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He hated chick-flick moments as much as the next guy but, by God, he would suffer through it if it meant Sammy would be okay.
Dean wasn't a praying man, but he turned into one in the middle of that street for everyone to see. Come on, God—Sammy has done everything that has been asked of him. Don't let it end like this. It's not supposed to end like this.
Dean's prayers were drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was a known fact that Dean Winchester hated hospitals. But, perhaps, what he hated even more than being a patient was sitting in the waiting room, awaiting word about his brother. He had been sitting in the hard, plastic chair for the past couple of hours, watching the doctors, bustle to and fro, and yet, none of them had stopped to let him know how Sammy was doing.
He was practically climbing the walls now and it was starting to show in his demeanor—he was becoming antsy, almost feeling as if someone had put itching powder in his pants. Dean didn't like the feeling of helplessness weighing down on him. He absently thought it would have been better if Sam had been attacked by a supernatural being, because then he could hunt it and kill it. But it had been Sam's human error and it was completely out of his control; there was nothing he could do about the situation except to sit and wait for the doctors to come and tell him something about his brother.
And so against every fiber of his being, Dean Winchester sat in the chair in a waiting room full of sick people doing what he hated most—he waited.
"Mr. Richards?"
Dean looked up as his alias-of-the-week was being called across the room by a cute twenty-something year old nurse with red hair and piercing green eyes. If it had been any other day, Dean would have been hitting on her so fast it would make her head spin. It was too bad, really…
"Are you Mr. Richards?"
What the hell—Dean never was one to let a woman get away without one of his charming smiles. "I am definitely Dean Richards."
Dean felt success as the nurse began to slightly blush. "The doctor is ready to see you now. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to him and your brother."
"That would be great…" he trailed off, searching for her name.
"Alicia," she said, aiming a smile of her own at him.
"Alicia." Dean nodded as he got up from his chair and began to follow her. "So, how's Sammy doing?"
Alicia's smile faltered for a second. "You really should let Doctor Stewart speak to you."
Dean put out a hand and gently got Alicia to stop walking. Turning her around to face him, he said, "Come on, Alicia. That's my little brother in there. I have to know if he's okay or not."
Alicia let out a deep breath and looked at the troubled man standing in front of her. "I'll be honest, Mr. Richards—"
"—Dean."
"Are you a religious man, Dean?" Alicia asked.
Dean glanced at her, caught off-guard by her question. "Not really."
"May I ask why not?" Alicia asked, cocking her head to the side to glance up at him.
Dean shrugged. "I really haven't been given a reason to believe. What I see every day, I'm not really sure if He exists."
Alicia looked at him, and Dean could clearly see he was confusing the hell out of her. And how could he not be? But at the same time, he didn't give a rat's ass. After all, she had no idea what he did or saw on a daily basis. She had no idea about the evil that really existed in the world, and she would, perhaps, never know. But Dean knew he didn't have the time sit and explain his lack of religion to her, not when Sam was lying in a hospital bed in God-knows what condition.
"Sometimes a little faith is a good thing," she said softly. "I'm going to be completely honest with you, Dean, when I say it doesn't look good for Sam."
Dean felt as if someone was punching him in the gut repeatedly. He didn't like what he was being told and he was not about to stand there and accept it. So Dean Winchester did what he knew how to do best, besides hunting. He cracked a joke.
"It's nothing a good stiff drink can't cure, I'm sure," He chuckled weakly.
Alicia nodded her head sympathetically and continued to lead Dean towards Sam's room. Dean inwardly cringed when he saw they were heading towards the ICU ward. It was a place he had been in himself not too long ago, and the last thing he wanted to do was relive those memories again. They had been painful then and time had not yet managed to heal those wounds. He had lost too much during that time and he was still struggling to find himself.
John Winchester said his last words to him there. He told Dean a secret about Sam he was still keeping from his younger brother. And everyday that he lived with it, it was tearing into his heart a little more. And now to think his Sammy was in the same position he was in a few months ago scared to crap out of him.
Alicia stopped in front of a closed door and glanced quickly at Dean. Then she pushed the door open slowly and spoke softly to someone. "Dr. Stewart, Sam's brother is here."
A distinguished looking man with perfectly coiffed dark brown hair and an athletic build looked up from the chart he had been writing on. "Thank you, Alicia."
Alicia stepped back from the doorway and looked at Dean. "You can go in now. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on your brother. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
Dean nodded stiffly and cautiously made his way into the room, that act alone surprising him. He could face off with Hell's creatures with little or no fear, but walking into his little brother's hospital room right then scared the shit out of him. Shaking himself, Dean took hold of that fear and tossed it away as he walked further into the room, catching his first glance of his little brother, lying still as death on the hospital bed.
Dean felt his breath catch in his throat, and for one of the very few times in his life, he was speechless. Dean Winchester could not think of any words to say, not even when thousands of thoughts were running through his troubled mind. Sam's head was wrapped in white gauze, and he had an IV running through each arm. Thankfully, the blanket that was covering his long body was hiding any other injuries he might have sustained. What made Dean the happiest was Sam appeared to be breathing on his own volition and that had to mean something, right?
Dean gently picked up one of his brother's hands and grasped it firmly in his own. "How is my brother?" he asked the doctor, but his gaze remained steadfast on Sam and Sam alone.
Dr. Stewart let out an audible sigh as he glanced up at the man in front of him. "It's still pretty much touch-and-go. You brother sustained quite a few injuries in the accident—a concussion, a couple of cracked ribs, a hairline fracture to his left foot, and numerous lacerations and bruises."
"But he's going to be okay." Dean didn't mean it as a question.
"Like I said, it's touch-and-go. I'm a little worried about his head injury, though," Dr. Stewart said. "We're going to keep monitoring him throughout the night."
"He's going to be okay," Dean said again softly, but it was mostly to convince himself of the fact.
"I certainly hope that turns out to be the case," Dr. Stewart said and then glanced down at his watch. "I'm afraid you'll only get a few minutes with him. He needs to get his rest."
Dean shook his head. "I can't leave my brother."
"I'm afraid that it's hospital policy," Dr. Stewart said apologetically.
Dean finally looked up at the doctor, his green eyes pleading. "Please, Doc. We're all that's left of our family. He's all that I have left. I can't let him wake up alone—he needs me."
The doctor looked at Dean strangely, confused at what the young man before him was saying. But the pleading look Dean was giving him finally lent to his consent. "I'll let the nurses know."
"Thank you," Dean said softly.
Dr. Stewart nodded and left Dean to be with his brother.
"Come on, Sammy. You have to wake up, man," Dean said, voice cracking slightly. "Who else is going to keep my ass straight, huh?"
Sam didn't stir.
"I'm so sorry, Sammy…"
Let me know your thoughts! Another update soon!