Fractured
Sam can't do the waiting game. He's not built for it, not anymore. He can't SIT, and be stagnant. He needs action. Violence.
Blood.
No. He shakes his head, rolls it on his shoulders and relishes in the sharp crack of released tension. He settles back in the stiff chair at his brother's bedside, and he waits.
To find out how Dean's doing, really, and see what questions he has. What he remembers, when he wakes up.
IF he wakes up.
Sam recoils, scrubs at his eyes, his hair. Things are blending together in his buzzy head – the then and the now. His thoughts are loose, fluid, swirling like water around a drain.
He can't do this again. Not again.
Not the sympathetic looks and the jargon that makes the most mundane of things seem so much worse. Not the flurry of activity in the halls and the absolute stillness here in this room. Not the sterile air, the too-white walls, and that smell.
Not the beeps and the wires and that fucking tube down his brother's throat.
Just a precaution, he's been told. The swelling's already gone down, and it's just temporary, to ease the strain of breathing.
A hand on his arm, a tilt of a tired nurse's head. "He'd be in a lot of pain otherwise."
Yeah, no shit. They don't know the half of it. Sam's not even sure he does.
He's fighting very hard.
He's not. Not this time.
Dean's…different now. Broken.
Weak.
He's not what he used to be. He's not strong enough.
But Sam – Sam's the strongest he's ever been. Can send demons straight back to Hell, or into fucking oblivion, but he's not strong enough for this.
Not this.
In New Harmony, Dean was DEAD in his ARMS, but there was some degree of closure there. Sam knew it was coming, where his brother was, and why. How. And he had a plan, within hours.
Here, he knows nothing. And he waits.
He's rattled, sweaty and panicked, and crashing, HARD. His fingers tap an off-beat rhythm, his leg jiggles as he waits for Dean to wake.
Which won't be for hours. Maybe days.
You need to have realistic expectations.
Sam shakes his head, digs fingertips into his temples. This isn't like last time. He repeats it, over and over and over, a desperate mantra.
It's not like last time.
Maybe if he tells himself enough, he'll believe it.
Dean's bruised and battered, pumped full of sedatives and painkillers and too damn still, but the intubation is just a precaution.
So it's not like last time.
Sam resists the urge to check his watch, to know exactly how much time has passed and compare it to what he's been told to expect. He should call Bobby. Ellen. Fuck, he should have called Ellen MONTHS ago.
He doesn't, because that seems like forfeiting. Like admitting that this is serious. It's not, but the tube – the one that's purely a precaution and nothing at ALL to worry about – sure fucking makes it look like it is.
Sam sits. Waits.
And nothing changes.
And he can't do this again.
When he spots Castiel, his reaction is severe, immediate.
"Get in there and heal him. Miracle. NOW."
