The Quarterly Review
K Hanna Korossy
He was back here yet again.
Not that he'd ever been in this hospital; he didn't think they'd even been in a hospital in this state before, not that he could keep track. But it was pretty much the same deal across the country: pale walls, a tile floor, the chair that immediately became his chair and the bed surrounded by machinery. Sometimes more of them, sometimes fewer, usually at least one of them beeping or whooshing.
Sam lying there in the middle of everything, still and white, while Dean sat and waited.
There was a knock at the door, and a nurse came in. Lakshmi: Dean only knew her name because it was written on the white board on the wall. The doctor was listed there, too, but he—she?—hadn't been by yet that morning. Dean never remembered their faces or names, anyway; like the room, they were interchangeable.
"Any signs of waking?" Lakshmi asked as she checked the machines, Sam's eyes, the bandages.
"Not yet," Dean said, aware of how low and hoarse his voice was. That happened when you spent the night talking about anything that came to mind.
She glanced him over as she worked. "You should get some sleep."
He was perched on the edge of the chair exactly because he knew if he leaned back, he'd conk out. "I will when he tells me to shut up."
She shook her head, her long braid swishing against her scrubs. "He's resting right now—you should, too."
"Yeah, okay," Dean muttered, utterly insincerely. There also came a point each time when he quit listening and arguing. That he didn't need rest, that he wasn't hungry...that Sam would wake up and be okay. Every single time.
She finished her check, smiled at him, and left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Dean breathed out, his body deflating. He dropped his face into his hands, rubbing hard. Thinking.
It was year four of being back on the road together. Jessica and Dad had died. Sam had died and come back, though Dean still, more than a year later, wasn't sure he'd come back the same. Dean had died and gone to Hell and definitely not come back the same. Sam had worked with that demon bitch Ruby; Dean wasn't sure Sam wasn't still meeting her on the side. He'd had powers, lost them, gotten some new ones. Dean paused, considering: had he missed anything?
Sam seemed to sigh in his sleep.
Dean got to his feet, peering closer. He swept from Sam's face some of the lank hair the nurse had mussed, and felt the warm forehead. Sam's hand was curled on the bedspread, and Dean slid two fingers under it, testing for any reaction, resistance.
Nada.
With a sigh of his own, Dean sank back into the chair.
His mind returned to that night four years ago, driving off after dropping Sam at his apartment, glancing at the clock in the Impala...and finding it had stopped. The feeling of dread, racing back to find smoke coming out of the apartment. Dean teased it apart, moment by moment, looking for some way he could have known, some way they could have saved Jessica, Sam's apple-pie life.
Fruitlessly, he moved on. That yellow-eyed son of a bitch hooked into Dad, not reacting to the holy water they'd tested him with. Sam driving, and the semi hitting them. The hospital, and what Dean knew now was his dad saying goodbye. His final words.
Sam's pinkie and ring finger twitched.
Dean reached out to smooth his own fingertips over his brother's lax ones, feeling the absence of tension, of life in the skin and muscle beneath his. Random neurons firing, maybe, or a dream deep inside Sam's unconscious. Dean drew back.
He was in Cold Oak now, Sam's face so open and relieved to see him, right before he was stabbed in the back. Going heavy and limp in Dean's arms. The deal with a demon, because there was literally nothing else Dean could think to do.
Being ripped apart and dropped into Hell a year later.
He examined every milestone in their life, turned it over and over as he looked for another way, something he could have done differently. Something that would have taken them on a different path than the one that led here, to another hospital room.
Every. Single. Time.
But Sam had had his abilities even at school. If Dean hadn't arrived, the kid might've burned to death with Jessica. Nothing could have saved him from Cold Oak, and Dean still couldn't be sorry for the deal he'd made. He wished yet again that Sam had gotten out of hunting when Dean was in Hell, started a new life for himself somewhere, but he couldn't honestly say he didn't understand why he hadn't. Maybe Dean was a hypocrite, but he was a clear-eyed one.
Dad could've raised them in a normal life. Sam could've stayed with his family instead of going to school. Dean could've wrapped his little brother in bubble wrap and kept him tied up in the back seat of the Impala, and the hunt still would have found them.
Restless, Dean rose and turned back the blanket from Sam's left foot. He ran his nail up the insole, mouth quirking as Sam's dirty toes curled in. The nail on the middle one was black—how the heck did you injure your middle toe and not the surrounding ones, anyway?—and would probably come off soon. His feet were warm, though, circulation good. Dean gave the big toe a squeeze, covered him back up, and returned to the chair with a huff.
Now Lilith was out there and seals were breaking and the end of the world threatened, again. How were they supposed to leave the fight? No one else was stepping in to save the world. And Sam wasn't about to back off, anyway. Dean couldn't let him go it alone.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Neither of them did well alone. Every single friggin'—
His gaze fell on Sam. Whose eyes were slivered open, staring blankly ahead.
Dean surged to his feet, planting himself in the middle of Sam's field of vision. "Hey. Sammy. You in there?"
A long pause without movement or acknowledgment. Then Sam's eyes grew shiny, moisture gathering in the corners.
The relief nearly buckled his knees. "You're okay, man," Dean said with the mix of sympathy and bravado he'd perfected over the years, comfort and calm. He dabbed at Sam's watery eyes with the edge of the sheet, then pressed his hand down into the dark hair. "Everything's gonna be fine, okay? I promise."
Sam sipped a breath, swallowed with effort, and dipped his head a tiny bit. That little frown gathered between his eyes that meant he was thinking, and Dean smoothed it out with his thumb, willing him to stop.
"I'll fill you in later, dude, just get some sleep now so we can break you out of here. Okay? You hear me, Sam?"
Sam's eyes rolled fractionally. Even though they were clearly fighting to stay open, he still gave Dean a hard look full of meaning. You get some sleep, too. Eat something. And stop worrying.
"I will if you will," Dean said pointedly.
The corner of Sam's mouth twitched, and his eyes sank shut. His breath fanned against the hand Dean still hovered by his face.
From the corner of Dean's eye, he saw Sam's hand twitch again. He sat back down in the chair and slid two fingers under Sam's palm. His brother's long fingers curled in to trap him there, like they had since Sam was a baby.
Yeah, okay. One-handed, Dean shoved and slid the heavy chair until it was parallel to the bed so he could sit back and not dislodge Sam's grip. Maybe he would get a little sleep, too. Save the thinking for later. Next time, next room.
Sam's grip tightened in sleep, and that was the last thing Dean knew before he dropped off, too.
The End