The ride to the hospital had been a blur.

Dean remembered sitting beside the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, gripping Sam's hand even when the kid had finally lost consciousness and could no longer return the pressure of his grasp.

He remembered the rush of the ER, the yelled orders and the flurry of activity around Sam as the doctors and nurses had worked to stabilize him before whisking him away for surgery.

Dean remembered Sam's hand slipping from his as they had wheeled his kid into the elevator, remembered telling the surgeon – begging him – to save his little brother before the doors had slid shut.

The hours that followed had crawled.

The clock in the waiting room mocking him as it had slowly ticked while he had paced.

Back and forth, back and forth...'round and 'round and 'round.

At hour three, Dean had finally collapsed in a chair; had felt both wired and exhausted, anxious to know...but terrified to find out.

Because what if Sam didn't make it?

What if the last words Dean had said to his brother had been a lie?

You're gonna be okay.

What if that wasn't true?

And what about what Sam had tried to say before Dean had hushed him?

M-my...

My...what?

My insides are mush?

My legs are crushed?

My luck sucks?

Maybe that was it...because Sam's luck really fucking sucked.

Dean had tipped his head back against the wall and had closed his eyes; had tried to find his center – though his true north was still in surgery – and had decided he should call Bobby.

The older hunter would want to know what had happened and would haul ass to Wisconsin to help keep vigil.

But there was no time to call for backup as the surgeon had emerged from the double doors, fresh from the operating room. The man had motioned for Dean, then had led him to a small room where nothing good was ever said.

Dean had refused to sit. "Just tell me."

The surgeon had hesitated, had stared at Dean as though he was trying to gauge whether Dean could handle what he was about to say. "Is there anyone you want to call, anyone you want to join you before – "

" – tell me," Dean had growled, annoyed by this man wasting his time.

Because if Sam was still alive, then Dean wanted to be with him.

And if Sam was gone, then Dean would still be with his little brother. Right after he swallowed a bullet.

Either way, time was wasting.

The surgeon had sighed, holding Dean's gaze – a rule he always made himself follow whenever he delivered bad news to a patient's family. A personal standard requiring him to have the courage to look them in the eye when he shattered their world.

"I'm sorry..." he had offered as his opening line.

And Dean had felt instantly numb.

Had felt his vision narrow, his heart pound, his ears buzz.

"...but we couldn't save your brother's leg," the surgeon had continued.

Dean had blinked. "What?"

"His leg," the surgeon had repeated, removing x-rays from a chart; the black-and-white films snapping stiff as the man shook them and placed them over the light hanging on the wall.

Dean had stared at the images of an obviously shattered bone and had assumed he was looking at the results of Sam's leg being crushed beneath the car's tire.

"We were unable to successfully repair the damage sustained by Sam's left leg," the surgeon had needlessly explained as he had pointed at the x-ray, at the fragmented bones and the jagged shard that had protruded from his patient's skin. "The severe nature of the dispersed, open fracture combined with the amount of time the blood flow had been restricted at the scene left no other viable choice than to amputate below the knee."

The surgeon had made it sound so simple, so neat and clean.

But what he had been saying was that half of Sam's left leg was gone.

...and with it, a part of Dean's little brother.

Because Sam would never be same.

The kid already viewed himself as damaged, as unworthy, as a "freak".

And now...

Dean had swallowed against the bile that had risen in his throat. "But Sam..." He had swallowed again. "Sam is okay?"

The surgeon had nodded. "Relatively speaking, yes. We tried to repair his ruptured spleen but there was too much damage and the risk of internal bleeding was too significant, so we removed it. But we were able to control the other bleeding and repair the additional internal damage. We're in the process of replenishing the blood he lost and will continue to monitor his vitals."

Dean had nodded, bracing himself on the back of the chair as he had continued to stand and absorb the information.

"Miraculously, Sam's right leg is fine. No fractures of any kind, only a few deep cuts that required suturing and of course some pretty impressive bruising. Several of Sam's ribs were broken, along with his right arm, and he sustained a concussion that has caused minor swelling in his brain. Since additional swelling is a concern...especially over the next 24 to 48 hours...your brother will receive intracranial pressure monitoring as well as medication that is considered a hyperosmotic agent to help reduce the swelling. He also received several stitches, here and here..."

The surgeon had pointed to his own forehead, then his temple.

"...and will take two different intravenous antibiotics to battle potential infection as well as medication to regulate his blood pressure, manage pain, and keep him sedated. For now, he's breathing well on the vent and appears to be resting comfortably."

Dean had nodded again. "Where is he? I wanna see him."

"Of course," the surgeon had agreed. "Your brother is currently in recovery and then will be moved to ICU for monitoring over the next few days. If his condition remains stable, we'll begin to wake him from the coma and – "

" – coma?" Dean had echoed, his heart sinking.

The surgeon had nodded. "Medically induced," he had clarified. "Protocol for patients such as your brother who have sustained significant trauma."

Dean had only stared at the man, because nothing was "protocol" about his little brother being in a fucking coma.

There had been a beat of silence before the surgeon had sighed, resisting the urge to say he understood how his patient's brother felt and instead continuing with his explanation of Sam's treatment.

"As I was saying...if indicated, we'll begin waking your brother in the next few days and then will wean him from the vent. And then after that, we'll take it one milestone at a time." He had paused. "Needless to say, there's a long journey ahead."

Dean had nodded once more as he had felt overwhelmed by the severity of Sam's condition...by the news just delivered and information just outlined...by all that had happened in such a short time.

Because at lunch, everything had been fine.

And now...everything had changed forever.

"Baby steps," the surgeon had advised about how to approach the path life had now set before them and had returned Sam's x-rays to his chart. "I'll have the nurse escort you down to recovery."

But the trip down to recovery had been delayed as Dean had excused himself and retreated to the hospital's bathroom. Had locked the door behind him and had turned on the faucet before he had thrown up in the sink.

Then Dean had just stood there, staring at himself in the mirror. His t-shirt stained with Sam's blood, his equally stained hands shaking as he had gripped the counter.

Silent tears brimming as he had finally allowed himself the breakdown he deserved.

Because Sam's leg was gone.

There was nothing else to say.

There was nothing else to feel except this indescribable ache for what was never coming back; this overwhelming sense of loss; this unspeakable sadness for his little brother.

Because Sam's leg was gone.

Dean had ducked his head, gasping a ragged breath as he had cried for his little brother's loss.

Minutes had ticked by as quiet tears had streaked his cheeks. Dean allowing himself to grieve until their warm salty paths had turned cold and stiff on his skin.

Then that had been it.

Dean had splashed water on his face, had dried it with scratchy paper towels, and had told himself to get a fucking grip.

Because as tragic as this was, as much as it fucking sucked...this was their life now. They would have to pick up the pieces and move on.

And that's what Sam needed from Dean.

Sam needed his brother to be strong...to be the comforting constant...to know when to push and when to pull back.

Sam needed Dean to listen to him rant...and be there when he cried...and say nothing at all when Sam didn't feel like talking.

Sam needed his big brother to be patient...to hug him when all else failed...and to love him through this massive cluster-fuck that neither of them had seen coming.

And Dean could do that.

He could do all of it.

Damn right he could.

Because Sam's leg was gone...but Sam was still there.

And that was all that mattered.

That was all that ever mattered.

Dean could handle anything as long as his little brother was still with him.

He could handle anything.

...even this.

Dean had nodded at his reflection in the mirror as he had continued to stand in front of the sink. His chest tight with emotion. His eyes burning with unshed tears. The water from the faucet still swirling down the drain in a strangely soothing rush of white noise.

Later, he wouldn't remember how long he had stood there in that bathroom – maybe an hour...maybe a little more.

But when he had finally emerged, Dean had made sure his quiet breakdown was over and his game-face was back in place.

Because Sam needed his big brother to be strong...and Dean was going to be there for his kid.


TBC