It feels like the stabbing of a knife.
Razor sharp tip lashing against his skin; just in and out, again and again until the pain sears so white hot it burns numbingly cold.
The pain, or lack there of – for when the pain becomes so consuming, all else seems to stop– the slow, ringing of his ears starts.
The words Sam and Help muffle through to his eardrums along with the steady pounding of his pulse thudding deep within his chest.
There's something in the tone of voice of the man shouting that makes him want to stay awake. The panic, the pleading . . .
He squints open an eye and feels rather than sees the wind sweep and dip down his exposed back to where the right sleeve of his sweatshirt is completely torn off.
It's harder to ignore the pain of his arm now that he's coming more into consciousness. The sensation of the stabbing knife has died down however, along with the high-pitched ringing of his ears that slows down to more of a dull hum.
With a jolt he realizes that there was never a knife, only the burning sting of the below-freezing wind that howls past with a piercing cry.
Everything seems to be spinning. Nothing makes sense and it's so hard to keep his eyes open.
At one point he was in a car, right? Or, no. Maybe, maybe he was dreaming that he was in a car? A black car?
He moves to sit up, to clear the confusion, but it only makes everything worse and the piercing pain becomes more intense, jutting up his forehead and wrapping around his neck. He falls back down against the asphalt with a cracking thud and he loses the battle of keeping his eyes from shutting.
And then, as the world starts to go black, the man is there, he's reaching for him - the man with the nice voice.
* *
Dean's twisted leg is set at an awkward angle as he paws at Sam's chest, trying to get a more comforting response out of him – something other than a moan and a pair of eyes rolling back into his head.
Not sure whether he should move his brother, or even touch him for that matter, Dean lets Sam lay there helpless. All he can do is hold back the tears, keep a hand over his kid brother's still frame, and ease Sam's head to rest down on his discarded leather jacket. But it's so damn hard to keep the rising panic at bay. He wants to scream out. He wants to holler at the top of his voice – bellow out that it's not fair, I just got him back; don't you dare take him away from me now.
It's not long before Dean realizes that he is screaming – screaming at Sam to stop messing around and to just open his damn eyes already. But it's no use. Sam can't hear him. No one can.
Sam's not pinned by the car, thank God, but he's for damn sure not all right. They both aren't. But right now, Dean's only concern is to make sure his brother stays breathing.
It takes a while for Dean to remember that he's not the only one with a cell phone. Since his is in a crumbled, broken little pile a few yards away, he gently reaches a hand into Sam's shredded pocket and thanks his lucky stars that the Blackberry is still in one piece.
He dials everything but '911' for the first few tries, his fingers tremble too hard for the numbers to punch in just right. He knows he'll look back on it all and everything will be a blur –hell, maybe it'll be even funny, though probably not; no, definitely not.
The ambulance arrives – all obnoxious, dooming sirens and flashing lights - and Sam is still unresponsive. He doesn't seem to be bleeding out, nothing appears to be outwardly displaced . . . But Dean still refuses to sit down in the offered stretcher; he refuses to get anywhere near a place where Sam is not - "No. Not until you get my brother inside. I'm riding with him."
The sirens seem to get louder as Dean awkwardly helps push the stretcher into place.
He sits beside Sam who's all ashen-faced and bleeding from the mouth. It crumbles something deep within him to look upon this boy, this kid, his boy in a less than perfect state. There's a childish impulse for him to close his eyes and look away, to pretend it's all a nightmare. But he can't do that, not when Sam's counting on him.
Dean forces himself to keep his gaze steady and he slips his fingers around Sam's cold hand. He softly squeezes, strokes a calloused thumb over the back of his brother's palm – the motion is so natural, so well-practiced that if he shuts his eyes right now he could almost pretend that they're six and two-years-old again and that it's just another night of scary dreams and dad not home and Sam's cuddling up next to him – shaky and sniffling – seeking comfort from a midnight terror.
But they're not six and two. They're not safe. They're not okay and this time Dean can't make it better with a bowl of ice cream and a silly joke.
"It's . . ." Dean coughs into his hand and tries to dislodge the tightness in his throat so he can whisper loud enough for Sam to hear. "It's okay, Sammy." He sucks in a breath. "It's all gonna be okay."
He glances over to the paramedic who's now slipping an oxygen mask around Sam's face. The guy looks back – sympathetic yet thoroughly detached – and Dean just bows his head.
* *
It's been hours, maybe. Three or four, give and take. Yet to an innocent bystander it's like the same scene has been playing on repeat in an endless loop.
To Dean it feels like days.
There's no new news on Sam. Of course not. He's asked enough times and gotten the same practiced response to know there's no use in asking; he might as well just do as they say and wait for one of the doctors to come out.
He's pacing the halls of the emergency room – the new cast of his leg already making it difficult to get around - the industrial-like lights are beaming unnecessarily vibrant as if to brighten every inch of the damn place.
They haven't given him much to go off of – of Sam's condition. He knows that as soon as the doors to the ER opened, Sam was rushed into surgery and then into the ICU while he was taken down to the opposite end of the hospital to fix the break and patch up the scrapes. After that it's been don't ask don't tell.
Threatening the nurses definitely wasn't one of Dean's best ideas and trying to sneak his way past the authorized personnel only area didn't work (though he did try). Which is why when any man walking into the waiting room area wearing a white trench coat came near, Dean practically stalked the poor dudes until they told him anything they knew – which, of course, was a whole lot of nada.
At about three in the afternoon Dean gives up – nine hours in counting and he can't even stand up anymore. There's a lonely chair in the corner near the vending machines and he grabs it before someone else claims it; he curls up with his head resting against the cool metal. Less than a minute and he's drifting off into an uneasy rest full of fire and metal and smoke.
* *
He inhales a sharp breath and his hand indistinctively reaches towards the nonexistent gun in his back pocket. But underneath the wave of alarm there's a sense of comprehension. Dean suddenly recognizes that he's still in the hospital and that the hand shaking him awake is one of the men in the white trench coats.
"Mr. Winchester? Sorry to wake you, but if it's no trouble, I'd like to speak with you about your brother."
"Yeah. 'Course." He blinks a few times, gets his bearings set before shakily getting to his feet. He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw - he's already prepared for the possible impact of the man's next words. "How is he?"
"We have some good news. Samuel is making progress." The man offers a warm smile but Dean wants none of it. "He's stable and taking well to the transfusions."
"Wait. Transfusions?"
"He lost some blood," the doctor cuts off. "Internal bleeding. After the impact of the crash the contusion in his head started to rupture. The damage wasn't accountable until we began the surgical procedure, but we were able to stop the blood flow enough to get the bleeding under control. After that everything went very smoothly. The surgery couldn't have gone better."
"But how is he? Is he okay? Is he, just, he's okay, right?"
The man takes a breath, bites his top lip, "He's stable."
"Which means…?" His voice is starting to hitch, his angel almost at boiling point. "Come on, doc. You gotta give me more than that."
"He should be out of ICU in about a week. Maybe less." He softly places his hand on Dean's shoulder and steers him out of the way of a passing gurney. "I can't foresee any possible complications and within a matter of months he'll be should be back to being healthy – more or less."
Dean makes sure to stare good and hard at the doctor's face. He knows when he's not being told the whole story. He's interrogated enough people to know when he's being fed lies and bullshit. "But…" he trails off, waiting for the worst.
"But," the doctor begins, clearly troubled. "You see… probably within minutes of the impact, Samuel lapsed into a mild grade coma. The concussion he received when the car flipped caused his body to shut down. Now, the coma was very mild, very short-lived," he says this with his hands raised, as if bracing Dean from making any abrupt movement, "but it… well… it complicated the bruising of his brain even further."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but Samuel may not ever be the same. The person you knew before the crash will never be that same person again."
"I don't. I… I don't get it."
"We can't know the extent of the injuries until he wakes up from surgery, and even then it can take days for the after-effects of the injuries to take hold - whether the issues be cognitive, language, sensory, we can't know. What we do know is with the right medication, the right care and rehabilitation, Samuel can lead a happy and fulfilling life. He just needs time."
The bile in his throat is starting to rise but he swallows it down, lets it burn. He cups a fist over his mouth. "But he's, he's gonna be handicapped in some way? Like, like, what? Like handicapped how?"
"Mr. Winchester, right now the most we can all do is wait. Best thing you can do for your brother now is go home, get some sleep, and when and if there's any change, I'll call you."
"No. No way. I'm not leaving. I need to see him. He needs me. If he wakes up and I'm not here, I … I… I have… I have…" Before he can even comprehend he's pushing his way through the crowd of people, furious at everyone and shaking so hard he can barely stand.
"No. Wait. Mr. Winchester. Mr. Winchester, you have to stop." The doctor has both hands on his shoulder now – supporting his slowly sinking body and guiding him towards a chair. "They're just rolling him out of surgery now. In a few hours time, if all goes as it should, I'll have one of my nurses bring you in. Don't worry, son. He's in good hands."
The man truly looks compassionate and Dean latches on to that blind hope.
He's never been one to pray in public. Hell, he's never been one to pray at all. But that was then and this is now and right now he has no choice.
Dean slouches forward in the hard-backed seat with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his heart thudding out loud and hard. . .