Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. Everything and all of us belong to the CW and Kripke Entertainment and Scrap Metal Company. This is just a playdate, the boys are on the swing set now.
A/N: June 2nd - Still a birthday fic for Merisha. And who knew she had a crush on Adrian Paul when she was just a pup.
Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. He was outside Radiology waiting for the staff to wheel Sam out. He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he heard footsteps approaching. He shook himself and grimaced. He rubbed his eyes, and before he could stop her, the approaching nurse touched his back, making him jerk.
"Mr. Newsted? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, just tired. How's my brother?"
"We're going to admit him. We'll bring him out soon. You can walk with him to his room in a few minutes." She smiled, and walked back.
He stood and tried to stretch, but his back felt like shit. Probably from carrying his personal sized Godzilla all over hell and gone - to the car, to the room, to the car, to the hospital … he shivered suddenly, glad he'd grabbed his denim jacket before coming. He still smelled like smoke, but he'd scrubbed his face and hands in the men's room. He'd really clean up once Sam was settled and awake. Just as Sam's gurney was rolled into the hallway, a doctor approached him.
"Mr. Newsted, right? I'm Dr. Waters. I'd like to talk to you about your brother's condition." He waved Dean back toward his chair and sat down next to him. Dean didn't take his eyes off the gurney until it disappeared around a corner. "I have to admit I'm concerned about", checking his file, "your brother, Samuel. He became so agitated during our examination that he had to be sedated. He's obviously distressed about something he says he lost. He kept saying your name."
"His watch, it came off when the cougar attacked him. It was a present from me. He's been on a crying jag for a couple of hours – that's why I brought him in. The last time he got this weepy with a concussion he had a borderline fracture. Did you see anything", he waved toward the door to Radiology, "when you took a look?"
"I didn't see anything with the initial films of his skull, but we'll know more when the MRI has been reviewed and your brother assessed by the neurosurgeon on call." He looked straight at Dean. "Has your brother had a lot of concussions before?"
"No, not a lot. We were always active as kids, and Sam was always such a daredevil, falling out of trees and off bikes." He looked down the hallway again. "Can we talk while I walk to Sam's room?"
"Just a few more questions. Sam broke a lot of bones too, didn't he? Over the years."
Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know where this was going. "Yeah, skiing, soccer, rock climbing, that kind of thing. He broke his right wrist last year." He pulled himself out of the chair, crossed his arms, and waited.
"Did you stitch up his arm?"
Dean just looked at him.
The doctor hesitated for just a moment. "It's a great job. I couldn't help but notice that he has quite a few old scars. Did, um, Sam have any kind of analgesic before you put in the stitches?"
"Painkiller? Tylenol, but nothing else because of the concussion. And yeah, I put in the stitches."
"And putting the shoulder back? That's almost unbearably painful. Did Sam have any painkiller for that?"
"What are you asking me, doctor? We're adults and yeah, we're both pretty rough and tumble kind of guys. Dad was a Marine and took care of most of our childhood scrapes. We learned from him." He started down the hallway, exasperated, his back on fire. "I'm going to my brother's room. If you want to keep talking, you can follow me there."
The doctor didn't follow him. He found Sam's room easily enough, and Sam, mouth open and sound asleep. He still looked five years old. God, with all this crying, he might as well be five again. More importantly, he also found an upholstered chair. He took off his jacket, put his feet up on the foot of Sam's bed, turned on the TV, and settled in to wait for his brother to wake up.
Sam started to move a little just before dawn, his first shift on the bed startling Dean awake. He checked his watch and was relieved to see that he'd only been asleep for an hour. He didn't trust hospitals, or the people in them, but Sam was right there in the bed and looked OK. Dean stood slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and yawned. Putting down the railing on one side, he hitched up one hip and leg and perched on Sam's bed.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty." Sam's eyes were moving under his lids. Dean put a hand gently on Sam's arm. "Come on Sam, wake up for me."
Sam murmured something, and then opened his eyes half way. "Dean?"
"Of course. Don't move your head. How're you feeling?" He held a cup of water in front of Sam, and offered him the straw. "You're probably thirsty."
Sam groped for the straw with his right hand, Dean catching it before he could tug too hard on the IVs. "Whoa there, you're tethered. Let me help," and got the straw in his mouth. "Drink up, Teary McCryerson. You must be running dry."
Sam drank a bit before turning wounded eyes on Dean. He whispered, "Teary?" His face screwed up and Dean watched in horror as Sam began crying.
"What the hell, Sam? Its OK, it's all right, I didn't mean anything, just a joke. Don't cry."
"You called me a name. Are you mad 'cause I lost my watch?"
"Mad at you – why would you think that? You still all scrambled up there? Come on, quit crying, I'm begging you. You're not five years old."
Sam gulped and used the tissue Dean handed him to dry his eyes. "OK, just don't be mean again."
"I won't be mean, I promise. The doctor should be in here in about 45 minutes. Not the prick from last night, either."
Sam looked more awake and was frowning a little. "What happened?"
"A demonic Japanese cougar attached you, that's what." He tried to get Sam to smile. "Your shoulder was set properly, you're very welcome, the zombie cuts aren't infected, and your wrist's in a cast. The x-rays of your head were good, you passed the neurosurgeon's inspection, and we're waiting for the MRI results." He looked again at his brother. "Sam, I need to tell you something that you have to remember. You are Sam Newsted, and a cougar attacked you. You don't remember where. You got that?"
"Sam Newsted, cougar, unknown. Check."
"The doc last night kept asking me questions about you – he saw some old breaks on the x-rays. He asked if I had stitched you, and if you had any pain medicine before I did that and your shoulder. Got that too?"
"Why would he ask about that?"
Dean could almost see Sam trying to get his brain working. "I'm not sure, but I think he thinks I hurt you," and then could have kicked himself. Sam's breathing hitched and he was crying again.
"You didn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt me." He grabbed Dean's arm with surprising strength. "I'll set them straight."
"Not necessary, just try to think about it when you talk to them."
"'K, check." He frowned. "My watch? Did you find it?"
"Dude, I've been here all night. I'll find it as soon as you're better." He watched tears drip dow his brother's face. It was going to rip his heart right out of his body. He kept a steady stream of fresh tissues into Sam's hand and old ones into the wastebasket. "Sam, come on, try to not cry anymore – you're killing me here."
"No, now, find it now. Don' wanna wait."
"You want me to leave you alone in a hospital?" He blinked. "Alone in the hospital, Sammy? You absolutely positive about this?"
Sam started to push up on his right arm, his breathing sped up, and he was taking way too many sobbing breaths. His words came out two or three at a time, "My watch … I need it back … has words … someone could take it …" Machines were starting to make little alarm noises.
"Sam, calm down. I'll find the watch as soon as you're better, I swear, I'll find it, just calm down." He was holding Sam's hand, chick flick be damned. "Please don't cry, Sam. I'll find the watch before some Cub Scout steals it. I'll leave as soon as the doctor talks to us, OK? Come on, man, the machines are going a little nuts here."
Sam wouldn't have any of it. Just as a nurse rushed into the room, Sam said, "Please, Dean, please get it. I don' mind being here alone. I want you to go."
The nurse checked Sam's vitals and carefully removed Sam's hand from his and set it on the bed. Sam cried harder and reached for Dean. The nurse turned to look at Dean. "Sir, you are upsetting the patient. I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room." She scanned the chart before pulling a syringe from her pocket and injecting it into the IV line.
"What did you give him?"
"A mild sedative the doctor prescribed last night in case he became agitated. He was afraid this would happen when Sam saw you again. Your brother will be fine but he has to rest. You aren't helping him by upsetting him this way. We may have to restrict your visiting times." Sam's eyes were already starting to droop.
"I wasn't upsetting him, it's the concussion. Hold on, hold on." Dean grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. He put Sam's cell on the rolling table and, after hesitating a few seconds, pulled off his watch and set it on the table as well. "OK, Sam, I'm going and I'll come back as soon as I can. I'll find it, promise." He held up the phone. "You need me sooner, just hit talk, I've got it set."
He took the nurses' arm and led her toward the door. "He hates being alone in the hospital. If he doesn't remember why I'm not here, he'll panic when he wakes up." He pointed at the phone. "Tell him I went to get his watch, OK? You call me if it's bad."
She nodded, but all she said was "You need to leave the room and let him sleep."
"Tell the doc I'll need the full report when I get back. He can call me, too." He took one last look at his brother, and headed to the elevator and the parking lot. The first thing he needed to do was rig up an IV of black coffee. He was beat.
Dean was more than tired of all the new supernatural trash people were bringing with them from all over. They brought their fuglies with them, right into the US, jammed in their back pockets or riding their backs, coming with them like freaking evil luggage. He knew for a fact that America had enough homemade crap without always importing more. And this oriental shit was just wrong on so many levels. The floating head thing was … he groped for a word. Revolting. At least a zombie was a zombie was a zombie. He was laughing at his own joke as he stepped back out on the old road, as close as he could get to where they'd been the night before.
The day was pretty warm already. He'd had to peel off his jacket, and his shirt was sticking to his back. Guess the thing had cut him a bit. He hadn't had time to look at it before taking Sam in, but maybe he could grab a shower on the way back to the hospital. And he was still tired.
This concussion was wearing them both out. What with the deal coming due in a few months maybe it wasn't too surprising that his brother became Little Miss Sobby Samantha again. He'd been wound up pretty tight, as tight as Dean'd been most of the year. He sure missed last year's Sam who was pretty funny with a concussion, researching imaginary monsters, or convinced Dean had painted polka dots on the car. A concussion to Sam was what LSD was to, well, other people. Between the mushroom people in his salad and watching a few minutes of an imaginary soccer match on TV – even giving Dean an impromptu and detailed description of the play by play – well, let it be said, sometimes when he was bored he considered hitting Sam's head himself. He rubbed his eyes.
He scanned the road carefully. The watch should be big enough and black enough to see if it was on top of what was left of the pavement. He knew how big it was, after all, he'd bought the thing after Sam drooled over it for months. He didn't mind, Swiss Army stuff was cool shit, and the little compass … well Sam could get lost going to the bathroom in a bar, sober. He'd never tell Sam, but the first time the boy used the compass to drag his ass back to the Impala more than made up for the M&Ms and charity car washes he'd given up to afford it.
He walked down the road slowly, scanning back and forth until he got to where he'd collected Sam, and then went another couple of yards. The boy had gone flying, and the watch could have followed him into the woods, or flown off in another direction entirely, or been dropped further back. It was crazy to think he was going to find it. His stomach lurched when he thought how close Sam had been to … well enough of that.
Sam wasn't dying again on his watch, not while he was alive and the deal hadn't come due. And Sam bitched about that, god how he bitched and moaned, but why Mr. Mensa couldn't figure out that no amount of complaining would bother him, since the whole point was that Sam was able to complain ... He knew Sam was upset, and would be that way for a while, and Dean was sorry for that, but Sam'd be alive to deal with this just like Dean dealt with Dad's deal. And he'd deal better with it. God, he hoped Sam would deal better than he had.
He started back toward the cemetery, looking on the shoulder of the road to a few feet into the woods. When he got back to where he found Sam, he stepped into the woods and found the tree that Sam's head had run into. He picked up a good sturdy, and mostly straight, branch, and as he circled around the area, moving further into the woods with each loop, he used it to move branches and undergrowth aside. He went to check the time and once again found only his bare wrist. After what he thought was thirty minutes, he returned to the shoulder and slowly paced along. He reached the gate, watchless, and wiped sweat off with his forearm. The sun was up and baking him like a spud.
He thought about sitting down for a minute, but instead remembered that Sam had been right here at the gate when that fugly tried to rip his arm off, so he spent a few minutes looking just inside of and to both sides of the gate. Nada. He was wiping sweat out of his eyes for the millionth time when he heard something behind him.
He ended flat on his sore back in the road, with a jiu-jitsu, Chung King, crap, another jiang shi on his chest. How he kept finding things in pairs – just more fan-fucking-tastic Winchester luck.
He swung the stick and rolled, forcing the thing to hop grotesquely away, white hair flying. And what the hell was it doing out during the day? As the thing hopped around him, lightening fast, and he swung his stick, he reminded himself for the millionth time what a moron he was for not actually listening as closely as he probably should when Sam told him about his research. Maybe he missed where they came out in sunlight. He usually remembered the really important stuff.
He was so tired his head was swimming and it was hard to keep the thing from getting behind him. After connecting a couple of times with his branch turned quarterstaff, he had broken one of its legs and removed an ear, and it was making the same sick slobbery noise the other one did. He bent, groaning as his back pulled, and grabbed his boot knife. He was going to hate this part.
It ended as most of these things did, except for the amount of zombie spew that gushed on him. Most of its teeth had fallen out when Dean got an elbow kind of wedged in its mouth, so it didn't bite him much, but its claws were wicked sharp. But then, so was his knife.
He'd found a part of his back that didn't hurt, and was leaning against a headstone concentrating on breathing and using the knife to remove the ooze out from under his fingernails before he was sick. Again. He hated having to dissect that frog in high school, too. He idly picked some of the fur off his jeans. Hope he wasn't allergic to this thing. He finally staggered to his feet. Another successful Chef Boyardee … Yankee … oriental thing down.
What was that Star Trek rose thing – oh yeah. A zombie by any other name would … smell as foul, hop as much, be as gross. He caught himself when he started to giggle, clapping a hand over his mouth. Maybe he shouldn't have had more sake but the trip to get the all the zombie stuff and back to the cemetery took a really long time.
Of course he didn't know how long, since he didn't have his watch, and he still couldn't remember that until he looked at his naked wrist for the zillionth time. And he's had to whittle a point on the second bamboo pole he squirreled in the trunk. Sam might call that OCD but he called it good planning. Shit like this always happened to him but mostly when Sam wasn't around.
He got back to the road before he needed to sit down again. He found the sweet spot on his back and let it rest against the fence. He let his head fall back and squinted at the sun and figured it was Noon or a little after. Oh, yeah, he could check the time on his phone. Crap, Sam was going to freak. He tried Sam's cell for the third time that morning, and it went straight to voice mail again. He called the hospital. The day time doc wasn't available, and they wouldn't put him through to Sam's room, only connect him to the floor nurse. She said Sam was asleep and shouldn't be bothered.
"Oh, OK, that's good. Has he been upset?" He scrubbed his face. "Is he asking for me?"
"Your brother is fine. You've missed morning visiting hours, but you can come back between five and seven this evening."
She hung up before he could say anything. Visiting hours? Fuck that. But if Sam was quiet, he'd either had some good drugs going on, or someone was sitting on him to keep him from calling. At least he had the watch, so he'd maybe remember where Dean was.
A zombie by any other name would gush sick looking orange and green ichor all over him just the same. That was a good one. He laughed until he realized he was going to be sick. Again. Groaning, he rolled to one side, but anything that was in there came out a couple of times ago in the graveyard. He heaved and heaved nothing at all, and felt blood trickling down his back.
He rolled back upright, over corrected and sprawled the other way. Sam's watch – right there. He sighed in relief and picked it up.
He used the shovel to help get him back on his feet. He checked the watch over, pulling a blade of grass out from where it had stuck in the wristband. It looked fine – the band was a little scratched but the crystal was intact and not only did it turn out to be 12:53 PM on the 17th day of the month, he was facing northwest.
He flipped it over and ran his thumb over the inscription as he had countless times that Christmas Eve waiting for Sam to wake up. The jeweler had given him the eye when he asked to have 'bitch' inscribed on the watch. He glanced down and brought it up to his eyes for a closer look. Under the word bitch, there was something else. He squinted and angled the watch to catch the sun. Sam had had another word inscribed just underneath - jerk. Ah hell, no wonder he wanted this one back. He felt tears start and rubbed his eyes. And here he was calling Sam a girl.
He put the watch in the cleanest pocket he had and headed for the car. He had to get this back to the hospital before Sam cried so much he shriveled up and blew away. He found another tee shirt in the trunk, jammed under the tool kit and a cross bow. He thought it used to be blue. He hesitated for a minute but quickly decided it couldn't possibly be as dirty as the one he was wearing, even if he'd used it as an oil rag.
He stood next to the car while he extricated himself from what was left of the black shirt, hissing as he drew it over his back, then used the black scraps of it to brush off his jeans and boots. He thought about throwing what was left it into the woods, but finally just chucked it into the trunk. He poured a couple of bottles of water over his head, neck, hands, and arms, scrubbing his face and hair, before drying off with the towels he'd snagged from the motel.
He put on the previously blue shirt and his jacket, when he realized the water was making him shiver despite the heat. When he got in the car, he cranked the rear view mirror around to see if he could possibly look sane enough to get into the hospital, and get close enough to sneak in and see Sam. He was pretty sure he looked sane enough, or at least not insane enough, to pass. Pretty sure he'd get in. Really pretty sure.
