The Rain It Fell, The Story Went On

Chapter 4

IMPORTANT NOTE: As some of my LiveJournal readers noticed, I had a spectacular brainfart and completely and totally forgot that Jim had gotten killed at the end of season 1. …So needless to say, Jim's not going to be able to help the boys out in this situation. GAH….stupid Meg, killing off characters that I want to use in my stories and creating gaping plot holes… Anyway, sorry, guys. If you go back, you'll find I altered it so that it's Bobby instead of Jim. *Feels sheepish* Ahem…on with the final chapter. But there may be an epilogue at some point if I can think of anything to add, because I'd like to give Walsh a last word and give Bobby a chance to make an actual appearance (as if I'd planned on him being there all along…*shifty eyes*)

"Dr. Walsh is right, you know," Jodie was saying as she replaced Dean's IV pouch two days later. "Surgery really is your best option at this point. It's not going to be fun, but we'll be fixing your ribcage directly that way. You'll heal faster and you can leave faster."

Dean kept his mouth shut. But he could talk now if he'd wanted to, thank God, because upon hearing from Sam (and his big mouth) that Dean had had another nightmare episode, Walsh had decided that part of it was probably panic induced from having a tube shoved down his throat—and for that, Dean had to admit that he couldn't hate exactly hate the guy anymore… They'd replaced it with a different set of tubes, and these went through his nose instead of down his throat, and were secured in place by a whole bunch of straps around his head like a demented elastic helmet, so even though he was willing to bet it looked even stupider than the mask probably did and it made his sinuses achey, it meant he could eat (in theory) and speak (also in theory). The intubation had left his voice weak and wheezy and his throat completely raw and irritated, so all that came out was pathetic, squeaky, barely audible whisper when he spoke, and aside from a grape popsicle earlier today and some ice chips, he hadn't managed to brave any actual food yet.

But he kept his mouth shut now because he didn't exactly want to tell Jodie that the prospect of being put under for a surgery had him absolutely petrified, even if there was no real reason it should.

Wasn't like anesthesia usually made a person dream. Every surgery he'd ever had had made him feel like he'd stepped through some weird time warp—awake, fast-forward, awake again.

But if for some reason, he did dream, or worse, if he died right there on the operating table, he knew exactly what was waiting for him. He hadn't slept a wink here without seeing her at least once, her and Dad, as if it were some sick loop he could never be free from.

At this point, he knew he had no choice, really. Bobby wasn't here yet because when they'd called he'd been finishing up helping a friend out on a hunt in Idaho, but when he got here, leaving with him any time soon (or sneaking out, depending on how long it took them to come to a conclusion about Sam) wasn't going to be an option, not unless Dean could survive without machines breathing for him. They got this done, all he'd really need was a couch to crash on and lots of meds.

As to Sam...he wasn't looking or feeling all that much better, which didn't surprise Dean considering last time it'd happened, but it did nothing for Dean's peace of mind. Sam kept insisting he'd be fine and bitched at Dean for the sleep he was losing over it, but insomnia was part of the being-Sam's-older-brother job description. Not like he wanted to sleep, anyway, when he knew what was lying in wait for him in his subconscious. But either way, it wasn't like sleep came easy when Sam was lying five feet away, burning up and delirious and in serious danger of throwing up all over himself, or staring up at the ceiling, gray-faced, biting down on his lip, and counting the ceiling tiles, a tactic Dean knew Sam employed when he was trying to distract himself from major pain. But it wasn't like Dean could actually do anything to help him, because that would require getting out of his own stupid bed. And the one time he'd tried to get up anyway, when Sam had hit his arm against the bedrail and ended up doubled over in pain for it, Dean had only managed to sort-of sit up and get one leg swung over the edge of the bed before he'd fallen back down, only to get chewed out by Sam for it about ten minutes straight immediately afterwards. Dean had rolled his eyes at that- if there was one thing that could make Sam forget he was in pain that fast, it was Dean doing something supremely stupid...

But as to an actual diagnosis, the doctors still had squat to tell them, and Dean was becoming increasingly sure that, as soon as he was able, he was going to have to drag Sam's ass to that specialist in Baltimore they kept mentioning. But what went unspoken between the both of them was the growing feeling that nobody in Baltimore was going to have anything to tell them either. As much as Dean hated to admit it, freaky shit happening with blood chemicals didn't seem all that incongruent next to the random psychic and telekinetic powers...hell, maybe one was somehow causing the other. But as long as Sam got better soon, Dean was content not to bring it up, especially because whether Sam said anything or not, he knew his brother was scared to death of that possibility.

So in the meantime, Dean did all he could really do-watch Sam like a hawk, nag him via the wipeboard and later with his reed-thin, newly-deventilated voice to drink all the fluids and eat all the protein the nurses brought him to help replace the blood he'd lost, and use his own call button on Sam's behald enough to annoy the crap out of both Sam and the hospital staff.

Jodie was talking to him again. "Really, sweetie," she went on, "You just say the word and we can get you prepped for surgery." Ugh. Sweetie. Yeah, Jodie had totally stopped being scared of him by now, which was good, he supposed, but sweetie was a little condescending, really, even if she meant it as a nice gesture.

And never mind that she was calling Sam the same thing.

Dean's gaze drifted down. Now that there wasn't a mask sticking out in front of his face to obstruct his view, he could see actually see what his chest looked like-around the wires and the gauze taped to the incision site for the drainage tubes, each of his broken ribs was outlined starkly by parallel stripes of purplish red bruising. Mottled black and blue that in some places was beginning to fade into yellow and green had spread to cover the rest of his right side, particularly vivid over his sternum. Huh, I feel like friggin' Rainbow Brite. And as the ventilator pushed oxygen through him, he could see the wrongness of the movement there. However the rest of his chest moved, the flail segment threatened to move in exactly the opposite direction...it quivered with every breath and took just slightly longer to rise and a little longer to fall than the rest his chest around it. It was a barely noticeable difference, but he could feel it...he bit back nausea.

"Dean," Sam said quietly from his bed. He was watching Dean, expectant. The message was clear. You'd better tell her yes…

Dean sighed. It was a feeble, raspy sound. "Fine," he croaked. He didn't look at her. Of course, with tubes up his nose, it came out sounding more like "fide."

Jodie smiled warmly. "Good. I'll go tell Dr. Walsh." Before she left, though, she pressed a styrofoam cup with a straw into his hand and helped him hold it while he took a few sips. He felt his face going red. Pitiful.

"She's right about this," Sam added once Jodie was gone. He was picking absently at a bland hospital dinner tray—a cut-up chicken patty and some gluey-looking macaroni and cheese—his face drawn with pain. He'd been having a rough day, fiddling with the bandages near constantly, and his fever still hadn't gone down. His hair was sticking to his forehead. Eventually he pushed the tray away and turned on his side towards Dean. "This is the best thing you can do."

"I know," Dean muttered. Or, rather, I doh. Stupid friggin' nose tubes were almost worse.

"And you're gonna be fine."

"I know"(I doh), he growled.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Just trying to help, dude."

"I kn—" Dean started, clearing his throat when no sound would come out of his parched throat. "I know. Look, 'm sorry. I know you are. I just…surgery just kinda sucks, is all," he rasped. "Okay?"

"You sure that's all?"

"Yeah." No, but you better drop it.

Sam got the message. "Okay," Sam said carefully. "But you are gonna be fine." He sounded like he was saying it as much for Dean's benefit as for his own.

Dean mustered what must've been only the faintest ghost of a cocky smile. "Course I will."

Sam tried to smile back, rubbing at his arm once more.

"You should get some sleep," Dean told him.

"Don't wanna be asleep before they prep you and take you in for surgery," Sam said, shaking his head. "I can wait that long."

Dean grinned. "Thanks."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, no problem."

"Well at least pretend to be asleep," Dean drawled after a moment. "so that when Libby comes to get your tray I'll have her all to myself. I don't stand a chance with you around. All she does is stare at you with those big sad eyes of hers."

Sam snorted. "Dean, you don't stand much of a chance with you around." He tapped his nose.

Dean scowled. "Low blow, dude."

Sam shrugged. "Sorry, Dean, but you kinda look like an elephant. Biggest cockblock ever, no offense."

"Oh, I see how it is. Make fun of the invalid, why don't you. Real nice, Sammy."

"Well it's true."

"Bitch."

"And her name's Livvy."

***

Sam made good on his word to stay awake until Dean left for surgery, even though it was clearly an ordeal just to keep his eyes open at that point. But when his bed was being wheeled out of the room, Sam was wide awake, all smiles and you'll-be-fine and confidence.
But Sam had always been a bad liar, at least when it came to lying to his big brother. Dean knew Sam was almost as nervous as he himself felt.

By the time he'd been moved to a way-too-bright, chrome-surfaced room to meet with an annoyingly cheerful anesthesiologist, his mind had begun to calculate all the ways he could possibly punch said anesthesiologist's lights out along with a few nurses, get up out of this bed, and make a break for the door.

…There weren't that many.

So he had no choice but let them do whatever it was they were going to do—he only had a vague idea, but it didn't exactly sound pretty. He was pretty sure it had to do with metal clamps or plates or something like that. Sure hope you're right about this, Sammy, was his last thought before he was under, blinking hazily at the harsh light of the lamp above his head.

And then…

Blissfully, nothing.

She wasn't coming for him.

As clichéd as it sounded, all he could remember after what felt like a nap of only a few minutes was a vague sensation of floating. As his consciousness began to resurface, as things slowly came back to him—a soft, constant hum of voices, more bright lights behind his shuttered eyes, a deep-set ache in his chest, the lingering smells of disinfectant and anesthesia fumes, and an overall feeling of heaviness and dullness, as if his head and his limbs were full of rocks and moving an inch would cost him a far greater effort than he was willing to give—he realized that she was still there. But then, only on the barest fringes of his awareness, easily ignored.

Inexplicably, he found he was safe.

That didn't stop him from panicking, just a little, when he fully awoke to find himself alone in the stark and sterile recovery room, with only the beep-beep-beeps of a machine—one whose sound he didn't quite recognize, it must be new— to keep him company. He saw a few people, all in scrubs, walk past the open door, but they looked more like multicolored blurs to his tunneled, bleary range of vision. And then came the pain again, its steady boom-boom-boom making him sort of nauseous. His eyes watered, and he reached up to swipe the back of his hand across them. And that's when he realized—

No facemask.

No tubes, either, except what felt like just the thin, standard type that ran across his face just under his nose.

And that was good, but—

He was alone.

And he couldn't be alone, not here…

He tried to say something, call for someone, but all that came out was a garbled, incoherent moan.

Hell, he couldn't even remember what he was doing here. He needed to find somebody, stat.

Or she'd come back.

And Dad would be dead on the floor.

"Hey," he managed this time, clearing his dry, scratchy throat. "Hey, 's anybody th—"

A noise like squeaky wheels and a slight grunt came from somewhere to his right, and a dark shape hovering somewhere in his right peripheral vision shifted and moved closer to him. Turning his head to the right an inch or so, he saw it was Sam. In a wheelchair, right arm in a sling, an IV hanging from a pole next to him, he looked completely drained, but eager nonetheless. He'd used one arm to shift himself closer to Dean's bed. He smiled. "Hey, Dean."

Dean blinked, confused. "Hey, S'mmy…'s goin' on?"

"Surgery was a success, dude. I talked to the doctor, and you should be fine. Told you."

Oh.

Right.

Surgery.

"Oh yeah…" he said lamely, stifling a yawn that was bound to hurt. "Uh…good. 'S good. So h-how're you doin'? Should be in bed, r-righ'?" All his words were slurring and running together, both in his head and on his tongue.

"I'm okay." Sam shook his head, looking amused. "Maybe you should go back to sleep, Dean."

"Nuh-uh," Dean protested weakly, trying to prop himself up one elbow only to be pushed back down by Sam. "'M not t-tired."

"Sure you aren't."

Smartass. "Lemme up." Because he wasn't tired, just a little fuzzy around the edges. And who needed sleep when he could finally breathe again?

"Just slow down, okay? Whatever it is can wait. Go back to sleep, and Bobby'll come in to see you when you wake up. No rush."
"No," he insisted, because he'd finally thought of a good reason to stay awake. A damn good reason.
Or so it seemed at the time.

Sam chuckled. "Why not?"

"Pudding," he said simply.

"What?"

"Tell Livvy…she d-damn well feel bad enough f-for me to give me some friggin' banana pudding, 'kay?"
"You're kidding," he laughed.

"No," Dean insisted. "Don' look like an elephant anymore, an' now she's got no excuse….Don' care if it tastes like shit…"
"Okay, okay," Sam said, but he pulled a blanket up with one hand over Dean's now heavily bandaged chest.

"'M serious, S'mmy…" And he was. No way was Sam going to beat him to the punch with the only hot nurse in the entire freaking hospital because of his stupid sad puppy eyes.

"I bet you are."

"An' you tell her…'m not goin' to sleep 'till she does. Tell her."

"I will."

His eyes drifted shut. "I mean it," he mumbled. "You tell her."

A hand patted his knee. "Sure, Dean."

*End*