Bloody Politics
Chapter 4
Sorry not to answer your reviews again, been yet another busy day so far.
Thank you all so much for your support, and your wonderful reviews.
Onwards...
That's Weird.
He heard voices and a strange echoing bleeping noise, all sounding like they were coming from under a lake.
Wherever they actually were coming from, it was far too early to be getting up, especially since he could swear he had only just gone to bed.
No, better to stay here and let the world carry on without him for a while longer.
Sam lay still and relaxed, enjoying the unusually firm bed with warm, clean sheets and blankets.
But, eventually, gradually, other issues crept in, spoiling his morning in bed, as he roused reluctantly, groggy and disorientated.
Issues like the smell. Strong, disinfectant wafted up his nose, curling the delicate, sensitive hairs and tickling the back of his throat.
Too much hyper chlorite in the bleach, he wanted to call out.
But that became the least of his worries, because the tickling sensation in the back of his throat turned out to be something far more frightening.
Jesus, what the hell is that?
He gagged and choked on it, fists drumming weakly against the bed in panic, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to realise there was some kind of hard plastic wedged in his mouth.
Someone help me, please!
Sam tried to lift his arms, wanted rip that thing out, but strong, gentle hands trapped his wrists and pinned them to the bed, while another hand gently caressed his hair.
Someone nearby was murmuring softly to him, but Sam was finding it hard to pay attention.
Let me go, let me go!
Whimpering, and groaning in his panic, he finally pulled his eyes open and stared up into the familiar, anxious faces of his father and brother.
"Calm down, kiddo. Just take it easy before you hurt yourself," his brother was telling him. "It's a breathing tube, ok? So don't fight it, Sammy, and it'll breathe for you. It'll come out soon enough."
Sam whimpered again and tried to shake his head, tried to convey that he couldn't do it, he couldn't stop panicking because he couldn't breathe…
"Just relax, little bro," Dean perched on the edge of the bed and carried on stroking Sam's head, leaning in so his forehead was just a hair's breadth from touching Sam's. "You can do it. Try not to breathe, and let the machine take over. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."
It was hard to give up something you'd been doing your entire life, something that you literally couldn't live without, only to entrust the function to an inanimate object.
Except Dean wasn't asking him to trust the machine, not really.
He was asking Sam to trust his big brother.
Sam immediately stopped fighting, and felt the oxygen gently forced into his lungs without having to do a thing.
Dean very briefly glanced across the bed at John, who was still holding Sam's wrists down, and nodded.
"He's back with us," Dean grinned at Sam and ruffled his hair.
But it was the guarded way in which he did it that had Sam wondering.
There was no rough, brotherly, playful affection in his touch; it was gentle, tender… as though he was scared shitless of hurting Sam.
Sam questioned him with his eyes, but Dean shook his head.
"Plenty of time to explain later," he said, smile dimming a little. "But first we gotta get your doc to check you over. Make sure everything's ok."
Sam frowned, but John caught his attention.
"You've been real sick, kid," he murmured, dark eyes watching Sam carefully, checking to make sure he wasn't going to fade out on him. "Had us worried to hell and back, so you take it easy. We'll fill you in later, I promise. Doc's on his way."
Sam stared at him for a moment, then blinked his assent. He was tired, and hadn't been ready to wake up in the first place.
Now he got to have that morning in bed. Praise be to God.
Except, the whole concept of the morning lie-in was permanently ruined, now, because it just wasn't the same, knowing that you were in hospital, probably for some life threatening injury or illness, with a machine doing all your breathing for you - like some lazy teenager who just doesn't like to work at anything - and worried family members that refused to take their eyes off you, even for a second.
And that made things feel downright awkward.
Sam had plenty of questions to ask, but couldn't say a damn word.
His father and brother, on the other hand, had plenty of means, motive and opportunity to speak but were, frustratingly, keeping quieter than a politician in a whorehouse: unwilling to give the game away in case they revealed something they shouldn't.
So, not only could he cut the atmosphere with a knife, Sam was fairly sure he could have used an ice cream scoop, stuck it on top of Mount Rushmore and carved it into another presidential face.
If he could get out of bed or, God willing, move even just a little.
He eyed his family with mounting irritation.
Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck.
John fiddled with Sam's blankets.
But a full five minutes went by before either of them said a word or even blinked.
Sam knew that because he'd kept one eye on the clock above the door.
Which, thankfully, swung open precisely thirty two seconds later to admit a young African-American guy in green scrubs, and a worn looking stethoscope around his neck.
Yep. Sam had him pegged as his doctor the moment the door opened.
No way was this guy a nurse. It was the archetypal reassuring smile that said 'Trust me. Your life, such as it is, is in my hands, and I promise you they only shake when I'm under stress' that gave it away, along with the heavy, dark shadows under even darker eyes which suggested the last time he slept was sometime after the Reagan administration.
Poor guy had probably been studying and working his way through medical school ever since.
At least he got the chance to go.
That's more than I'll ever have.
Sam wanted to sigh but didn't dare risk it, in case he accidentally crushed his breathing tube or something equally stupid. He didn't know how these things worked, but he wasn't about to try and find out.
"So you're awake at last," the guy grinned suddenly, shattering that consolatory, patronising smile and revealing a set of dazzling white teeth most Hollywood A listers would happily bludgeon him to death for. "Good to meet you at last, Sam. I'm Dr Walters, but you can call me Jim."
The cheery doctor crossed over to the bed, and laid a warm hand on Sam's wrist by way of introduction, but Sam could feel the guy's fingers pressing against his pulse.
"Wait a minute," said John, looking puzzled. "I thought the neurosurgeon was coming to talk to us."
Dean's hand in Sam's hair stopped its soothing movements and tensed up.
Sam didn't look at him, but knew what he'd find if he did. Dean's eyebrows would be half-mast, in an almost 'what the hell?' kind of frown, his green eyes glinting with mistrust.
Walters nodded. "Dr Geoffrey's was called away for another emergency, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me," he grinned at John, then winked at Sam. "I actually assisted him with your surgery, and he's filled me in on everything else you need to know. So, relax. It's cool."
The hand in Sam's hair resumed the gentle motion and it was with some surprise that Sam also felt himself relax a little. Unconsciously, he'd tensed right along with Dean for a moment there, but if his big brother was now happy and at ease, under the circumstances, then so was Sam.
"Now, I'm guessing you want that tube out, right?" Walters asked, kind, friendly eyes regarding Sam sympathetically.
Sam blinked hard and tried to nod, nearly choking himself in the process.
"Easy there, Sam," said the Doc, holding Sam's chin still with a firm, gentle hand. "Time to extubate, ok?"
Sam blinked again, and followed the doctor's instructions.
It hurt like hell and felt disgusting, that tube being pulled from his throat like a pissed off, writhing viper being wrenched from its nest. But by God it felt good to be free of the damn thing.
Sam resisted the urge to glare at it, content to see it ditched in a clinical waste container instead.
Walter's slammed the lid down hard, as though he too understood the finality of the moment.
Free at last, Sam turned his head, eyes filling with tears when they landed on his brother.
"Dean…" he croaked, painfully.
While the doctor secured a nasal cannula to Sam's face, Dean smiled encouragingly and poured out a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand.
"Hey, little brother," he said, softly, and offered up the glass. "Want some water?"
Sam nodded, wearily.
Dean cupped a hand under Sam's neck, gently tilted his head, and allowed the kid to sip sparingly at the water. Watching him like a hawk, the older brother took care to wipe Sam's chin when a few drops rebelled and rolled out of his mouth.
Kid was obviously exhausted. And why wouldn't he be? It was only ten o'clock in the morning, and he'd already had a damned long day.
John stared at his sons, watching the brotherly tenderness with an unreadable look on his face.
Sam sensed his father's deep, penetrating gaze, and his eyes flickered up to meet it.
To his amazement, John's face softened into an almost-there smile, and he winked.
You're ok, son. Nothing to be scared of.
Sam wasn't sure what to think of that, but he nodded slightly anyhow.
Walters clapped a hand on John's shoulder.
"I want to check him over but that can wait five minutes," he said, and backed away from the small family. "I'll be right outside if you need me, but don't take too long, now. Sam needs his rest."
"Thank you, Dr Walters," said John, gratefully.
It had already been previously agreed with the doctor that John and Dean would fill Sam in on everything. No doubt the kid would still question the good doctor himself, once his throat was feeling better, and he would manage it more thoroughly than the Spanish Inquisition.
But right now, for once, John was going to act less like a drill sergeant and more like a parent. He was going to break the news as gently as he could because if John was still feeling shaken and scared shitless by all this, then there was no telling how it would hit Sam.
"Dad?" a thin, tired voice whispered up from the bed.
John sat on the other side from Dean and leaned forward, tenderly brushing Sam's hair back over his ears.
"Son, I need to ask you something, and I want the truth," he said, softly. When Sam's eyes widened, he quickly added "I promise I won't be mad. You've done nothing wrong, kiddo. I just need to know…"
Need to know just how badly I screwed up.
Sam stared at him and nodded, carefully. "Ok."
John exhaled slowly. "When did the headaches and dizzy spells start, Sam?" he asked, watching his son's face closely.
Sam's mouth dropped open. "What?" he rasped out, his voice hoarse and deep. "How did you know?"
"The doc told us," said Dean, carefully, anxious not to upset his brother. "And Dad's right, Sam. This ain't your fault. We should've realised something was wrong."
If anything, poor Sam looked even more shocked, and certainly very confused.
"How long?" John asked again, patiently.
"Uh… well, a few weeks, I guess," said Sam, lowering his gaze in shame. "I'm sorry. I tried to tell you, but..." he sighed and sniffed, miserably.
"Hey, hey!" John ducked his head to meet Sam's eyes again. "It's me that should be apologising to you for not listening."
"And me," said Dean, frowning. "I should've been keeping a better eye on you."
"I'm not a child," Sam replied, with a small petulant pout, the kind that would normally drive John and Dean crazy.
Now it just made them so damn grateful the kid was still around to pout at them.
"But you are my child," said John, firmly. "And it's my…" he glanced at Dean. "Our job to keep you safe."
"But," Sam swallowed hard around a sudden lump in his sore, swollen throat. "What was it? What made me sick?" He glanced around the hospital room. "And how did I end up here?"
It worried him, the way his father and brother suddenly exchanged a scared looking glance.
"Sammy, you have an aneurysm," his father informed him, as gently as he could.
Sam's pale face seemed to whiten even further. "Wha…?"
Dean had privately speculated that the kid already knew what an aneurysm was, and needed no explanations. Sam had recently taken some advanced kind of biological science classes, and no doubt memorised everything he'd been taught.
"It's been there for some time, apparently," John continued, still stroking Sam's hair. "But it was getting bigger and that's why it started causing you problems. Dizziness, headaches…" he paused, then added, guiltily "the general clumsiness?"
Sam's eyes filled with fresh tears. "I knew it could be something serious, but I just… I just…"
"Shhh, it's alright, son," John's fingers brushed against the thick, wide gauze that covered the surgical wound on Sam's head, and his heart seemed to clench tightly within his chest. "It doesn't matter now."
"But what happened?" Sam asked, eyes straying to his brother. "Did it leak, or something?"
Dean huffed and shook his head. "No. Oh God, no, Sammy. Nothing like that."
"Then what?" Sam begged. "Please? Last thing I remember was a graveyard, but even that's a little fuzzy."
He had to know. Like a scab on a wound, he couldn't stop picking at it.
Dean understood that well enough.
"It was a simple salt and burn, but we think you must've hit your head, fracturing your skull," he drew in a breath and let it out, slowly. However, it didn't stop the almost-sob, nor did it stopper the flood of guilt. "Didn't find out until later, when we got to the bar and I couldn't wake you up. You'd passed out in the car and I didn't know… I'm so sorry, Sammy…"
"Dean, don't, ok?" Sam murmured, squeezing his brother's hand. "You couldn't have known…"
"…I got you to the hospital, and they ran some tests," Dean carried on, as though Sam hadn't spoken. "They told us you were carrying this thing in your head that could burst at any time and kill you. So they took you for emergency surgery to fix it."
"Clips?" Sam queried, suddenly sounding clinically interested in his own aneurysm, and it creeped Dean out just a little. "They put clips around that area of the blood vessel to protect it, right? To take the pressure off?"
John raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused by his youngest son's in depth knowledge of brain surgery.
"That's right," but he knew what was coming.
He didn't have to wait long, because Scientist Sam was suddenly gone, and in his place was a horror-struck, sixteen year old boy, who clutched at the bandage round his head.
"My hair!" he wailed. Suspicious sounding snorts had him shooting Dean and John some accusing looks. "You let them shave my friggin' hair?"
"Had no choice, kiddo," said John, trying not to laugh. "It was necessary to save your life. But they didn't shave it all off. Just a small patch, which was lucky for you considering you got a fractured skull to boot."
"But it's my hair!" Sam scowled at his father. "You've been wanting to cut my hair for years. So, what? You thought you'd try getting it a piece at a time?"
"Now, you know that's not true," John's lips twitched, and his laughter was imminent in the face of Sam's ire.
"Huh!" Sam huffed, annoyed and knowing he was behaving like a brat, and totally not caring. "Should be grateful you didn't just cut it all off when I was out of it!"
John couldn't help smirking by now. "Sam…"
"S'gonna be all uneven and patchy," Sam groused away, even more annoyed that his dad was laughing at him. "I'm gonna look like a dork!"
"C'mon, Sammy, you always look like a dork. A bald patch ain't gonna change that," Dean rubbed Sam's arm, chuckling at the kid's full on pouting, bitchface. "It'll grow back… eventually."
"You're really loving this, aren't you?" Sam growled, eyebrows now forming a deep V.
As though someone had flipped a switch, Dean's face fell.
"No," he said quietly, all teasing gone. "I'm not loving this. I'm not loving the fact that I almost lost my kid brother, and if a few months of bad hair means that you're still here, then I can live with that."
He stared at Sam, eyes sad and serious.
"Dude, I didn't mean…" Sam began after a heartbeat, but Dean cut him off.
"I know you didn't," he said. "Just… don't say things like that, ok? I can't handle it."
"Ok," Sam replied in a small, ashamed voice.
Dean moved his hands up to rest on either side of Sam's neck, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Which Sam had always understood as Big Brother sign language for love you, bitch.
And it was never any clearer to him than it was right then.
"Look, Sam, I want you to tell me if you're getting sick, or feeling dizzy, or not seeing straight, ok?" Dean suddenly demanded, anxiously. "You shout and yell at me if you have to, Sammy, but the minute you think or feel like something's wrong, then we need to know right away so we can get you some help. Promise me?"
Sam gazed at Dean, eyes wide and clear. "I promise," he whispered.
"Good boy," Dean whispered back and briefly touched his forehead to Sam's.
"We'd best get your doctor back in here, before he throws us out," said John, quietly. "But, Sam?"
"Uhuh?" Sam looked across at his father, wondering at the strange note in the guy's voice.
John was frowning, eyes filled with remorse.
"You boys both mean the world to me," he said. "I don't say it, but you should know that it's true. Always."
Then he was getting up and walking to the door, pulling it open and calling out to Dr Walters, leaving Sam and Dean staring in shock, mouths gaping pathetically wide like gold fish at feeding time.
TBC... more brotherly/fatherly schmoop in the final installment, if you fancy it...
