HOT SPOTS

Chapter 7

Dean's fight for life continues, but he discovers Winchester Luck has a wicked sense of humour …

xxxxx

The following three days passed in a desperate blur for Sam. As Dean lay shivering, and fretting weakly with the infection ravaging his weakened body, he drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally skirting the edges of awareness, but far more often lost and disorientated in a fog of sickness and heavy medication. For hours, and most terrifying of all, he would lay motionless, pallid and unresponsive under Sam's frightened, despondent gaze.

Sam's mood drifted along with his brother's condition from black despair to cautious hope, with an constant undertone of nauseous concern as Doctor Lawrence's frequent visits offered little in the way of definite encouragement. ' Dean's test results were encouraging …', 'not out of the woods …', 'blood count's much improved on yesterday …', 'next twenty-four hours are critical …', 'long way to go before we'll know for sure …' Jeez, these guys were harder to pin down than some damned perma-tanned, sticky-fingered politician.

One small piece of good fortune was the long-overdue end of the hot spell. Violent thunderstorms in parts of the country overnight had heralded the nightmare's end, and Sam found himself opening the room's one small window the following morning to inhale deeply of the refreshing scent of summer rain. He peered up into the gunmetal grey sky, still pregnant with unfallen rain, and gave a long sigh of relief.

The white noise of the downpour washed over him, soothing and relaxing. He hoped the welcome, lifegiving song would have a similarly healing effect on his brother.

Sam's rock during this difficult time was Ross. The man clearly loved his work, and was as devoted to looking after distressed relatives as he was to taking care of his patients. Empathy and understanding poured off of the man as he fussed around Sam as much as his sick brother; he was clearly a person for whom caring was a born gift, not a learned skill.

Sam had, over those harrowing days, developed a deep respect and no small amount of admiration for the man; especially as it had become patently clear that Ross' level of devotion to this particular patient was driven by something far more entertaining than a desire to do a job well.

His interpretation of 'overseeing your brother's care' had become one of taking on the entire job himself and not allowing another care-giver within a mile of his pet patient. He guarded his precious charge like a starving dog might defend it's last bone.

On the rare occasions he required a second pair of hands, for instance, when changing Dean's sweat-dampened bedlinen, he worked swiftly and efficiently with a fellow nurse, and then hurriedly ushered the poor woman out of the room as if she was carrying a communicable disease.

The fact that, had Ross not been the consummate professional that he was, he would have jumped Dean's bones in a nanosecond was a welcome source of light relief for Sam during that dark time. There was some heavy duty teasing to do, and Sam hoped beyond desperate hope that he would get the opportunity to do it.

xxxxx

It was mid-morning on the fifth day after his admission that Dean awoke; there had been encouraging signs the previous day, but this time it was for real. There was no vacant gazing into the distance through blurred, swimming vision; no groaning, glassy-eyed through a searing headache; no delirious whispers through barely moving lips.

He blinked back tears as daylight assaulted his eyes, and turned to look at his brother, who sat beside him reading a novel that he had bought from the hospital's second-hand book store.

"S'mmy" he croaked faintly, his voice weak through lack of use.

Engrossed in his book, Sam didn't hear the barely audible whisper.

"Sammy!" He tried again, as strong as he could manage this time; "get your nose ou' that friggin' book, an' talk to your brother …"

Sam turned, dropping the book. It was the first time he'd heard his brother say his name in almost a week and his heart swelled to bursting in his chest.

"Dean; Oh God Dean," he reached across and cupped Dean's face in his hands, "hey man, how you feelin'? D'y need any help? D'y need Dctor Lawrence?" He gasped with joy, "oh jeez, it's good to hear your voice bro'."

Dean peered up at his brother from between Sam's massive palms without lifting his head from the pillows, "y'gon' grow ovaries one day …" He mumbled, squirming free of the hands. "Wha' happened? I feel like I've been wrung out."

"You got blood poisoning dude," Sam gasped frantically, "your chickenpox rash got infected where you scratched it and the infection got into your blood. It got bad dude, real bad."

Sam paused before speaking, "dude I thought I was going to lose you".

xxxxx

Dean worked himself laboriously into a sitting position, swatting Sam's supporting hand away and wincing as the motion exerted wasted muscles and pulled on his drip line; "don' get rid of me that easily," he grinned wearily, adjusting the cannula across his face and trying with all his might to not look as shaky, sick and crushed with exhaustion as he felt.

Sam grasped Dean's wrist."How d'you feel?"

"Like crap; dizzy." Dean gulped back a deep breath, "how long since all this happened?"

"Five days;" Sam replied, "hell, you've been out of it, man!"

Dean blinked. "Five days?" He blinked again, brushing his clammy brow with the back of his drip-free hand, "I've lost five days?"

Sam nodded, "yeah dude, you've been real sick."

Fidgeting irritably, Dean tried to pull himself up straighter, panting from the effort. Sam shook his head and placed a hand flat on his brother's sore, rash mottled chest, stopping him from moving any further.

"Chill out bro', just rest."

"That's all I've been doing," Dean moaned sulkily, his voice noticeably stronger now; "m'bored."

"How can you be bored?" Sam sighed in exasperation, "you've only been awake five minutes!"

"Just am ..." Dean grunted petulantly, following up with a long yawn.

"Yeah well, too bad; resting is all you're going to do; you're not getting out until Doc Lawrence says you can." Sam smiled as he spoke, but Dean could see the hint of steel behind the smile. He knew, however much he whined and complained, he was going nowhere for the foreseeable future.

He sighed theatrically and glanced down to his inflamed, blistered chest.

The chickenpox, having followed it's natural course, was beginning to subside significantly reducing the merciless irritation and allowing for the removal of Dean's comical 'mittens', but it had left Dean's skin peppered with sore, inflamed blisters and nowhere more so that across his chest and down his still gauze-covered flank.

"Ugh" he looked up at Sam, "that's disgustin'."

Sam smiled; "it's fading now dude, the nurse has been rubbin' some vitamin stuff on it to stop it from scarring too badly, an …"

Dean yawned again, nestling back into his pillows, and gave a ghost of a smirk; "nurse eh? Good times," he smiled droopily, "bring it on…"

"ah, yeah, well about that, Dea …"

Sam trailed off when he realised Dean had sunk back into a much needed slumber.

Staring at his sleeping brother for the longest time Sam smiled, sighing with incalculable relief as he bent to pick up his book. At last it seemed Winchester luck had finally relented and decided to smile on the brothers.

xxxxx

But experience had taught the boys that Winchester luck is a notoriously fickle bint, and it just so happened that the next time Dean awoke, rested and far more alert than earlier, was at exactly the same moment that Ross was carrying out a routine check on his catheter.

It was difficult to say who was more shocked; Dean, on awakening to find an unfamiliar, dark-haired man crouching over him inspecting his pride and joy; or Ross when his patient suddenly let out a startled yelp and, astonishingly nimble for one at deaths door only forty eight hours ago, scuttled backwards up the bed, plastering himself against the headboard.

"Dude, what the friggin' hell?" Dean gasped, fumbling clumsily for the bed sheets and pulling them up, gripping them with white knuckled ferocity under his chin.

"Hey there Dean," Ross smiled kindly, calmly ignoring the fact his startled patient was pinned against the wall in a tangle of drip lines and nasal cannula, panting harshly and eyeing him up and down as if he were some kind of chainsaw murderer. "Sam told me you'd woken up this morning, buddy; it's great to see you up and awake Dean. How're you feeling, huh?"

"You're a fine one to talk about 'feelin'" Dean gasped indignantly, "I noticed you weren't missin' the opportunity to have a good 'feel' down there."

Still smiing, Ross stepped back and held out his gloved hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Hey Dean; I'm Ross, I'm your nurse." The kindness in his eyes which had so comforted Sam was clearly not yet reaching the bristling elder Winchester as he burrowed further back against the creaking headboard, "don't worry, buddy; you're perfectly safe with me, huh?"

Dean blinked and stared at the man in pebble-eyed disbelief … "nurse?" He gripped the bedclothes a little tighter.

Ross nodded cheerfully, and stepped toward the bed. "I would never have had you pegged for the bashful type, Dean;" he teased, "look, why don't you get back down into bed huh?"

"Where's Sam?" demanded Dean, still eyeing the man warily.

"You know, my job doesn't just stop at looking after my patients," Ross explained calmly, "Your brother is shattered. He needed a break and a change of scenery so, now you're improving, I've made him take a walk over to the coffee shop across the road for some fresh air, a latte and a pastry, he deserves it, huh?"

Dean's face noticeably softened at mention of his brother's name, and Ross took the opportunity to try to get through to him; "why don't you get yourself back into bed huh?" he cajoled gently, offering a hand to help his skittish patient.

Dean hesitated before making an attempt to move. "You're a nurse?" he asked as if to confirm the fact.

"That's right Dean," Ross replied, digging deeper into his substantial reserves of patience.

"But you're a …" Dean tried to fish for the right word.

"I'm a man; that's right, I'm a male nurse." Ross finished the sentence for Dean; anxious to get him back into bed like a good, well-behaved patient. "I guess we can tick your eyesight off the list of things to check, huh?"

Dean looked him up and down apprehensively, timidly releasing his iron grip on the bedclothes.

"And you're still a very sick man," he added with a hint of sternness; "why don't you get back into bed so I can make you comfortable, huh?"

Dean looked down, abashed, and flushed vivid pink when he realised how ridiculous he must look. He cleared his throat awkwardly and obediently shuffled back into the bed.

Ross smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. "Okay, big guy, I'm gonna need to check that catheter again; I wouldn't be surprised if you've pulled it out and slung it halfway across the room after that little manoeuvre, huh!"

Fighting an overwhelming urge to cross his legs, Dean grimaced. He reluctantly lay back and squeezed his eyes closed, white knuckled fists gripping the sheet beneath him.

"This isn't happening; this is not happening." He chanted inwardly, "there is not some random dude down there manhandling my privates." He took a deep, shuddering breath and felt his toes curl in gut-clenching embarrassment; "It's some cute blonde chick, blue eyes, pony tail, sensible shoes …" He groaned, huffing between pursed lips as a man's voice sounded; "y'ok there buddy, huh?" and completely spoiled the illusion.

"So, uh, don't they have any female nurses here?" Dean muttered through clenched teeth, trying to think of anything except what was happening right now.

Ross grinned without looking up from his work; "oh they do, but Sam's told me all about your exacting standards and by the sounds of it, none of ours are in your league, huh?"

Dean nodded in tight-lipped silence.

"Ok, all done there, Dean," Ross announced brightly, giving a final check over a job well done and discreetly pulling the bedclothes down. He stood to check on his furiously blushing patient who seemed to be trying his very level best to disappear through the mattress, and fought to suppress a grin at the sight.

"Yes, as far as good looks and femininity is concerned, I'm about the best this hospital can do, huh?" He gave a cheerful wink, as he straightened the tangled drip lines and leaned in towards Dean. whispering as if he had a secret to share; "At least that's what my partner, David, says!"

Dean's jaw dropped as Ross stood upright and pulled off his latex gloves with a mischevious snap.

xxxxx

tbc