The younger Winchester lay still on his hospital bed, valiantly attempting to settle his mind and his stomach. Since he'd been able to see Dean, his worry had quieted to a dull roar rather than the 5-alarm klaxon it had been. His own body's bout with myriad ailments was starting to catch up with him, as exhaustion tugged at his senses and scrambled his thoughts. With a sigh, he let his eyes droop to half mast.
He was floating on the edge of sleep when he heard the door open. Expecting Nurse Monnick with his juice, he was surprised to see the young Asian doctor stroll through the door.
"Mr. Winston, I'm Dr. Su, the doctor who's taking care of your brother. I just need to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, of course."
"Can you tell me the last thing you and your brother ate?"
"Yeah, we both had chicken salad sandwiches."
Dr. Su nodded. "Anything else?"
"Um, yeah, I had potato chips. Dean had some potato salad, though I don't think he ate it all. Oh, and we both had pickles . . . and Cokes."
Dr. Su again nodded her fingers steepled under her chin. "And prior to that meal?"
"Uh . . . I dunno—I think we had donuts and coffee or something."
"And that last meal was where?"
"At that diner outside of town."
"The Krysla Cove Diner?"
"Yeah, I guess that was the name of it."
The door to the room swished open, admitting Delilah Monnick returning with his juice.
"Oh, Dr. Su, I didn't realize you were here. I can come back."
"No, that's okay, Delilah. We're finished. Thank you, Mr. Winston, for answering my questions."
"Wait!" exclaimed Sam, "Do you know what's wrong with my brother?"
Dr. Su placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.
"Not yet. But you've given me some valuable clues. You get some rest. You've had quite an ordeal too."
Once the doctor left the room, the nurse approached the bed and handed Sam a small container of apple juice. "Sip a little of this, and we'll see how you do."
Sam pulled the foil cover off the container and tossed it on the nearby wheeled bed tray. He raised the cold, sweaty cup to his lips and tentatively took a drink. To him, it was the sweetest, most wonderful liquid he'd ever tasted. Sam had to stop himself from tossing back the remainder in one gulp. Under Delilah's watchful eye, he sipped slowly until it was all gone. When he was done, Sam waited to see if anything untoward was going to happen. After a minute, though his stomach gurgled a bit in protest, the juice stayed down, and Sam felt like doing a happy dance. Well, sort of. He settled for a big, dimpled grin directed at the nurse.
"Very good. Keep that up," Delilah said as she placed another container of juice down on the tray table, "and you'll be outta here in the morning."
A stray thought suddenly occurred to the young man. "What day is it anyway?"
"It's Wednesday evening."
"Wednesday evening! We ate at the diner late Sunday. That means . . . that means we lost three days!"
"It doesn't surprise me. You were both very sick boys when you arrived."
Sam was silent as he contemplated the truth of Nurse Monnick's words.
"Now—it's time for you to get some sleep."
Sam could feel sleep dragging at his eyelids and realized she was absolutely right. His thoughts were becoming too muddled as everything that had happened in the last three days caught up with him. Even the lure of the other cold juice wasn't enough to hold sleep at bay and his eyes drifted shut. He didn't even feel Delilah squeeze his hand in support before she dimmed the lights and left the room.
Hours later, Sam was shaken awake by a gentle hand.
"Mr. Winston . . . Sam . . . wake up," Nurse Monnick half whispered.
"Huh? Wha?" he mumbled.
"We need your help. It's your brother."
At those words, all sleepiness deserted Sam in a heartbeat.
"Shit! I shoulda stayed with him. What's wrong? What's wrong with Dean?"
"He's very agitated, and they can't seem to get him calmed down. I told them to let me bring you up—that your presence would help."
Throwing the covers back, Sam was ready to go in an instant.
"Here—here's a wheelchair. Let's go."
The midnight trip to the medical ICU was quick and quiet. When the nurse rolled Sam into Dean's room, he saw immediately that Dean was indeed very worked up. Beads of sweat stood out on his pale face. His eyes were restlessly moving around the room, and he was instinctively biting against the tube. Each time he did so, a monitor would wail incessantly until an irritated-looking nurse would march over and re-set it.
Delilah wheeled Sam right up to the bed and stepped away, moving quietly into a corner.
Sam bent forward and grabbed a hold of his brother's arm. "Dean! It's Sam."
When Dean again bit down on the tube, causing the alarm to sound, Sam waited for the ICU nurse to re-set it before saying, "Jesus, Dean, you need to calm down. C'mon, man. The nurses are starting to look like they want to toss you out the window."
Sam waited for a few seconds to see if his words were sinking in.
"I'm here, Dean. C'mon. It's okay. Look at me."
Dean's eyes rolled a few more times in panic before finally settling on Sam. He blinked slowly. An involuntary tear trailed from the corner of his eye and mixed with the sweat on his face.
"That's it. I'm right here." Sam felt the prick of guilt that he hadn't insisted on staying by his brother's side even if it went against regulations.
"It's okay. I'll stay right here."
Seeing and hearing his brother had the desired effect, and Dean calmed, his monitors slowly showing a return to more normal levels.
Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm and watched his brother's eyelids droop. Profound relief coursed through Sam. He laid his head down on the bed, his arm a pillow, and then he too slowly started to drift off to sleep.
When the ICU nurse dared approach to move him away, Delilah spoke up from her position in the corner. "Leave him be," she suggested, "I think he'd doing his brother more good like that than anything we've been able to do."
TBC . . .
