Extrinsic Motivation

A perfection of
smoke and mirrors.
Illusory by nature,
by habit, by design.
Cunning in its
simplicity.
Deadly in its
complexity.

©2009, Vanessa Sgroi

Catching movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, Sam catapulted to full height, abandoning the magazine he'd been systematically spindling rather than reading. "Doc?"

Mike Ward motioned for Sam to join him.

"How's my brother?"

The young doctor sighed. "Well, one of the ribs that had a hairline crack before is now broken. He's lucky it didn't shift and puncture his lung. And honestly, I'm not happy he cracked his head but good for the second time in 24 hours. After examining him, I don't think he's made the original injury worse. He bloodied his nose and bruised his chin and knee when he fell. The nose isn't broken but it'll be a little swollen and sore. All in all, it certainly could've been worse."

The tall hunter ran a hand down his face. "Can I see him?"

"Of course. They're settling him back in his room. Why don't you walk up with me?"

The two men were quiet as they proceeded down the hall and waited for the elevator. As they entered the car, the doctor again spoke. "So tell me, how'd you come to be here? How'd you know something was wrong with your brother?"

Sam looked up from the elevator floor, pinning his gaze on Mike. There was a slight challenge reflected in their depths. "Dean doesn't do well with hospitals. Long story. I left him his cell phone to call me if he needed to." The elevator pinged and the door slid to the right allowing them to disembark.

Dr. Ward nodded. "So he called you. Did he say what was wrong?"

The half-truths came easily. "No, not really. He was vague, you know? Just said he felt he had to leave. I kept him on the phone while I got here as fast as I could. I heard him drop the phone just about the time I pulled into the parking lot."

"Sounds like he woke up confused—maybe a little scared from what you just said about him and hospitals—no doubt the concussion at work. Still, I apologize that he managed to get out of his room like that and further injure himself."

Sam made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

"Why don't you go ahead to your brother's room? I want to make a couple of more notations on his chart before leaving it here at the nurses' station. I'll stop by when I'm done."

The younger man nodded and lengthened his stride, eating up the distance to Dean's room. As he approached, Sam was startled to hear a querulous female voice coming from behind the door. He pushed the door open to find Nurse Perdue leaning her considerable bulk over the bed, impatiently prodding and poking at his brother; the entire time hectoring him long and loud for being "a flat out bothersome patient". Dean, ashen-faced and clearly not firing on all cylinders, not to mention hampered by his injured wrist, batted ineffectually at her busy hands—a weak imitation of his normal growl issuing from between his chapped lips.

Sam stepped into the room and let the door close behind him. "What the hell are you doing?" Sam's voice was deep-timbered and deadly.

Ursula spun on her heels, scowling at the intrusion. "I'm taking care of my patient." For all the venom it contained, the last word could have been translated to "scum of the earth". "What are you doing in here? I told you it's against hospital rules."

Ignoring her question, Sam ordered, "Just get out and leave my brother alone."

"You do not give the orders in this hospital, young man. And, he should not have been traipsing through the halls at all hours of the night causing a ruckus."

"He has a concussion! You should have been keeping an eye on him!"

"It's bad enough he kept hitting the call button all night simply to have pretty nurses run to his side like some gigolo. How anyone expects us to get our work done with the likes of him lying in this hospital…" Nurse Perdue sniffed disdainfully.

Sam saw red at the derision in the woman's voice. He stepped closer—well into her personal space—and glared. "Get out. If I see you near Dean again, I will sue this hospital…"

"Is there a problem here?" Mike Ward's voice came from the doorway as he pushed his way through.

Perdue straightened and jutted her chin outward.

"Ursula?"

"No. No problem at all, Doctor." She sailed by them, proud as a Viking ship and exited the room.

Mike turned his attention to Sam. "What was that all about?"

Sam rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He slumped into the chair next to the bed. "I don't like the way she acts around Dean."

"Ursula's always been a bit abrasive. But I've never seen her that outright rude. I'll have a talk with her."

The younger man shrugged, knowing full well, of course, that his threat to sue was as empty as their pockets at times.

Dr. Ward turned his attention to Dean, who was looking back and forth between them alternately confused and bemused. "So, Dean, how're you feeling?"

Dean looked at him for a second before his gaze flicked back to Sam. "'s scary when he's mad, huh?" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Tired." He closed his eyes.

"After the battering you've had today, I imagine you are. How's your pain—on a scale of one to ten?"

"Two."

"That means probably eight or nine in Dean-speak, Doc," Sam interjected.

Mike looked at his patient and shook his head ruefully. "Why am I not surprised? I'll make an adjustment in my orders," the doctor tapped Dean's foot. "Get some sleep." He glanced at Sam. "You, too, if you can."

"I can stay?"

"Yeah, I'll make sure that everyone on the floor knows."

After the doctor left, Sam turned his attention to his brother who lay with his eyes closed, seeming about to drift off to sleep. The tight grip he had on the blankets gave the ruse away.

"Dean, what happened?"

The older Winchester's eyelids rose to half mast, revealing muddy green eyes. "Huh?"

"What happened earlier? What was all that about on the phone?"

"I-I d-don't… Phone?"

"You called me earlier, remember? You said something was here."

A fragmented memory of ink black tendrils slithering across the bed flashed through his mind. His grip turned white-knuckled. "Hungry."

"Dude, I don't think you really want to eat right now. You'd probably just get sick."

"N-Not me. It."

Sam suddenly remembered Dean saying that on the phone. That something was hungry for him. His gut tightened. "Dean, what the hell did you see?"

"Nuthin'."

Forgetting for a second about the concussion and thinking his brother was simply being evasive, Sam slammed a fist against his knee in frustration. "Dean…"

Dean moaned and raised a hand to his aching head. "N-Not so loud."

Guilt kicked Sam in the gut. "Shit. Sorry—I'm sorry."

"Really w-was nuthin'. J-Just…shadows."

The hunter sucked in a breath. "Daevas?" The very thought cause a shiver to skitter down his spine.

"No. Different."

Sam sat quietly for a moment, his brain racing. He drummed his fingers on his leg. "You mean like a Bodach or a dementor?"

Dean's brow wrinkled. "Huh?"

"Dean Koontz uses Bodachs; actually the plural is Bodaich, in his Odd Thomas novels. And J.K. Rowling used dementors in the Harry Potter novels. They're similar in nature. Actually akin to the Bogeyman." Sam paused long enough in his musings to notice his brother making a face at him. "What?"

"Y-You read too much…"

Ignoring the jibe, Sam asked, "What makes you say it's hungry?"

"Could hear it. Feel it. Was excited I was here."

It was Sam's turn to frown. He didn't like the sound of this at all. Sam stood. "I need to get the computer and some other stuff from the car—"

"No!" A spike of inexplicable terror jolted through the older man, and he shot up into a sitting position. The move cost him dearly as agony tore through his side. What color he had drained from his face, leaving him ashen and slick with sweat. "I-I'll c-come…" he panted.

Alarmed, Sam immediately grabbed a hold of his brother's shoulders. "Goddammit, Dean, take it easy. Take it easy. C'mon, just lay back and breathe." He continued to sooth until Dean stopped struggling. "I'll get someone to stay in here for the five minutes or so I'm gone, okay?" He could feel minute tremors racing through his brother's frame. "You won't be alone. I'll ask a nurse or something. Even if it's the scary one, okay?" Sam waited for Dean to nod reluctantly before moving to the door. He opened it and watched for a few minutes until he caught sight of a redhead saunter from another room. Sam motioned to her. He spoke as the pretty nurse approached, "Excuse me, miss."

"Call me Monica." She smiled, her bright green eyes alight.

Sam flashed a half watt smile of his own. "Monica, could you—do you think you could do me a favor and stay with my brother for like five or ten minutes? With this concussion, you know, he wandered away earlier and I need to run out to the car. I don't wanna take a chance…"

She nodded. "Perfectly understandable, Mister…" she let the question dangle.

"Stanley. Sam Stanley. Just call me Sam."

"Of course, Sam, I'll stay with him."

"Thank you! I'll be right back."

Sam loped down the hall mind whirling as Monica entered the room. She sat down in the chair recently vacated by the youngest Winchester. "Hello, Dean. I'm Monica. We met earlier."

The redhead stared at him with a startling intensity. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lush carmine lips.

TBC…