Writer's Note: Warning - Sam totally drops the f-bomb in here.

You Better Start Swimming

Chapter 10

The lights seemed to blind Dean just as his body gave an involuntary shiver at the cold air slamming against his naked back as the blankets were ripped off him and Sam in the backseat of the car. He blinked a few times, squinting up, and realization hit him: they were at the hospital. He jarred Sam as he scrambled up, but Sam didn't react. Dean's knees digging into the seat on either side of his brother, he pressed up around Sam's back and lifted, hoisting him up to the reaching arms of the nurses and attendants now gathered outside. As soon they gripped him, Sam was gone and Dean nearly fell forward onto the street before catching himself, his palms spread out on the leather interior. The nurses and attendants made quick, expert work of pulling him up to a gurney and wheeling him away, leaving Dean breathing heavily, staring out after them. He felt empty and scared, stunned and staring after Sam. He numbly looked around and down, finding his shirt from the floor of the seat well. He grabbed it and pulled it on just as John ran around to face Dean from outside of the car. Slamming the top of the car as he ducked down to look at his son, John snapped Dean out of it with one hand outstretched.

"Dean, Dean hey!" Dean flinched and looked at his father's face, and then the keys dangling closer to his eyes that John had been holding out to him. "Park the car, Dean, hey! Dean it's going to be okay, all right? I gotta go in there. Can you park the car for me?"

Dean gulped and nodded, his eyes flashing to his father for a split-second, then gripping the keys and jumping out. John had just reached the rotating glass door of the E.R. entrance when Dean had slammed on the accelerator to go find a parking space.

…

Dean was sitting in a chair in the waiting room, staring at nothing and fidgeting with the keys to the Impala. It was four in the morning. The doctor had been in and out with the diagnosis. It was bad, but Sam would reach consciousness soon. Now was the waiting part.

It was quiet. His father had gone to get himself and Dean coffee downstairs in the cafeteria. Dean had already been down there: it felt unreal. The cafeteria had been mostly empty, with only some people on their red-eye shift dropping by to pick up another cup of coffee here and there. He felt like he'd been moving through thick air - it pressed in on him on all sides. The echoes of the cafeteria's industrial-sized machinery reverberated off the walls and made Dean feel like he was a silent, roaming zombie in an abandoned hospital.

He had moved quickly to get the snacks he'd wanted to pick up before dashing back out to the E.R. where he and his father had settled themselves in a quiet corner to wait for word.

Dawn was breaking through and Dean could hear the muffled sounds of birds starting to chirp. They sounded like stagnant echoes; sharp and hollow.

…

"He's awake," the doctor said.

They said they'd only allow one family member at a time. Apparently, Sam was easily overwhelmed: he had reacted negatively to the hospital staff a couple times, now. "Agitation," they called it. He had been, "agitated," upon waking.

Dean wanted to go first, but when John stood, he didn't dare challenge his father. He watched John walk down the hall without so much as a backward glance to his eldest. Dean bit his lip as he watched his father go through the swinging doors into the aisle of rooms.

Dean was on the edge of tears: his father was about to reunite with the son he loved so much more. He was so relieved and scared for Sam: he himself loved that kid more than life. But knowing, not just suspecting, that John loved Sam more was an overwhelming truth. He didn't want to lose his father; he really didn't. But now that John had Sam back, Dean wondered what role he would play in all of this – the aftermath.

Would John become a better father to Sam and kick Dean out? Were the threats of leaving him alone, without Sam, come true, now? Sam would probably be okay with this plan: Dean had let Sam get kidnapped in the first place… So how could Dean blame the kid if he didn't trust him anymore?

Dean looked up, trying to hold in his tears. He couldn't believe his was being so selfish: Sam was in the hospital after having been captive to a psycho witch and Dean… Dean was here, in the waiting room, terrified of abandonment.

Trying to calm his nerves, Dean rocked back and forth in his seat for a second, taking regular, simple breaths in and out... In and out... He took a sip of his coffee and sniffed, rubbing his face with his shaking hands as soon as he set the cup down.

He leaned forward, placing his head between his knees, suddenly feeling nauseated. He swallowed a couple of times, his mouth and throat tasting like stale coffee, and kept breathing. Slowly, his stomach felt slightly less woozy as he focused on the tinny sound of the television in the waiting room. He kept himself hunched over, absently listening to the drone of the local news.

...

Dean watched his father step out of Sam's room. John's eyes were tearing and his hand covered his mouth. John was determined to repress what he was feeling – to Dean and himself. John wished he could cover his entire face; disappear into the darkness behind his lids. Instead he suddenly moved fast down the hall, brushing past Dean.

"Dad?" Dean asked, his voice cracking, feeling his father's rejection reach what felt like a higher peak than he'd thought possible. John turned around, pain and anguish in his eyes. Dean's reflected the same as he saw them.

"Give it a shot, Dean," John finally said in grief. He gave his son a small smile, a small glint of hope and support flashing through his eyes at his eldest son. Dean looked John up and down in the hallway, finally resting upon his father's worn face. He saw that flash in his father's eyes. It wasn't much, but Dean would cling to it. John gave Dean a nod, which Dean returned, and then John started walking down the hall again. Dean swallowed, not knowing what to expect, and turned towards the hospital room.

…

Dean took a breath at the threshold and stepped into the room. His eyes searched for his little brother: the first bed empty, Sam had to be behind the curtained second bed, closest to the window that looked out to the small garden. A little Starbucks booth near the entrance, Dean could see the solitary employee getting his day started and putting on his apron. Six AM was a little early, Dean thought, but then again… Hospitals never closed. And there were so many people – doctors, patients, grieving families and friends – needing a decent cup of coffee after staying up through the night with red eyes and sore backs.

Dean had never been able to sleep in the hospital and this night had been no exception. He had the reddest eyes, the sorest back, but none of it meant anything.

He took another few steps carefully towards the screen that blocked his view of Sam. His nerves were frayed and the sleep deprivation threatened to break him down before he'd even catch sight of his baby brother.

This had been a nightmare. This had really been a nightmare. Dean repeated to himself. Hopefully, it was at an end. He didn't think it had, really… Not with the impression his father had just given him in the hallway. But he hoped. He just hoped. It was a simple wish that he knew wouldn't come true when he gently drew back the curtain.

The metal bearings on the curtain rattled and Sam, who had been staring out into the garden, looked alarmed, almost harassed, as he whipped around and fixed Dean with an unblinking, accusatory stare. Dean stopped pulling the curtains back immediately. Words caught in his throat and, not saying anything, he put his hands up. Sam's glare held him hostage.

Dean's heart had fallen at Sam's reaction… And Sam's eyes: they looked dark, blacker than Dean had ever seen before, really. Obviously pale and weak, Sam seemed like all the power and strength he used to have had been sucked into his eyes – his stare. And that stare, Dean thought… That stare was blank and empty, like a black hole. It scared Dean.

Then, it was gone: Sam looked up and around the hospital room. Dean gave a breath when Sam released him. He tentatively moved closer and placed his hand on the top of the visitor's chair. Giving one more glance up to an oblivious Sam, he readied to settle himself when Sam spoke.

"This is new," he said gruffly. Dean looked up at half-crouch.

"What?" He stood up again, following Sam's gaze around the room.

Sam turned and looked at Dean's open, curious face. Dean watched Sam give him an expression he'd never seen come from Sam: a squint and sneer with pursed lips, followed by a bitter chortle. Sam looked away from Dean again.

Dean was baffled. Did Sam just give Dean a look of impatient condescension? It bordered on malice, too. If Dean could put words to it, it looked like, "You're an asshole. Don't bullshit me."

Dean, brows furrowed in confusion, sat down in the chair and leaned forward. He looked at his clasped hands in front of him: they wound around each other so tightly, his skin looked almost as pale as Sam's.

"Sammy-"

"-Don't!" Sam interrupted, suddenly looking back to Dean, his dark eyes vicious, his words sharp. There was striking anger, fury in it.

Dean stopped short, holding his breath under his brother's hatred.

"I've told you to stop that. How many times have I told you to stop that?" Sam lashed out in a menacing undertone. His eyes blazed, his lips curled in as he spoke.

Dean felt like he'd be slapped in the face. Sure, he knew Sam hated the nickname, but… What the hell?

"Sa-Sam-" Dean started again, biting back a repeat of his little brother's nickname. He swallowed: he loved 'Sammy.' He'd been using it ever since he could remember. Maybe letting your kid brother get kidnapped means you can't use big brother nicknames anymore. Dean felt a lump in the back of his throat. No. It's a stupid nickname, Dean thought. He didn't have to say it any more. It would be fine.

Dean coughed and, having gone through his own inner monologue of rationalization, tried to start again. Before he could continue, Sam flattened down the bed sheets covering his waist and interrupted him as if Dean hadn't even spoken.

"What's on the agenda today? This is pretty elaborate," Sam said wearily, looking around the hospital room, then again fixing his dead gaze upon his brother.

Dean's mouth had opened in shock at his brother's behavior, his face an almost comical expression of pure confusion. A few beats of silence languished as the two brothers looked at each other. Finally, Sam's eyebrow went up in disbelief.

"You okay there?" He snarled, attempting a… Joke? A mean one; Dean saw no genuine interest in his well-being in the question. He even saw the hint of hope from Sam that he would say, 'no.' Dean had never heard Sam sound so malicious. Paired with his dark, gaping eyes, Dean was frightened that he was not only missing something in this conversation, but that he was biting off more than he could chew. This wasn't 'Sammy.' This felt like someone else. Someone Dean could be intimidated by…

At a complete loss for words, Dean got up from his chair. He needed to move. Disturbed, agitated… Whatever you called it… Dean wasn't quitting (like he assumed his father had), but he sure as hell felt more uncomfortable in the company of his brother than he had in his entire life.

Dean turned around quickly, fixing Sam with a penetrating glare. Sam matched his expression, full-on, only Sam looked angry – like he was itching for a fight, craving it. Dean grimaced as he studied his brother.

"Who… Are you?" Dean spat with conviction. He knew his father had to have checked Sam out – nothing supernatural was going on here. This was just Sam being… Oh god, Dean thought, what if this is just Sam being Sam, now?

Sam sneered and gave a bitter laugh.

"I'm exhibit A, you ASSHOLE!" Sam shouted harshly at the end, his face reddening, his hands gripping the bed sheets tighter. He'd pushed his chest out at the end of his sentence, trying to get closer to the foot of the bed where Dean stood, just to sound that much louder to him.

Dean jerked back in shock, mesmerized by Sam's performance. Sam remained in bed, heaving breaths after his outburst, staring daggers at Dean. Dean had to break away eye contact and looked out the window instead, trying to calm himself down. He realized his arms were folded tightly around him, his whole body trembling, hunched in defeat and regret. Is this how it's going to be, now? Dean wondered, feeling parts of him melt and break and float away into the darkness of Sam's eyes.

Trying to collect himself again, he took a deep breath. He heard the bed sheets' movements as Sam laid back down.

"C'mon, Dean, let's get this over with," Sam murmured bitterly as he settled down into the bed. Dean picked up on every nuance of this sentence… And there were a lot of emotions and messages in that one simple sentence that started to give Dean the clues he needed. Dean swung around, eyes wide and alert.

"What?" He whispered vehemently, almost angrily. As he spoke, he started coming closer to Sam to clarify exactly what Sam had meant, not wanting to miss a thing. Just as he did, his eyes widened in surprise, his confusion ratcheting up to even higher levels – Sam was shrinking away from him in his bed. Despite Sam's obvious disdain, almost hatred, for him – his smart-ass, malicious expressions and comments. As Dean moved towards Sam, he saw real fear. Sam's breath picked up, the muscles in his jaw clenched in anxiety, the grip he held onto his bed sheets tightened. He looked away from Dean as he approached, pressing the side of his face against the pillow.

Utterly confused, but now extremely worried for his little brother, Dean didn't stop. He moved and finally leaned, almost sat, on the side of Sam's bed. Sam felt the bed dip as he stared off into the garden and Dean could see his little brother's eyes start to glisten.

"Sam-" Dean lifted his hand up, almost about to touch him, when he heard an uncertain humming come from his little brother. "Sam?" The hum sounded like a scream held in, a terrifying noise. "Sam?" Dean asked more urgently, gently grasping Sam's upper arm. Just as he did so, Sam flinched at the touch, but didn't try to get away; didn't scream. Sam let out a pained exhale, his fear having destroyed his heart beat and breath, he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"D-Do you have… To… Touch me f-for this one?" Sam whispered in tears. Sam's head was still turned away, and now pressing hard against the pillow; it was like he was trying to sink his whole body into it… Away from Dean. Dean grimaced as he leaned over his brother further and Sam matched him, shrinking further from him with a gasp of fright.

"Sammy-" He said, but before Sam could snarl back another warning, Dean gently pressed his hand against Sam's forehead. At this, Sam let out a sob and started trembling in the bed.

"Stop please stop-" Sam begged as he cried. He raised his arms to try weakly to get Dean's hands away from him. Dean could feel Sam pressing against him – he felt like Sam's attempts were deliberately weak. Like Sam might halfway-want his presence. Or maybe Sam was just that weak. "Whatever you want to do, let's just go, let's GO let's just DO IT!" Sam barked out as he started struggling, moving around without much purpose other than expending his own terrified energy. Dean noticed this, too: Sam was writhing, struggling, but he didn't actually stop Dean from doing anything. Even Dean's touch, which Sam had just said he didn't want, Sam hadn't issued a hit or slap to get Dean off of him. And although Sam had just shouted directly to his brother, his head was still strangely turned away. Apparently, he wasn't willing to look into his brother's eyes. Dean bit his lip in distress as he stayed where he was, bracing his little brother in the hospital bed.

"Sam, Sam calm down," Dean replied softly, overwhelmed by grief. What the hell had happened to Sam? What was he talking about?

"No, let's go! I'm sick of this talking shit!" Sam yelled with so much intensity, it surprised Dean. Dean's heart thudded in his chest as he scrutinized his little brother's behavior, wondering what in the world was happening inside Sam's head.

Anger, though. This was anger – and it was easier to deal with… So Dean dealt with it by doling it back.

"Sam, I said calm down!" Dean shot back, pressing Sam gently against the bed frame for emphasis. Sam immediately did as he was told, which, again, struck Dean. "Good, good, Sammy," he coached as Sam had started to pace his breathing under his brother's hold. Dean saw a tear track down Sam's cheek; he was still looking away from him, out at the garden.

Dean moved his hand across the side of Sam's tear-stained face. He gently put pressure on it to get Sam to face him; to look into his eyes. Sam's breath picked up and he cringed as Dean came into his line of sight. He started crying again.

"Seriously just get started already… What… I have to look into his face for this?" Sam sobbed, limply pressing against Dean's chest and arms with his hands, trying so hard to look away from Dean's eyes.

Dean's confusion burst at his brother's words; the light went on upstairs, and Dean realized: he doesn't think it's me. In the midst of this revelation, Dean accidentally squeezed Sam tighter and Sam gasped in fear, actually gripping the front of Dean's jacket, a subconscious move; Sam seemed to still instinctively reach for Dean, even the fake one he thought stood before him, hovering over him.

"No no no no, Sammy," Dean said in comforting alarm, scrambling up and digging his hand under Sam's back in the bed, "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, Sammy it's Dean. I'm real," Dean spoke softly as he lifted Sam up; Sam could've fought back but he didn't. He made a few grunts of discomfort as Dean moved him, shivering in undeniable fear as Dean cradled him in his arms. It made Dean feel like he was taking advantage of Sam's state – everything about Sam's demeanor at the moment screamed defeat and helplessness in the face of what he thought would be another round of torture, but... "It's me, okay? It's real Dean, Sammy, Real Dean," he reassured his trembling little brother. Sam was terrified, but took Dean's advances, curling himself around Dean as Dean held him and rocked him back and forth.

"This is really fucked up," Sam sobbed under Dean's chin. Dean shushed him as Sam slowly, slowly started to calm down. Dean didn't stop rocking him as he whispered into Sam's ear on the bed.

"We found you in a cabin. You were freezing cold – it was hypothermia – you had been there for a few hours in the basement, under a mattress."

Sam gave a sob under Dean's hold. Dean tightened his grasp and felt around Sam's back to make sure he wasn't too cold without the blankets.

"I threw the mattress off, found you, and Dad and I got you out of there. Do you remember being in the car with me?" Dean asked gently. Sam moved his head, but Dean couldn't tell if he was shaking it or nodding it. "We got you to the hospital and the docs are fixing you up right now. You came to around about ten minutes ago and told Dad to get out. Okay?"

Sam didn't stop trembling and he had stayed awake, listening.

"Okay," he whispered. The utterance held no emotion; monotone.

"Okay. How long will it take for you to know this is real?" Dean asked calmly. Sam started shaking and Dean realized he had started to cry again. "Sammy?"

"Maybe never?" Sam gave a small laugh through his tears and started crying harder in Dean's arms. Dean blinked back tears as he nodded and looked around the hospital room. Holding Sam, he made a decision and took a hand away from his brother to grab the bed's remote. He clicked it to angle the head of the bed higher – its whir drumming through the clean, white, acoustic room. Once it was up about a foot and a half higher, he dropped the remote and, with all his strength, pushed himself up against it with Sam in his arms. Sam gasped and sobbed as the movement jarred his injuries during the rearrangement, but Dean was there to remedy the minor pains as he got Sam to finally lean against his chest in the bed. Sam was in the center, Dean's legs casually splayed out on either side of the bed with Sam in between. Once positioned, Dean leaned them both forward so he could grab the blankets and drape them over Sam when then leaned back together again.

As soon as they got settled, as soon as Dean knew Sam was covered, he started smoothing Sam's hair and finally whispered, "I'll be here forever, okay, Sammy?"

Sam didn't respond; his eyes were staring away from Dean at the wall. Dean wondered if it was a form of emotional shock or something.

"Can you go to sleep like this?" Dean asked after awhile, a little concerned after he'd lifted up to check to see if Sam's eyes were closed and discovered that they hadn't been.

"I didn't… Ahm," Sam coughed. Dean's arm tightened reassuringly across Sam's chest. "I didn't stop trusting you."

"That's good," Dean replied sleepily, his own watery eyes angled at the garden outside. He kept smoothing Sam's hair with his other hand, knowing it always used to put Sam to sleep as a child. Dean caught himself: Sam still was a child.

Those eyes, though, made Dean feel like he wasn't so sure anymore.

"I… Rennolds…"

Dean tensed a little bit at Sam's words. Sam felt it and moved a little awkwardly in response.

"No no it's okay keep going," Dean whispered lightly to Sam, clasping him back to where he was. Sam stopped and settled against Dean again.

"Rennolds would look like you and… And I never stopped trusting you," Sam finally got out in a dull whisper. Two seconds later, Dean could feel Sam start crying again. Sam turned on his side to face the window and hugged Dean around his chest. Dean pursed his lips together as those words sunk in; he understood, now. He hated it, but at least he understood, now.

Both brothers stared out into the garden, trying to blank their minds. Sam was still slightly rigid against Dean; still slightly distrustful of the whole thing. Dean didn't blame him.

…

On the second day in the hospital, Dean looked at his brother from the visitor's chair. He had seen Sam sleeping countless times (pretty much every night of Sam's life), but unlike all the rest, Sam didn't look peaceful. He looked haggard, jagged, and sharp. His mouth had always frowned when he slept, but right now Dean saw the expression in a different way. He looked unhappy. Not distressed, not worried: he wasn't having nightmares. He just looked… Ruined.

Dean would keep swallowing his breaths when his heart made a skip in sudden panicked moments of sorrow. He wiped his eyes before they could produce tears. His nasal passages would pierce through him sometimes, forcing him to think he was going to start crying, but he bit it back every time. To distract himself, he would start coughing, sniffing, grunting. Vocalizing pulled him back into reality: where people don't cry.

Yet, Dean honestly couldn't help it. Every time he looked at his baby brother, he was worried something in him had broken… And that that's why he looked the way he did. Maybe never. Those were Sam's words. At every repeat of the memory of those words, Dean's heart constricted, feeling a metal wire's final knot.

Dean hoped that maybe he was projecting - That instead of Sam having become broken, it was in fact him that had broken through this ordeal. Dean would be fine with that.

Please let it be that, Dean begged to… No one.

Writer's Note: Whoa it's been just a day under two weeks. Sorry about that. I knew I'd have to write a hospital scene and that has been the past two weeks: me procrastinating (and, you know, real life stuff). Thank you so much for reading! Please please please let me know what you think by commenting/reviewing if you have the time! Cheers! ~ Alex