• Specific trigger warning for this chapter: past suicidal ideation (and then some) described in one paragraph.
• For general warnings and disclaimer, see chapter 1.
The woman behind the front desk begins to raise her voice just as Jeff gets there.
"Sir, I told you you're going to have to wait until I can check with the attending, which I can't do right this minute. I'm sure your brother is in good hands, and if you just sit down – "
But Dean Frehley is apparently over sitting and waiting. He moves right past annoyed and into menacing mode as he leans closer to the glass partition to stare through it, lowering his voice just a bit. It's enough to make Jeff reconsider his plan to place a hand on his arm.
"You need to either get up off that chair and go inside, or pick up that phone and find out what's wrong – why they haven't brought my brother back yet from the MRI. I'm gonna need you to get on that NOW."
Kind of an asshole, possibly, Jeff thinks to himself. He steps closer.
"You're Sam's brother? Dean?"
He tries to sound casually interested, like maybe he caught the tail end of the exchange as he walked by. Which is hard to do when those eyes turn their glare on him. Holy shit, this guy is intense.
Dean nods, frowning. "Yeah, you his doctor?"
"No, but I did his MRI, and I'm actually down here to talk to them about it."
Dean suddenly looks like he got the wind knocked out of him, aggressive stance gone. "It's - - you found something? In the scan?"
Jeff shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. Sam just - - you know what, let me talk to you over there, okay?" He gestures towards a corner near the exit, the only version of privacy the waiting room can offer. "Let's leave Andrea here to do her work, and I'll give you an update. I still need to talk to his doctor, but you're right, you need to know what's up."
He can practically feel the wave of relief rolling off Andrea as Dean turns away from the desk to follow him. She's not easy to intimidate, but this man is… well, he's scarier than most. Jeff finds himself hoping that it's just overprotectiveness – you rarely get to see people's pleasant side in here, when they're either sick or on high alert, ready to fight for a loved one in trouble. And Sam is definitely in trouble. It would suck if his brother turned out to be a bully, especially if he's his caretaker like the note in Sam's coat pocket suggests.
"So?" Dean's eyes are hard, his mask back on now that the momentary panic is gone. But Jeff can tell he's struggling to maintain a false sense of calm. Too worried to be a real asshole. Good. "Why isn't Sam back from the MRI yet, if you guys didn't find anything wrong?"
Jeff catches the man's tone as he asks the question, can tell he's already guessed the answer. He knows what happened; of course he does. Can't be the first time his brother checks out like that during a medical procedure. He just isn't sure what we know.
"Sam had some sort of an episode while we were performing the scan, somewhere towards the end. He didn't lose consciousness, he just - - well..."
Dean leans back against the wall, his face a strange mix of sorrow and relief. "You're saying he sort of went offline? Eyes glazed, not moving? Stopped responding?"
"Yeah. Exactly. You've obviously seen him do that before." Jeff clears his throat, nervous. "I don't think that's what it is, but I still have to ask: does Sam have epilepsy? A seizure disorder, anything like that?"
Dean shakes his head, looks away.
Jeff sighs. "Yeah, didn't think so. Look, it seems like you're the type of guy who doesn't like to beat around the bush, so I'm just gonna go ahead and ask you this point blank. What can you tell me about your brother's trauma?"
Dean stiffens at the last word. "What?"
"If he's having dissociative episodes this severe on a regular basis – and it sounds like he is – I have to assume he's been through some type of serious trauma at some point in his life. Am I wrong?"
Dean is still avoiding Jeff's eyes. "I don't know what the hell 'dissociative episodes' are, but yeah, I told the other doc that Sammy was carjacked a while ago. If you're looking for trauma, I think that should cover it."
Jeff isn't sure why he suddenly feels irritated, like he's being lied to. "Was there anything else before that? Something more prolonged? I assume it would have come up by now, but was he ever in the army?"
Dean looks up, and God damn, there's that thousand yard stare, just like Sam's – definitely a family story there, Jeff thinks – though, unlike his brother, he does talk. "You could say he's seen some combat."
"Meaning?"
Dean closes his eyes. "Look, um - - "
"Jeff."
"Jeff. I'm not - - Sam's been through a lot. If there's nothing physically wrong with him, though, some hospital sharing and caring won't be what fixes it. Are you done with the tests? Is he all cleared?"
"You want to take him home."
"Well, yeah." Dean is getting impatient again, pushing himself off the wall – not without a considerable amount of effort, Jeff notes – seemingly ready to go search the hospital for his brother. Jeff raises a hand, though he's careful to do it slowly. "Woah, okay, wait a minute. You can sign Sam out AMA if you're his legal guardian" – he watches Dean flinch at the term, okay then, not the case – "but obviously, since he's still unresponsive, that wouldn't be the best idea. Right now we've got him in a bed in the ER. Like I told you, that's why I'm here. To make sure they know what's going on with him. That they treat him right."
Dean deflates. "I didn't see you bring him back down from the MRI."
"Yeah, there's another way in. I'm sorry no one came to talk to you right away, but that happens when it gets crowded in there." Not entirely true this time, but he can hardly tell the guy that he procrastinated because he wasn't sure what the hell to do with his unresponsive brother.
Dean is watching the paramedics bring a new patient in, his face grim. "So Sam is still - - look, I gotta go see him. Just show me where he is. He can't be alone when he's out like that, that's how he got in this mess in the first place."
Jeff nods. "I can get you in there, but you have to work with me, okay? Here's the deal: I'm not really supposed be down in the ER right now, so I need to hurry up and catch the attending before I go back up to radiology. If I bring you in with me right now, they'll just kick you out once I'm gone. Easier if you wait a couple more minutes and let me make sure the doc is in the loop, first; she'll let you stay with Sam if she knows the circumstances." After a moment's thought he adds, "it's better for him if you don't have to constantly fight with the staff. He doesn't need the extra stress."
Dean was winding up for an argument, but he seems to reconsider when he hears the last sentence.
"Fine. But if you don't come back out here soon, and I mean real soon – "
"You're going in regardless. Yeah, I don't doubt that. Give me a few minutes."
Jeff can feel Dean's eyes on his back as he walks away, can hear the question the man isn't asking out loud. Why do you care so much about my brother?
He's not sure which part of him it is that answers, resigned, because I have to.
"I would have gotten to him eventually, you know." Laura is leaning against the wall, obviously annoyed at the prospects of pulling a double shift on the weekend – nothing new there. Jeff knows the resident just well enough to remain unimpressed by her surliness. Which is why he cornered her as soon as she stepped in – Alyssa wasn't wrong about her being the better option, as far as attendings go.
"Yeah, I know. But I need to make sure you get the full picture on this one before I go back upstairs. It's a bit of an unusual case. And he took a turn for the worse while we were running the MRI, too, so you'll need to know about that, and I gotta - -"
"Oh, fine. Now you got me interested." Laura gives him a crooked smile before she follows him to Sam's bed; she studies the patient's face as she reaches for the chart hanging off the railing. "Hi, I'm Dr. Martinez."
Sam doesn't meet her eyes, staring into space the same way he did before they approached. His mouth has dropped open and his head is hanging at a weird side-angle, like he's somehow forgotten that he has use of his muscles. The pillow is damp where it meets the corner of his mouth, like even swallowing is an action he isn't aware enough to maintain.
He's sinking, Jeff thinks. He shudders at another unwanted image of Antoine, silent and suddenly hollowed out as a dead tree trunk. Gone. Last time that happened was probably his worst episode yet, and that only lasted a few minutes before he started to come back; Sam has been like this for over an hour, so far. And not even for the first time today.
Laura frowns, flips through the pages.
"Huh. Okay, says here he's pretty responsive to painful stimuli and to light, right?"
Jeff nods. "Right. But we're not getting any cooperation when we try to communicate with him, and he seems unaware most of the time. I know you'll want to check for the usual suspects with these symptoms, but - um - - "
Martinez raises an eyebrow. "Come on, just say what you're thinking, even if it's way out there. You know I won't bite. Too tired."
Jeff snorts before he can catch himself. At least she's aware that misanthropy is pretty much her brand; self-humor isn't always a given around here. He can appreciate that. "So I took a quick look at the scan back in radiology, nothing obvious; his lab results came back clear too, other than very mild dehydration. I get the feeling he's maybe more altered than anything else. This is starting to look like some sort of a psychiatric crisis. Probably PTSD-related, if I had to guess."
The attending squints at him, surprised. "Well, that's… specific. What about this makes you think we're looking at traumatic response?"
Jeff takes Sam's hand, carefully uncurls the limp fingers and presses on the center of his palm. "Easier if I show you. Watch his upper arm."
Sam doesn't make a sound or shift his gaze, seeming completely oblivious, his eyes still unfocused and unblinking; but they can both see the way his shoulder pulls back convulsively, almost a reflex motion.
"He's trying to get away," Laura says, surprised. "That's odd."
Jeff nods. "And I'm not squeezing nearly hard enough to cause any pain, right?"
He repeats the action with Sam's other hand, more gently this time, with the same result.
"See, I don't think much of anything we say to him is registering, but he's obviously hypervigilant. You can tell his system is wired to over-respond to some types of stimuli, even when he's mentally shut down. You don't get like that without a damn good reason."
He claps by the man's ear. Sam's face remains expressionless, but his full-body flinch is impossible to miss.
Laura nods. "I'd say severely hypervigilant. And definitely conscious. Just not completely… what, aware?"
Jeff sighs. "Yeah. Says in the chart that Davis spoke to the guy for a bit before they sent him our way for the MRI, but the notes don't make much sense. Sounds like Sam was in and out, and his brother did some of the talking for him, too. So Davis probably had no idea what he was looking at."
"And you think you do."
Jeff shrugs. "I mean, yeah, maybe. Hard to tell for sure, but the way things went down while we were doing the scan, I do think this looks like a post-traumatic reaction. Something like a severe dissociative episode would be my guess." He hesitates, considers adding I've seen this before, decides not to. He has no desire to discuss the when and where again.
"The brother's out in Chairs, you should probably have a word with him – try to get a history. I'm not 100% clear on whether or not we're dealing with a war vet here. Or maybe there's some old trauma, like early abuse. The guy - his name is Dean - might know about that, too. Although I should tell you, he's pretty worked up. He's been waiting for a long time, and he's worried." Jeff hesitates, then adds sheepishly, "I told him we'd let him in to sit with Sam while we have him here."
Laura studies their patient's face, looking uneasy. "I'll bring the guy in, but if you're expecting to get that kind of a history out of him, don't. Odds are we're not going to get anything useful as far as past trauma goes; and if we're talking childhood trauma, you can damn near count on not getting anywhere. People think it's just the parents that can be in denial about that sort of thing, but – "
"I know." Jeff doesn't even try not to think of Antoine's siblings, about birthdays and anniversaries that turn into reminders of absence. Antoine's life is a graveyard some days, riddled with blank headstones for the living. He was the one who taught Jeff how the act of remembering and the act of forgetting can both mean betrayal to someone when your family was the scene of the crime.
Jeff sighs. "Still, we gotta try and get ahead of this thing. They're having a bad week in psych, half their staff is down with that bug that's been going around. The guy is going to be with us until midnight, easy. If we can figure out what's going on with him in the meantime, we might be able to… I don't know, bring him back a little? I'd hate to just leave him like this for hours without at least trying something."
Laura nods. "Okay, yeah. Listen, I'll go call radiology and tell them I needed you for a consult, and that I'm sending you up in ten. I just need to hear what exactly happened during the scan before I talk to the brother. Be right back."
As Martinez disappears down the hall, Jeff angles a look at the silent man.
"Hey, Sam," he says, moving carefully closer to block his patient's view of the typical ER chaos going on in the background. "Can you hear me? I think you've been away long enough, man. Listen, you're done with the scan, no more medical nonsense, I promise. It's really okay."
He studies Sam's eyes, noticing that the long, slow blinks are almost gone now. Instead, the man's eyelids seem to slide half-closed and then open over and over again, fluttering in a strange, almost hypnotic rhythm. Not a seizure; something - - something else –
Yeah, he knows that, too. Of course; Antoine's fingers twitching against his knee as they sat in a train car, his eyes far away and lost, unaware of where he was. His lips forming the same word soundlessly again and again in a restaurant on their anniversary, when he shut down because their server reminded him of someone from back home. The mild, but still noticeable way in which he sometimes rocks back and forth when he's gone beyond hearing or feeling or remembering where he is.
Jeff has seen the occasional altered patient do that in the hospital, too. Strange, repetitive movement, almost like people get stuck somehow. Or maybe that's not what that is; maybe they find a sort of comfort in repetition. Something deep and primal that he can't relate to.
Why do you do that? They were curled up in front of the TV, trying to ignore the fact that it was a perfect fucking day outside and that they had spent all of it indoors, plans abandoned, all the air sucked out of the apartment. Some days are just like that. Didn't start out that way; Antoine had half-jokingly moaned over breakfast about being the oldest living grad student on campus, you haven't seen those kids, I'm practically geriatric to them, and Jeff had teased him about it mercilessly. Because it was easier than thinking about why it had taken him so long to get there, about the wreckage he's had to wade through and how he was nowhere near done. Easier to laugh with him than to say shut up, I'm so proud of you. But then the entire day went off the rails, thanks to a news story about abuse that Antoine came across while he was looking for something online. So much for celebrating.
Antoine was still quiet, lax against Jeff's chest on the couch, his eyes wandering; still in the process of coming all the way back from another slide into that low-level consciousness, a state that always seems to vacillate impossibly between utter calm and deep shock. He blinked at the question.
Wh - - what?
Why do you do that? Why do you - - you know, there's this thing you do when you're not all here. You keep moving your fingers, you mumble the same word over and over again. Stuff like that. Is that you trying to tell me something? Asking for something? Do I need to know what that means?
But Antoine had no idea what he was talking about. Not an attempt at communication, then; not a rational thing he could explain. Maybe just a twitch of agony, an unconscious beacon his body sends out on its own when it's unoccupied. Less occupied.
Jeff ignores a fleeting urge to lay a hand over Sam's restless eyelids, muffle the way in which the sight makes him ache for comfort, for somewhere else, for anywhere else. Instead he leans a bit closer to the unresponsive man's face, forces himself to look into his dilated pupils.
"Sam, I know you're feeling overwhelmed, but I really need you to try here. Can you look at me?"
He carefully tilts Sam's head to force eye contact, watches the dull hazel gaze drift over his face without really seeing it. He can tell there's no conscious thought behind that lifeless stare, not yet.
"Okay, I'm back." Laura drags over a stool and sits down by the bed, smiling at him. "Got an earful from radiology, but what else is new." She impatiently pulls on her hair to put it up in what appears to be an extra-messy version of the messy bun. Jeff decides to keep his bird's nest imagery to himself; they're not quite close enough for teasing yet. And frankly, he's not exactly looking daisy-fresh, either.
Laura gestures towards an intern who slinks in after her, looking nervous. And clearly hungover, Jeff notes to himself. That's not gonna fly here, not with Martinez. "This is Miller, he's new. He's just observing today, don't worry." Miller wilts a bit into his new lab coat, wisely chooses to remain silent as Laura turns to look at their patient. "So, tell us everything we know about this guy again. Start from the beginning."
Time has lost all meaning again, expanding and contracting, passing him by as he floats in a vacuum. He doesn't care; the hurt is gone. That's all that matters. Something about that is ominously familiar, but he knows it's too dangerous to remember.
Voices fading in, growing louder. He tries in vain to dissolve, to disappear, go away.
"Sam Frehley, male, early thirties. Brought in for collapsing on the street, unclear if he lost consciousness or just became non-responsive. We got him talking here, but then he shut down again halfway through an MRI. We haven't detected any physiological cause so far, and based on what we got from his brother about this being a known issue, looks like there might be an emotional source."
He loses track for a while, the words all blending together, though not enough for him to ignore them. He recognizes what he thinks is his name, Sam, is it Sam?
"... Sam isn't communicating just yet. He was before, though. I've been trying to get him to come back to us." The last words sound aimed at him, the change in tone ringing like empathy, and he won't fall for it, not again let me go I'm not coming back I've had enough - -
"Sam?"
Name. Your name. Run leave go now - -
Hushed conversation, and then another voice, too close. A woman.
"Sam, hey, no - - I need you to try and keep your eyes open for me. Just for a sec, okay?"
Are his eyes closed?
A hand touching his arm, pressing on his shoulder gently. "Sam."
He becomes increasingly aware of the distant rattle of distress, and the memory of the torment that still awaits him (not going anywhere Samuel, all we've got down here is time, thanks to you) floods him with panic. Stop no please go away please please.
The hand is still gripping his bicep, fingers moving like spiders on his skin, he's trapped trapped trapped. His body reacts, muscles seizing, breathing growing rapid.
"Hey, hey. Sam, it's okay. You're in the hospital, you just had some tests done. Everything's alright, you're safe."
He tries to speak, tries to tell them they're wrong, that nothing is okay, nothing is safe because, because - - but all his mouth produces is an incoherent mumble, his eyes refuse to open. Glued shut. Did Lucifer tar them shut again?
The first voice is speaking somewhere above his head. "I'd say our priority right now should be mainly to ground him."
He's still trying unsuccessfully to get away from the grip on his arm, hears the faint mewl of distress before he's aware that he's the one making it.
"I know, Sam. I know. I still need you to open your eyes, okay? Even if it's very, very hard."
He shakes his head. At least he thinks he does.
"No? You don't want to open your eyes? Can you tell me why?"
His brain somehow finds the word in the deep, black mud it's encased in, drags it out.
"Hu - - hurts. Hurts."
A few seconds of silence, then the hand releases its grip.
"Alright, okay. Sam, I promise no one here is going to hurt you. Breathe."
The voice sounds more distant now, like the person is moving away. "Looks like it'll take time. Something has him too scared to surface."
"Yeah. I need to head back, Laura. I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Just go over what exactly happened during the MRI, and then I'll walk you out through Chairs, so that we can - - "
He doesn't hear the rest, sinking gratefully down, down, down never coming up for air never coming back no no no.
He sleeps.
The waiting room feels too small, too crowded. There aren't even that many people; they've been to far worse hospitals than this one. But Dean is beginning to feel claustrophobic. A quick look around him makes it clear that no one else is finding the oxygen in the room insufficient.
Great. Go ahead and freak out while you wait for them to let you see Sam. That'll help things go faster.
He clenches and unclenches his fists, stares outside through the large window. Feels like it's still noon, but the street is dark. He wonders if that's what it's like for Sam, never being able to trust what he's feeling.
The woman at the front desk occasionally raises her head to survey the room, and she gives him a dirty look every time. He can't really blame her. He was half ready to break something by the time that doctor (or was the guy a med tech?) approached him and took him aside to talk about Sam. He doesn't meet her eyes. She'll get over it.
Three more minutes. If they don't come out to get him in three more minutes, he's going in and fuck their rules. He can't stand the thought of Sam alone on some gurney in there, staring into nothing. Being manhandled and moved around without warning, being talked about but not talked to, because they assume he's out. And he might be, but what if he can feel and see and hear everything, unable to move or think or say stop, hurts, what if he's terrified - -
He doesn't realize right away that it's sulfur he's smelling. The kind he only came to know down there, the kind that melts your lungs and boils your eyes in their sockets. He's still breathing though, can still see. Not there. Not down there with Alastair, not on the rack. Not standing by the rack, either, no razor in his hand, no guts on the floor no blood in his mouth - -
He blinks hard, digs his fingers into his forearm.Here, definitely here. The light feels too bright, but that's fine, it means he's topside. He's still here and he needs to check on Sammy. Make sure he knows where he is, too.
As soon as he can move his legs.
His phone buzzes. Text from Bobby, checking in because he hasn't heard from him in hours. Dean hates the way his hands shake as he types a response. Stop it. Just stop.
No news, he writes, still waiting on Sam. Had another episode inside MRI. Will write later.
He barely manages to hit send, still distracted by the phantom smell of sulfur, though it's almost gone now. It's getting increasingly hard not to keep looking around when every cell in his body is insisting that there has to be an actual demon in the room. He hates the landmines his brain keeps setting up for him ever since Hell, and they make him a fucking liability on a hunt, too –– Sam hasn't said a word about the times when Dean nearly shot his head off because he thought he saw or smelled something that wasn't there, but Dean knows he's noticed.
Not that they'll be going hunting any time soon.
Bobby's response is exactly what he'd expect. Shit. Let us know. And about 30 seconds later, another text: He awake now?
Dean doesn't answer. Instead he takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. Two more minutes. Give them that much. The guy was right about needing to get Sam's doctor on board; he's been kicked out of enough busy ER's to know that. But the waiting gives him time to wonder about what Sam felt inside that machine that made him go under again. He can all too easily imagine why the MRI turned out to be one of Sam's personal landmines – you don't spend decades in Hell (or minutes climbing out of your own grave, for that matter) without getting a pretty good idea about what being buried alive might do to a person's tolerance for small spaces.
The thought does nothing to ease his guilt about the amount of time Sam has been spending alone today. He's just about to head inside, screw waiting, let them try to kick me out, when he sees Jeff heading his way with a couple of doctors. One of them looks utterly useless, but the other seems confident enough to possibly know what she's doing, so he reserves judgment. Well, sort of.
Jeff smiles at him, surprisingly warm. The guy has been inexplicably friendly, and Dean wonders why that is. "Hey, Dean. This is Dr. Laura Martinez. She's in charge here, so you'll be talking to her. Before we get you inside to see Sam, could you - - um - " Jeff hesitates. The doctor takes the hint.
"Your brother is a bit of a mystery to us," she says, gesturing at the row of chairs for them to sit down. Great, Dean thinks, so this is gonna take a while.
He can sense the doctors' eyes on him as he plops down on one of the blue plastic seats, barely holding back a groan, and he hopes he doesn't look as beat to hell as he feels. The last thing he needs is for the staff to wonder if he's fit to take care of Sam.
"What do you mean, a mystery?" he asks, though he knows perfectly well what will come next.
It takes him about seven minutes to go through the same dance he's already done with Jeff and with the previous doctor - yes, Sam has shut down like this before, no, I don't know why; the made-up carjacking story that's supposed to give them something solid to pin Sam's post-traumatic symptoms on, because he can't exactly tell them about the Cage; avoiding the details of their past and their home life. It's all familiar and achingly pointless, and to her credit, the doctor appears to find it as frustrating as he does. Also to her credit, she doesn't seem at all surprised by his evasiveness.
"Okay," she finally says, raising an eyebrow and turning to Jeff. "I think we get the picture, or as much of it as we can get. You should probably go back, right? Before they send out a search party."
Jeff gives her little grin, though his heart doesn't seem to be in it. "Yeah, an armed one, too."
He turns to Dean, his smile falling. "So, I'm going to leave you with Dr. Martinez here. You're in good hands. I've spoken to her about what I think might be going on with Sam, and about what I saw during the scan. I really think you being by his side would be the best thing for him right now. Hopefully he'll come back to himself soon."
Dean watches the man as he walks over to the front desk to get a piece of paper, scribbles down a note and hands it to him. "Listen, this is my cell number. If there's any trouble, or if you need someone to run things by, feel free to call. Really. You and your brother seem like good people, and I'd hate for Sam to slip through the cracks."
He doesn't know what to say, dumbstruck by this sudden display of generosity. And a bit suspicious. Why would anyone - - what?
But Jeff is already on his way, waving at Dr. Martinez and Nameless Intern #2 as he disappears around a corner. Dean looks down at the piece of paper, speechless.
My fiancé has the same condition as Sam, the note reads. Call if either of you needs someone to talk to. And tell Sam he didn't do or say anything embarrassing. He'll want to know that, trust me.
Dean stares at the text, at the phone number written just below it, at the scuffed floor. At his feet. At the back of a chair. At anything that might keep him from feeling what he's feeling, stop it right the fuck now.
He clears his throat, stuffs the note in his pocket. His eyes are dry, he's in control. There's nowhere safe. He's in control.
"Okay," he says, looking up at the doctor who seems to be watching him carefully. "Can I go see my brother?"
She nods. "Yeah, sure. Follow me."
He finds it hard to catch his breath on the way in, but it's when he sees Sam again that he really feels like all the air is squeezed out of his lungs.
Sam wasn't looking well before, but now he's looking half dead. His eyes are closed, though not all the way, like he isn't quite conscious enough to notice. And he's paler than before, his limbs looser against the hospital mattress, like part of him has somehow uncoiled more than it ever should. Like he's let go and is free falling. What the hell happened?
Dean stands by the gurney for a minute, staring at his brother. Part of him wonders if this is how it's going to be from now on, if Sam is going to spend the rest of his life shutting down and disappearing time and time again, getting progressively worse. Because their reality - any reality, in fact - seems to be little more than an endless march of triggers for him, and neither of them can predict what they don't understand.
"You're the older brother, right? How long have you been Sam's caretaker?" The doctor sounds cautious, like she knows the question is a loaded one, but the words still hurt. He frowns, avoiding her eyes.
"I'm not his caretaker. Sam doesn't need a caretaker. He's just - - he has his off days, his bad hours. But it's not like he's helpless."
It feels absurd, saying that while looking at Sam's still face pressed against the hospital pillowcase, at his arm hanging limply over the railing (when did they hook him up to an IV?). He looks about as wounded and helpless as he's been in a long time.
If the doctor is tempted to point out the ridiculousness of Dean's statement, she resists the urge well. All she says is, "okay. So you guys are dealing with this as it comes."
"Pretty much, yeah." He makes himself sit down, keeps his eyes on Sam. Behind him, the doctor – is her name Laura? – lowers her voice to tell the intern to get lost, or at least that's what Dean assumes, judging by the way the guy disappears down the hall in a huff a few seconds later. Dean wonders if she thinks she has a better chance of getting information out of him in private, like what the hell really happened to Sam.
Good luck with that, he thinks, I don't think Sam even knows.
Apparently the woman can read a room, though, because all she says is, "I'm guessing you're pretty tired by now."
He shrugs. "Yeah, a little. S'okay, not my first time watching over this dumbass in a hospital." First time I helped put him there, though. He closes his eyes as the thought comes, sour and mocking. Tell the doc more about how tired you are, come on. About how you just didn't get enough of your beauty sleep in that car today.
"I don't mean that," Laura says. She sounds like she's sorry - for him or for Sam, he isn't sure - as she adds, "I meant to say that you've probably been worried about him his whole life. Am I right? You look like you're the type."
Dean finds himself smiling, sort of. "Oh, yeah? And what exactly is the type?"
She smiles back at him. "I don't know, hard to say. Some older siblings are just like that. Weight of the world on their shoulders, that kind of thing. You can tell they don't even remember what life was like before they were someone's big brother."
Well, that's not exactly true. Not for him. He doesn't remember much before Sam, but he remembers full well what it feels like without Sam. He's had practice, long before Hell or the Cage.
He nods at the doctor as she tells him she'll be right back, watches her distractedly as she walks away to take a call. Too late, he can't avoid the memory now.
Which is bad, because he doesn't like to think about that year. One of the reasons he headed straight to Lisa's after Stull Cemetery was that he knew what he was in for, with Sam gone. Had learned the hard way, back in his early twenties. And he was surprised, though not truly relieved, when the devastation never came this time; at least, it came in a form he could live with. The mornings were bad again, each and every one, despite Lisa and Ben. But it was a different kind of bad – the concrete thought of his brother starting another day in the Cage. Knowing that for Sam, years will have passed by the time night falls. Going through the day was a matter of pain management, of breathing through it. Smiling through it.
It wasn't exactly grief, because he knew Sam still existed; more an ache that nested in his chest, almost palpable. Miss him. Gotta help him. Sammy. It was a different beast, not the thing that almost killed him when Sam left for Stanford. That's the year he tries hardest to forget about.
Back then, there was no pain; he just felt hollow. Dead. Mornings that year were flat and grey, the weight of every single molecule in the room – in the universe, somehow – pressing down on him as soon as his eyes blinked open. Dad didn't know what to make of it, which meant he reverted to his default; but he couldn't stay angry for long, because Dean didn't have any pushback left in him.
John tried to drag him out of one motel room after another for nights out, and then during the day just for the sake of being outside, if there was no hunt to take care of that. Dean remembers a dull, distant discomfort at the way his father watched him from across countless diner tables while he stared at his plate, trying to make himself believe that he could eat.
One night they had to go hustle some pool because there was literally no money left, and it was too cold to sleep in the Impala. Nothing particularly challenging for him, nothing new. He managed to get himself up and into the bar, and he went ahead and played his part beautifully; and then he stumbled out back and threw up in the alley, struggling to breathe on his knees by the dumpster. He remembers his father's arm around his shoulder, his eyes dark and worried, his voice doing that thing it did whenever he was feeling too much and decided to feel nothing at all. I know you miss him, but you can't fall apart on me like that, we've got a job to do.
He remembers trying.
He doesn't remember the night he got back to Sioux Falls after spying on Sam in Stanford, Sam who looked so happy and at ease with his college buddies, Sam who suddenly seemed so young out of battle (he's just 18, Dean suddenly realized, he's a teen for fuck's sake, still) and awkward and sweet around girls. Sam who was unfamiliar and yet somehow whole in his new life in a way Dean never was, never knew was possible. Sam who had truly left.
Dad never spoke about that night, but Bobby did. He told him about the fight (you don't contact your brother, ever, he's GONE), about John breaking half the kitchen before he took off, about 1 AM when Bobby realized Dean was nowhere to be found and about when he finally did find him.
He doesn't remember the empty field two miles down the road, or the bottle of scotch or the gun in his hand, doesn't remember what Bobby said that finally got to him. What made him not go through with it. He doesn't remember Bobby and John watching him 24/7 the weeks after. It's all a fog he somehow found his way clear of, eventually. By the time Dad went missing, he was mostly okay.
He didn't die, and he doesn't like to think about that year, that night, because sometimes it feels less like it was a close call and more like he missed his exit.
He sighs, takes a long breath before he leans forward to talk to Sam again, beg him to wake the hell up already, please, we can't keep doing this.
It's then that he realizes Sam is looking right at him.
It's sunny. He's walking through an endless field of feathergrass, his hand outstretched to touch the tall, downy blossoms as he moves forward. There's wind on his face, cool and dry and fragrant, and Sam can't tell if this is a dream, can't tell how he got here and he doesn't think he minds, because everything is green and swaying around him and this is where you forget, this is where you're allowed to, this is where you let go so close your eyes, close your eyes it's okay - -
But his eyes are closed. It's not the sun shining through his eyelids (paper-thin, first thing to go whenever Lucifer decides to burn him to ashes again); no, it's something white, cold. He flexes his hand and instantly knows that the thing that's tangled between his fingers and coiling against his forearm is plastic, nothing like the soft brush of grass. IV drip. You know where you are.
He wants to cry, but there are no tears left in him, and there's no point.
He opens his eyes.
The last thing he clearly remembers is the inside of the MRI, but he seems to be back in the ER now. Dean is there, slumped on a visitor's chair by his bed; he's staring at the edge of the hospital blanket with that distant expression that Sam knows means bad news. He looks exhausted, just like he did earlier, but he also looks… small. His hands clasped together in his lap, his face unguarded the way it must always be when he thinks no one is watching, his brother looks like he's in pain. And scared.
Sam bites his lip against a surge of misery, this is what you do to him, why can't you just keep your shit together for - -
Dean sighs, turns his gaze to him. The way he lights up when he realizes Sam is awake, that he's present again, makes Sam ache. It takes so little these days.
"Sammy, hey. You back with us?"
Sam nods, not fully trusting his voice. Then he forces himself to speak anyway, because it's the least he can do, and Dean is still looking at him like he's trying to assess his level of awareness. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm good. Did I - - did I go away again? During the scan?"
Dean nods. "You've been under for a while, too. Probably two hours straight. They said they tried everything they could think of to wake you up, but you were pretty much dead to the world."
Sam feels his pulse quickening, his face getting hot with embarrassment. "Oh. Shit, I'm - - I'm sorry, I think something in there must have… I don't know." He clears his throat, struggles to sit up. His muscles protest the idea, but it's a distant kind of pain, nothing he can't ignore. "What's with the IV?"
Dean gets up to fiddle with the clear bag. "It's just saline and that sort of crap, they probably wanted to get some fluids in you. I don't th- " he stops and stares as Sam carefully pulls the needle out of the back of his hand, furrowing his brow. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?"
Sam shrugs. "I'm feeling fine. They'll be discharging me soon, anyway, right? I mean, once they see I'm alright."
"Oh, you're peachy."
Sam is too distracted to take offense at Dean's tone; he's looking around frantically, because something else is suddenly occurring to him. "Where are my - - why am I not wearing - - "
"Oh, I'm guessing they made you put the hospital gown on just before you got the scan. Your clothes are probably in there." Dean points at a paper bag that some kind soul took the time to place at the end of the mattress by Sam's feet, for safekeeping. "Although I gotta say, Sammy, you're really rocking the frilly nighty look. A little wind in your hair and I'd cast you in The Exorcist as that possessed girl, any day."
Sam relaxes a bit, reaches out for the bag to check its contents. Everything's in there, including his boots and socks. Someone took those off him and he didn't feel it, doesn't remember. The thought messes him up more than it should, by now.
"Oh. Yeah, okay."
He blinks blearily for a moment, trying to retrieve at least some of the information he's lost, then gives up. Either it'll come back at some point or it won't. "What did the doctor say? I mean, they didn't find anything on the MRI, did they?"
Dean snores. "Of course not. I told you, nothing in there but - "
"Yeah, yeah. Seriously though."
Dean's face tells him something has been said, and that it's probably not something he would like. "Well - - I mean, it's not like they know you here. They're pretty much just scratching their heads trying to figure it out."
Sam forces the next words out. "Okay, so what do they think is wrong with me? They must have mentioned something."
Dean doesn't look at him as he says, "I don't know, man, one of the docs said something about trauma."
Sam looks at him blankly. His voice sounds flat to him, somehow wrong as he repeats, "trauma. That's what they said? What, that I'm post-traumatic? They think that's what makes me go away like that? Lose time?"
Dean nods, says nothing. Sam studies his face.
"And you think they're right."
"I don't know, Sammy. Doesn't sound that far fetched. Something happened to you in that cabin, and you can't just - - what are you doing?"
Calm. Stay calm. Sam tries to sound casual as he says, "I'm getting dressed. We need to go. Ellen and Bobby are probably worried, and there's no point in staying here now that I'm okay."
He can feel Dean's eyebrows being raised without even looking at him. "Oka- - Sam, are you kidding me? You just came back from, what, two hours of being practically catatonic? You are not okay."
Sam sighs, pulling his jeans up under the hospital gown before taking it off to wear his now-wrinkled T and overshirt. "Where's my coat?"
"Sam, stop for a minute. Come on."
He locates his coat (why is there mud all over the back? Was he - - oh. The park. He was in the park, he was on the ground, people were yelling). "Listen, Dean, I get it, okay? I'm not an idiot. I know I'm still in trouble. But they can't help me here. Right?"
His brother nods, looking defeated. "I know they can't, but I just - - I don't know, I thought you'd maybe give it a few minutes. See if you're stable before we start sneaking out. We are sneaking out, right?"
Sam thinks about facing the staff. About how many strangers must have touched him, talked at him, tried to wake him while he was cold and mute and gone, just today.
"Yeah, we're sneaking out."
He buttons the flannel and grabs his coat, looking out into the hallway. "We don't know what's going to make it happen again, anyway. And I need to get away from here, there are too many variables, too much shit that makes it worse. I'm sorry you got dragged here, I don't know wh- - "
"Oh, shut up. Fine, you're right. Let's head out."
Dean thinks to himself that it's a good thing, sort of. A Sam who's hard-headed and impatient and anxious to move is better than a Sam who's silent and unaware and unresponsive, and it's not like he was expecting the doctors to actually offer a solution to his brother's condition. That's the word Jeff used in his note; condition. Like there's a name for it, like what Sam has been struggling with is written down in a textbook somewhere.
He suddenly wants to go back and grab Sam's chart, see if there's a lead there. But they're already heading down the stairwell, and returning to the ER means risking another encounter with a staff member. They've both had plenty of experience with leaving hospitals AMA; it takes forever, and Sam doesn't have that.
He watches his brother as they walk through another floor. It's strange to see Sam go from detached and slow to alert and sharp, back to his old self like nothing ever happened. Dean thinks about his own crashes, about how long it takes him to feel like himself again after a flashback or an extra-bad nightmare. How do you just switch on like that?
He shakes his head, annoyed. Not the time. Leave it alone.
There's a family making its way through the hall just ahead. The boy - around eleven or twelve years old, probably - is wearing hospital PJ's and looks like he's been crying, wiping his nose angrily on his sleeve and avoiding Dean's eyes. His mom is distracted, her face pale and fragile-looking like she hasn't had any sleep in too long, and doesn't even remember that it's an option. The dad isn't looking much better, dark circles around his eyes and about a week's worth of stubble. But any passing sympathy Dean might have had for him evaporates when the guy opens his mouth.
"Come on, Dylan, what's with the crying? We told you it was fine. The doctor said it was fine. Just - - come on. You're embarrassing yourself. Jesus!"
Sam slows down, frowns at the man who hasn't noticed them yet, or doesn't care. Okay, they're in trouble. Shit.
Dean grabs Sam's elbow. "Hey, don't. Don't."
Sam looks at him like he can't believe what he's hearing. "He's - - "
"Yeah, I know. Guy's a tool. We gotta keep moving."
Sam's eyes narrow. "I just want to tell him to take it easy on the kid."
Dean sighs. "I get it, man, but telling him to quit being an asshole's not gonna work. You'll just make him angry, and the kid is the one he'll take it out on. You need to let this one go."
He doesn't add and we need to get you the hell out of here before you go under again, because he knows that won't be a factor for Sam. Not in a situation like this. Never used to be a factor for him, either, before.
Sam is staring daggers at the man, but he seems to give up on confrontation. As they walk past the family Dean braces himself, ready to pull Sam away or possibly punch Douchebag Father of the Year, should it come to that; but Sam just catches the kid's eye, smiles at him in a way that's so pained and exposed that Dean can hear the words like they were spoken out loud. I know, hang in there.
He swallows hard. Tries to ignore the resistance that still seems to come up in him at the suggestion or the mere indication that John was a bad father, that Sam remembers him as a bad father. That particular streak in his protectiveness has been wearing thin in recent years, as he finds himself thinking about their childhood and wondering about some of Dad's choices. But still. The urge to defend him is there. The need to say hey, he tried, he was clueless, he was a goner the minute Mom died. The need to say he loved us, so.
He keeps quiet. Watches Sam's back as they keep moving, let's just get out of here, don't think. He hopes against hope that Sam isn't thinking, either; that the powder keg that is his brother's mind these days will stay undisturbed just for now. That he'll manage not to think of their father until it's safe. Well, relatively safe.
It's because his eyes are on Sam that he catches the way his steps begin to falter, right around the time they figure out the best route to the underground parking lot. No no no no no.
"Sammy, you good?"
Sam nods automatically, doesn't protest as Dean takes him by the shoulders and turns him around to look at his face. "You starting to space out on me again?"
"What - - um, no, no. 'm okay." Sam is trying hard to hide it, which means he's still in the in-between stage. Not for long, though; his eyes are already too wide, his responses too slow. "I'm good, Dean. 's not – we're not - - "
"Sammy, hey, it's okay. Look at me. We're getting out of here, remember?"
Sam nods jerkily, his breathing getting labored. There it is, the distress rising to the surface. The pain he can't handle. "Yeah, I know, it's not - - I ca- can't – "
Dean watches as his brother trails off, as his face drains of its anguish all at once. Sam's eyelids flutter, and just like that he's switched off again, his gaze empty and his expression slack. His hands drop to his sides.
Shit. No. Not here.
"Come on," Dean hears himself say, and his arm is wrapped around Sam's torso before he even makes the decision to hold him up, his brother swaying and leaning into the touch like he's drunk. These episodes make Sam a drowning man, sinking fast and too exhausted to hold on. Dean bites down on the pain, tightens his grip. "Okay, alright."
They need to get to the Impala, out of the hospital, away from this place that keeps tripping all of Sam's wires for whatever reason. That's all that matters. That's all he's allowed to think about.
Sam's weight grows limp against him, and Dean raises his voice. "Sammy, hey, hey! Don't do this. Stay awake, come on. Come on." I'm so tired. Please wake up. "Look at me. Sam, look at me. Right here."
Sam sighs, blinks slowly once, twice before his face goes lax again. Almost. Almost there. They're haphazardly leaning against the wall now, and if Sam goes down there's no way Dean will be able to get him back up again before someone calls for help. Shit, come on.
"You can do this, you know you can. Sam, don't go to sleep."
Sam frowns. "Not - - 'm not asleep," he slurs. "You t- told, told me."
"That's right. So let's keep you vertical, okay? We gotta get out of here. You keel over right now, they're gonna roll you right back in there for some more tests. You want to get home, right? You can sleep all you want there."
This is the first time he's referred to Ellen's place as home, and the word feels foreign on his tongue after years of saying back to the motel, or back to the car on especially lean weeks.
The place they were staying in before everything started had sickly-green wallpaper and beds with spring traps for mattresses, and he does not miss the typical aroma of motels, either. But just because they're grounded now, just because they've spent a couple months in one place, doesn't mean it's theirs. Thinking like that gets you in trouble.
He nudges Sam. "Okay, one foot in front of the other. You make it to the car and we're golden. You with me? It's maybe thirty feet, piece of cake."
It's more like two hundred feet with the way this place is built, but Sam doesn't seem to be in the mood to contradict him. "M-hmmm," he says, blinking hard and doing what Dean thinks might be his version of standing up straight at the moment. "L- let's go."
They're about ten miles away from Ellen's when Sam looks out the window and takes a sharp inhale, like he wasn't expecting to find himself where he is. Dean keeps his eyes on the road.
"You back?"
Sam nods, clears his throat the way he always does when he's embarrassed. "Yeah. Um. Sor-"
"Man, if you say 'sorry' one more time after one of your episodes, so help me, I'm gonna punch you in the face."
Sam snorts. "That'd be kind of counterproductive."
"I didn't say 'knock you out', I said 'punch you in the face'."
Sam nods, distracted. He thinks for a while before saying, "how – I mean, how did the hospital know to call you? Did I tell them? I don't remember telling them."
"No, they found a note with emergency contact info in your coat. Ellen must have stuffed one in every pocket of every damn piece of clothing you own." Dean tries to sound matter-of-fact. He never thought to do that, because he never thought Sam would find himself alone and in trouble when he's got him. You never learn.
"Oh." Sam sinks in his seat, looking back out the window. Ashamed again, Dean thinks. The thought makes his chest ache. He closes his fists harder around the steering wheel, keeps his eyes on the road.
They both stay silent for the rest of the drive.
