Sam didn't need to be told to take it easy, anymore. When he first woke up, his lungs felt like overinflated balloons in his chest. His throat was bone dry, and there was a nasty aftertaste that refused to go away. The fuzzy vision and hearing he could handle; not the first time he'd been given sedatives. He had enough awareness to register Dean mother-henning him to the brink of unconsciousness. Dean was still in one piece.
However, they remained stuck in the hospital. Not only was Sam confined to bed, but he had to take water from a syringe due to having had a tube stuck down his throat for two days! Ugh, he didn't have the energy to deal with this. He wanted to sleep, except this new doctor, Carter, wanted him to try to work off the rest of the sedative in his system.
"Don't stress yourself, Sammy," Dean told him for the fifteenth time. "Carter and I got this covered until you're back on track."
"I'm not dying, Dean. Would you quit calling me Sammy?"
His older brother smiled. "There's the kid I know. I was starting to think this whole fiasco with your head had done something after all. You never let me get away with calling you Sammy so much!"
"Well it ends now."
"Though for your information, I thought you were dying in front of me two days ago, so I think I got a right to call you what I want," quipped Dean, glancing out the window. Darkness had settled outside the myriad building lights.
Sam let it drop there. He could understand watching family seem to slip away right before his eyes. He'd watched Dean do just that, way back when they escaped Yellow Eyes only to crash the Impala. And by all accounts, the sight of himself seizing and unable to breathe was not easy to witness. "Dean…I'm sorry."
"Don't go doing that again, we've been through this—"
"I still hate the fact that I can't just shake this and let us get out of here!"
Dean gripped his shoulder almost to the point of pain. "I don't blame you for this. We've got a leviathan circling, that's the plain truth. It's sheer dumb luck that his arms aren't regenerated enough to physically fight. So focus on the fact that we have time to get you better, not the annoying setback that you happened to be deathly allergic to one medication they gave you. I'll kick your invalid ass."
Sam smiled. Only his brother…that's why he loved the guy despite all the crap they both pulled over the years. In the lapse of silence, he gave in to the urge to yawn and scratch at his healing scalp.
"Quit it. Don't think I won't kick your ass for other reasons," Dean said plainly. But his ever-boyish grin was in place.
"Wouldn't it be easier to just let me sleep this off?"
"You've been unconscious waaay too much lately, dude. Doc wants to see that you're functioning all right after all the excitement. I'd like to be sure, too."
"Well, you're doing a lousy job of entertaining me, so forgive me if I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open. You got any cards or something?"
"Well, we are behind on your little brain exercises…"
Sam groaned. "Seriously?"
"Doc's orders, little bro," Dean reminded him. He was enjoying this way too much. "And you want something to pass the time. Come on, let's make sure what's left of your brain isn't scrambled."
Sam conceded grudgingly. Dean had a point about passing the time. Not to mention it was imperative that he be able to run on all cylinders in order to hunt. A lump formed in his stomach. What if he couldn't? What would he and Dean do if he couldn't hunt anymore? More than ever, he wanted to just curl back up into oblivion.
"Hey, you in there?" Dean broke into Sam's thoughts, waving the first flashcard in his face. Sam batted it away.
"Dean…we already know the problems my hallucinations caused during hunts. What if…what If I never recover enough to hunt safely?"
"Dude, hunting's never been safe—"
"You know what I mean. I'm not letting you risk your life because I can't watch your back properly."
"This is turning into a damn therapy session…"
"Dean!"
"Okay, okay!" His older brother looked him squarely in the eye. "You know what I think? I think you're going to end up that way unless you decide—just like you decided Hallucifer and his pranks weren't real—you're going to get better. You have to believe it, no ifs, ands, or buts. And you have to believe I will do anything in my measly human power to help you. Understand?"
"Yeah." Sam was still torn inwardly. He appreciated Dean's continual efforts to keep both of them in good spirits, and yet he was disappointed in himself for dragging Dean in mental circles of 'what if.' His gaze fell to the cards in Dean's hand. An unexpected thought made him smile.
"Say I decide to believe, and get to work on those flashcards. If I do that, will you let me sleep?"
The proposal made Dean laugh out loud. "Maybe. Or I could decide you're doing so good it's time you caught up on your ten mile runs."
Further banter was cut off by a knock on the door. Dean checked the window before letting Dr. Carter in. The tired man looked nervous.
"I'm not sure how you want to go about this…I'll need to do another MRI as part of the final assessment on Sam's recovery. But with that…thing…lurking in the hospital, I don't know what you want to do. I can't legally discharge Sam without test evidence that he's not in danger of complications."
"Wow, um…" Dean bit his lip while he puzzled over this development.
"We have to risk it," Sam determined. He knew none of them liked it. "I, for one, think it's worth it to make sure I'm not a ticking time bomb, in or out of the hospital. Dean, you can follow along, and stand guard outside the room like you did before."
"I don't like this," retorted the older Winchester.
"Well, we can deal with it here, or we can deal with it in the middle of nowhere, when it's just the two of us and we're staring straight at someone or something that wants to kill us."
The look on Carter's face plainly said he was doing everything possible to pretend this wasn't the strangest conversation in his life. "For all he's been through, Dean, your brother has a good grasp of the situation."
"Ugh, fine! But you bet your asses I'll be carrying some of that cleaner and my hunting knife," Dean growled at them. "Hospital or no hospital, we're heading into enemy territory.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that…" sighed Carter, throwing his hands up. At his suggestion, Dean put on a spare pair of scrubs and one of those chintzy do-rags that hospital staff had started to opt for over the disposable caps. The less conspicuous they looked, the better.
"You realize the likelihood that our friend is watching the room to begin with."
"I'd like to think I still know this hospital better than the monster does. Trust me, at least for now."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Can we just get this over with?"
Dr. Carter prepped all the monitors and hookups to move Sam. Dean filled a small bottle with sodium borate, and, ignoring the doctor's obvious disapproval, stuck the leather-sheathed knife in the back of his waistband. His look said, no chances, period. Then they unlocked the bed wheels.
"Here goes nothing," mumbled Dean. They edged out into the hallway. The hospital traffic seemed ordinary. No one stuck out as being especially alert or suspicious, not that Dean was relieved by this. He let Carter direct the mobile bed while his own attention flitted continually from face to face. Although Sam tried to do his part looking out as well, his head still didn't quite want to focus. Such an inability left him frustrated regardless of what Dean told him.
They made it to a delivery elevator without incident. Carter explained that it was a less obvious route, and actually came out closer to MRI than the primary elevators. Only thirty feet of open hallway to cross. Sam watched Dean practically vibrate with tension.
"Get ready," warned Carter as their ascent slowed.
The group bolted—if one could call it that—as soon as the door opened. Dean squared himself outside the MRI suite, covering Sam and the doctor. Sam's heart monitor started beeping wildly as they left his brother behind. He struggled to keep his focus straight. Carter's hand patted his shoulder the same way Dean would have.
"Come on, let's do this." They awkwardly maneuvered Sam from his bed to the paper-covered table for the MRI. As if aware of the time constraint, all the wires and tubes seemed to make every effort to tangle and slow them down. Sam finally lost patience and yanked the sensors out from under his shirt. "Now wait—"
"No time, Doc," he said over the protests, hitting the monitor's power button to stop the screeching alarm. It didn't help his head. "Like you said, let's do this. I think I can go this long without knowing exactly how fast my heart's beating. Start 'er up."
Dr. Carter's torso rose and dropped in a sigh, but he retreated to the operation booth. Sam held as still as possible. He hoped Dean was alright outside the thick walls. The closed-in sense that came with being inside the MRI machine didn't help. Such a narrow tube, the loud clicks and beeps, it was enough to make anyone claustrophobic. He wondered if this was how Dean felt, back when he had woken up in a box six feet under. The test couldn't go fast enough.
Without waiting for the table to return all the way to position one, Sam wobbled into a sitting position. Sluggish reflexes, yes; however, no dizziness that he could sense. Carter scrambled to help him.
"Get me to the booth—we need those results now," commanded Sam.
"You're not supposed to—first I need to—we can't—!"
"We have to. If the leviathan comes after us now, we might not get another chance."
Carter looked like he was finally reaching the end of his tolerance. "Just for posterity, we're getting into 'risking my entire career' territory."
"And believe me, we're grateful. Very few people are willing to anything near this once they learn what we do." Sam allowed his arm to drape over Carter's shoulders in order to support him to the booth, IV pole in tow. They sat in front of a set of screens displaying various forms of data. An abstract art representation of Sam's head and neck drew his attention the most.