A/N: Guess you've all read that kind of story a couple of times by now.
Though, I'll start my own attempt.
I've obviously started to write this at the very beginning and I came across it just now.
Guess I've never posted it.
It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got way too long, so I split it up, as I've been rewriting it just now.
Set somewhen during Season 8 when Dean & Sam, at any point had beef with each other
I need to point out, that I am no doctor and that all what I'm writing here, is what I suppose could be eventually correct – or what I've experienced.
Goes slightly AU though, but can fit into the original story-line.
GEN, hurt!dean, car!accident, major!hurt!sam, brotherly!love, protective!dean, Impala!is!a!wreck, hurt!comfort, angst, season!8, blood, head!injuries
Baby Brother
SHORT-STORY
Chapter 1 ~ Fight
It's raining heavily.
The Impala speeds down a deserted road, seamed by huge old trees. The moon is hidden behind dark grey clouds, who promise no ease anytime soon.
All there is, are the Impala's headlights illuminating the path before them. Bright white with a touch of faint yellow, leads their way as they are driving back to the motel-room they've booked four days ago.
Sam's exhausted and tired, and he just doesn't want to.
Yes, he's had a normal life. Yes, he's left Dean down. Again. He didn't look for him. Because he just couldn't. He wanted it to be over. Once and for all.
Sam had thought Dean was dead, and therefore in heaven, and therefore at peace.
Getting to know that he wasn't dead and actually caught in a life-threatening environment for a year had hit him hard enough and tipped a deep feel of regret loose. Regret, and that he had failed – or was still failing – Dean.
Getting to know, that he's let his big brother down once more, keeps eating away on him, and leaves nothing but a glaring black pit inside his chest.
But he thinks – as long as they're together – there's still hope that Dean would forgive him one day. So, he holds onto that very thought, the hope, that they can be brothers again.
So yeah, Dean bringing it up at every given moment doesn't help at all.
On the other hand – he deserves it.
He knows, he should've been looking for Dean. He should have made sure that he's in heaven and not in this god-forsaken place called Purgatory.
It's his fault. He doesn't deserve to feel bad about Dean accusing him for everything he's been through there. Accusing him for letting him down – once again.
And now, after slaughtering a nest of vamps, and Sam nearly messing it up because he hadn't been attentive enough and nearly had gotten Dean killed because of it, Dean's pissed at him even more.
Rightfully at that, Sam knows.
So, he just lets his big brother rant about his failure and Sam. Because he deserves it. Not being in the business for about a year isn't an excuse for how he fucked the case up.
He let Dean get his frustration and anger out of his system. Sam takes it like a pro, because that's all he can do in his situation. He'll eat it up, and swallow every single word of it, like he's supposed to.
Sam wants to be the brother Dean deserves. After all, he's given everything for him. Dean went to hell to safe his sorry ass.
Sam is going to take everything Dean has to give him right now. Even if it hurts.
Until … well … until Dean says just THAT:
"You wanna get rid of me? For good this time?", Dean snarls towards the passenger's side, hands gripping the steering-wheel so tight his knuckles are white.
"No.", Sam snaps at him and looks over at his brother.
Dean's features contour in that angry way, where his jaw is set and he's grinding his teeth together, fury in his eyes.
"That's not what I want, and you damn well know that." Sam can't – for the love of it and for his own sake – let Dean accuse him of just that. Because it's not true. Dean doesn't get to say that. He doesn't get to think that. "So stop talkin' as if I'm intending to get you killed."
"It damn well looks like it, Sam!", Dean yells at him and spares him a brief glare.
It's a blood-freezing, ice-cold glare. Hitting right home, into Sam's heart. It goes deep, so that it hurts as bad as possible.
Dean knows how to look at Sam to make him feel miserable, to wound him right there were it hurts the most – bordering on physical pain even. And he does it deliberately – because he wants Sam to hurt just as much as he hurts.
He feels betrayed. It's an ache he can't make go away. And it sure won't disappear on its own. So yeah, Dean gives Sam what he deserves most. His disregard. All the wrath and anger he can muster.
Dean kind of had hoped, that Sam would look for him, would – for once – act like a brother is supposed to and at least try and safe him.
But no.
He's found another brother down in Purgatory. A man he was able to rely on, no matter what. And that guy – an actual Vampire – was more brother to him, than Sam had ever been. – That's at least what his mind points out to him at the moment, and he takes it gratefully.
"But it's not like that!", Sam yells back, dragging him right back into the here and now. "I'm sorry, okay? How often do I need to tell you that?".
"You know what?", Dean snarls, "This wouldn't have happened if I've been with Benny to back me up instead of you." He gestures towards his ripped shirt, right above his chest, where the anitpossession-tattoo is hidden. – And where an ugly cut seeps blood.
And that – well – that stings too. – A lot actually. It makes Sam's insides churn and revolt.
Sam's at a loss of words for mere minutes.
Absolute silence falls over the both of them.
"I shouldn't have come back for you. – I shouldn't." Dean's voice is calm now, though still sharp at its edges. "I shouldn't have sold my soul for you in the first place."
Sam swallows around the lump in his throat and sucks in a shaky breath. He feels tears sting in his eyes.
These words tear him apart internally. He wants to get out of the car and just … he doesn't know what he wants exactly, but he's sure, he needs to get out and away from Dean.
Maybe holding onto his big brother isn't such a good Idea after all. Maybe he should walk away from him. Give him space. Give him time.
"You're probably right.", Sam whispers, his voice breaks and he can't stop it.
There's silence again.
"Pull over.", Sam says – defeat clearly audible in his words. "Please, pull over."
"What?" Dean's voice high-pitches. He's so not going to pull over and let that prat get away with it – Again.
"Pull over. – You don't get to see me again if you don't want to."
Dean huffs out a laugh. "So what? You're running away now? Like you did back with Stanford? Leaving me and dad?"
Nope, Sam can't take this anymore. He needs to get out. Needs to get as far away from Dean as possible. Or else he's going to drag his big brother down with him one day. He'll let him down again.
"Just … pull over.", Sam murmurs, hand already on the doorhandle.
"You don't get to back out of this, Sam. Not this time.", Dean states, and instead of pumping the breaks, he pushes the accelerator down further. "You'll stand your man, are we clear? You'll take whatever I've to give right now."
Sam opens his mouth to tell him that he understands, and that's probably better if they don't get near each other for some time, but he doesn't get to say a single syllable, as there's a deer appearing in the headlight's beams, mere yards ahead of the Impala.
It's huge black eyes reflect back at them, and Dean jumps in the breaks. He knows it won't work out that way, and on instinct he yanks the steering-wheel to the left.
It might have worked, if it hadn't been raining. If there weren't rivers of water cascading down the road and into the slope. It might even wouldn't have been that severe, if it wasn't for Dean trying to get back onto his lane after barely missing the deer.
Sam throws his hands up and aims for the dashboard, to brace himself. Because he sees it coming as soon as the car's rear breaks out and sends them spinning towards the other lane and the slope.
The breaks squeak. Tires swim up on the water. And there's the split second of realization that that's it.
This is not going to end well.
They won't get out of that car unharmed.
Not by a long shot.
Time stands still for the shortest amount, when Baby slides sideways for a moment and decides to get a grip again, just to turn over and land on her top and back on her tires as time flashes fast forward.
Dean's right arm launches to his left – towards his baby brother – and his palm makes contact with his chest, trying to push him backwards into the seat. When he looks over at him that very second, he catches a glimpse from Sam's unconscious form, head lolled to the side, blood running down from his forehead and nose.
"Sammy!", he yells with all force he can muster, with all the regret that comes crashing down on him for saying all these bad things to his brother only seconds before.
He won't get to tell him that he didn't mean – doesn't mean – anything of what he's said. He won't get to apologize for accusing him of not acting like a brother is supposed to. Of wanting Dean dead.
They are probably going to die, and that's the outcome.
They won't get to sort things out.
Dean's just been so angry. So furious. Wound up with all the pent-up anger, fear and despair he took with him when he left Purgatory behind.
And now – now that they're – once again – knocking on death's door, all the anger falls away from him, and all there's left is fear. Frantic fear of getting torn away from his little brother again; of probably dying – either one or the both of them.
Before he knows it, his head hits the steering-wheel and a second later it get's slammed against the driver's side's window, as Baby spins around her axis like a ballerina does her pirouettes.
The sickening sound of crunching metal echoes through the eerie silence of night, her engine howls and roars up, and then it dies all of a sudden.
She keeps spinning a couple of times, before her tires catch on muddy ground as she rides down the slope, hell bent on leather.
Dean feels – somewhere at the edges of consciousness – that they hit something. He feels himself yanked forward, sees glimpses of trees in the headlights and pain radiates through his legs, when his head slams against the steering-wheel once more, knocking him out cold.
And all there is then, is blackness … pouring rain … a car's hood dented where it hit a giant tree … a tree's branch sticking out of the windshield on the passenger's side … and Dean's mixed tape playing Bob Seger's Famous Final Scene …
~ '67 Chevrolet Impala ~
Chapter 2 ~ Crash
Dean doesn't know where he is. Who he is. And most of all, what actually is.
As he claws his path towards consciousness, he gets aware of two things first:
1. He's not alone. He is with someone.
2. The bones of his legs feel like they are going to snap any second, as there is a strong sensation of pressure against his shins.
He doesn't open his eyes immediately. Dean needs some more moments to gather his whirring thoughts and what he hears. Because this voice – he knows he's supposed to recognize – sounds so incredibly soothing as if it wants him to go back to sleep.
But his guts tell him not to. They tell him to stay awake and get his shit together, because there's more important stuff to do right now than to sleep.
And then, the third thing he realizes is, that the voice is actually forming words, right beside him. It's nearly inaudible and he can barely hear it above heavy rain-drops hitting metal, but he is capable of making out a couple of words.
"I'm sorry … Dean … you need to … please …-don't … wake up …" Dean's not yet sure if he wants to know whom this voice belongs to, and why it's so freaking cold all of a sudden. "I'm sorry I've let you down … don't do this to … don't die. – It's my fault … shouldn't … come with you … Benny. – mean to …" It doesn't actually make any sense – not only the words, but also what he's supposed to do with them.
So , his foggy mind decides, that it's eventually time to pry his eyes open and see for himself who's talking and why his damn legs hurt like hell.
He opens his eyes slowly and blinks, but all he can see is darkness at first. It takes his eyes some more moments to adjust, until he can make out the profile of someone's face in the passenger's seat beside him.
Dean looks down on himself and sees a hand-shaped silhouette resting on his upper thigh. And now that he sees, he also feels it.
"I didn't mean to … you know … I thought you're dead. I thought …", the voice is still murmuring along, "You gotta know … I'm sorry."
"Sam?", he croaks out and hisses as he tries to move his legs a bit to ease them away from the pressure digging into his knees and sheens.
"Dean.", his brother breathes and he sees the figure in the passenger's side shift and hear it groan.
And with that, his memories from what happened come crashing down on him right away.
As if Sam could read his mind, he says: "Accident." But actually means we're screwed.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. Despite the darkness, he knows his vision swims and his eyes have troubles focusing.
"Fuck.", he grinds out and touches his forehead, where he starts to feel a pulsating ache.
Dean's hand comes away slick and wet, and he guesses it's blood.
"You okay, Sam?", he asks, because despite everything, all that counts is that Sam's okay. – At least as okay as possible after having a car-accident and getting churned like a damn cocktail in a shaker.
"'m fine.", Sam answers – and it comes way too delayed for Dean' liking. "How 'bout you?" There's a slur and a weakness to his brother's voice he doesn't like either.
"My leg's 're stuck. Concussion maybe.", Dean answers – he doesn't sound any better either. "Glove compartment." Because there has to be a damn flashlight, and he needs to assess their situation, decide wherever he's going to call Jody (who'd be closest to them, and who would take care of their arsenal) first, before they call 911. Or if they need 911 sooner than Jody could be there.
The latter is tricky, since they've a trunk filled to the brim with weapons. So he hopes, they're both well enough to deal with their injuries and wait it out.
There's a ragged breath. "I … don't think … I can't- reach it, Dean." It sounds breathless, as if Sam's running a marathon right now.
Dean thinks for a moment. He tries to put things together in his mind before he speaks – for a change.
He wants to tell Sam to not be a pussy, and get his shit together and to get the fucking flashlight, but it strikes him, that – if Sam tells him that he can't reach it – there's something terribly wrong with his little brother.
Dean huffs out a breath and leans over towards the glove compartment, when he bumps his head on something hard.
His brother cries out a painful curse, the very moment Dean pulls back as if burnt.
"Sam?", he asks, a terrible assumption already dawning on him.
"Just …" Sam pants, his voice is raw and he sounds stricken, "… try and duck under it."
Dean does. He's careful when he leans over again, not as far as before, and ducks down awkwardly. He reaches for the glove compartment and barely reaches the handle and let the lid snap open.
He feels – whatever's pushing against his knees – dig into his skin and flesh, when he stretches to fumble around, feeling for one of their phones and the flashlight.
Dean eventually finds it and dives back up onto his side of the seat. He tugs the phone in between his thighs and switches the flashlight on.
At first, the bright beam is of a blinding white, and Dean knows – since it takes his eyes way too long to adjust to the brightness of it – that he must have an ugly concussion.
"Don't.", Sam tells him. …look
Dean stills for a moment, wondering what Sam's trying to tell him, but shines into his brother's direction anyway. His eyes widen, when he looks over at the passenger's side, seeing Sam.
Seeing why he can't reach the glove-compartment, and why he sounds as breathless as he does when he talks.
A branch – not even an inch in diameter – is sticking out of Sam's left chest, right below his heart. Dean follows the branch with the beam, sees that it's only a limb of a much bigger branch that's stuck in the windshield.
He casts the beam back at his little brother's wound.
"Fuck." Dean knows that's bad.
"It doesn't even hurt.", Sam tells him quietly, as if that's supposed to calm Dean's racing heart, his spiraling mind.
Dean tilts the flashlight up, so the beam's not shining directly in Sam's face, but gracing it. He reaches out towards Sam's face, who's still not looking at him, who is still staring ahead, through the windshield, as if he's not able to turn his head.
"Can you move your neck?", Dean asks concerned.
"Yes.", Sam answers, and Dean doesn't miss a beat, when he touches his baby brother's jaw and makes him look at him.
The kid's left side of the face is covered in scarlet-red and there's no way to make out it's source. His skin's cool and slick with sweat, and so pale …
Then Dean focuses – or at least he tries – to check Sam's eyes. How his pupils react to the light and if there's another kind of trauma too they have to deal with.
As Dean figures, Sam's left pupil stays dilated, which means there's severe damage to his head – probably.
"Sam?", Dean asks, trying to get Sam to look at him and not only into his direction as he seems to stare at something behind Dean's head.
"Yeah." Sam doesn't focus on him, he keeps staring.
"Sammy." Dean's not even aware calling him that, as his mouth moves on it's own. "You … Can you see me?"
It's an answer, Dean threatens to hear, but he needs to know.
"Think so.", Sam's breath is wheezing and eerily wet as he exhales his answer.
Dean doesn't ask further, despite that it's not really an answer. But as long as the answer isn't NO, he'll deal – for now.
"You hurtin' anywhere else, kiddo?" Dean doesn't dare to touch Sam all too much. The kid's not supposed to move – any shift could cause further damage to the wound in his chest, as Dean doesn't know if the branch has pierced any of his organs, or if it's only holding him in place.
Since there's not a lot of blood coming from it …
"Don' think so.", Sam answers with his next exhale.
Dean puts the back-side of the flashlight into his mouth and holds it tightly with his teeth and lips. He fumbles for the phone in between his thighs and snaps it open, dialing 911.
"Call Jody.", Sam says, "I'll be fine."
Dean wants to tell him that he's not fine, and that he won't call Jody, but instead he ignores Sam and puts the phone to his ear, waiting.
"We can't have anyone of them opening the trunk. – If they-", Sam's out of breath before he can finish his sentence. And if on cue, he coughs weakly, as if there's not enough strength to do it the proper way.
Dean puts the flashlight into his free hand.
"You don't look fine to me. – Sit tight. I got this.", Dean tells him – harsher than he intends to, but he has to focus.
"911 what's your emergency?" … a female voice asks after a timespan that feels like an eternity.
Dean fills the lady in.
She tells him to stay in the line and to not hang up. She tells him, to keep talking to her – which doesn't make any sense to him, since he figures he's supposed to keep talking to his little brother, make him stay conscious; make him not surrender to death.
~ '67 Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean snaps the phone shut. He can't focus on HER and Sam. His brains feel like slow-cooked mush. His vision swims and white dots are dancing before him. So, he tugs the phone back in between his thighs and aims his attention at his little brother.
Then he remembers. – He has to call Jody too. Needs to tell her that they're in trouble and that someone has to get the Impala.
So he calls her, and she picks up at the third ring, despite that it has to be somewhen between midnight and three in the morning.
He tells her, that they had an accident, and that he's going to send her coordinates on where she's going to find their car.
She asks him what's wrong and if he and Sam are okay, but he snaps his phone shut, as he has more urgent things to take care of right now.
They can talk when they – mostly Sam – are safe and got the medical attention they need.
"25 Minutes.", he tells Sam, aiming the beam past his brother's face again.
Sam swallows – carefully as it seems. He gives a jerky nod towards his big brother, but Dean's not sure if he even understood. He knows he needs to keep talking to Sam, needs him to stay with him. But he can't find anything he can talk about to Sam right away. – Not after their fight. Not after the things he's said to his baby brother.
"I'm sorry, Dean.", Sam breaks the silence after an endless minute. "I didn't mean to … to leave you there … I didn't."
"You wanna bring that up now?", Dean asks him warily Because he's not dumb. He knows what Sam does, and he doesn't like it. Doesn't want to hear it. Not again.
"I need you to know that I thought you're in heaven. At peace …", Sam trails off, as he tries to suppress a cough, but doesn't succeed. It's followed by a gurgling noise deep down in his chest.
"Sam. Don't." Dean reaches out to him, and cups his bloody cheek. "Not now, 'kay? We'll talk about it when we're outta here."
"No." Sam sucks in a shuddering breath and whines at the caused strain to his wound. "I …. Please. – I need you to know, that I wanted it to be over. – I didn't want to drag you … back … into life … I thought … you'd be at peace."
Dean shakes his head.
He can't have that right now. He huffs out a breath.
"Sam.", he says again, warning him to carry on.
Sam ignores him anyway. "Promise me. – If I die." He swallows as his throat tickles, his body demanding to try and cough. But he doesn't. "If I die –"
"You won't, 'kay?", Dean tells him, laying all of big-brother into his voice. "They're gonna be here soon. – It's only a matter of minutes, and until then you're supposed to hang on."
"If I die, you need to let me go.", Sam whispers, not giving a shit about what Dean tells him, because he's ready to die. To leave this world. For good this time. He won't fight it. Not anymore.
"Damnit, Sammy.", Dean snarls, rubs his thumb over his little brother's cheek, as glassy eyes stare at him – through him. "Don't be a bitch – and for once – listen to me." Dean sucks in a shuddering breath, fighting nausea as it dares to overwhelm him. "You're not gonna die."
Sam doesn't say anything.
There's only the rain, and wheezing wet breaths heard inside the car.
"I want …", Sam speaks up again, "… Can you forgive me? Please?"
Dean swallows around the lump in his throat, fights the sting in his eyes.
"I need you to forgive me.", Sam pries, his voice so weak and faint, it cuts straight to Dean's heart. "Please."
Dean doesn't say anything for a moment, as he's damn sure his voice will break. – He can't show weakness. Not now.
That's another thing he's brought with him from Purgatory. Showing weakness was – no matter what kind – absolutely impossible. Weakness costs your life over there (and over here too), so no. He wasn't weak back there and he won't go all soft now.
"I won't, Sam." Dean sets his jaw, and as much as it hurts to say that, he feels like he has to. If Sam wants to hear him say it, he needs to survive this.
Dean hears Sam exhale deeply, hears how all air leaves his lungs and feels his jaw move under his touch. Sam's eyes become wet and it only urges the sting in Dean's guts to spike.
He is going to deny him his forgiveness – even though he's forgiven his little brother already without him knowing. Because he needs Sam to hold on and not to give up, and Dean feels that, as soon as he's telling him that he's forgiven, Sam's going to stop fighting.
Dean can't lose Sam like that. He can't lose Sam believing that he's betrayed him, let him down – again. He can't have him believe that he's unworthy of being his little brother.
A sob falls from Sam's lips and a shiver wrecks his body. He leans into Dean's touch for the briefest of moments before he tilts his head back.
"Sam. – Listen …", Dean doesn't actually know what he wants to tell Sam. What he can tell him.
"Don't." Sam closes his eyes. He tries to breath through it, tries to not give into his body's demand to cough as he knows it won't do any good to his chest and lungs.
He's not stupid. He knows the branch – though it doesn't feel like it's gone through him completely – has injured his lung, and now he's going to drown on his own blood.
"You don't need-" A wet cough follows, and he feels thick liquid inside his mouth, on his tongue and wetness covering his lips. He doesn't need to see to know it's blood. He can taste it. Metal and copper with a side of sour and sweet.
He feels a palm against his sternum, and he hears Dean shushing him.
"Don't you dare.", Dean wants it to sound like an order, but it comes out as a plea. "Don't you fuckin' dare, Sam. – You hear me?"
He fumbles for his phone, flips it open and glances at the clock on the display. They should be here soon. – About ten more minutes. Ten minutes Sam might not have.
Dean cradles Sam's hand in his which still rests on his thigh and he squeezes it hard, feels joints pop in his tight grasp.
Sam squeezes back, answering, but it's weak and barely there.
It makes Dean's insides churn and his heart speed up with the ache it causes.
"You stay with me, understand?" And then again – what right does he have to order his little brother to keep up with his arguing and accusations? It's not like he's been acting like the big brother he should've been. He's been pushing and propping, despite that he knew that he was doing Sam wrong.
Dean pushes the relentless pull towards unconsciousness away, even though it gets harder with every passing minute.
He holds onto Sam's hand, uses it to ground himself.
Sam doesn't answer. All he does is breathe. – Labored and shallow puffs of air leave his mouth, and the sharp tang of blood is filling the air inside the car.
Dean casts the beam towards where the branch pierces his little brother's body. There's still not a lot of blood, but he knows that doesn't mean anything, as he's probably bleeding inside.
"Open your eyes.", Dean demands, as he abandons the flashlight in his lap. "Sam. – Open your eyes."
There's a small sound as response, and a noise that's telling Dean, that Sam can't answer. He digs his thumb into Sam's palm, what causes the younger brother to stir.
So yeah, he's still with him – Though, probably floating somewhere on the edge of drifting away from him.
Sam's fingers are loosening their hold on Dean's hand slowly.
It's what Dean fears the most, as he spares a glance at his phone's clock, which tells him, that they've still five minutes left, until the ambulance is supposed to reach them.
"Sam. – You gotta hold on, man.", he murmurs, isn't even aware that he slurs those words. "I'm sorry, 'kay? I didn't mean what I've said earlier. – I didn't." He knows it won't change a damn thing right now, but he tells Sam anyway.
He owes him that.
Blue lights flash and reflect in the rear-view-mirror, catching Dean's attention. At that very moment – the split second – where he doesn't focus completely on his dying little brother, Sam's hand goes limp in his grasp and would slide from Dean's thigh if it's not for Dean holding onto it.
"No … no.", Dean breathes out and he squeezes Sam's hand so tight it must hurt, but he doesn't care. "No, Sammy. – Don't do this. Not now." Tears prickle in his eyes. "They're here. – They're …" His voice breaks.
He catches movement beside the driver's side, and there are flashlights shining inside the car from his and Sam's window.
There are muffled voices outside, ordering others to get them equipment to pry the doors open.
Dean lets go of Sam's hand, and reaches with his shaky hand for his baby brother's neck, feeling along clammy skin, desperately searching what he prays is still there.
And it's faint. Barely-there thumps against his fingertips of whom he's not quite sure if they are his own heart-beat he's feeling or not.
"Hang in there, little brother.", he tells him on the edge of unconsciousness, "Please."
Chapter 3 ~ Hurt
The door at Dean's side is wrenched open moments later, but he doesn't care. He doesn't listen to the man in his fireman's gown and he doesn't want to answer his stupid questions.
"My brother.", Dean gasps, when someone forces him to look in the direction a bright light shines inside and towards his legs where he's stuck. "He's lost … he's … You gotta help him first."
There are a lot of things he wants to tell the man, but his mind sorts his thoughts out fast enough to tell him that it's Sam they should get out first.
"We're at it, buddy.", the man tells him, his voice raspy and … off … as if he's shocked by what he sees. "Don't you worry. – My partner'll have him out in no time."
The man starts to work on Dean's legs, the area where he's stuck and then he tells him to turn his head to the side and that he's going to cover his body with a fireproof blanket. He tells him that he's gonna cut him free and that everything's going to be fine.
By that time, the guy at the other side of the car's still working on prying the door to Sam open.
When the pressure against his knees is gone, and the blanket removed, Dean's staring right into a pair of open, hazed hazel-green irises.
The door at the passenger's side is now gone, and someone's working on his brother, poking and probing at his head and chest. He can see that they've attached a fair amount of cables and an IV to his brother.
Then the paramedics withdraw, and Dean wants to yell at them to fucking stay and to ask what the hell they think they're doing.
Dean reaches over and his hand comes down at Sam's thigh. He squeezes it tight.
Sam doesn't as much as blink, as they start to cover Sam's head and upper body with a blanket. His little brother's expression is blank and he seems to be far away when he disappears under the silvery fabric.
"Hey, what's your name?", the guy with the raspy voice is back beside Dean.
"Dean.", Dean answers, still looking over at his brother who he can't actually see.
"Good. – Look. – We need to get you out of here.", the guy tells him, hand on Dean's shoulder.
"No." Because Dean's going anywhere without his brother. "I'll stay with him."
The man leans in and squeezes his shoulder, like he understands, but can't let him have that now.
"They need space to get your brother out in one piece." The man's words do their trick.
Dean lets go of Sam, and let himself be maneuvered out of the car and onto a tray.
He's covered in blankets a moment later.
There's a woman's face appearing above him, asking him questions about where he's hurt and how he's feeling. She asks him how many fingers he sees, and he tells her "six". Which she doesn't seem to like at all, as she hollers something towards someone who must be standing somewhere above the slope.
They hook him up on an ECG and all kind of shit.
The paramedics start to apply all kinds of meds to a drip dangling from the car's ceiling. Usually Dean'd know what they are giving him, but his mind's too fuzzy and he doesn't care anyway.
"What 'bout Sam?", Dean asks as he reaches for the woman's wrist. "What 'bout my brother?"
She seems to think for a moment. And thinking's never a good sign when it comes to paramedics – at least not when you ask them about an injured person riding shotgun in a wrecked car.
"They'll do their best.", she tells him – but her expression tells him that she has little hope. "He's in good hands."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his surroundings swim and become schemes. He can't tell – all of a sudden – where he starts and the gurney ends.
Schemes morph into shadows, and from there, darkness crawls into his vision and drags him under into the floods of unconsciousness and warmth.
~ '67 Chevrolet Impala ~
At first it's all a blur.
Dean hears the heart-monitor beep, he feels warm and cozy and loopy.
He feels a presence beside him, and he knows it's not Sam. He'd know if it's Sam.
"There you go.", a female voice, low and comforting, says.
Dean pries his eyes open to be met with a white ceiling in a bright room, enlightened by warm rays of the sun saturating it.
"Jody?", Dean asks – confused.
"You both 're gonna be the death of me.", she says.
Dean casts his look towards the area he thinks her voice comes from, and she spots her sitting in a chair beside his bed.
"Hey there.", he greets her and gives her a small smile.
She smiles back.
"You did quite a thing on you there.", she states and rises from the chair. Jody crosses the small distance and takes Dean's hand in hers.
"Sam?", he asks, because no matter in what state he might is in, he knows in an instant what's the most important thing in his life. – And that's his baby brother.
Jody purses her lips and blinks. Her expression changes fast, as it morphs into one filled with sorrow and … is that grief?
"Jody?", he orders. His voice is hoarse and he feels wrecked, and it hurts to talk, but he couldn't care less. "What 'bout Sam?"
"Easy.", she tells him and puts her hand on Dean's shoulder as he intends to prop up on his elbows. "He's on the ICU."
Dean swallows and reaches for the long edge of the comforter covering him. "Which room?", he asks and moves his heavy legs to get them out of the bed and to sit up.
But there's Jody, giving him her mom-glare and then talks with her mom-voice. "You stay put. – Sam's stable."
"I'm fine.", Dean grinds out, but stays put as he's ordered. "I need to see him."
Jody clears her throat. "Not right now. – You just woke up."
There's a beat of silence. "You both are brothers. Dean and Samuel Mills. And you're my nephews if someone asks.", she tells him, knowing that their covers are at least as important as it is to stay alive.
"How long?", Dean asks next, because it's fundamental to know. Fundamental to assess how bad Sam's condition might is without seeing him, as they don't keep people on the ICU for fun.
"Four days.", she answers and takes a deep inhale. "Sam's awake though. But …"
Oh, that's what Dean's been waiting for. There always has to be a but, and that's why his relieved breath after hearing Sam's awake, comes out short and he holds it for a moment.
"But?", he asks and that's only one more reason for Dean to get out of the bed and on the ICU. And if he has to crawl there on all fours.
"He's had surgeries. – He's still on a vent, and … they wouldn't tell me everything … Sam's recognizing me, so I guess that's a good thing." Jody is holding back information, Dean can tell.
"And?", he asks, because he needs to know.
She looks aside. "Look Dean … it may look bad, but … it doesn't mean anything, okay?"
"What does that mean? Is he okay? Or …", Dean's not quite sure what he's asking, as Jody is speaking in tongues, or he obviously doesn't get it.
"Severe head-trauma.", she tells him silently. "They had to remove a part of his lung. – As long as Sam's on the vent and doesn't talk they say they can't tell in what condition he's really in. Brain-wise. – For his oxygen-saturation-levels … they are going to improve. – So they say at least."
Dean swallows the rising bile which burns in his throat.
"I need to see him, Jody." He lays all his wounded-animal-expression into his eyes, which actually is his brother's thing to get what he wants.
He knows Jody is immune to his charm and she won't let him get what he wants if he's going all bad-ass-hunter on her, so he tries Sam's trick.
She seems to be immune to this too …
"Tell you what. – I'll go get your doctor.", she tells him. "If he says, it's okay for you to get up and visit Sam, I'll bring you to him. – If not …" she shrugs.
Dean accepts, as he feels tiredness claiming his aching body again.
She leaves him then and gets the doc on duty. A few minutes later, they are back.
The doc asks him, how he's doing and how his pain-level is, but Dean dismisses his questions and cuts straight to the point.
"When can I see my brother?" He tries to sound strong and not as weak as he feels.
But the doc seems to look straight through it.
"You answer my questions, then I'll tell you if you're allowed to leave your bed.", he tells him with a warm smile.
Dean thinks, he should shove that smile right up the man's … well … where the sun doesn't shine, but he bites his tongue.
"I'm fine. Pain-level three out of ten.", Dean tells him with a cool look. "So. – When can I see Sam?"
The doctor chuckles and shakes his head. "That's not how it works, Mister Mills.", he points out and looks at the chart at the end of the bed. "You've been in and out of consciousness these past couple of days. – It's the first time you're truly aware, so …" He pauses and looks up over the chart. "We should give it some time. You need to rest."
Dean cocks an eyebrow at the man, as he's starting to tear at his nerves, telling him that he doesn't think he needs any more rest. And no more painkillers, as he wants to have a clear mind and doesn't like to be as tired as he feels like now.
It's not as if he doesn't appreciate the effects of morphine, but not when he knows that Sam's not well.
The doctor eyes him for thirty long seconds, then nods. "Tomorrow.", he tells him. "With a wheelchair and someone going with you. And no longer than fifteen minutes."
Dean nods at him. "Fine. – But …", he points towards his crown-jewels, "The catheter has to go, and no more pain-killers."
The doc scratches the back of his neck and frowns. "Your aunt already told me about your attitude."
"Good." Dean offers a tight smile. "So you know I don't take no for an answer. And I wanna sign the AMAs tomorrow."
~ '67 Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean signs out the next day. Against the doctor's advice and Jody's protest.
He can barely walk – even with crutches, but Dean doesn't care. His shins and knees are still swollen and they are bruised badly, but he swallows the pain down. He uses the pain – he makes it his source of strength.
Jody gets him a motel-room closest to the hospital and stocks it up on food and water.
Dean can't wait to get out of the room and on the ICU. Jody demands that he's taking the damn wheelchair and tells him to not act like a five-year-old.
It works – only partly though.
Once they reach the ICU, and Dean's dressed in scrubs, a blue ugly cap and a face-mask, Dean's allowed to enter Sam's room.
"Sammy.", he breathes as he rolls inside.
Sam's attached to a buttload of medical equipment. It's a symphony of beeps and whooshes.
He's pale – ashen even. There's not much difference between the sheets and Sam's skin.
He has his eyes open and stares at the ceiling.
The right side of his face is one solid bruise. The side of his head is shaved – as it looks like – and is hidden under a huge bandage.
Dean rounds the bed, and stops the wheelchair beside it when he comes up at the other side, never leaving Sam out under his watch.
"Sammy?", he asks again as he takes Sam's hand in his and squeezes it gently. "You with me?"
Dean knows he can't answer verbally. But if Sam's in there, he'll let him know.
Sam's fingers twitch.
"You with me?", he asks again.
Sam's fingers twitch again.
"There you are.", Dean smiles faintly behind the face mask. "I'm here."
Another twitch.
"I'm sorry." Dean sighs and lowers his gaze. "I couldn't … back there …" He tugs the breaks down on his wheelchair, as he can't tell Sam without looking him in the eyes.
Dean gets to his feet – knees all weak and wobbly, but he's dealing. He will deal.
It's kind of unfair that he's gotten out of Baby with a couple of bruises and a concussion. And that Sam's off worse than him. After all it's been his fault. His alone.
Sam doesn't deserve this.
Dean leans over Sam, bracing himself up on his hands, so his face is right above his little brother's.
Hazel-green eyes meet his. Pupils pulled together tightly, so they look like the ends of pins. But they focus on Dean's after a couple of moments, and he's looking up at his big brother and not through him.
"I forgive you, baby brother.", Dean says low. "We'll talk about everything later. We'll sort everything out. But right now you have to get better."
Sam's eyes grow wet and he tries to blink tears away. He can't.
"It's okay, little brother.", Dean whispers. "I've been an ass. Okay? I didn't mean what I said. That's all you need to know right now. "
A tear runs down Sam's cheek.
Dean catches it with his thumb and wipes it away carefully. Then leans in and places a kiss to Sam's forehead as he had done when Sam's been a toddler.
~ '67 Chevrolet Impala ~
4 Months later …
The sun is setting behind the horizon and a line of trees, as a black sleek beauty speeds down the road. The unique roar of her engine fills the air around her in a soothing way.
Dean turns up the volume, Back in Black blearing from the speakers.
Sam adjusts his hoodie as it rides up a bit when he leans against the window. "Dude.", Sam grumbles and blinks at his brother behind the steering-wheel.
Dean turns the volume back down a notch and grins at his brother cockily. "If it's too loud, you're too old."
Sam offers him a tired grin.
He's not quite the Sam he's used to be, but they'll get there. – Dean's sure about it.
~ 'The End~
A/N:
?Hope you liked it? At least a bit? … I've been trying ?