Febuwhump Day 21: "Help him". Dean rushes to the hospital to find out that Sam has tried to end his life.

Title: Bedside Conversations

Dean's hand trembled as he drove. Light poles whipped by and fields of grass became seas of emerald. The sun was setting behind the pastures and lighting up the world in auburn tones, but Dean barely registered the picturesque scene. All he could think about was the call he received ten minutes ago.

"Is this Dean Powell?" a woman's smooth voice asked.

Dean paused for a moment to recall the alias. "Speaking."

"This is St. August's Medical Center in Leawood, Kansas. I was calling to let you know your brother has been admitted to our emergency room."

Dean's heart jumped. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry, but you will have to discuss that information with his doctor. Are you able to come in?"

"Yes, I'll be there. Is he awake?" Dean hurried through the words.

"I don't have that information unfortunately."

Dean clicked End Call and grumbled, "Useless."

Since then, the possibilities had been flashing through his mind at breakneck speed. He had nothing to accompany him on the drive but his fears taking image in his mind: Sam, already dead on a slab in the mortuary, Sam laying on the hospital bed as doctors' desperate hands tried to force life back into him, Sam in the operating room with blood gushing from his body, pouring down the table onto the immaculate OR floor.

"Fuck!" he slapped the wheel. He was already breaking a hundred, but he pushed his foot harder on the pedal and Baby growled in protest. No, he couldn't think like this. If he started pulling at the thread, he would go insane before he ever arrived. He let his mind turn to static and stared blankly at the road until he saw the glowing lights of the hospital.

He pulled into the lot, leapt from the car, sprinted through the sliding glass doors that gave way to a dreary waiting room, and slammed his hands on the front desk. "Where is my brother? Sam. Samuel Powell."

The woman behind the counter startled. "One moment," she said and turned her focus to the computer in front of her. He watched the glare of the screen on her glasses as she scrolled and resisted snapping at her to hurry up. Her lips thinned as she read and she turned back to him. "Have a seat please. A doctor will be right out to speak with you."

"What the hell? Just tell me if he's dead," he couldn't sit in the uncertainty.

"He's been admitted to the ICU. That's all I know. I'm sorry."
Dean could tell she was lying. She didn't want to be the one to break to him whatever it was she read on that screen, but at least he knew Sam was alive. He would grant them five minutes before he started tearing the place apart.

He sat down on one of the chairs and tapped his foot. A few people were dispersed throughout the waiting room, numbly staring at their phones or speaking softly to their companions. He watched the clock on the wall and noticed how time was moving slower now. If he weren't witnessing the second hand jerk from one spot to the next, he would have thought an hour had passed before the doctor dressed in teal scrubs came out and greeted him. "Mr. Powell?"

"Yeah," Dean got to his feet, "How is he? What happened?"

Mr. Powell looked seriously at Dean, as if preparing him for the weighty news he was about to receive, but Dean was already prepared and nearly barked at him to get it over with. "Samuel was admitted for an overdose. We found alcohol and barbiturates in his system."

"Drugs?" Dean asked. Sam had never used substances before. Dean was the alcoholic, but Sam would only partake in the occasional beer. It didn't make any sense.

"Mr. Powell, your brother was attempting to take his own life."

Dean scoffed. "No, he wasn't. He would never do that," Sam doing drugs was far-fetched but attempting suicide? That was absurd.

The doctor looked solemnly at him. "We found a note in his belongings," he reached in his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded paper, passing it to Dean. Dean snatched it from his hands.

Dean,

I don't know what I can say to make this better, but I owe you the truth. Things have been bad for a long time and they keep getting worse. Please believe me when I say I tried. God knows I tried, but some things are out of my control. You don't deserve this, but I'm out of options. I can't keep going like this. I'm already starting to lose my mind. I put this off for a long time. I thought if I could just keep pushing through, something would give, but it hasn't.

I'm so tired. You watched out for me my whole life, you put me first, and you protected me. You were the only good thing I had going, but that's not enough anymore. I love you and I can never pay you back for everything you've given me. The most painful part of this is what I'm doing to you. It's almost enough to want to back out, but since I made up my mind, I realized this is what I really want. I don't have to keep suffocating under the weight of life and I finally can breathe again for the first time in years, maybe decades.

I know you're going to be hurt and angry, and you have every right. You've done everything for me and I wish I could repay you. I hope that someday you can forgive me and I know that right now it might feel like the world is ending, but you'll be okay. Thank you for everything. Thank you.

I love you.

Sam

Tears trickled down Dean's cheeks as he read, eyes wide and mind reeling. It didn't feel real, but the deeper he read, the more reality set in. Sam had tried to kill himself. His little brother wanted to die. How could he do this? Dean knew things were hard, but not like this. Sam could have come to him any time and he would have thrown everything down to help his little brother, but all he left was a note.

"Mr. Powell," the doctor's cool voice wrenched him back to Earth, "Your brother is on a breathing machine. He's currently stable, but we have to do a scan to determine if his brain is still functioning."

It was too much for Dean to process. They were suggesting that Sam might be brain dead, that he may never wake up. "He's going to be fine," Dean said in a dark voice.

The doctor's face did not change. He had delivered this news before, given death sentences to families with little children, so Dean's purposeful denial was nothing new to him. Dean knew that the doctor easily saw through him, hiding behind terror with furious refutation. "Where is he?" Dean asked.

"Room four forty-three."

Dean didn't bother with a response before breezing past the doctor and breaking into a run. The elevator ride to the fourth floor was painstakingly slow and his heart shook his chest as he jogged through the hall and searched for the door.

When he finally found the silver placard etched with the number 443, Dean almost couldn't open the door. His hand faltered as it reached for the handle, like it knew better than him that he wasn't ready. He had seen Sam hurt before, but never like this. Dean drew in a deep breath and shoved through.

Sam lay in a bed in the middle of the room with machines all around him. Tubes ran from bags of fluids down to the veins in his arms. He wore a hospital gown atop the white bed sheets. It was drafty and if he were awake, he would be cold. Dean ached to pull a blanket on top of him and tuck him to sleep like he had when they were kids.

He approached the bed, each step deliberate and loud as it clicked on the tile floor. Sam's skin was ashy like his tan had been bleached. There was a tube inserted in his mouth between his chapped lips that kept his chest steadily rising and falling. "Sammy," Dean whispered. He brushed Sam's hair, damp with sweat, out of his face. "How could you do this to me?" it sounded selfish, but there was no one there to judge him. Sam hadn't meant to betray him, but that is what it felt like. The one thing he had to be proud of in his life was his little brother. He had nothing else to show for his existence besides pain and agony and a trail of death, but when he thought about Sam, the child he raised, how kind and strong and good he had turned out, Dean figured that everything was worth it. Sam knew how much Dean loved him. Dean had given his life for Sam's on more than one occasion, but he was willingly throwing away that sacrifice now.

But Dean understood too. As much as he hated to admit it, he understood. There was a hollowness he carried with him everywhere that he couldn't escape and some days he thought it might eat him whole, but Sam was different. Sam felt everything. He was consumed with all the pain that he had witnessed or caused or been subject to. None of it left him. It was incredible that he went through life without shutting down and pushing out all emotion, Dean could never do the same, but this was the cost.

Dean held Sam's shoulder. "There's some things I want to say to you, Sammy, and I wanna say them when you're awake, but I don't- I don't want to miss my chance.

"If I could do it all again, I'd make it easier on you. I would've gotten you out of hunting or taken us to Bobby's or anything. I know what that life did to you, how it scarred you. I wish you could've had a dad. A real dad. You didn't even get to know Mom. It's not fair. I can still see you as a little kid. You were too good for this world, Sammy. You should've gone to school and had a real family. I'd do anything to give you that.

"You used to say you were a burden to me, but I hope you know that's not true. You were the only thing that really mattered. If it weren't for you, I don't know who I'd be. It was me who held you down. I'm sorry I brought you back into the life. You were out, finally out, and I got you caught back into it. I believe you really could do anything."

Dean took a shaky breath and sniffled, doing his damndest not to burst into full on sobs. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I was supposed to protect you. It kills me to know you felt like you had to do this. If- When you wake up, I'm gonna make it right. We always figure it out, right? Your big brother's here now. I'm watching out for you. You don't have to worry anymore," Dean's voice broke and unbidden tears flowed down his cheeks. He clasped Sam's hand in his own when a machine began to screech and once rhythmic lines on the monitor grew erratic.

"Hey! We need a doctor!" Dean shouted, but the door was already flung open and people dressed in scrubs dragging along a cart gathered around the bed. They spoke in codes Dean couldn't comprehend.

"Sir, please step away," one of the nurses urged him. He took a step back and stood on his toes to get a view of what was happening.

"You have to save him!" Dean yelled, "Help him!" he couldn't hear his voice, but he knew he was screaming.

"Sir," he saw the word on her lips, but the only sound in the room was the shrieking of the machine.

"Sammy! Sammy!"