I do not own Dean, Sam, or any Supernatural related material. But the story contained herein is mine...and mine alone.
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"Dammit Sam, turn that damn alarm off!" Dean ordered, not noticing how slurred his words had sounded. The incessant beeping resounded through Dean's head, tormenting his slumber, and he reached under his head grabbing for the pillow under his head as he debated whether to bury his ears with it or throw it at his brother for not turning off the alarm clock. He finally made the decision to throw the pillow, but as he yanked it from beneath his head he was consumed with shooting pains tearing through his entire body and his eyes shot wide open. What the hell!
The beeping sound grew faster, and he realized it wasn't an alarm clock at all. It was a heart monitor. He was in the hospital. As Dean tried to sit up, losing the battle to the intense vertigo that suddenly plagued him, everything that had happened with the Warlock replayed itself in his mind. Immediately a new thought formed and he whipped his head around the room. "Sam!"
"Over here," came the mumbled reply, but Sam never arrived in Dean's line of sight, and that made him nervous.
"Sammy...you OK?" Anxiety entered Dean's tone and he struggled to fend off the nausea that accompanied his frantic motions.
"I'm fine," he muttered. "And ith Tham."
Finally gaining control over the spinning room, Dean managed to pull himself to a full sit, wincing as the move tugged at stitches he had yet to count. He couldn't help a laugh as he mocked his little brother. "Tham? You sure you don't mean Sam?" He could see him now, and Dean almost regretted making the joke. Almost.
The boy sat on the other bed in the room, fully dressed, but still wearing the standard hospital ID bracelet. He looked utterly dejected. His head, hair uncombed, lay heavily within his hands. And he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. His eyes were red and puffy, almost dominating over the dark circles, but he'd successfully wiped away any indication of actual tears long before Dean woke up.
He didn't look up as he replied, not even a hint of humor in his voice. "Thath what I thaid, Dean. Tham."
Dean skipped over the numerous insults that came to mind, instinct telling him this wasn't the time. Something was seriously wrong with his little brother, and dry humor wasn't the cure. By now he'd found the button to raise the head of the bed, and he brought it up to meet his back, collapsing his screaming body against it as he eyed his brother with concern. "What happened to you back there?"
Shoulders hugged Sam's neck and then immediately dropped. "I guess that Warlock just got the better of me," he answered, the lie rolling off his tongue easily. The past months had done for him what years of hunting never could. He was now a master liar.
Except Dean knew Sam better than anyone ever had, and even Sam couldn't pass off every lie to his astute brother. Dean didn't buy it. The combination of what the Warlock had said to him and the fact that Sam refused to make eye contact sent up a red flag. "Try me again," Dean commanded sternly. "And this time tell me the truth. What happened to you? And why do you sound like you have a mouthful of cotton?"
Seconds passed, turning into a full minute plus before Sam spoke. Dean strained towards Sam, trying to make out his brother's muffled words. "The doctor's say I had a seizure," Sam admitted. "I guess I bit my tongue." He raised his head just enough to show Dean the six stitches across the center of his now swollen tongue. But he still refused to look his brother in the eye.
He was still lying. The little shit was keeping something vital from his admission, and Dean was determined to find out. But for now, he settled on the one word embedded in Sam's admission that raised concern. He'd glossed over it so fast that Dean barely heard it at first. But then he rewound the sentence and heard it again. Seizure. Sam had a seizure. "Whoa, back up there Trigger. You had a seizure? That's what happened during the fight?"
One nod. One barely noticeable nod, confirmed it. "Two, actually," he added, whispering the words as though it would make it less real. "There was another one once we got to the ER."
"Well do they have any idea why?"
Sam shrugged again, turning his head from Dean entirely. His fingers played absently with the white sheets covering the hospital bed and he bounced his knee in hyper-speed. "It was nothing," he insisted by means of omission. "Forget about me. How are you?"
Dean ignored the question, still focused on his baby brother. "Sam. What did the doctor say?"
He continued to fidget, now rising from the bed and studying any and all objects above Dean's head. The TV, black screen staring at him ominously, hypnotically. The monitors, flashing Dean's vitals for the world to see. Fluorescent Lights flickering from age. Ceiling Tiles, looking as though they'd been made in a Swiss cheese factory. They were all more welcoming than his brother right now. He didn't want to talk. And that meant avoiding Dean at all costs. "I, uh...I think I'm gonna go find your doctor," Sam finally said, sprinting anxiously from the room before Dean could protest.
Within minutes a new face appeared in the doorway, but Sam didn't return. She was plain, Dean noticed the minute the thirty something female knocked on his door, and his immediate thought went to the fact that he couldn't bring himself to flirt with her. It wasn't that she was ugly; because she wasn't. But she wasn't pretty either. There was just nothing special to her at all. And so he was forced to actually listen to her montage as Dr. Smith – how appropriate, he'd thought – covered his injuries. He had a concussion – of course, I could have told you that – three cracked ribs and a sprained knee. And he'd suffered some internal bleeding. The broken glass had sliced several gashes into his face, neck, and hands, and several had required stitches. There was also a hairline fracture on his right arm, but miraculously, he'd suffered no broken bones, and barring any complications he would be released later that day providing he to promised to take it easy.
Dean groaned as the doctor left, immediately wondering how bad the cuts were. Most importantly, how bad his face looked. With his good hand, he pulled back the covers and painfully levered himself to the edge of the bed, peeling the electrodes and needles from his skin as he went. He may have escaped broken bones, but that didn't mean his body didn't feel broken. The doctor had left a set of crutches by his bed, but he only took one. His arm hurt too bad to hold onto the other one, and the fact that the arm was strung up in a sling didn't help matters. He gingerly raised himself up, never fully reaching vertical, but coming pretty darn close as he leaned heavily on the crutches. He swayed for a second, immediately missing Sam's annoying mother hen issues when he realized he wasn't there. Where the hell is that little bastard?
It took him several minutes to pick his way to the adjoining bathroom, pausing every few steps to reclaim his breath and ease the fiery pain that screamed at him from every inch of his body, but Dean finally made it, planting himself in front of the mirror. The broken glass had done a number on his face, and Dean recoiled at the reflected image in front of him, wondering how much of it would remain when the skin knitted back together. The skin was a patchwork of reds and blues, yellows and blacks and jagged lines moving in every direction, looking more like a Picasso than the face that could have won major modeling jobs if he'd taken a different life path. He hoped the sharp blackness of the multitude of stitches railroading across his face and neck actually made the image worse, but only time would tell. For all he knew, he could end up a living version of Frankenstein's monster.
He turned from the mirror, suddenly not so eager to see the freak he had become, and wishing Sam would come back. He'd been gone for almost half an hour, and Dean was starting to worry. Little did he know he had every reason to be worried, but he was about to find out.
As Dean hobbled slowly back into the room he found himself caught off guard by the presence, once again, of his doctor. But this time she wasn't alone. "Dr. Smith. Back so soon?" he asked, her plain features all of a sudden more appealing as the image of his damaged face reappeared in his mind. Would this be what he resorted to for the rest of his life? Plain...or even less than plain?
She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip as she contemplated what she would say to her patient. She began with the obvious. "Dean, this is Dr. Carlson. He treated your brother when you two boys were brought in, and he...um...he's got something he wants to talk to you about."
Easing himself back onto the bed, Dean perked up at the mention of Sam. "What do you know about my brother?" he demanded of the doctor, staring him down in case he decided to back down and not spill what he knew.
Dr. Carlson sighed, rubbing a nervous hand through his hair. "I really shouldn't be telling you this," he admitted. "I'm breaking just about every doctor-patient confidentiality rule in the book."
"Screw confidentiality," Dean snapped, proving that subtlety wasn't his strong suit. "He's my brother. If there's something wrong with him I need to know. He said he had a seizure. Why?"
The physician answered Dean's question with one of his own. "How long has your brother been taking prescription pain killers?"
Dean's mouth dropped. His eyes grew intense as he ingested the bomb shell that had just been dropped on him. "He's not– He shouldn't be– I mean, he was– but it was for his hip...and that's better now. It's healed, and–"
"So you didn't know about it? Any of it?" Dr. Carlson questioned and Dean didn't miss the hint of accusation behind his voice.
His head shook unwaveringly, firm in the assertion that he was clueless to the whole thing. "I mean I...I knew he was different. I knew things had changed. But you don't know my brother. He's good. He can hide things with the best of them. How long has he–"
"Long enough to become addicted to the drugs," Dr. Carlson answered. "Long enough to OD on them last night."
"So that's what happened? That's what the seizure was all about?" Dean's voice quavered, and he had to gulp down a major lump in his throat as he tried to stay strong through the rest of the conversation.
Dr. Carlson nodded apologetically, crossing his arms. "I'm so sorry. Your brother seems to be such a bright boy. It's so tough to watch people throw their lives away like this. I just wanted you to know this because your brother has refused treatment. I thought you might be able to change his mind."
"He refused?" Dean asked, confusion in his tone. "Can he do that? I mean, couldn't you guys just flush it from his system or something?"
Tightening his lips, the doctor looked at Dean with sorrowful eyes. "I wish it was that simple. But cleansing the system of the drugs is a long process. And it can get very ugly. The best place for him is a detox center. I have some pamph–"
"No," Dean interrupted stubbornly. "He's not going to rehab. My brother's not a junkie. He's just...confused. He can beat this on his own. I'll help him."
"It's not that easy, son," Dr. Carlson hesitated, and finally sat on the edge of the bed. His hand rested on Dean's shoulder, miraculously finding one of the few places that wasn't screaming in agony even as Dean's mind focused wholeheartedly on Sam. "Your brother needs professional help. He can't do this on his own. Not even with you by his side. Besides, you've got your own recovery to focus on."
"Fuck my own recovery," Dean snapped. "I'll be fine. I always am. Just tell me what I gotta do to get him better."
The doctor sighed, looking to his colleague for assistance. She complied, stepping towards Dean confidently. "We already explained to you what needs to be done. We're recommending that you petition to have Sam declared incompetent so you can gain power of attorney. With that power, you can have him admitted to a detox center regardless of his wishes.
Dean fumed, shrugging Dr. Carlson's hand from his shoulder and jumping to his feet. He would regret it later, but for now he felt no physical pain, only emotional. "ARE YOU PEOPLE FUCKING INSANE?" he cried, storming to the dresser where the clothes he'd been wearing when he was brought in had been washed and folded neatly. Snatching them roughly in his hand he began putting them on, ignoring the protests his body was making at every move. "There's no way in hell that I'm having Sam declared incompetent! So he ran into a little problem with drugs. We can deal with this. We've overcome a whole hell of a lot more." He glared at the doctors, trying to convince them of his confidence as much with his eyes as with his words. If only he felt as confident as he was trying to convince them he was.
Both doctors approached Dean cautiously, clearly wondering if they might have missed the signs that he, too, was dosing himself with painkillers. Could any sane human be this enraged over the idea of getting a loved one help?
"Mr. Bailey, please calm down." It was Dr. Smith who had voiced the plea, but Dean barely looked at her as he gathered the remainder of his things.
"I'd appreciate it if you could get those discharge papers for me now," he demanded through clenched teeth. "As soon as I find my brother, we'll be leaving. I'll take care of him myself."
The terse words served as a dismissal and both doctors grudgingly took Dean's less than subtle hint. Dean watched them leave, nostrils flaring and chest heaving as he tried unsuccessfully to calm himself down. His thoughts no longer focused on the actualization of what the doctors had just clued him in to. No, now he thought about Sam. About how long he'd been lying to him. About the fact that Sam's lies had nearly gotten them both killed last night. Dean's rage consumed him as he collapsed heavily into a chair. I'm gonna kill that little shit!
