A/N: I'm posting this early because it's summer and apparently I have nothing better to do :) And also because I want to get this chapter posted and one more before next Monday which is why I will be on vacation and unable to post for a few days...As for this chapter, I tried to keep in as in character as I could, though I must admit, I'm not so sure about it. All I can say is trust me, okay? I know what I'm doing with this fic. I really do. Well, as much as I ever do... (Gem, time to STOP having a life and get back to the internet! Are you listening to me?)
Chapter Twelve
Dean clenched his hands into fists, but made an effort to keep them in his lap. He needed to focus, to hear everything the doctor was saying to him. Normally, the after-care instructions were things Dean already knew--change the bandage, watch for infection, take the antibiotics. But as the doctor in front of him had introduced himself, Dean had known right then that this time was different. Dr. Robert Ness, Head of Psychiatry.
Any other time, he would have taken Sam and bolted. But this time he couldn't, he just couldn't, because he didn't really know what was wrong with Sam or how to make his brother better. So he let the doctor lead him to his office, seat him in a padded chair, and explain his take on Sam's condition.
"Medically, his seizure was caused by dehydration and exhaustion. However, for someone to let their body get to that state—that's a more serious concern right now. Sam would have had to be depriving himself of drink and sleep for an extended period of time for his body to respond in this way. We have to look at that as a symptom of a greater problem."
"What kind of problem?"
The doctor sighed, weighing his words. "A psychological problem."
The words made Dean bristle. "Sam's not crazy."
"Crazy is not a clinical term," the doctor said. "However, after talking to Sam, even after he's been hydrated, I have reason to worry about his mental stability."
"What do you mean?"
"While I was talking to him, he became extremely agitated. He wouldn't elaborate, but his body language suggested he was seeing something, something that clearly was not there. Before he even became fully conscious, he was trying to get out of the room--the nurse had to put him in soft restraints to keep him from injuring himself. The doctors in the emergency room reported similar behavior. Have you noticed anything like that?"
Dean tried not to give away the twinge of panic that shot through him. Sam would know better than to tell a doctor, but what could spook Sam to the extent of not being able to hide it? He fought to control his composure, but the doctor was studying him closely. "Sam's, uh--pretty quiet."
The doctor looked skeptical, well aware that Dean hadn't answered the question. "Clearly he is not living in a completely altered state—he still knows who he is and what's going on around him. But he's paranoid and is perhaps suffering from hallucinations. Now we've run various tests and ruled out the majority of physical conditions that would cause this type of state. We've also ruled out schizophrenia, though Sam is the right age for that."
Dean found himself unable to speak.
"His neglect of his body suggests either a self-destructive nature or an extreme inability to self-assess. He does not seem aware of how his lack of sleep and eating have affected him, which he should. People don't act like that for no reason. Has your brother been under any unusual stress? Has he suffered any emotional trauma?"
Dean tried to shrug, tried to find a lie, but his bravado could not be summoned. He looked meekly at the floor. It couldn't just be psychological. Sam was right; it had to be supernatural . . . it had to be.
"I realize this is difficult for you, but your brother's mental state is very unstable. If we're going to figure out what's wrong with Sam, we have to understand his physical and psychological condition right now."
Dean's dealings with doctors usually consisted of half-truths and flippant write-offs. But the doctor's stare pierced him, and Sam's condition terrified him. Even if this was all for nothing, it couldn't hurt to venture a little honesty. For Sam's sake. "His girlfriend died. About eight months ago."
The doctor took in the information with a note of surprise. "I see," he mused. "Was it unexpected?"
"Yeah," Dean said softly, looking away. "He saw it happen. It was…a fire. Sam made it out. She didn't."
"How did Sam respond?"
Dean felt exasperated. "How do you think he responded? For awhile he didn't know what to do, how to feel. He got angry. And then, I don't know. He just got quiet."
"Has he seen anyone about it?"
Dean shook his head and looked away.
"Do you discuss it much with him?"
Biting his lip, Dean shook head again. "Not much."
The doctor made a small sound in his throat. "And what has your brother been doing since the accident?"
"What do you mean?"
"Has he been working, going to school…that kind of thing?"
Dean searched the wall, looking for a lie that seemed least offensive. "We've been taking some time off. Road tripping."
"Road tripping. Just you and him?"
"Yeah, you know. Seeing the country, that kind of thing."
The doctor made the noise again, that almost condemning click of his tongue. "Well, that certainly makes sense," he said. "Based on what you've told me and Sam's current state, I'm thinking it is a combination of post traumatic stress and a transient, unstable lifestyle. Sam's world lacks consistency, foundation. Of course, we'll have to do more assessment before we can figure out the best treatment for Sam, but it seems likely from what I've seen and what you've told me that Sam is suffering from brief reactive psychosis, which you might think of as a nervous breakdown."
Dean's immediate response was again to protest. He knew his brother, knew Sam far better than any doctor ever would. And Sam wasn't crazy. Sam was fine. Sam doesn't need anything I can't give him.
But the doctor's words struck a chord, explaining Sam's behavior in ways he had not been able to after days of retrospection.
As much as Dean wanted to deny it, he couldn't, he couldn't bring himself to reject the doctor's words. Brief reactive psychosis. It hit him hard. Psychosis. "What does that mean?"
The doctor shifted patiently. "It can happen sometimes following a traumatic event, especially when the grief remains unresolved. Fortunately, usually the psychosis is temporary, and tends to pass on its own within two weeks if Sam can stay in a safe and consistent environment. Sometimes drugs are used to control it, but we wouldn't take any steps until we further assess Sam's condition and what triggered the onset of the psychosis."
It didn't get easier to hear the word, but it was harder and harder to expel from the realm of possibility. Sam's erratic behavior. Sam's nightmares.
He took a shaky breath. Whatever was going on with Sammy, the hospital would be a place where Sam would be safe while they sorted it all out. "Can I see him?"
OOOOOOO
Sam's room was dimmed and the shades were pulled. Dean entered quietly, expecting to find his baby brother tucked under the neutral hospital sheets on the bed. He nearly called for the nurse when he found it empty.
But before he could open his mouth, Sam's voice stopped him. "Dean. Thank God."
Startled, Dean turned to find his brother standing in the shadowed corner behind a chair. The relief in Sam's face was palpable. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"No. We have to leave. They took my clothes, but we need to leave."
Dean moved slowly toward his brother. "I think maybe we should stay," he suggested, trying to sound casual. "Such good food."
Sam flinched at Dean's words, still huddled in the corner like a frightened animal.
"What are you doing in the corner?"
"It's here."
"What's here?"
Sam looked nervously toward the door. "I don't know for sure, but I saw it."
Dean controlled a spike of worry and doubt. "You saw it? Where?"
"In her eyes. The nurse. Her eyes were black. She's...she's...possessed."
Dean paused, trying to balance the doctor's insight with his trust in his kid brother. "The nurse is possessed? Which one?"
Sam nodded vigorously. "The blonde one. Webber. I don't know what it wants. And it doesn't stay there. In the nurse, I mean. It moves in and out, but it's here, Dean, it's here."
Sam sounded confident, but Dean could not help but notice how gaunt Sam looked. He doubted his brother could stand much longer without passing out. "Okay. We can check it out. But you need to get back to bed, okay?"
Panicked, Sam's eyes widened. "No," he hissed. "They--they tried to tie me down. I can't stay here."
"Sam--"
But Sam was beyond reason. Dean saw that he had pulled the IV. His brother's legs trembled and he leaned heavily against the chair. Come on, Sammy.
"I need to leave. I'm okay. Really."
Dean moved closer to his brother, reaching his hand out in placation. "You had a seizure."
Sam couldn't hear. He didn't care. "It's after me, Dean, and if I stay here, I have no way of fighting it."
"What's after you, Sam?"
"I don't know," he said in an explosive whisper. "I don't know. But it's everywhere."
The outburst shook Sam and Dean reached out as his brother's balance wavered. "Let's get you back to bed, okay?"
Sam didn't have the energy to resist, leaning heavily against his brother, but he kept on in gasping breaths. "Please, Dean. Don't make me stay."
"You're going to be fine, okay? I'll make sure of it."
"But--"
"I'll check it out, okay? I'll look for the nurse. I'll ask around, say Christo a bunch. If there's something here, I'll find it."
"It moves, though, Dean, everywhere," Sam mumbled as they reached the bed. "I saw it all over town. It could leave."
"I know, okay? Don't worry about it. I'll give the whole town a once over, but you've got to stay here."
"I don't want to be alone," Sam said, his eyes staring up as he sunk back into the bed.
Dean's breath caught in his throat. Sam so rarely admitted his vulnerabilities, and it hurt Dean to see Sam so desperate. "Don't worry about a thing," Dean assured him with more confidence than he felt. "I'm going to take care of everything."
Sam's eyes still looked afraid, a little desperate, but Sam's body began to relax and he slipped away into sleep.
Dean collapsed into the chair and watched the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. Something was wrong with Sam, Dean was sure of it. His brother's behavior was irrational and childlike, spurred on by emotion and expressed chaotically. And the seizures weren't something to ignore.
The doctor's diagnosis made sense, but Sam didn't seem the type. After all, Sam was a Winchester, and they were strong. Their father had gone for 22 years without as much as a visit to a shrink.
Dean stopped that train of thought, realizing with a bitter smile that his father was not exactly the poster child for healthy coping skills.
But his father had kept it together. He hadn't fallen apart psychologically, and he couldn't peg that for Sam either, especially when Sam was so sure that something was after him.
Either way, he had to get serious. His attention to the research Sam forced on him since coming here had been half-hearted and meager; it was time to focus a lot more.
Starting with finding the nurse. He studied his brother again, noting the IV dripping steadily onto the floor. Who better to restart an IV than a nurse?
OOOOOOO
"Nurse Webber?"
She smiled broadly at him. "Yes?"
"You're Nurse Webber?"
Her blonde ponytail swung as she nodded her head. "Yes."
"You helped my brother, Sam?"
She looked thoughtful for a moment before replying, "Yes, the young man with the seizure. His vitals are looking much better since we hydrated him."
"Yeah, that's what I wanted to ask about. I think he accidentally pulled his IV."
Her eyes went round and Dean looked deeply into them. "We'll have to restart that right away," she said.
All Dean could manage was a disappointed, "Yeah." Her eyes were round and deep and crystal blue.
She was heading briskly down the hall and Dean followed her a step behind. With a deep breath, he made one last effort. "Christo," he said, loud enough for her to hear.
She turned and smiled at him funny. "Did you say something?"
"Christo," he said again, his eyes trained on her face.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't speak Spanish."
Dean clenched his teeth and forced a smile. "That's too bad."
OOOOOOO
The nurse fixed Sam's IV but Dean had to sweet talk her into not notifying the doctor of Sam's attempted escape.
Alone in the dark room, Dean leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "I don't know, Sammy. She checks out. Nothing dark in her."
Sam, practically passed out on the bed, offered no reply.
"If there's something after you, kiddo, you know I'll find it," Dean said. He let his eyes traverse Sam's long body, which was covered by the thin hospital blankets. When Sam was stretched out, Dean was always surprised by how much of Sam there was, how his legs seemed to keep going. They almost seemed to stick off the edge of the bed.
Even in the dimness, Sam's features looked pale. The fluids may have helped Sam's vitals, but his complexion remained the same sickly hue. Even in sleep, Sam simply looked exhausted.
Not that Dean could blame him. They had been on the go for months straight, never really slowing their pace since Dean pulled Sam from his burning apartment at Stanford.
Eight months--had it been that long? Dean tried to remember where the time went, how so much time had passed without him paying heed.
Eight months and so little said between them. Eight months and a handful of conversations that were meaningful. Eight months and few insights into the dark workings of his brother's tormented mind. He had seen glimpses. He had seen Sam's rage while hunting the Wendigo, his overwhelming need to make things better, his near-inability to focus on anything except the hunt at hand.
He had seen it with Bloody Mary, when he couldn't ignore just how much Sam's grief over Jess haunted him. Sam hadn't come clean with him then, but he knew Sam blamed himself for her death, a guilt which Dean knew Sam needed to overcome someday or it would overcome him.
He didn't know how true that was until Sam admitted the visions to him when they returned to Lawrence. But Sam's honesty about the visions had defined a shift in their relationship. Sam's grief had turned into angst over what he hadn't prevented, what he could still prevent.
But the grief was still there, along with a host of other resentments and hurts Dean didn't want to think about. Sam's feelings of rejection from their father. Sam's feelings of resentment toward him for being the good little soldier. So much boiled under the surface in his brother, that it seemed to take something supernatural to draw it out of him.
Dean had always figured Sam would talk when he was ready, that he would know when to push Sam, when Sam couldn't deal with it anymore. But, eight months...
Eight months of close calls and near misses.
He sighed, leaning forward. His fingers lingered above Sam's hand, almost touching, but instead gripping the metal bedrail. "I won't let anything else happen to you. You can count on that."
