Again, I apologize for the wait...I hope this proves worth it.
Cryptic Chapter 18
Decisions and Regrets
----------
Long legs conquered tile as Sam half-ran down the hospital corridor where his brother now resided. The large blue door assigned the correct, identifying numbers a sympathetic nurse had revealed to him earlier loomed directly ahead and as he neared it, Sam tried desperately to forget just exactly how many times he'd been here before.
Albeit, not this particular hospital, but damn if he hadn't relived the terrifying ordeal of unanswered questions, stiff doctors and tense waiting rooms more times than he could count. Each time it sickened him, and each time the situation was more tumultuous than the last. He often wondered if the day would come where his fragile, frayed nerves would just wear out completely.
Sam reached out a nervous, sweaty hand and quietly cracked the door open. They had told him Dean was resting, and little brother knew far too well what a grumpy Dean was like. Why he was worried about that at the moment was a mystery to him, and became a greater one when Dean's lax, bruised body came into view.
He was thankful, at least, that Dean didn't have plastic crammed down his throat, but rather loosely placed under his nose, the tubing looping over his ears. Not that it mattered, its presence regardless screamed his brother's apparent dependence and as much as Sam hated to admit it, after everything they'd been through, times such as these became surreal. To Sam, this was nothing but an elaborate play scripted for his personal horror and inevitable guilt trip to follow, all set to the soundtrack of a shrill beeping heart monitor.
Sinking into the ever present, plastic chair always placed only a few feet away, Sam couldn't help but scoff at the reminder that he was sidelined and condemned to do nothing but wait for Dean to give a sign he was okay, that they were okay. He wasn't going to get it in the five minutes he now had to spare thanks to the doctors long examination and placement of Dean. That didn't mean he wasn't going to hope for it.
Sam's long fingers absently traced the cracking worn edge of the small book his 'rescuer' had entrusted to him, his eyes never leaving Dean's black eyes and the bruise that marred his brother's temple both equally jarring against the ashen skin. Resigned to simply watch Dean's struggle on the verge of consciousness, Sam gulped down the urge to ramble and rather studied the sight before him.
Head trauma. Exhaustion. Heavy congestion in his right lung. The doctor's monotone, clipped list droned a reprise in Sam's mind, sounding all the more forbearing the second time around. It was with suspicion and accusation that the elderly professional relayed his diagnosis, treatment, and potential problems to consider. The entire discussion bore the question of 'what the hell kind of brother are you to not have noticed this sooner?' and Sam found himself at a loss for answers.
A part of him had wanted and still wanted to escort the portly man outside and show him what kind of brother he was, but a larger part craved the mound of guilt attributed with the insinuation. For all he had agreed to in urgency that no doubt would remain a secret of the ages, he deserved to be under a scrutinizing, judgmental eye. Didn't matter whose it was at the moment.
But as usual, he hadn't foreseen everything that could come out of that man's mouth and almost succeeded in breaking under the pressure when the jackass excuse for a medical degree had the audacity to ask if his brother was suicidal as the deep cuts and scratches adorning Dean's tender wrist resembled a botched hack job. Somehow, the sarcastic excuse that his brother was 'into that kind of thing' didn't seem to fit but neither did 'oh, well, he was chained to the wall by the psycho priest next town over'.
The talk of psychological help ended the conversation on Sam's end all together. He didn't have time to waste on some half-ass reason to interrogate his brother, so he opted for the stern refute and the gesture of nearly knocking the insensitive prick over as he barreled past him. All that effort to end up where he now sat; left to his own thoughts and gazing at his brother's beaten body and the stark white bandages covering his torn wrists.
Idle fingers found their way back to the worn parchment pages of the ancient text, the telling page holding their fate loosely dog-eared. Sam traced the small triangle for a bit before opening the text completely and exposing the folded piece of notebook paper he'd crammed therein.
He'd had plenty of time in the waiting room, and in his mind, things were as thought out as they were going to be. Sam was determined to do the right thing, but at the same time right's a matter of perspective. He knew that--he just hoped Dean did as well.
The fact that Nebraska still hung over both their heads like a damn thundercloud didn't do much to ease Sam's decision making process. But now Sam was Roy and Sue Anne rolled into one, and he had to decide who lived and who died. Dean would probably never see this all his way, but maybe he'd understand why…it was all Sam could hope for.
With uneasy grace, Sam rose from his place and removed the creased slip of paper from its holding place. Wordlessly, he lifted Dean's still hand and set the page beneath it, then let his fingers wander up Dean's arm and face until they found the short spikes of sandy-blonde.
Sam blinked away the stinging, burning sensation surging behind his eyes and bent down over his brother until his face was inches from Dean's own, his pools of brown intently staring into the lidded green of his brother's willing them to open. He sighed heavily, wearily, as he resigned to take this moment over none at all, and in the solemnest of whispers Sam muttered the truest statement he'd said in weeks.
"I'm sorry."
---------
The crisp air hung through the clearing, and Sam shivered, not only against it, but at the gnawing cold laying hold of his stomach. Rubbing his arms furiously to ward off the chill, the dark-haired Winchester surveyed the priest's sacred place.
He had to admit, his 'rescuer' was nothing but thorough. Everything had been set according to ordinance. Seven stones, almost hidden by the overgrown grass and weeds, created a circle. Each one stained with a red mark, bearing a meaning Sam was unsure of and really didn't care to know. The center held St. Anthony's Cross, and according to the text it was there he was to begin.
Sam swayed as he entered the circle. The fire of his own mark, once forgotten, flared with renewed power as he took his place in the center of the cross. Once settled to the ground, legs crossed, Sam opened the text, swallowing convulsively when the scarlet name scrawled into the chant was laid bare for all to see and waiting for his utterance of it.
His life had come to this. Dean's life would be decided by this. It was that in mind, Sam hung his head, shouldering the weight of his brother's life and innocents he would never know on his hunched shoulders and did what he thought right.
---------
The surrounding darkness blinked into ash gray before stark white met Dean's blurry, puffy eyes. A steady beep rang in his ears and while it should've been a clue to his current environment, his brain made no connection as Dean stared on in a dazed fog at the ceiling above him.
This wasn't the crypt. He knew that. The air was different here. It wasn't thick, or rank with death. Instead, it was sharp and familiar in a 'what the hell' kind of way. Antiseptic would be Dean's last choice for air freshener. The beeping, the white, the smell…it could only mean one thing but how had he got there.
Last thing he could remember was Father Andrew's cronies coming in and ripping off the chains from his wrist, taking a layer of skin with it. As if sparked by the memory, he sensed the dull pain lacing up his arm, and Dean lifted his head heavily, huffing frustratingly when he saw the white bandages covering his wounds and the IV insert.
Dean let his head fall back down to the stiff pillow, and attempted to lull it over to his left where he knew there'd be a chair, and he knew someone would be waiting for him to wake up probably worried and clucking like a mother hen. The before mentioned person was going to get his ass kicked. One, for putting big brother in the hospital without consent, and two, for taking out the bad guys without Dean's help which he was going to pay for because Dean had every intent on making Sam tell the story until he was blue in the face.
However, nothing but an empty plastic chair occupied Dean's room. For a brief instant, he felt panic building, but with years of hospital experience under his belt, and a Winchester through and through, Dean took a deep breath and waited. Sam probably went to the bathroom, or to get some coffee or…something.
As the minutes ticked on, Dean couldn't help but notice that the chair didn't look like it'd been resided in recently, and nothing uniquely Sam cluttered any part of the room. Wide green eyes latched onto the door, and with willful determination Dean commanded it to open and let his brother in. Sam had to be here. He wouldn't leave him alone. Again. He wouldn't.
Dean's heart thudded rapidly, the terrified rhythm pulsating in his ears and ringing from the monitors stuck to his chest. Father Andrew had wanted Sam and Sam wasn't here. He failed. God, he failed. Sam was gone. Not here. Not with him. Father Andrew could still …. Dead…oh god, Sam could be dead. How else would anyone know to look for him in the crypt or find him and bring him to the hospital unless they'd found another body…
And he was up, sort of. Half-hunched, and teetering dangerously over the edge of the bed, Dean hoarsely called out for his brother. His body shook with effort and soon the rasping cough that had plagued him earlier returned causing his entire being to shudder. He moved to stand, but a firm hand from behind stopped him.
Dean flicked crystalline jade to the vice holding him to the bed. Long, fake nails painted with a neat French manicure were pressing lightly into his skin as the nurse's soothing voice tried to reach Dean's deafening ears as the erratic heart monitor beeped incessantly. "You need to calm down, honey. Just breathe. Okay. Breathe."
"S-sammy?" Dean heaved weakly, his chest rising sharply and falling deeply with each strained breath as he tried to jerk free from the woman's hold, "Where's…where's….let me go."
"I can't do that not until you calm down." The blonde replied gently, but firmly, as she adjusted his hold on Dean to better aid him in settling back onto the bed. But Dean was having none of it.
"I want my brother!" He demanded and fought harder. Sammy needed his help, and damn if some chic thought she could stop him. Another round of coughing spasms seized him before any progress could be made, and the nurse capitalized on it in a flash, quickly adjusting the bed and resting Dean in a sit.
"It's okay, you're okay. There you go, just breathe." The liturgy of encouragement and reassurance coupled with the woman's soft voice proved its worth, and Dean shakily steadied his breathing. "Good, now that wasn't too hard was it?"
Dean licked his lips, his face desperate, "Sam?"
"I don't know who that is, sweetie." The nurse answered honestly, lightly patting Dean's knee before heading over to retrieve a cup and water for Dean, "Here you go. Drink slow now. I'm Tracy, one of the nurses assigned to this floor and you're at St. Paul's Memorial."
Dean wrapped his cracked lips around the small straw and sipped carefully letting the cool water ease his burning throat as he processed the information. "How'd I get here?"
"A young man brought you in. Didn't stay too long though." Relief washed over Dean's face, and the change was noticeable enough for Tracy to rush to the man's side yet again to ensure that another escape attempt wasn't in store.
"Sam. He's my brother." Dean smiled weakly, tears welling in his eyes at the news his brother was very much alive although he totally blamed the drugs pumping through him. The expression faded when he registered the rest of what Tracy was trying to tell him. "Wait…where'd he go?"
"I don't know." Tracy replied, taking the cup from Dean and setting it down on the tray, "But I found this when I did rounds earlier. I think he left it for you."
"Oh," Dean muttered and lifted his arm as much as he could to take the small folded piece of paper Tracy handed to him. "Thanks."
"No problem," Tracy smiled warmly and locked eyes with Dean, "Rest up, okay? And don't worry, I'm sure…Sam, I'm sure he'll come back. He seemed really worried about you."
"He does that a lot. Worry, I mean." Dean mumbled, gently unfolding the paper.
"Brothers tend to."
Dean nodded in agreement, and watched the nurse exit the rooms before letting his eyes fall to the scrawled writing staining the lined paper.
----------
Lemme know what you think...and thanx for the patience!
