AN: I'm trying something different for this one-shot. Except for the first section, the whole story loosely follows some of the lyrics of a song. The song is Unsteady by the X Ambassadors. The other inspiration comes from a drive I took to a local river. I heard a rumor that the entire surface was frozen over, which happens only every 20-30 years. It wasn't, but it was still a beautiful place to be. We got to see a couple of red-headed woodpeckers, a whitetail deer, and coolest of all, a bald eagle. But that's not relevant to the story.
One-shot, not set a specific time except that it's after John's passing. As is most of my work, it's really an exploration of the brotherhood of the Winchester boys. Plot is not big here!
I don't own Supernatural, Sam, Dean, or Baby. I just like to throw them into the chaos that is my imagination and see what comes out the other side.
A bit of language (though not a lot) and some violence, mostly implied. Rated T mostly out of paranoia. All medical information comes from Dr. Internet, so there may be errors.
* * *
Hold
Hold on
Hold onto me
'Cause I'm a little unsteady
A little unsteady
Mama, come here
Approach, appear
Daddy, I'm alone
'Cause this house don't feel like home
If you love me don't let go
If you love me don't let go
River runners were potentially very dangerous things, growing up to 20 feet long and more than able to kill and eat a human being. And they weren't picky – they would slake their enormous appetites with any kind of meat they could catch. But they were ambush predators, staying hidden under the surface of the water until the focus of their hunt was alone. They'd use their cry to stun said prey, then snatch them and drag them into the water to be drowned and eaten. And they preferred places far from houses and traffic, meaning they only rarely caught humans.
That had made this case strange from the very beginning. Runners never, never, never took on more than one creature at once. Which meant the traumatized survivors, bleeding from ruptured eardrums, must be wrong about what they'd seen. Except their injuries and description of a "giant, fat, bright blue snake with a mouth full of circles of teeth" fit a runner perfectly. And they all said the same thing. And each party was missing one member, who'd been dragged into the river.
At least the lore had been clear on how to kill the thing – get it out of the river and attack with fire – and on where to find one's lair – always at the base of a huge weeping willow.
Despite their niggling doubts, the Winchesters quickly found the right spot. A gigantic, twisted willow squatted grumpily on a bank about 10 feet above the frozen river, its gnarled roots forming a protected, ice-free eddy as big as a Volkswagen.
It was far too easy to lure the cryptid out, though it was every bit as fast as advertised and very nearly took a chunk out of Dean, who was playing bait. As planned, Sam hooked it with an honest-to-God curved harpoon and pulled backwards with his entire body to drag the runner onto shore. Leaning back at a steep angle, Sam gritted his teeth as his quads and biceps strained to keep the squirming creature from pulling them both into the water. Then the burden eased just a little and Sam could see Dean had retrieved his own harpoon, and was pushing up from below.
They couldn't communicate out loud because of the airport-quality ear protection they wore to guard against the river runner's sonic defense. But it didn't matter much; they'd long been able to communicate with just a look. Once the entire creature was free of the water, its struggles were much weaker, and Sam knew he could hold it on his own, so he hooked one arm around a small but sturdy tree trunk, reset his feet, and gave Dean a nod. I've got it.
Dean nodded back, understanding and trusting him. With great relish, Dean pulled out their flame thrower from where it had been hidden in a convenient bush. With a grin, he unloaded a gout of fire right into the ugly thing's lamprey-like maw. Writhing even harder, the runner screamed so loudly that Sam could hear it through his ear protection. The scream didn't help it. Wet or not, it was burning up before his eyes. It twisted back on itself, revealing part of its belly for the first time.
Sam squinted into the flames. There was a big, arcane mark on the creature's scaly skin. It was angry and swollen, like a brand. Without releasing his hold, Sam strained his mind to identify it. Suddenly, he realized – it was a warlock symbol meaning control.
Even as Sam's mind figured out the import of such a symbol, some hunter's instinct made him look up. Thirty feet farther down the way, up on top of the bank, stood Freddie Stumpf, eyes and mouth wide with what looked like shock and anger. Something similar to a dog whistle hung around his neck, next to a large amulet in the shape of the symbol Sam had just seen.
The river runner collapsed into ash and Sam dropped the harpoon and reacted.
In his defense, Sam had spent the better part of three days talking to mourning families and traumatized survivors, among them Freddie himself, whose big brother had been the first victim. Even then, Sam might have taken a moment to decide on a course of action, except that his adrenaline was running high from just having seen Freddie's demented pet almost eating Sam's big brother.
Without a second thought, Sam surged to the top of the bank, pulling his baby desert eagle as he went and shouting something he couldn't hear.
Freddie's eyes got even wider at the sight of six feet four inches of enraged Winchester running toward him and did the prudent thing of turning to run away. Though he'd pulled the gun, Sam didn't shoot. He was gaining on the other man as they both wove precariously in and out of the trees, and he really wanted a word with the guy.
Sam had closed to within fifteen feet when Freddie, puffing like a steam engine, pulled out a handgun of his own and started to turn it toward Sam. Sam saw it coming and reacted as he'd been trained. He twisted his body to the side, brought his own weapon to bear, and fired.
The shots rang out nearly simultaneously. A line of fire ignited along Sam's left arm, and the impact of the bullet plus the twisting motion Sam had already been making sent him off balance. The ice-covered surface of the river seemed to rush toward him. He barely had time to think, aw shit before his right shoulder hit the ice, and it – and the rest of him – broke right through.
It didn't feel like cold right away. Nor did Sam feel the pain of the impact. Instead, it felt like he was wrapped in barbed wire pulled tight enough to dig into his skin, cutting him and trapping him at the same time. Every muscle tried to spasm, to fight the shock of the cold. Sam's head went back and his arms flailed blindly in the darkness of the water. His chest seized and his mind seemed unwilling to work as pain confusion pain confusion flashed too loudly for any real thoughts or reasoning to break through. He didn't know which way was up and out and he thrashed blindly, not even sure if his eyes were open or closed. His chest was being crushed and he was desperate for air and he had to breathe in even if it meant letting the water in and his crazed, desperate struggles were all the more frightening because everything was absolutely silent until…
[ Hold. ]
Dean? Dad?
When they were little, Dad had a special game he played. If he yelled, "hold," no matter the time or place, you froze in place. You could breathe, but you weren't supposed to move – just stay still and observe your surroundings. Sam thought the game was fun, but Dean took it very seriously. When they did a good job, they got a Smartie or a Jolly Rancher or, if they were lucky, a peanut MM. When they didn't do a good job, they got The Look.
Over time, many more terms were added, from drop to flank to bug out, and then hand signals. Sam didn't remember learning any of those with the same fondness of hold, maybe because by then he knew why it was deadly serious and not a game at all. He learned to obey his father's and his brother's voices immediately and without question.
And on one hunt, when Sam was 14, he was the only one who saw the ghost of Minnie Llewellyn appear, since he was covering the back. He yelled, "drop!" and fired when his family was clear. It was only later that it occurred to him that Dad and Dean had responded as quickly as if one of them had said it. It was then he realized that they just might trust him to have their backs, too.
The small part of Sam's brain that wasn't frozen with panic and, yes, cold, knew that he hadn't actually heard either Dad or Dean calling for him to hold. Not physically, anyway. But their voices had been perfectly clear and insistent. Sam knew what they were telling him: don't panic, don't breathe in. And he was far too conditioned to disobey.
He stopped his mindless, whole-body thrashing and forced his aching body to stretch out, reaching his arms out in all directions trying to find anything to orient himself. The bottom of the river, the ice, anything.
The cold was stabbing him now, his muscles so quickly growing sluggish and his thoughts still verging on panic as he realized I'm not getting out of this. And holy shit, he had to breathe. Swords of ice seemed to pierce his lungs, but he knew one breath in and he was dead.
Sam still jerkily waved his arms even as he could no longer feel his feet, then his lower legs, and as the numbness crept right up his body. His stomach spasmed with the need to draw air. Is stupid Freddie with his stupid amulet and his stupid pet really going to kill me?
[ Hold on. ]
Hold onto what? Again, the command was as clear as a bright, sunny day. This time, the voice was only Dean's. How many times had Dean said those words to him?
Sick and miserable and waiting in the nurse's office at some cookie cutter high school, Sam phoned his brother for a ride home. Okay, I'm on my way. Just hold on, Sammy.
Nervous from all the traffic and all of the adults in what felt like a very large city to a four-year-old, especially the way the cars seemed to fly by. Seeming to sense his unease, Dean tightened his grip on Sam's hand. We're okay. Just hold on and don't let go of my hand.
Shaking with pain and shock and blood loss as Dad carefully sewed up the gash in his leg, Sam was wishing he could just pass out already. Dad was hoping he would, had told him not to fight it, but his body seemed determined to keep him awake and suffering. Dean grabbed not his hand, but his forearm so they both could get a good grip. He used his magic powers to force Sam to stare into his eyes. Hold on, okay Sammy? It'll be over soon.
Was there even anything to hold on to right now? Actually, yes. Sam's right hand brushed something hard. Something jagged and hard. He sensed it more than truly felt it and twisted his hand around and somehow managed to close thick, uncoordinated fingers around it. He thought he sliced his palm, but he didn't feel that either. He just clamped down with everything in him. And through an act of sheer will or stubbornness or whatever you wanted to call that streak that ran down the center of every Winchester, got the other hand up to hold on, too.
Sam had once spent eight weeks working at a tire place, using air tools all day, every day. At the end of the time, he could literally break your bones in a handshake. He'd never completely lost that hand strength, something Dean liked to call his kung fu grip.
Well, Dean wanted him to hold on? Then you better believe he was going to kung fu grip the bitch.
Didn't really matter, though. The rest of him was still under water, and he lacked the strength to pull his face out of the water, much less haul his body up and to safety. His lips slipped open and his eyes began to close as the pain in his head and the need for air eclipsed all else. Why was he fighting so hard again?
[ Hold onto me. ]
Who was this me anyway? And why was he so bossy? There wasn't anyone to hold onto. Sure, there had been plenty of times in the past.
Their one and only hunt for a domovoi hadn't gone Sam's way. It was domovoi and wall: 1, Sam's head: 0. Concussed, confused, barely able to see, and with the world spinning beneath him, Sam didn't have a chance to make it back to the car. Or he wouldn't have if he'd been alone. Gently, without chiding him for being out of practice (which he was), Dean got him upright. I'll get you there. I'll keep you upright. Your only job right now is to hold onto me. Got that? Close your eyes if that makes the dizziness better, or whatever you need to do. Just don't pass out on me and do hold onto me, and I'll get you there.
Sam had held on. They had made it to the car, and rumor had it, Dean had to drive back to their motel with Sam half on his lap, because he'd been told to hold on, and come hell or high water, Sam did.
Then when Sam was seven, an older boy also staying at the long-term motel thought it would be funny to toss Sam into the place's scummy pool. Only, Sam had never learned how to swim, so when he found himself completely under, he was at a loss as to how to get back to the surface. Sounds familiar, Sam reasoned.
But Dean had jumped right in, then he was hauling Sam to the surface and holding onto him as he blessedly sucked in air. Panicking, Sam had almost pulled himself out of Dean's arms. Stop it! Stop fighting, Sammy. You don't know how to swim, but I do. All you need to do is hold onto me, and I'll get you out.
Even though his thoughts felt like sludge now, slow and heavy and uncooperative, the memory or muscle memory or some deep instinct had him transferring his grip. Somehow, he was holding arms instead of…the edge of the ice? Ice? Oh, yes, that's right. And then, miraculously, Sam could breathe again. He couldn't real feel much of anything except horrible cold and claws raking the inside of his lungs as they struggled to take in enough of the frigid air to bring his body back online, but he tried to hold on even tighter.
Sam was being pulled out despite the feebleness of his own efforts and even though he could actually feel his brain shutting lights off as it prepared to take a little vacation from consciousness, he knew it was Dean somehow there and pulling him out of the water. Then he was out and there was little relief from the cold and he tightened his grip, or tried to.
Dean shook him off and the world flipped alarmingly. Sam somehow ended up on his back, then there was an arm around his chest, so Sam latched onto that instead. Hold onto me. Yeah, he'd hold onto Dean. Any higher reasoning wasn't happening right now, but that he could do.
He was sliding backwards and up, his feet bouncing uselessly over bumps and lumps and Sam wondered idly if it was a good thing he couldn't feel them. There were dark shapes around them that his eyes couldn't quite make out, but since Dean could, Sam wasn't worried. He just hung on.
Then another need made itself known. Dean seemed to identify it before Sam did, because the sliding stopped and he was tipped onto his side. The arm didn't leave as Sam puked up the water he didn't remember swallowing, so he just kept holding on. Consciousness was nearly gone and Sam's shivering had grown almost violent by the time he finished.
Dean had been talking, Sam realized, since he could feel the rumble against his back. He sounded…insistent, so Sam tried really hard to think about what the words meant. "—my. You gotta let go so I can…" Let go? No, he didn't want to do that. "Let go," said Dean again, calm but commanding. "It's okay. I got you."
"Let…?" It must be okay, because Dean said so, but it was harder than it should have been to convince his fingers to open. He didn't quite manage to completely open his hand. A different hand gently but firmly pulled Sam's hands off the arm. He wanted to protest, but he was lifted to a standing position and his arm was drawn across broad shoulders.
This was familiar too.
[ Cause I'm a little unsteady. ]
When Sam was sixteen and growing so fast that he could barely stay on his feet on a good day, a creature they never did find a name for shoved Sam off the side of a porch, which netted the teen some impressive bruises and a badly sprained ankle, bad enough to require crutches for a couple weeks. Crutches plus feet and arms and legs that seemed to get longer by the day proved to be a horrid combination. Sam wondered more than once if he'd manage to injure himself even more because of his inability to walk straight with the crutches.
Then Dean decided to help him learn. He coached and teased and cajoled Sam into practicing getting around until the younger boy was more confident and able. The whole time, he stayed within arm's reach, and more than once saved Sam from face planting. Don't go just yet, Dean, 'cause I'm a little unsteady. And of course, Dean didn't, not until Sam was ready.
Two days after Jessica's death, Sam decided to drink until it hurt less or he died of alcohol poisoning, whichever came first. The details were fuzzy, but Dean had tracked him to the bar and probably paid for all the drinks that didn't drown the pain after all. He'd drawn Sam's arm across his shoulders. Sam meant to tell Dean that he was a bit off balance and not to let go, but he didn't have to. I'm a little unsteady. Dean held him while he puked that night, too. And held him again when Sam tried to thank Dean and instead began to cry for Jess…and couldn't seem to stop. He was unsteady for a long time after that, but Dean was always there, sometimes picking him up physically, sometimes emotionally.
Now, Dean was forced to carry more and more of Sam's weight as the blocks of wood that used to be his feet grew less and less cooperative. The world was tunneling, reality moving farther and farther away, and Sam felt guilty that he was making his brother work so hard. He tried to stutter out an apology, even though he knew better. Dean wouldn't want to hear it. When Sam was unsteady, Dean steadied him, no matter what it took.
[ Yes, a little unsteady. ]
Yeah, Sam was more than a little unsteady. Memories of exactly why began to slip away. Concussion? This felt kind of like a concussion. The rugaru? Vamp? Spirit? That thing that looked kind of like a giant chicken / warthog combination? How many concussions had Sam had over the years anyway? That couldn't be a good thing. You'd think Dean would get sick of helping Sam, but he didn't seem to. He didn't run out of unique questions for concussion checks, either. Where did we find the best burgers in Oklahoma? What was the name of that sexy accountant that you got busy with in Salt Lake City? Who's my favorite Bond girl?
Sam pitched forward and had nothing left to fight it. His free arm didn't so much as twitch forward to try to catch him. But that was okay, because Dean didn't let him fall. He never did. Instead, he slowly lowered Sam to sit on the lightly snow-dusted ground. It should probably have felt cold, but Sam's ass was just one more block of ice, so it didn't matter.
"…to the car." Dean smacked Sam's chest twice with a glove-free hand and Sam thought he must have taken them off to pull Sam up from…wherever he'd ended up. "…hearing me?" Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face, and Sam stared in fascination. He could only imagine having that kind of dexterity. He was pretty sure he couldn't even lift a hand right now. Dean was patting his cheek now, but the sensation was so distant as to be irrelevant. His lips were still moving too. "car…n't want to…shoulder screwed up…walk?"
Dean seemed to really want an answer, but Sam thought his lips might have floated off somewhere. Still, he tried. "Unst-st-steady," was all he could think to say. It didn't come out right at all, and Sam couldn't even remember why he'd said it.
Dean was talking more but it sounded like a Gordian knot of unrelated noises. Then Sam was being put over a shoulder, and he stirred to try to protest. A Winchester should never be carried. If you can open your eyes, you can walk. But then, Sam couldn't keep his eyes open either.
The cold followed Sam into his dreams. He shivered and shook and chased warmth but didn't find it anywhere. At some point, someone was pulling off his jeans, and he tried to kick out at them, but it didn't work at all. Time moved sluggishly. There were noises and movement sometimes but opening his eyes or understanding the words were Herculean tasks beyond him at the moment, so he went back to drifting.
[ Mama, come here, approach, appear. ]
Sam was hot and cold at the same time and someone was poking a thousand tiny needles into his hands and feet. He wished he could drift in dreams again, but they wouldn't take him back. He tried to lift his right hand but just the attempt made pain – a hot poker this time – shoot through to his shoulder and he moaned inadvertently.
Someone was holding him. Or holding him down? And rubbing his arms and talking to him and the pain retreated a little. Something touched his forehead, but it was too hot. Or was it too cold? He wasn't sure, but he remembered his dreams. Had his mom come down from heaven to help him? Was she the one next to him talking so calmingly? Would he finally get the motherly touch he'd secretly craved for so many years? Hear her voice when she was more than just a ghostly echo?
"M-mom?" His voice cracked, but it actually worked. Sam sensed someone stiffen next to him, and his mom's face faded.
They didn't talk about Mom, he remembered. It hurt Dad. It hurt Dean. He'd screwed up again.
Dean. Dean cleaned up scraped knees with paper towels and jokes, applied band-aids to physical injuries and distraction from emotional ones. He showed Sam how to reduce the pain and appearance of a black eye with a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a t-shirt. He showed him how to avoid the next black eye, and how to give the other guy a worse one than the one he gave you. He sparred with Sam to let him work off his anger when Dad didn't listen and dragged him to the movies when Kendra kissed Dave Timmons the day after telling Sam she liked him.
Maybe Sam had had a kind of mother's touch after all.
Sam really wanted to tell Dean that, and to apologize for forgetting it, even for a little while. But all he managed to get out was a croaked, "Sorry," then he was gone again.
[ Daddy, I'm alone, cause this house don't feel like home. ]
The sounds were all wrong. Waking up disoriented and in pain should mean ambient traffic sounds or possibly the TV with its volume low. And most of all, it should mean the sound of Dean breathing nearby. But instead, there were beeps and the light squeak of rubber-soled shoes and he suddenly knew what had happened.
He'd panicked, and had run out of his hiding place instead of sticking with the plan. But the Ozark howler and its terrible claws were way too close to Dean, who Sam hadn't wanted to play bait anyway. Sam had screwed the whole plan up, and gotten three broken ribs and a couple claw marks on his thigh for his trouble, and they'd barely managed to kill the thing. And Dad had been furious. Terrified too, Sam had realized much later. But he'd let Sam know that things could have turned out so much worse and that, at fifteen, he had to do better. And then he'd brought Sam to the hospital, and he and Dean had left. In pain, scared, plagued with guilt, Sam had grown so agitated that his doctor had ordered a sedative. Sam was too young to have a say in his own care, and had been even more terrified as the artificial lassitude swept over him.
Unable to fight the drug, Sam had become delirious, convinced that they hadn't killed the Ozark howler after all and it was after him. His terror grew until he vomited from it, but didn't have the strength to turn to get the vomit out. Unheard, he began to choke and struggle to breathe. It was an eternity before a nurse happened to glance in, then everything got very busy for a while.
The remembered fear swamped Sam as past and present melded together. Left in the hospital. Helpless. He didn't remember that Dean and Dad had rushed in with the medical staff, not gone gone but only down the hall arguing about how soon they could safely bust Sam out. He only remembered thinking he was going to die alone.
The annoying beeping had changed, and a nurse hurried in. "No, Dad, please. P-please don't leave me." He was still so damn cold, but fought the blankets that were pinning him down. Dad's face loomed behind the nurse's, dark with anger. If you can't follow the plan, you're going to get us all killed. "No, no, D-dad!"
The nurse had a syringe and it was all happening again and Sam's throat closed. "P-please don't." He looked up at Dad's face. "Please don't let her, Dad."
Dad's eyes widened and he ran forward, saying something. His voice was loud, but Sam didn't hear it. He was transfixed with watching Dad's coffee fall, unheeded, to the floor.
Sam had dropped his coffee in a hospital once.
When Dad…oh.
Not Dad. It was Dean at his side, now holding his hand, apologizing that he wasn't there when Sam woke up and wasn't fast enough to stop the meds. It was Dean snapping something angry and pointed at the nurse, then dismissing her by simply turning his back on her as she reacted defensively.
"I'm back now, Sammy. I won't leave. I'll keep watch and I'll be here when you wake up again." The nurse was gone now, and Dean leaned closer. Those green eyes were intent. "Once you're awake again, I'll bust you out of this dump, okay?"
Sam felt himself relax. Not left behind. Not home, not with Dad, but safe anyway.
Seeing Sam relax, Dean's posture relaxed too. Sam's blinks grew longer, but he was no longer worried about being helpless or alone. Dean set a hand on Sam's head. "Don't fight it any more. I'm here."
I know, Dean, Sam wanted to say. But sleep got there first.
[ If you love me, don't let go. ]
The next time Sam woke up, his head had cleared and he felt secure rather than afraid. He thought that had a lot to do with the hand that was resting on his bicep and the thumb that was idly sliding up and down over and over again. Tactile reassurance – for both of them, Sam thought. Reassurance for Sam so he knew he wasn't alone the second he woke up. And reassurance for Dean, that Sam was alive and maybe even warm.
Warm? Oh, yes. He'd taken an accidental dip in the icy river. He sorted through his memories, slotting them into place until he had the whole story in order, minus some blank or fuzzy places no doubt from sleep and confusion.
"Hap'n'd to Freddie?" he asked, or mostly. The words were mashed together and his voice sounded reedy.
Dean gave a spit take worthy of the Three Stooges and almost dropped his coffee again. Again? Had he dropped it before? Sam couldn't quite remember.
"Holy shit, Sam. You scared the crap out of me. I didn't realize you were awake." Duh.
Dean held up a straw to Sam's lips. Sam obediently took a drink, mostly because his tonsils felt like they'd been cleaned with a wire brush. Finished, he cleared his throat and tried again. "What happened to Freddie?"
Dean was staring at him like he'd spouted another head. "You with me now, Sammy? I mean, really with me? Not going to start talking to…other people?" His hand hadn't moved from Sam's arm, but was now just holding on.
Sam heard the fear under the question and mentally revised his estimate about how long he'd been in the hospital. It felt like a few hours, but the borderline desperation in Dean's eyes, not to mention his unshaven face, said it was a day or more. But Dean wouldn't want Sam to act sappy or point out his fear. So instead of giving a normal reassurance, Sam rolled his eyes. "If someone else comes in and talks to me, I'll talk to them, I suppose. But other than that, no. So…Freddie?"
Dean was shaking his head, but he looked relieved under the disbelief. "Single minded much? Freddie's a doornail. You got him right between the eyes. Not bad for a guy who was falling into the ice." Dean's face darkened. "What the hell were you thinking, going after him like that? Without letting me know or at least waiting until I got up the bank to back you up?" His voice went down almost an octave in his anger. Sam knew his brother was reliving the ordeal. He'd probably seen the whole thing, including Sam disappearing beneath the ice and water. Sam felt bad about that – he did. But.
"He killed his big brother." Sam barely recognized the growl as his own voice.
"Oh."
Yeah, oh. Sam knew Dean still wasn't happy, and that he would bring it up again and rip Sam a new one for his recklessness. (And Sam would take it, because Dean wasn't wrong, and because he knew what it was like to think you were going to lose your brother. But he wouldn't apologize, because he couldn't honestly promise he'd never do it again.)
There was a pause, and Dean finally sat back a little, his eyes flicking all over Sam and the monitors in the room, constantly assessing. "I did some research while you were," he waved a hand at Sam, "getting your beauty rest. Freddie had a beef with everyone the runner killed. Some of it was stupid, petty crap, too. Guess ol' Fredster wanted his very own revenge monster-on-a-leash." Dean snorted. "Like that ever turns out well."
"Asshole." Sam said it quietly.
The nurse came in then, and seeing Sam awake, returned with a doctor. Then Sam had to endure a bunch of poking and prodding and questions to determine how aware he was. He was informed that he'd get to keep all his fingers and toes but that given the amount of the bruising in his right shoulder he would need to keep it immobile "for a few weeks," which Sam barely managed to suppress a snort at. There was also a contusion on his left shoulder, the doctor said, and Sam remembered that Freddie's bullet must have just creased him, a slash across one palm, and "many other bruises."
"Given the number of injuries, plus potential complications and the confusion you've experienced over the last 48 hours, you'll be staying with us for three to four days yet for monitoring." Sam's face must have shown his mutinous thoughts, because the doctor continued, "Hypothermia and hypoxia are serious and can have long-term consequences from pneumonia to continued, intermittent confusion to…"
Sam stopped listening at that point. He was more interested in gauging Dean's reaction to the doctor's words. No way was he staying three or four more days, but he was worried that Dean might insist on another day. Dean looked serious, focused. He was taking in every word the doctor said. But he didn't look overly worried any more. Maybe –
Something the doctor was saying caught his attention. "important to get rest, so I'm going to give you – "
"No more sedatives or pain medications," Sam snapped, firmly enough that the doctor jumped.
"You need – " the doctor unwisely continued.
"I've passed all of your coherency tests," Sam interrupted again. "Which means that you have to follow my wishes with regards to my care."
The doctor looked to Dean as if for support, but no matter what he might want, Dean would never side against Sam with a stranger. Dean just sent an I told you so look to the doctor – and the nurse. A half-formed memory pricked in Sam's brain.
"Mr. Winston, not long ago, you were combative and confused about what was real," the doctor tried again, sounding patronizing.
"You were awfully quick to drug me instead of giving me the chance to find my bearings," Sam stated firmly, and the nurse's blanch confirmed his guess.
The doctor huffed something about Sam being large and intimidating, and Sam threatened to sign himself out AMA and the doctor pushed the edge of professionalism by scoffing that Sam wouldn't be able to hold a pen, to which Sam replied, "Try me," darkly enough that the doctor took half a step back.
The whole time, Dean sat back and watched, willing to wait until Sam needed him, even though he wanted to jump in and fix everything for his exhausted, pained brother. Finally, when the doctor and Sam were reduced to glaring at each other, Dean suggested Tylenol 3 as a compromise, which both parties agreed to with some reluctance.
"Thanks, Dean," sighed Sam once he'd had the pills and they were finally alone again.
"No problem. Figured you didn't trust Dr. Quack to stick anything in your IV again, but that shoulder has to hurt like a bitch. I'm not sure I've ever seen such dark bruising."
"Nah. Well, yeah, it does," Sam admitted, though he didn't admit that the pain in his extremities was a whole lot worse. "But that's not what I meant. Thanks for backing me with the doctor. And pulling me out of the ice and…"
"Getting your gigantic ass back to the car and to the hospital? Whatever, man. That's what brothers do." He shrugged as if it was no big deal and Sam was weird for even mentioning it.
"No, that's what you do," corrected Sam softly.
"That's because I'm lucky enough to have a trouble magnet as my pain-in-the-ass little brother," Dean deflected.
"Dean." The word was soft, but Dean looked back at him, and Sam hoped that he was conveying all that he wanted to. Shaky? Lost? Lonesome? Needing a mother's touch or a father's guidance? No matter why Sam needed a steadying hand, or even to be carried, Dean would be there.
Dean looked away and cleared his throat, and Sam thought he'd maybe hit the mark even without saying the words. Then Dean spoke, and his words would have leveled Sam if he weren't already flat on his back. "It's what you do, too, Sam."
No, nobody could do that like Dean could. As much as Sam tried, he knew he was just a poor substitute for the real thing, the ultimate brother and friend and supporter. But Dean, Dean thought Sam could be all of that… Now it was Sam's turn to look away, and he had to blink hard to keep his eyes dry.
"You do, Sam. You'd have pulled me from that river to safety if you had to."
"Yeah? Maybe I'm just trying to be like my big brother." Sam was more honest than he meant to be, but he defenses were down.
Dean looked surprised and pleased. But all he said was, "And you wouldn't have been out on a coffee run if I woke up and needed you."
"Pretty sure fortune teller isn't in the brotherly job description," Sam chuckled and shivered. How could he still be cold? "Anyhow, you were here when I needed you. Always are." God, he was tired. Sam's eyelids started to droop closed, but he wasn't afraid of the dark this time.
"Always will be," Dean said, so softly that Sam barely heard him. Another blanket landed on Sam, and Dean spoke again, marginally louder. "Go to sleep, little brother."
That sounded like a fabulous idea. "Break me out later tonight?" slurred Sam, barely awake.
He heard Dean's sigh. "Yes, fine. I don't like these guys. But only if you sleep now."
Sam worked one hand out of the blankets to grab a fistful of the sleeve of Dean's jacket and fell into a deep sleep.
[ If you love me, don't let go. ]
The process of getting dressed and ready to leave was an exercise in frustration and embarrassment. Sam's fingers were useless lumps and in the end, Dean had to fasten his pants, put on his belt and fasten that too, put on Sam's boots and tie them, and oh, yeah, thread Sam's right arm into the sleeves of the shirt and coat Dean had brought in. It was only because of persistence and what Bobby would have called cussedness that Sam managed the rest mostly on his own.
Sam was blushing and sweating and in pain and swearing by the time he was ready. "Steady," said Dean, his earlier teasing washed away by calm understanding. "Wheelchair?"
Unhappy, but feeling floaty and starting to get confused again, Sam nodded. "Gl'd y'got m'back," he sighed as he sat in the chair, then let himself drift, not even protesting when Dean tucked a blanket around him. Sam was hurting more than he'd realized, and it was messing with his head. Time moved sloppily and unevenly for a while, then Sam jumped to awareness when the car door next to him opened.
"Can you walk in, you think?" asked Dean, a bit skeptically.
"Yeah. Yeah. Just give me one sec."
Dean let him have it, crouching in the space made by the open door and blocking most of the wind. His eyes were assessing again.
"Stop it, Dean. I'm fine," sighed Sam, trying to reconnect neural pathways enough to make his limbs move.
"You sure? Or are you going to give another performance?"
"Performance?" Oh, no. Sharp concern made Sam feel much more awake. "What -- ?"
Dean's eyes were dancing with amusement now, and it colored his voice. "I just mean the way we left the hospital. I really liked how you stood up when we were almost out of the lobby, made sure you were facing everyone and yelled, "None of you ass clowns can take care of me as well as Dean can, so I. Am. Leaving."
Sam stared, open-mouthed in horror. He remembered just enough of the incident to know that Dean wasn't messing with him. His voice was barely a thread of sound. "Oh, shit."
Dean was openly laughing now. "It's too bad you didn't have any skirts to gather up to make your exit more dramatic. Instead of stalking out, you sort of staggered, with awesome big brother doing most of the work, as usual." He laughed again. "It wasn't our most subtle exit, but nobody stopped us, so I guess it's all good."
Sam just sat there, blushing like mad and half wishing he could just die right here, right now. He had a feeling that he was going to hear about this for a long, long time.
Finally, Dean stopped laughing and nudged Sam's shoulder. "It's cold out here, and that's the last thing you need, you diva, you. C'mon."
Resigned, Sam pulled his reluctant feet out of the car and prepared to somehow make the walk to the motel room. He knew if he faltered or was unsteady, Dean would be there to help.
He always was.
* * *
The river runner is loosely based on the Catawba river runner. There's very little information about it, so I made it however I wanted and dumped it in some unnamed river for Freddie to find and exploit.
So what did you think about the format? The (rather low on plot) story itself? Love it? Hate it? Fall asleep in the middle? I'd love to get your thoughts!
