I know I'm taking a risk here. I just hope you will all stick with me until the end. I don't like writing stories that everyone has written, and this hasn't been done yet - at least not that I've read. So bear with me and just trust that Dean will hunt again... Don't forget those wonderful responses. You guys rock.
Don't own 'em...just wish I did.
Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the bottom of Dean's bed. Blankets covered his brother up to his chest, so there was nothing concrete to see, but he could make out the outline of Dean's body and he knew immediately that something was wrong. The right leg looked normal; Sam could make out the shape entirely, a slight pudginess in the knee area and the peak where his foot stuck up from the bed. But the left...as his eyes traveled down he could see where the knee started, but five or six inches lower everything just stopped and the blanket smoothed out. There was no sign of a leg below that point; no foot.
Tears welled up in Sam's eyes as he glared at the nurse, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. "What the hell happened to his leg?"
Missouri lowered a shaky hand to Sam's shoulder, her realization that he needed to be calmed down fighting a maternal desire to react the same way Sam was toward the nurse. "Sam...," she warned gently. "It's not her fault."
"Then whose fault is it?" Sam demanded. "Hospitals are supposed to help people. You don't just go around cutting people's legs off."
The young nurse held her ground, kneeling in front of Sam and placing a hand on each of his knees. "I haven't had a chance to be briefed on your brother's case," she said apologetically, sadly. "But I can assure you that the doctors in this hospital did everything they could to save your brother's leg. They're good; they know what they're doing here."
"Well they obviously didn't do enough," Sam spat out, refusing to be consoled by a woman who was clearly not on Dean's side. "I want to speak with his doctor. Now!"
"I'm so sorry. I'll get him for you." She stood, making great efforts not to look shaken, and left the room.
Bobby stepped into Sam's line of sight and hovered over the young man, trying to cover up his own fear so he could help Sam through this. "Sam, you were both unconscious when we brought the two of you in. He'd gone more than thirty-five hours without antibiotics or proper medical care..."
"He was fine, Bobby," Sam interrupted, not even seeming to care about the tears streaming down his face. "I took care of the injury myself. He was fine." The second time he said it seemed to deflate, as though Sam was trying to convince only himself, yet wasn't doing a very good job at it.
The older hunter shook his head firmly as Missouri tightened her grip on Sam's shoulder. "Think about it, Sam. He wasn't fine, and you know it. Even when you first pulled his leg from that trap, he wasn't fine. And you didn't see his leg the way we saw it. You don't know what it looked like by the time we found you."
"No. NO!" Sam screamed, shrugging out of Missouri's grasp and turning back to his brother. He grabbed Dean's limp hand in his own, babbling. "You have to put it back on," he insisted, voice growing louder with every word he said. "Just sew it back on. Tell them, Bobby. You have to make them reattach his leg. He can't live like this. You know Dean. He can't be like this. It'll kill him."
"Sam, please, you have to calm down," Bobby insisted. "They're going to kick you out of here if you can't get control of yourself." A hint of moisture welled in the older man's eyes and he blinked hard, trying to gain control of his emotions.
The younger man did calm down, if only because Bobby's warning rang true. It wouldn't have been the first time he or Dean had been kicked out of the other's hospital room for making a scene. But now Dean needed him, and he couldn't let his own emotions be the reason why Dean was left alone. "I just don't understand how they could do this to him," Sam cried pitifully.
"Child, your brother is a fighter," Missouri soothed, once again risking placing a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, fighting off her own set of unshed tears and not having the same success as Bobby. They fell, landing on her ample bosom and creating a wet stain. "With your help, he's going to be just fine."
Sam nodded, turning as the sound of the door opening captured his attention. Dr. Hurley stood nervously just inside the threshold, arms crossed loosely as he tried to decide whether to be stern for Sam's blatant disregard of his order, or whether to be sympathetic. Softening at the tormented look in the younger brother's eyes, he decided to try sympathy first. He pulled up a chair and placed it directly in front of Sam, clenching his hands in his lap and pursing his lips.
"I'm sorry you had to see this before we had a chance to talk," Dr. Hurley began, forcing the hint of reprimand from his voice. "I wish I had been able to better prepare you for this."
This. Is that the only term to put on losing a leg? This? As though it's just some casual thing rather than a life-altering event? Sam nodded his head, desperately repressing the urge to reach out and tear the doctor's head off with his bare hands. "He won't survive this," Sam whispered, unable to make eye contact. "How could you do this to him?"
Dr. Hurley drew himself up and went into doctor mode, spouting the technicalities of the injury and the surgery. Bobby and Missouri listened intently. Sam drowned him out. "Dean's leg was gone before he ever made it to the ER," he announced, as though that would make it any less his fault that he'd actually done the cutting. "The trap he got it caught in did irreparable damage to the muscles, the tendons, the nerves. Both his tibia and the fibula were shattered at the point of impact. The lower half of his leg was barely holding on by threads of tissue. Infection must have set in early, and dragging his leg through the dirt probably didn't help much, either."
Tuning in just in time to hear the accusatory laced explanation, Sam opened his mouth to protest. "I didn't drag his...oooh," he paused. Stubborn bastard must have done that trying to save me. Damn him! He shut his mouth.
"Besides, the tourniquet around his leg had pretty much cut off all circulation. I'm sorry, Sam, the leg was dead. There's nothing I could do."
Sam gasped, remembering the belt he'd tightened around his brother's leg to stop the bleeding. His plan had been to loosen it every twenty minutes or so, just to make sure the circulation would remain intact. And then he'd been attacked, and he'd spent time fighting off the creature, and then was unconscious until their rescue. It's my fault. I'm to blame for this.
All at once, Dr. Hurley saw the kid as vulnerable. He'd watched the animation of his face when he remembered applying the tourniquet. "Sam, that tourniquet saved your brother's life," he assured the distraught hunter. "I know it seems like a cruel twist of fate, but if you hadn't used it Dean would have bled out. He would be dead by now, instead of just losing his leg. You saved him."
Sam didn't see it that way; not entirely anyway. To him, Dean alive was the most important part. Be he knew that to Dean, there was no in between. They were hunters. He knew nothing else, and to lose his leg was just as bad as losing his life. Maybe worse.
"You have to understand," Sam beseeched the doctor, "In our line of work we have to he in top shape. This just won't work for him. You've got to figure out some way to save his leg. Please, doc, there must be some way."
Dr. Hurley trained saddened eyes at Sam, now assured that he'd been rash to form a dislike to this kid. He was fiercely loyal to his brother, yes, willing to go through anything standing in the way of protecting the older sibling, but underneath he could tell the boy had a heart of gold. And it was breaking. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's nothing I can do. But in time, and with some physical therapy, he will be up and walking again. They're doing miraculous work with prosthesis these days. People run marathons. They climb mountains. His level of injury is low. There's nothing he won't be able to do if he puts his mind to it."
Yeah, except get over the accident in the first place. Sam's face fell. The doctor's words were doing little to encourage him and he feared that, if this is how he felt, Dean's reaction would be one hundred times worse. Dean was an extension of Sam, and Dean losing a leg pretty much felt like Sam had just lost a leg, too, and he was finding it impossible to wrap his mind around it.
Missouri spoke for the first time since the doctor had entered the room. "I think we're all just going to need some time to process this, Doctor. Thank you for coming to talk with us. We really do appreciate your kindness."
Taking his cue to leave from the woman, Dr. Hurley stood and awkwardly faced Sam again. "I really am sorry about your brother's leg. It's never an easy thing to face a loss, but I have faith in you. You will get him through this."
Truer words had never been spoken, but Sam found it hard to accept them just yet. He feared for the time that Dean woke up, for once in his life hoping his older counterpart would remain asleep for a long time; at least until Sam was able to gather his own thoughts and formulate a plan. Dean, I'm so sorry. I never should have dragged you out into that forest in the first place. And now look what happened.
Sam slumped forward in the wheelchair. His head dropped into his open hand, hair falling forward into his face. He ignored the twinge of pain the movement caused to his aching neck and chest, accepting the pain because he felt he deserved it.
"Come, Sam, let's get you back to bed. You've been up too long." Bobby turned the chair away from Dean without waiting for Sam's reply, but Sam said nothing anyway. That surprised the weathered hunter more than anything so far that day. He'd never experienced a Winchester just give in and accept being taken from another without a fight. But even without Sam's protest, Bobby felt the need to add, "We'll come back to see Dean after you've had a chance to rest. Missouri will stay here with him while you're gone."
Defeated, the young hunter allowed himself to be led out of the room and away from Dean. He didn't fight the leaving. He didn't fight Bobby's assistance back into bed. He didn't fight the way his face contorted in pain as he pulled at stitches still sore from their initial placement.
After making sure Sam was tucked safely into bed Bobby found a chair and finally sat, resting his tired head against the wall. How long has it been since I've slept? A day? Two? It seems like weeks.
"Hey Bobby?" Sam's voice projected weak, uncertain from the bed and Bobby picked his head up, wishing that it didn't feel like it weighed a ton.
"Yeah, Sam?"
"Do you think Dean will be alright? I mean, really, alright?"
"I think he's going to need time," Bobby answered by way of skirting the question.
"But you think in time..."
"I think Dean will figure out a way to live with this, Sam. It's not going to be easy, and it won't happen soon, but eventually he will accept it. This...this line of work you guys are in, injury is inevitable. He knows that; he's prepared himself for that."
Sam shook his head. "No Bobby, he's prepared himself for death. He's willing to die for the cause, but I don't know that he's willing to be crippled because of it."
Bobby shrugged, as though he didn't see a difference. He looked at Sam through eyes wise with age and experience. "Then you're just going to provide him with a reason to survive this."
It was a lot to carry on his young shoulders. Sam knew it; Bobby did too. They locked eyes for almost a minute, Bobby's insisting that Sam listen to him and Sam's desperately trying to gain strength from the older man. Finally, Sam nodded. Bobby was right; Sam just had to be strong enough to make Dean realize his life would go on.
"First thing you gotta do to help your brother, though, is get some sleep," Bobby added, nodding his head with an insistent shove towards the pillow that Sam was adamantly refusing to acknowledge. "Lay your head down and catch yourself some zzz's boy. I'll wake you up if anything changes with Dean."
Exhaustion seemed to overtake him as Bobby voiced his order, and Sam found he could do little to fight the urge to sleep. He set his head against the pillow and groaned, discovering just how difficult it was to get comfortable with half a dozen gouges etched into his chest and two craters for teeth marks sliced into his neck.
"Do you want me to find someone to give you something for the pain?" Bobby asked, jumping from his seat to help Sam find a comfortable position.
Sam shook his head, jaw clenched in determination to push his way through the pain without help. He found it odd that the pain was barely noticeable when he'd been with Dean, dealing with his brother's injuries, but now it had become intense, close to unbearable.
"It's been several hours since you were given something," Bobby tried again, reaching for the call button that sat beside Sam's bed. "I'm sure you're beyond due."
The young hunter's trained hand shot out with lightening speed, swatting at Bobby's hand before he could make the call. "I said no," Sam spat out through clenched teeth. "I need to be lucid when Dean wakes up. I can't be groggy. I can't be medicated." He cast pleading, puppy dog eyes on the man, knowing the expression worked on just about everyone, and Bobby relented grudgingly. But instead of moving his hand away as Sam had intended, Bobby's grip found its way to Sam's hand and closed firmly.
"Then you can take out the pain on me, boy. Squeeze with everything you got. I can take it."
Sam faltered, unsure what to make of the gesture. This was new; he'd never been offered the opportunity to be weak. Not so blatantly, anyway. Sure, Dean had his ways of subtly offering support when Sam was in pain, but their father's words had always been things like suck it up, son, and pain is all in your head; you ignore it, it goes away. Sam expected the same of his father's friends. This was just crazy.
And crazier yet was the fact that Sam snaked his hand into Bobby's and accepted the selfless offer without a second thought on the matter. He clenched down, feeling the pain diminish as Bobby drew it to himself. He fell asleep that way, hand clenched tightly to Bobby's, the act saying more than just 'give me your pain.' Bobby was telling him to use him for everything Sam needed; he may not have been his Daddy, but he was willing to play the stand-in now that the boys' father had passed. And he made a damn good stand-in.