Close Encounters of the Hunted Kind – Chapter Two
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Dean hated waiting rooms. God knew he'd spent enough time in them over the years. He looked up as two sheriffs came into the room.
"Mr. Wilson. We need your account on what happened to your brother." The elder cop felt bad about disturbing the boy; he looked ready to drop. "This shouldn't take too long."
While waiting for news of Sam, Dean had figured out his story which he spun for the sheriffs with consummate ease. He gave them a line about how they were looking for historical gravemarkers and collecting rubbings for a history book they were writing. No. He had no idea who would have shot Sam. No. He didn't see anything other than the fact it was a truck. Yes. They were there awfully early but they had wanted to cover as much ground as possible and had planned to head to the next town as soon as they had finished. They thanked him for the report and said they'd return when Sam had awakened and they could take his statement.
Dean was jostled out of his contemplation of the wall by a voice calling his name. It was Sam's surgeon. The prognosis was good. Sam would be okay. They had been able to repair the damage but he would have to stay for a few days to ensure that pneumonia or a blood clot didn't develop. Sam would soon be moved to a room if he continued to recover as he had been. Dean closed his eyes. Sammy was still with him. All too often lately, he had been in danger. Dean, having lost his father, would not lose Sam. Or at least not long survive him. He'd come to that decision driving one night, Sam asleep in the car beside him. He was nothing without his family. He'd gone so far as admitted his decision to Sam. Sam had tried to talk him out of it. The ironic thing was, if Sam was gone, he couldn't argue with Dean anymore. That thought always made Dean smile just a little; a sad smile with no humor in it.
ooooOOOOoooo
Dean walked into the room and looked at Sam lying in the hospital bed. Face pale with dark circles under his eyes; he was hooked up to an oxygen tank to help him breathe. He should be waking soon according to Doctor Rosado. Dean settled back into a chair to wait. No matter how long it took, he'd be the first person Sam would see when he awakened.
Dean's vigil was rewarded around one that afternoon. Sam had begun shifting in bed and when he finally dragged his eyelids open, the first thing he saw was Dean's face. His haggard, unshaven, filthy face. Just like Dean to ignore his own comforts for Sam. Sam was intensely grateful but knew his brother would shrug off words of thanks.
Sam tried to talk but couldn't get a sound out. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt like a stiff piece of leather.
"Hang on Sam. I can't give you water yet. Let me get some ice." Dean has kept a cup of ice handy for when Sam woke up. When it melted, he drank it and got more ice. He peered into the cup. Good, there were still some chips left. He offered one to Sam who opened his mouth like a little bird. Images of a toddler Sam popped into mind. His lips pursed to hide the fear of losing Sam that swept through him again. He rode that wave and surfaced.
"Dude." Sam tried again and succeeded. "You look like crap. How long have you been here?"
"Not too long. You've been in this room since this morning."
"What happened? I remember hearing. . .hearing something and then my chest was on fire."
Dean really didn't want to go into this right now. He didn't want Sam to get frustrated and nervous at the thought of someone trying to kill him. He had hoped Sam would have been doped up too much to think but that hope was in vain. "Some idiot was out hunting and took you for an elk."
"I don't. . ." Sam was interrupted by the surgeon walking in. Dean was relieved to get a bit of a reprieve.
"Awake I see. How are you doing?"
"M'okay but it's really starting to hurt. It . . .Dean?" Sam's face grew paler if that was possible. Sam's breathing began to catch and that caused his back and lung to flare with pain at every movement. His eyes reflected the pain he was in, pupils dilating until his eyes seemed almost black. He looked at the doctor who nodded to the nurse. She added something to Sam's IV. Whatever it was, it worked wonders. Sam could almost take a normal breath. Eyelids weighted by lead, he reached a hand towards his brother, confident that Dean would be there. Fingers closing around his own were the last sensation he had before drifting off.
Dean's eyes were frantic when he faced the surgeon who put up his hands to placate the older man. "He's just come out of surgery. He's going to be hurting for a while but all his vital signs are positive and, so long as he rests, he'll recover completely."
Dean looked down at Sam. In sleep, his face was relaxed, the pain no longer pinching it. A few days and Sam would be out of here. Dean settled back down to watch. His thoughts drifted back towards figuring out who the hunter might have been. They had spent their entire lives fighting evil; they were the good guys. Who else had known about Sam? Unfortunately, the list was growing. Sam should never have talked to Ellen. Dean's frustration grew but he had no outlet which didn't help. He almost pitied the next thing they hunted.
A/N: I hope you are enjoying this story so far.