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a/n – Sometimes we see only what we want to see, or what we can handle. :-)
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He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
Chapter Three
The sharp sting from the metal that ripped across his arm made Dean forget how he ended up where he was, his attention focused on the burning sensation tearing through his flesh.
"Dean! Hang on!"
Sam grabbed the ladder and pulled it towards his brother.
Smart man, Dean thought, feeling the threads of his jacket, the bits that were keeping him in mid air, start to give way. His attempt to grab the gutter with his free hand was short lived. He couldn't reach it and the gutter itself was shifting precariously above him.
He was hanging in front of a column that was on one end of the patio, making it impossible for Sam to place the ladder directly in front of him.
"Dean, grab the ladder with your free hand."
Easier said than done, college boy. Dean swung his arm towards the ladder and his jacket ripped again, his body dangling by mere threads.
"Bring it closer," he shouted.
"The column's in the way," Sam shot back.
Dean stretched as far as he could, his jacket ripping in sync with his movements, the last of the fabric giving way just as he managed to grab a rung. He held his breath and shut his eyes as his body slammed against the side of the ladder, the sudden pain that shot through him almost causing him to lose his grip.
The extra weight caught Sam by surprise, sending him scrambling backwards as he tried to steady the ladder.
"Dean," Sam shouted, "get your feet on a rung and come down."
Another great idea, genius. He didn't have the strength to comply with his brother's request. His arm was throbbing, he could feel blood trickling, or was it gushing, into his hand, and he was processing in slow motion.
Sam was watching Dean struggle to get his feet on a rung, hanging on to the ladder with one hand, when he realized something was wrong. Why was Dean making this so hard? Why wasn't he using both hands? It was then that he noticed the blood stained rain falling from Dean's left hand.
Oh God. I didn't know he was hurt.
"Ash, hang on to the ladder. I'm going up."
Ash's eyes widened as he gripped the rickety old ladder with both hands.
Thankful that he was tall, Sam only needed to go up four rungs before reaching his brother. He grabbed Dean's right leg and swung it onto the ladder, holding his breath when he felt the ladder shift beneath him.
Only then was Dean able to get his other foot over.
Sam patted him on the leg on his way down. "Come on, Dean," he urged. "Get down."
Dean followed his brother's order, albeit a little slower than he would have liked. He was suddenly so tired.
When he finally touched solid ground, it felt anything but. His legs reacted stubbornly, refusing to comply with his demands, and buckled easily underneath him.
Sam was right beside him, reaching out to keep him from toppling over.
"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean was pushing him away.
"Dean, if I'm not mistaken, you're hurt. There's blood all over your hand, your jacket."
"Flesh wound, Sammy."
His voice sounded funny, far away and distant, and Sam did a double take. Dean looked flushed, out of sorts. Of course he did. He was hurt. He was wet. He was cold. But Sam kept staring, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that he was missing something.
Dean took Sam's hesitation as an opportunity to walk away, to hide what he knew Sam was looking for.
Sam opened his mouth in protest, then had a better idea. "Fine," he said, ignoring his brother and walking back into the house. He wasn't up to playing any more games.
"Ellen?"
Oh shit. Dean knew he'd lost.
"Great job," Ellen said, coming up to Sam. "Nothing is getting through." One look at Sam and she stopped in her tracks. "What's the matter? Where's Dean?"
"He's hurt."
"What? Where is he?"
"Outside. Being obstinate."
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure. His sleeve got caught on a shingle, next thing I know he's hanging from the rain gutter."
"Did he fall?"
"No. But his arm is bleeding. I don't know how serious it is."
"Just what I was afraid of," Ellen mumbled, heading outside.
Dean was standing by Ash, having a conversation Ellen knew was for her benefit. She didn't have to get close to realize something wasn't right. The way Dean was holding his left arm, protectively against his stomach, the way he kept shifting uncomfortably, almost swaying, and in the rain no less.
"Dean Winchester!" The shout scared Ash more than anything.
Dean closed his eyes. It was barely eleven in the morning. When was this day going to end? He turned to Ellen and forced a smile.
He was in no mood. His mind was racing, trying to figure out exactly what had happened on the roof. Except for a mild ache, the pain that doubled him over was gone, as was the dizziness. The only remnants were the headache, a trusted friend by now, and the nausea, which could easily be the result of the cut in his arm and the sticky blood he could feel oozing out of it. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the cut and the blood were the least of his problems.
Ellen was at his side, taking him by his good arm and leading him into the house. He didn't have the energy to argue, and if he was honest with himself, he needed to sit down.
It was as if she could read his mind, because within moments Dean was sitting in Ellen's kitchen, vaguely aware that she was talking to him while she washed her hands.
"I'm going to take your jacket off," she was saying. "That sleeve is mangled beyond repair." Nothing. No response. Ellen continued, talking mostly to make herself feel better.
"This might hurt a little," she said, once the right sleeve was off.
Dean stiffened but said nothing. Sam was watching him from the doorway. What was that expression on his face? Contempt? Pity? Hatred? He couldn't see compassion or concern. Couldn't see love or fear. Could only see what his own insecurities and grief allowed him to see. A nearsighted spin on his relationship with his brother.
Ellen didn't miss the interaction, and quickly decided she needed Dean focused on her, not torturing himself or his brother with whatever dysfunctional mayhem existed between them.
"Sam," she said as gently as possible. "Your clothes are in the dryer, in the room off of the family room. Why don't you get them and put them on. You're soaking wet."
Sam understood and nodded, disappearing without a word. He wanted to stay, to watch, to pick up a sign that would give him the reassurance he craved. He could no longer recognize where practical concern ended and paranoia began when it came to his brother, and he found himself questioning Dean's every move, every gesture. It was driving Dean crazy, that much he knew, and yet, like a small child with separation anxiety, he couldn't help leaving the kitchen with a knot in his throat.
Ellen turned to Dean, biting her lip as she tried to ignore Sam's expression. What had these boys seen and done and lived through that led to these powerful interactions, even when they only glanced at each other for passing seconds?
"You need to get out of this wet t-shirt," she finally said, trying to ignore the sense of dread rising in her throat. "Can you lift your arm?"
Dean nodded and lifted his arm gingerly, allowing Ellen to take off the shirt. He was glad Ellen had sent Sam away, not having the strength or the energy to deal with his brother's emotions. With his own.
"That's better," Ellen said, drying his upper body with a kitchen towel. "We'll worry about the jeans in a minute. Let's take a look at this arm first."
She could see the jagged tear that began above the elbow and ended about five inches higher. As gently as possible, she put her fingers on either side of the cut and pulled it apart.
Dean winced.
"Sorry," she said. " I just want to see how deep it is. See if you need stitches or not. How did this happen?" she asked, as she continued to probe around the wound.
Is she fucking kidding me? She might as well be sticking her entire fist in there, Dean thought, trying hard to keep it together. She wants me to speak to her right now?
"Rain gutter," he managed.
"Ouch."
No shit.
"I hope you've had a tetanus shot recently."
Dean shrugged. He had no idea. Who knows what they'd pumped into him in the hospital after the accident.
"I think you're in luck," she finally said. "The deepest point is right here at the bottom, where it probably started, and where most of the blood is coming from. But then it's more of a flesh wound than anything. I think four or five stitches right here, near the elbow, and then some steri strips on the rest is all you need."
Dean nodded, trying hard to be grateful that it was only four or five stitches and not 20 or 30.
Ellen hesitated, looking into Dean's eyes. "You feel pretty warm to the touch."
"It's hot in here."
She wasn't buying it. "Your legs are shaking, Dean. You're soaking wet."
What's your point, lady? Dean was thankful he was in too much pain to have a real conversation. He was happy just imagining all the things he wanted to say.
"I think you have a fever." She reached up to touch his forehead but he backed away.
Ellen didn't force the issue and brought her hand down. "If you do," she said, "it's not from the cut. It's too recent, too soon to be infected. Were you feeling okay before this happened?"
Dean took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I just need to get out of these clothes." He was suddenly very cold, and was clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
Ellen didn't believe him, but didn't push the subject. He was already miserable, why make it worse.
"Okay," she said, turning her back to him. "Let's get this done so you can go change." She reached into a cabinet underneath the sink and pulled out the biggest first aid kit Dean had ever seen.
"I know, it's huge," she said, not missing his expression. "You should see the injuries that come through here. And unless it's life or death, no one ever wants to go to a hospital.
"Sounds familiar." His voice was barely a whisper. A monotone with no feeling.
Ellen didn't like the sound of it, but didn't know what to do with the information, so she proceeded cautiously.
"I'm glad you only need a few stitches," she said matter of factly. "I can do them, have done them dozens of times, but I'm not a big fan."
"Sam's pretty good at it," Dean offered, regretting it the minute he said it.
Ellen looked at him with sad eyes, and again she wondered what kind of life these boys had led. What had John done to them?
"Here we go," she said, taking what she needed from the first aid kit, trying to hide the sorrow.
Dean looked at the supplies suspiciously, not looking forward to the cleaning of the wound he knew was coming.
"It's just hydrogen peroxide," Ellen said, reading his mind. "I dilute it with water, it's too strong otherwise, and it doesn't sting as much."
Yeah. Right. Whatever.
Ellen boiled some water and washed her hands again, only to put on a pair of latex gloves.
Sam never does that. Maybe they should add latex gloves to their first aid kit. Dean feared delirium was taking hold, he was so cold.
When she had everything she needed laid out on the table before her, Ellen looked at him. "You ready?"
No, he thought, and nodded.
"Okay, I like to talk as I go, so there are no surprises," she said. "Unless you prefer I don't."
"Whatever." Dean didn't think he'd hear her anyway.
Ellen took that as a sign to continue. "The first thing I am going to do is irrigate the wound with the hydrogen peroxide mixture." She pulled out an old Windex bottle, the label barely readable.
"Windex?"
"I got tired of preparing the stuff every time someone came in here with an injury. Now it's always ready. The Windex bottle seems to work."
Prodding as gently as she could to make sure it got into every bit of the open flesh, Ellen began squirting the liquid into the wound.
If he hadn't felt so awful Dean might have laughed, the site of the cleaning bottle hard to ignore. Instead, he sucked in a painful breath, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes tightly while Ellen worked.
"I know, I'm sorry. I'm almost done." And then she did it again.
Son of a bitch. Dean gripped the side of the chair with his good hand, his entire body tensing as his back arched uncontrollably. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep from crying out. He knew Sam was nearby. Out of sight but certainly not out of earshot. And he refused to give him anything else to worry about, not if he could help it.
"Done," Ellen said, placing her hand gently on the back of his neck to ease the shaking. Even through the gloves, he was hot to the touch. She looked at the wound again, making sure she wasn't missing any signs of early infection. It was impossible, she knew, but she was certain Dean had a high fever. And if the cut wasn't the culprit, then what was?
One thing at a time, she told herself, forcing her mind back to the task at hand.
"Dean," she began again. "I'm now going to put a wash cloth soaked in hot water over the cut, just briefly, to help cauterize it and stop any residual bleeding."
Dean didnt bother to respond. Would it make a difference?
A strangled cry slipped when the hot cloth touched his skin, and he didn't even notice, he was trying so hard not to pass out. The dizziness and nausea from earlier was back and he thought he was going to fall off the chair.
"Hey, you okay?"
He didn't think he could lie his way out of this one. Certainly not while the room was spinning.
"Just a little dizzy, that's all." It was barely a whisper.
This doesn't add up, Ellen thought, looking at Dean for clues. The glassy, unfocused stare, the flushed cheeks, the deep gulps for air, all pointed to more than the nasty cut she was treating. Her ministrations were painful to be sure, but there was more here than met the eye.
She wrapped her arms around Dean's shoulders and leaned him against her, hoping her warmth and steady hand would help settle him.
Dean took deep breaths for several minutes, until he could open his eyes without the room spinning, pushing his head away from Ellen as soon as he could.
"Better?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, let's finish this up quickly so you can go lie down."
"I don't need to..."
"Whatever," Ellen said, threading the needle. "You are so your father'son." If she wasn't so worried, she might have been amused. How many times hadn't she cleaned out some nasty wound of John's only to have the same conversation?
Ellen stopped talking, and focused on the stitches, doing them so quickly Dean was barely able to register the sting from the needle by the time she was done. His silence, and the lack of emotion that followed, only increased her anxiety, her mind racing as she tried to decipher the puzzle before her.
"There," she said when she was finished wrapping the arm, a forced cheerfullness creeping into her voice. "Good as new."
In spite of himself, Dean appreciated the optimism.
"Thanks," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed. He'd had injuries much worse than this one and he'd never had an episode like that dizzy spell.
"Don't mention it. And I thought it would be dull without Jo around,"
Dean tried to smile, but couldn't pull it off.
"You need some help getting out of those wet pants?"
Dean looked at her, his glassy eyes not quite reading her.
It was all Ellen could do not to laugh. "I'm not offering, Dean. I was thinking more like Sam. He could help if you need it."
"I'm okay, thanks. I just need my pants."
"I'll go get them for you."
Ellen left him in the kitchen and went into the family room, where she found Sam sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead, his mind a million miles away.
"Hey."
"Oh, hey. Is he okay?"
"He's fine," she lied. Why worry Sam when she didn't know what was really wrong in the first place. "It was pretty superficial, although you'd never know it from all the blood."
"Does he need stitches?"
"Five. Near the elbow. I did them already."
"Thanks." Sam felt himself sinking into the couch a little, relief finally letting him relax. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had to stay out of the kitchen.
"Are those his clothes?" Ellen pointed to a pile on the couch next to Sam. "He needs to get out of those wet pants."
"Oh yeah," he said, handing them to her. "Can I help with anything?"
"No, I'm fine, Sam, thanks. I'll send Dean out here as soon as he's done."
I can hardly wait, Sam thought. Not eager to deal with the inevitable 'the demon's in Palo Alto we have to go' conversation he knew was coming.
Ellen went back into the kitchen, grateful to find Dean exactly where she had left him.
"Here," she said, handing him his dry clothes. "You sure you don't need any help?"
"I'm sure."
Dean stood up slowly, not trusting the room to stay in one place, happy when it did.
"Hey, Ellen?"
"What is it?"
"Do you have any aspirin?"
"Oh sure, of course I do. I'm sorry. That should have been the first thing I gave you. How many do you want? Two, three?"
"Four."
Ellen handed him the pills and a glass of water, resisting the urge to help him drink it. If it was possible, he was looking worse by the minute. Why couldn't he admit that something was wrong? That he wasn't well? Maybe he doesn't even know, she thought, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He's obviously fighting something. It was flu season. Maybe that was it.
"Thanks," he said, handing her the glass. "I'll be out in a minute."
Dean turned and headed for the bathroom, grateful to be out from under Ellen's watchful gaze. He couldn't believe he'd succumbed to her touch, let her wrap her arms around him, if only for an instant. Couldn't believe he'd needed to. He felt like shit. Every limb, every joint ached. Was he hot? Did he have a fever? He felt his forehead again and again he couldn't tell.
He missed his car. He wanted so desperately to crawl inside it and lie down. He could almost feel the leather against his skin. And he wondered with a passing sadness if four walls would ever represent home.
What the hell is wrong with me, he thought for the tenth time that day. A cursory look in the mirror did nothing to quell the fear rising in his throat. He looked like death warmed over. No wonder Ellen was acting the way she was.
With the limited use of his left arm, and with a tenacity he didn't know he had, it took Dean forever to get the wet pants off and the dry ones on. Getting the t-shirt over his head and injured arm took even longer, but by the time he was done splashing water on his face, he felt ready to face the world, or at least Sam.
It was when he reached for the doorknob that his body told him it had other plans.
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There it is. Let me know what you think, please – let me know if you want to read more…