Title: Redemption 2/8
Author: Neonchica (and Betzz)
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Anything through season 2 is fair game.
Summary: Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by one of his enemies. Now, quadriplegic and ventilator dependant, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome these new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living.
Author's Note: Just want to give a big thank you to everyone who offered their support and expertise in trying to get my LJ page formatted. Things aren't perfect over there, yet, but you can definitely follow the story. So run over there at some point and check out the pictures (link on my profile page)! And thanks again for reading.
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Despite his injured knee, Sam has been pacing the small hospital room for the past fifteen minutes, limping back and forth as he tries desperately to curb his anxiety. Ever since Holly had peeked her head into Dean's room to announce that Dr. Prentiss would be in shortly to speak with them, Sam hasn't been able to sit still. Any minute now the neuro-surgeon is going to walk through the door with definitive news about Dean and his prognosis.
It's been four days since they arrived in the hospital, and the staff has been skirting around the question of Dean's recovery the whole time. They've been issuing words of hope and encouragement for improvement, but no one has yet mentioned a complete recovery and they avoid promises for the future.
Dean has been poked and prodded day in and day out, being forced to endure every possible test the hospital staff can come up with. He's had x-rays, MRI's, CAT scans, neuro tests, swallowing tests. They're constantly checking his reflex ability and his oxygen saturation levels. At least once a day someone tortures his brother by sticking a couple of fingers inside Dean's loosely curled fist and asking him to squeeze - and every time Dean looks to Sam with this pleading, hopeful look in his eyes, and every time Sam has to shake his head and tell him 'no, nothing happened.'
He's tired of it - sick to death of having to be the one to disappoint his brother, having to tell him over and over and over again that things aren't getting better, and then turn around and try desperately to convince him that things are going to be okay. It's impossible, draining, yet he would do it a million times more if it meant not having to face learning the truth.
Dean's still lying motionless in bed, the frame rotating slowly back and forth as it's been doing almost continuously for days. There is a low whirring of the gears, the sound competing with the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the monitors. It's become routine and expected, a sound Sam knows only too well now. They only stop the frame to feed Dean or administer meds, or for long conversations. Sam knows they'll stop it when Prentiss comes in.
If he were to look, Sam knows Dean's eyes will be tracking his movements, pain lingering just behind the surface over the fact that he can't be of more comfort to his little brother. But Sam can't look at his brother right now, can't bear to see the hurt – moreover, can't bear to see the fear. This is pretty much it right now, the last few minutes of sanity they have before they find out if Dean will ever walk again, will ever hunt again. Hell, right now Sam would be happy to hear that Dean will feed himself again. Or breathe again. Because no matter how much he tries to put on a brave face, no matter how many times he assures Dean that things are going to get better, Sam's just not so sure about that any more.
He continues to pace, purposely avoiding eye contact with his brother as he tries not to think about the cruelty of his doing so. Right now, eye contact is about the only means Dean has of getting someone's attention, and Sam is blatantly severing that tie.
Five minutes more go by in an instant, a lifetime, and finally Dr. Prentiss breezes through the doorway followed soon after by Holly and a young medical student that Sam hasn't yet met. In a split second Sam's heart drops in his chest and he loses all ability to breathe. This is it – the moment of truth.
The doctor holds out his hand to Sam and acknowledges him with simply a curt, "Mr. Keyser" as Sam takes the man's hand out of habit and shakes it quickly. Prentiss doesn't make a motion to introduce the student with him, but rather indicates the chair beside Dean's bed and nods, clearly telling Sam to have a seat.
Everything in him is screaming nononono. He doesn't want to sit, doesn't want to hear what the man has to say. He just wants to rewind his life back two weeks and purposely ignore the stories in the paper that tell about people going missing in this godforsaken town. But he's abandoned his brother enough in these last several minutes, and it's for Dean that Sam finally relents and lowers himself into the chair.
Holly has already taken steps to halt the motion of the bed frame, and has it tilted just a little bit to the right so that Dean isn't staring up at the ceiling, instead has more of a view out towards the door and the wall. Sam and his chair are right in his line of sight, and they finally lock eyes for a few seconds. Sam sees forgiveness in them – forgiveness for the past several minutes, he's sure, and it makes him feel even guiltier that his brother feels the need to offer it when he doesn't deserve it.
In addition to the forgiveness, Sam sees the fear that he's been trying so desperately to avoid, and he can't stand to let his brother live alone with that emotion any more. Hesitantly, he lays his hand on top of Dean's hand, and then immediately realizes how futile that gesture is and moves his hand to his brother's forehead. Dean has been so much more willing to accept touch in these last few days, practically craves it at times, and this is no exception. He leans into it the little bit that he's able, and Sam takes up stroking Dean's forehead with his callused thumb as Dr. Prentiss pulls up a stool and aligns himself in Dean's line of sight as well. The med student stands behind him with a clipboard and a pen, poised and ready to take notes as his mentor opens his mouth up to speak.
Prentiss stares down both boys, sizing them up through his wire-rimmed glasses, immediately allowing his cocky, superior attitude to shine through. Sam has never liked the guy, from the very first meeting with him when he seemed more interested in his career and his capabilities as a surgeon than he did for the emotional welfare of his patient. But he's one of the best – so says everyone on the neuro floor – and Sam is willing to put up with him if Prentiss manages to fix his brother.
"Everything going alright today?" he asks, looking back and forth between Dean and Sam – knowing that Sam has become an interpreter of sorts for his brother.
The question throws Sam for a loop, and a quick glance at Dean tells him that his brother hadn't expected the pleasantries either. In four days Prentiss has never bothered to inquire about Dean's feelings or care. As a matter of fact, the only questions the arrogant doctor has asked Dean have related to degree of sensation and capability of movement – all of which have resulted in a big fat nada for a response.
Sam's not entirely sure how to answer the question. Dean's the same as he's been for days now, no positive change in his condition to speak of, but nothing negative either. So in that matter, he's fine. But he's freaking paralyzed, for god's sake, and that will never be alright no matter how many days go by. And unless the doctor is here with some good news then Dean is far from alright.
"Things are as good as can be expected," Sam finally replies. Already the gears are spinning in his head, wondering if there's a reason for the sudden change in attitude, fearing what that reason might be. He looks up at Holly, who has taken up a spot in the corner out of the way. She's trying to subtly watch the monitors over Dean's bed and her hands are in the pockets of her scrubs top, discreetly fingering something inside. When she sees Sam looking at her she offers a gentle smile and then looks away, resuming her vigil on the monitors.
Immediately Sam is filled with dread and he doesn't have to hear anything more to know that the news won't be good. Suddenly the world around him goes white. His heartbeat races, feels like it will pound out of his chest any minute now. Sounds cease to exist, and his mouth goes dry. When he focuses again Prentiss is looking at him strangely, head cocked as he opens Dean's chart across his lap, but goes no further when Sam gives him a nod to indicate he's not about to pass out. Yet.
SUPERNATURAL
Dean's been watching Sam, sees the anxiety that's filling his little brother, and hates himself for not being able to do anything about it. Lying helpless in the hospital bed, air being forced into his lungs through the hole in his throat, there's not much he can do other than to swallow convulsively and lick his dry lips with his parched tongue and wait. He can't voice words of comfort, can't reach out a hand in assurance, and truth be told, right now he's not sure he's got it in him even if he did have the means.
Prentiss is just barely in his line of sight, but he can see the folder that he lays out on his lap and knows the information inside will seal his fate. Sam has been nothing if not an optimist over these past few days, and Dean is grateful for his attempts, but if he's honest with himself he's known how this will go down from the minute he woke up in the hospital. Swallowing once more, Dean focuses his attention on the doctor and waits.
Clearing his throat, Dr. Prentiss takes one more look at the information displayed in front of him and then speaks. "As you know, Dean, the wire that was threaded through your spinal column completely severed the cord between the second and third cervical vertebrae. There was no physical vertebral damage, but there is no more information getting through below the level of the lesion."
He pauses for a minute, expression stern as he looks back and forth to make sure both brothers are paying attention to the information he's giving out, and then continues without another thought to their comprehension.
"We've run extensive tests to ensure there was nothing missed, but I'm afraid everything points to the same conclusion. Spinal cord tissue is non-regenerative – it doesn't grow back like hair or nails – so when the cord is severed like yours was it completely eliminates the possibility of recovery. We've diagnosed you as a C2 complete quadriplegic. I'm sorry."
If he weren't being force fed air, Dean is certain he would have stopped breathing right then and there. As it is, he feels his mouth go even drier than it already was, and the little bit of his neck and face that he can feel goes tingly and warm. Tears come to his eyes and he forces them back, ordering himself to be a man.
Sam's thumb comes to an abrupt halt, and is hastily removed from his forehead. Dean feels the absence as strong as he feels the lack of feeling in the rest of his body, and he instantly craves the contact again. Right now Sam's touch is the only thing that grounds him when the rest of his life is being chopped into little pieces and thrown into an incinerator.
It's not long before Sam's rational voice breaks into his thoughts. "You can't mean forever," his little brother insists, so calm and collected. Dean isn't sure where he's gathering the strength from, isn't sure he could do the same if the situations were reversed.
Prentiss clasps his hands and brings two fingers together against his lips, an apologetic gesture coming from anyone else, but somehow he manages to make it seem patronizing. "Unfortunately there is nothing more we can do for your brother other than to make him comfortable and prepare the two of you for this new life. There are still options, rehab hospitals and outpatient caregivers. Technology is a wonderful thing for quadriplegic patients. But it's merely a matter of adjusting and learning to live with your limitations."
Limitations? Dean thinks sarcastically. This is more than fucking limitations! This is nothing. This is living as a fucking statue while my little brother is forced to care for me like an infant. I'd be better off dead!
"I want a second opinion," Sam says through gritted teeth. "You must have missed something."
Shaking his head and looking at Sam patronizingly, Prentiss shrugs. "Feel free to bring another doctor in here if you wish. But know that the only thing you will accomplish is to drag your brother through more unnecessary tests only to garner the same result in the end." He pulls out an x-ray and stands up, removing himself completely from Dean's vision. "You see this right here?"
Now Sam is up and moving, limping over to wherever the doctor has disappeared to, and Dean is forced to listen to their conversation without seeing whatever it is that Prentiss has Sam looking at.
"This is an x-ray we took yesterday of Dean's spine. You see this down here?" There is a pause and the sound of something tapping. "That's healthy spinal cord – intact cord. Now this," more tapping, "is where your brother's spinal column was severed. You see the black space in here? There's nothing there. The synapses have all been disconnected – no chance at fixing it."
Sam sighs and Dean can almost hear his brother's emo thoughts running through his head, knows somehow he's got his head in his hands, or his hands running through his hair, something to show he's upset but resigned.
Soon both return to their seats and Dean makes an effort to get Sam's attention. He's got questions, and if Sam won't ask them then he will. By some miracle, Sam notices Dean sticking his tongue through his lips, the signal they've developed to indicate "I've got something to say," and Sam gives Dean a nod to go ahead.
'What are symptoms?' Dean asks, then repeats when Sam doesn't get the question the first time around.
"Symptoms? You mean effects? Do you want to know how this will affect you permanently?"
Dean blinks once and sees Sam turn to face Dr. Prentiss again. "So what are we dealing with here? Are we gonna see any improvement?"
"How 'bout I answer that in two parts," Prentiss says. "First off, you're looking at complete lack of mobility or sensation from the neck down. Constantly ventilator dependant, and confined either to a wheelchair or a bed at all times. In the beginning it's likely that neck movements will be weak, and the ability to hold his head up will be nearly non-existent, although therapy should help to improve that in time. All functions of daily living will need to be performed by a caregiver; that includes just about everything we've been doing since Dean has been here – bathing, feeding, bathroom functions, getting dressed. It's a daunting task that takes up a good deal of time, and quite a bit of energy. Many families prefer to consider nursing home care–"
"I'm not putting Dean in a nursing home," Sam practically growls out. When Dean looks at his brother he can see the deadly seriousness in his eyes and he issues a silent Thank You despite the fact that he'll probably try to convince Sam to leave him behind in one anyway. For Sam's own good, of course.
Prentiss glosses over the response, barely flinching. "You'll have plenty of time to discuss options and make decisions. Now, for the second part of your question, you asked if there would be any improvement. To be perfectly honest, I can't give you an answer to that. As I said before, the injury to the spinal cord is complete, which scientifically says that there will be no improvement below the injury site. However, even the limitations Dean is experiencing right now have room for advancement. He can't speak right now because of the ventilator, but eventually he can be fitted with a speaking valve that will allow him the opportunity to communicate. And it isn't really feasible to be sitting up in a wheelchair at this time, but in the future he can be in a wheelchair for hours at a time and will have options to control its movement himself. In a sense, there is independence that will come out of this."
Hearing about the 'hope' that Prentiss describes only succeeds in drawing Dean further down into misery. It's not the kind of hope he's looking for, not what he's wanting. He can't hear about wheelchairs and speaking valves and ventilators and nursing homes. He wants to know when he'll walk again, fight again, drive again. He wants to know when he'll get his fucking life back again. There has to be a way for that.
"I don't understand," Sam protests, absently placing his hand back on Dean's forehead , thumb resuming its stroking motion that Dean has begun to crave so much. "I've been doing research, I've been online. There are tons of stories of patients who have gotten their lives back. They're breathing on their own. Pushing their own wheelchairs. Walking! There's gotta be a chance, some other therapy or medication, something."
That's it, Sam, fight this for me. Get the answers we need!
Prentiss shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact with either of the Winchester boys. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's nothing more we can do for him. We ran a course of steroids immediately after Dean was brought in, dosed him with antibiotics and anti-inflamatories, we've done everything we could. Unfortunately, some injuries just can't be fixed."
Way to lay it out there, doc, Dean thinks sarcastically. His heart clenches - over the raw injustice of the doctor's announcement, over the apparent hopelessness of the situation, over the fact that he wants nothing more than to be able to reach out and squeeze Sam's shoulder and offer comfort. He's so used to being a rock for his brother, for the family. And now...now he's resigned to lying here, depending on a ventilator to keep him alive, hoping that someone might look in his direction so he can communicate.
Dean feels the tension in the air increase, can feel Sam's hand tighten and spasm on his head, and then hears his little brother's voice grit out through clenched teeth. "I suppose that means your services here will no longer be needed. Thank your for your time, but we'll take it from here."
The doctor doesn't even try to protest. He simply nods, rises from his seat, and leaves the room with the nameless med student trailing behind him.
Holly stays behind, waiting until the other two are gone before moving from her post in the corner. She seems hesitant, sympathetic, and for the first time since they've met her she's speechless. As she reaches for the switch on the bed to start it moving again, Sam moves his hand from Dean's head, holding it out, palm flat, and says "don't, not yet. Dean and I need to talk."
Dean can't see her, so he can only assume she nods in agreement, but the bed remains still. "It'll be time for meds and dinner soon," Holly says instead. "I'll be back then."
He watches her leave, then locks eyes with Sam, noticing his little brother's distress. 'It will be okay,' he mouths in reassurance.
Sam hesitates and scrubs a hand over his face. "Of course it'll be okay," he asserts, a little too loudly, a little too quickly. "They don't know what we know." And then laughs, "You're still comforting me. In spite of everything."
'That's my job. Will never change.'
"I think it's okay if you let me take over for a while. You know, just until you're back on your feet again."
Dean closes his eyes tight and tries not to think about what Prentiss has just told them. He pushes it to the farthest corner of his mind and instead focuses on Sam's unyielding certainty that they can figure out a solution. I will walk again. Damnit, I will. I have to.
The ventilator hisses loudly, bringing him back to reality, seemingly arguing against their hopes and dreams. When he opens his eyes again Sam is looking at him with hope and determination.
"Things really will get better," he says again. "I promise it will. There's too much evil out there still, too many people that need us. No way you get brought down because of a stupid wire. No way, bro."
Blinking his eyes once, yes, Dean finds comfort in Sam's words. He's tired. It's been a long day, and somehow not moving takes a lot out of him, wears him down quickly. He's already finding it hard to stay awake for much longer, eyelids drooping against his will.
"You just sleep," Sam says, noticing the onset of exhaustion that seems to have overtaken his brother so quickly. "Get some rest. I'll wake you up for dinner."
SUPERNATURAL - Three days later
Seconds blend into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into days. But for Dean, his days are no longer measured by time, but rather by function and action, by the number of times the nurses and therapists enter his room, going about their jobs to keep him alive.
His day starts early, just as the first rays of the sun begin to stream through the closed curtain, just after the morning shift of nurses comes on duty. At seven in the morning it's usually Jeanette who wakes him up, humming some nameless song under her breath as she crosses the room and opens his chart on the table beside the bed, double checking the orders. She's slender, nearing forty, and wears a simple gold wedding band on her left ring finger.
She always takes a minute to smile down at him and give his cheek a soft caress in that mother-like way of hers, whispering "good morning" so she doesn't wake Sam, who has normally been sleeping for just a few hours in the big lounge chair in the corner. Dean tries to smile back, strained but willing to put forth the effort, and mouths 'hi' right back.
They've got a routine, or rather, Jeanette has a routine and Dean lays there and lets her work without protest. The first couple of mornings she'd told him what she was doing, so even now - when she's trying to be quiet for Sam's sake - he knows what's happening.
The catheter is first, cleaning it out and checking it for kinks and clogs, irrigating his bladder with sterile water, emptying the collection bag and making a note of his urine output on his chart. She always washes her hands immediately before and immediately afterward, scrubbing them with soap and lots of hot water, then puts on a fresh pair of latex gloves before filling a kidney basin full of soapy water and removing the padding and braces of the bed that usually keeps Dean secure as it rotates on its frame. Under the sheet that covers Dean up to his shoulders he's already naked, because it's easier for his care, and he always feels a little bit self conscious and exposed at this point in the game.
She uses a clean wash cloth and bathes him, starting with his feet and working her way up. Every couple of days they wash his hair and shave him, but not today. Today it's just a sponge bath. He imagines the water is warm, soothing, and tries to remember a time when he could feel the sponge bath while laid up in a hospital bed after some hunt or another. Tries to remember the names and faces of the young nurses who used to fall all over themselves to be the one who got to give him a bath. Remembers the flush of their faces as he flirted and flattered, seduced them with promises of dinners and exciting evenings.
The whole time she's washing him she's also checking for pressure sores and rubs, anything that could indicate a breakdown in the skin. That thought brings him back to reality, back to the cold hard facts of why he's getting bathed now instead of jumping up to take a shower. He can't flirt anymore, can't even talk. No one fights to bathe him anymore - because now it's a chore, a necessity, a lifesaving job.
Jeanette stops just at his chest, covering him back up with the sheet and saving the rest of the bath until later. This is the point where things get noisier in the room, and it will inevitably wake Sam up. That's why she does most of the bath first, to give him more time to sleep. But the breakfast carts are already clattering out in the halls, and there's usually just enough time to clean out the trach and suction Dean's lungs before it's time to eat.
He hates anything to do with the trach the most, because it inevitably means his air supply will be cut off. Memories of the night when Lori Ann pulled the plug on him come rushing back every time, inciting terror. But there's nothing he can do about it, it's a necessary evil, and he's just got to make the most of it. Like everything else, Dean has to suck it up and be a man about it.
She removes the wet gloves and pulls on her third pair of the morning before raising the bed up just a bit - 20 degrees, no higher. Jeanette works around the trach first, removing the gauze from around it and using a fresh wash cloth to clean the still healing skin at the site. It hurts, the only pain he feels anymore, and Dean relishes it, finds the pain oddly comforting.
Dean braces himself mentally for the rest as his nurse flips the switch to turn off the alarm for the vent. Jeanette looks him strait in the eyes every time and asks "Are you ready?" And every time Dean blinks twice for 'no,' then grimaces, resigned, and blinks one more time for 'yes.'
In one hand she grips the ventilator hose, in the other she holds the suction hose, and in one swift motion she swaps the two hoses and proceeds to suction out the mucus from Dean's lungs because his diaphragm isn't strong enough to allow him to cough on his own any more.
For five agonizingly long seconds Dean bucks and chokes and screams for air. He hates himself, his body, for the fact that it's betrayed him so horrendously. And then air fills his lungs once again as Jeanette reconnects the vent hose.
They repeat the process two more times, sometimes three if his lungs are particularly goopy, and then she disconnects the vent one more time to remove the inner cannula from within the trach and replace it with a new, clean one. And then he's done with that torture, at least for the time being. But most of the procedure will be performed at least twice more over the course of the day.
Dean is positive that the sound of the vacuum hose wakes Sam every morning, just as he knows that Sam pretends to be asleep until Jeanette is done. Because every morning, just when Jeanette is securing the vent hose for the final time, Sam climbs out of the chair, waves a good morning, and stumbles into the bathroom. Dean doesn't want his brother to watch the morning routine up to that point, and somehow Sam seems to know this inately and does his best to comply with his brother's wishes. For that, Dean is grateful.
Breakfast comes on a square, beige cafeteria tray, covered with a clear plastic lid. It's always the same pock-faced kid that delivers it, hair slightly mussed up and khaki pants and red polo shirt sorta wrinkled, as though he'd rolled out of bed that morning, grabbed his clothes from the basket of unfolded laundry, and raced out the door. He never quite makes eye-contact with Dean, but never quite looks at Jeanette, either, so Dean supposes it's got more to do with a lack of self-esteem than it does with being afraid of him.
The tray is set on the rolling table beside Dean's bed, maneuvered so it is across him on the bed, and she lifts the lid just as Sam reappears from the bathroom, leaning a bit on a cane to stay off his bad knee. He's got his hair tamed and his face washed and he crosses the room so that Dean can see him. Tries to smile and usually falls short.
"Anything I can do to help?" It's always the same question, always answered in the same way. Dean blinks twice, "no" and Jeanette nods, winks conspiratorially at Dean, and turns to Sam.
"I think we've got everything under control here. Why don't you go get your shower and some breakfast. He should be ready for you by the time you get back."
Dean closes his eyes then, just for a few seconds, just long enough to miss seeing the flash of angst that crosses his brother's face as he's denied access to what he needs most - a way to help his brother. Dean hates seeing his brother hurting so much, but he's just not ready to let Sam help. He hates the idea of his little brother taking care of him the way the nurses do, hates reducing their roles to that of patient and nurse. They're brothers, friends, partners. That's enough.
When Dean looks again Sam is reluctantly gathering his wallet from a stack of stuff on the dresser across the room. It gets easier to convince him to leave every day, probably because he's getting used to the routine.
Crossing back over to Dean, Sam brushes his hair out of his eyes and then plants a hand on each hip. "You good for a bit?" He seems almost hopeful, desperate to be needed. God, he is needed, more than he'll ever know, but right now Dean needs him to find some normal, needs him to fall into his own routine that doesn't entirely revolve around watching his invalid brother get spoon fed and cleaned up like an infant.
One blink, solid and firm and unyielding. 'Bring me coffee,' Dean mouths, trying to incite a bit of humor into the dour situation.
Sam chuckles softly, breathes out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'll talk to your doctor about that one. Prune juice a good alternative?"
Dean pulls a disgusted face, then smiles. 'Bitch.'
"Jerk," Sam replies quickly, reaching down and cupping Dean's cheek in his hand, patting it a couple of times before turning on his heel and limping from the room.
They go back to concentrating on the food, mush is more like it, and Dean has to steel himself again to stomach the slop that the hospital seems to consider appropriate for him to eat. He can't swallow solids anymore, not yet, so everything is soft and slimy. At least there's no oatmeal today, but that only makes it slightly better. Today it's scrambled eggs and applesauce, mutilated hashbrowns that are more like mashed potatoes, and cranberry juice.
Jeanette is usually pretty good at letting Dean be involved if at all possible, and she looks at him sympathetically as she asks what he wants to start with.
'Applesauce,' Dean mouths, choosing the lesser of three evils. That, he knows, comes from a jar. Kinda hard to mess it up.
He grudgingly opens his mouth for the first bite, and then the second, and so on, rolling his eyes good naturedly whenever she spills some on his chin. The food feels weird going down his throat as it slides past the intrusive tube, and he can feel the slight strain on his neck. Thoughts jump back and forth between I can't wait to feed myself again and this is it, this is my life from here on out. But he tries to stick with the hope, because that's the only thing that's keeping him grounded, the only thing that keeps him from bawling his eyes out like some baby. Wouldn't that just make Dad so proud.
When breakfast wraps up the morning routine is almost done. Jeanette finishes cleaning him up, washing his face of the residual breakfast goo. She pulls out a toothbrush and puts the tiniest bit of paste on the bristles. It's edible, won't hurt when swallowed, but less is still better. Dean opens wide, ready to get rid of the carpet that's taken up residence on his tongue and the fungus that's all over his teeth.
Meds are administered last, all intravenously, and he feels them take effect almost immediately. They're done with the sedatives, but he's still experiencing pain in his neck, where the spinal cord is kind of back firing, and the pain killers for that make him feel groggy. This is where he usually allows himself some rest, just a few minutes, just until Sam returns.
SUPERNATURAL
Sam has to force himself to take his time with breakfast, knowing he'll just be sent back out of the room if he returns before Dean and his nurse are done with the morning routine. He hates being shut out like this, yet he's not entirely sure he's ready to know exactly what happens every morning when he's not watching. It's a vicious catch-22.
For a solid thirty minutes Sam picks at his food, eating maybe a third of it at most, and then tosses the rest in the garbage and makes his way slowly back to the sixth floor. He's been released from the hospital for three days now, but the nurses are still nice enough to let him use the shower at the end of the hall and that's where he goes next.
When he comes back out, freshly showered and dressed, Jeanette is back at the nurses station updating charts and that's his cue that it's safe to return to his brother. There is at least an hour, maybe two, before a physical therapist comes to the room and for that Dean allows him to stay anyway.
His brother is resting when Sam enters the room, eyes closed but they flutter open when Dean hears Sam's footsteps. The bed is back to rotating gently in the frame as the ventilator continues to hiss and whoosh, heart monitor still beeping quietly.
"Everything go okay in here?" Sam asks, his way of requesting permission to enter.
Dean scowls and blinks once, then pointedly directs his eyes to the chair beside his bed, then to the brace on Sam's knee, and back again to the chair.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm moving." Letting out a muffled laugh through his closed mouth Sam can't help but smile as he hobbles over to the chair and sits down. It's amazing to him how Dean can have nothing but expressions to communicate, yet still manages to mother hen like a pro.
"Happy now?" Sam asks, once he's settled, foot and knee propped up on a stool.
They have to wait for the bed to finish its rotation, returning back to face Sam, before Dean can answer, but it's with a smirk and another single blink that tells Sam his brother is still in there, fighting to return to normalcy.
It's frustrating to hold one sided conversations, even harder to hold it with someone who's usually so vocal and snarky. Ordinarily by this time Dean would be climbing the walls of the hospital, begging to be released, begging Sam to sneak him out.
But this time it's different. This time, Sam can't sneak Dean out even if he wanted to. The medical necessities that surround simply keeping his brother alive now completely eradicate any possibility of an easy escape. According to the doctor, they'll need a ventilator, a special wheelchair, medications out the wazoo, day and night care. If it were as simple as putting mind over matter and walking out of the hospital, Sam is certain that Dean would have done it already.
No, this is real, and it's taking its good old time getting better. But it has to get better - absolutely has to.
Sam lets out a long breath of air and tries to force himself to let go of the constant barrage of 'Get Dean better, must get better,' running through his mind. Looking at Dean, he can see his brother is still tired, eyes at half-mast, and Sam knows he's not going to be up for much in the way of conversation.
"How 'bout we see what's on TV?" Sam asks instead, doesn't even wait for Dean to blink his agreement because Dean is always up for TV. He reaches for the controller on the side of the bed and turns the unit on, flipping through the channels until he finds something worth watching mid-morning on a weekday. Casting another glance at Dean, his brother blinks to confirm his choice of show, and they both settle in to watch.
A solid knock at the door breaks into the sounds of the television less than an hour later and Sam looks up to see a guy he doesn't know, about his age, tall but not nearly as tall as Sam, and dressed neatly in a striped dress shirt and khaki slacks. "Hi! Tristan," he says, pointing to himself. "I'm here for a PT session with, um, Dean." He has to look down at his chart before he says the name, but somehow Sam can tell that it was more of a confirmation than an actual check, like the kid had memorized his brother's name on the way down the hall but didn't want to appear too eager, needed to feel professional and thought that professionals didn't know the first names of all their patients.
Nodding his welcome, Sam motions Tristan in with slight a wave of his hand and then points at his brother. "This is Dean. I'm Sam. He's all yours." He watches the bed for a minute, waits for it to center out, then flips the switch to stop it from moving as Tristan crosses the room.
Sam stays with Dean for physical therapy, although Dean adamantly refuses to let Sam help. Instead, he continues to sit in the chair and watches anxiously as the PT goes through range of motion exercises in Dean's arms and legs.
It's always a different PT, normally a third year student on rotation. Today. the student is talkative and thorough, addressing both brothers through the routine and explaining much of what he's doing. Sam soaks it all in, retaining the information for later when he figures Dean will have to allow him to help. He's still determined to find a way to get Dean better, but it could take time and effort.
Every muscle and joint is worked, moved in any direction it should normally move. Fingers and toes, ankles and wrists, elbows and knees.
"Things are looking good so far," Tristan says as he works Dean's left arm, bending the elbow in and out, back and forth, rotating the whole arm at the shoulder with one hand braced tightly around the socket.
Sam tries hard not to watch as Dean's hand flops lifelessly through the movements, bent unnaturally at the wrist, fingers curling inward. He tries to ignore the fact that his brother seems to shut down during these sessions, staring blankly at the ceiling and not engaging in conversation or action. Eyeing Tristan eagerly, he awaits clarification of the PT's words, expecting to hear that Dean's getting better, healing.
"They've been doing a great job with his therapy. There's no sign of muscle atrophy yet."
"Oh." Sam's heart sinks. He has to swallow back the lump in his throat. "That's...that's great news. That'll help when he starts to regain feeling, right?" He allows a small glimmer of hope to shine through in the question, still not willing to let the kid off the hook.
Tristan's face drops a little bit and he looks away, back to the job he's doing. He's hesitant when he finally speaks, as though he's not sure it's his place. "You do know his prognosis, right? The doctors have spoken to you?"
Sam thinks back to when Dean was electrocuted and to the accident that left him in a coma, remembers his resurrection from both. Conveniently forgets the black magic and deals that went along with healing his brother, forgets that Dean has already forbidden him to do anything like that to heal him now. "You don't know my brother's determination. If anyone can come back from this, it's Dean." He says it so matter-of-factly that he almost believes it himself, and for a flicker of an instant Dean breaks from his self-confined meditation and glances over to his brother, flashes a smile so fast Sam's not sure if he saw right, then goes back to staring at the ceiling.
Sighing, Tristan carefully chooses his next words. He looks right at Sam when he says them. "Sam, man, I'm an optimist. I like to think the best of a situation, and I would like nothing more than to see our man Dean here to walk again. Honestly, I hope you prove me and all the doctors wrong - I really do. But I also think you guys need to be preparing yourselves for what happens if he doesn't get up and walk soon, ya know? I mean, he just might get better, but it could be weeks or months...or it could be years. You gotta live in the here and now, right? Gotta prepare for what you know today, not what might happen next year."
"We'll do what we have to," Sam answers defensively, "but that doesn't mean we can't want more, right? Where are we without hope, without expectations? Medicine is improving every day, so trust me when I tell you - my brother and I, we're gonna beat this thing. You just watch."
"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you guys," Tristan says, clearly realizing he's not getting any further with arguing. His silence is almost worse than the argument, like he really doesn't believe what Sam's saying, but it just isn't worth trying to convince him otherwise. He lowers Dean's arm back into the bed frame and moves on to his legs, picking up the left first and rotating it gently at the ankle.
Sam sits back down heavily, feeling exhausted and desperate and hating the fact that he has to exert so much energy into convincing the hospital staff that his brother isn't through with his recovery yet. They don't talk for the rest of the session, Tristan looking altogether uncomfortable during the silence while Sam mournfully watches his brother's eerily still legs and tries to convince himself they belong to someone else.
SUPERNATURAL
Jeanette returns at lunchtime for an abbreviated version of her morning visit - suctioning Dean's lungs, and feeding him a lunch of some kind of creamy chicken soup and mashed potatoes and something that looks mysteriously like baby food, but she assures him is only pureed vegetables - not that he's ever liked vegetables anyway, but this? Ugh!
Once again they've sent Sam from the room, insisting that he needs to eat and that this is as good a time as any. He seems more hesitant to leave this time, after the morning's PT session, and Jeanette finally has to physically push him from the room before she manages to convince him that Dean will be fine with her, that he needs a little bit of privacy.
It's sort of a bittersweet victory - getting Sam from the room - because Dean's never quite sure how he feels about Jeanette, or Holly, or any of the other nurses that flutter into and out of his room on a daily basis. For him they represent rescue and torture all at the same time, a reprieve from his little brother's constant vigil, a reminder of what he can't do on his own. He depends on the nurses, knows he literally can't survive without all they do for him, knows that the smallest infection or an overfull bladder or any number of other things that never even registered a blip on the radar screen before could now kill him. It's their job to make sure those things don't occur.
But then again, maybe he would be better off letting himself get an infection, letting it kill him. Maybe it would be easier to just say good-bye to Sam now while his brother hasn't yet experienced the hell of Dean's new life, save him from the pain and frustration of giving up the life he knows, the life he can still have, to care for Dean 24-7.
And how fucking depressing is it that two weeks ago he was worrying about demons and wendigos and vampires, and now he's got people freaking out about breakdowns in his skin and whether or not there's mucus in his lungs. So now, not only does he have to worry about fending off all the scary things that go bump in the night when he can't even reach up a finger to scratch his nose, but he's also got to worry about the little things too.
Speaking of mucus, shit, here we go again. It's the same shit over and over again, day in and day out. Someday, Dean figures, he'll get used to this, learn to accept it. But not today. He cringes as the tubes are switched, makes the futile attempt to hold some air in his lungs and ends up the same place he always does - choking and gagging silently, wanting to scream out. Except this time is maybe even worse. His neck hurts more than normal and he feels the pain of having the fresh stoma bumped and prodded more than he usually does. He chalks it up as paranoia, reminds himself that the nurses and Sam do enough worrying without him having to jump in on the bandwagon as well. It's just tender, gotta be when they're ramming into it day in and day out with the stupid suction tube. Convincing himself to ignore the additional twinge of pain, Dean instead goes back to hoping and waiting for the torture to be over with. He actually wants Sam back with him right now.
The lunchtime session with Jeanette doesn't take nearly as long as his morning session and soon Dean finds himself alone in his room, tired, and waiting for Sam to return. He drifts off to sleep before his brother returns and dreams of walking and hunting and having sex with beautiful women, feels the heat of his body in the throes of passion. When he wakes up, he can still feel the residual heat in his head and neck and he lays there and relishes in it, praying for the feeling to stay with him.
He can feel himself sweating, can feel the flush of his cheeks and the moisture dripping down his temples and back into his hair, and suddenly realizes that it's not some residual from his dream, but rather real life symptoms screaming that something is maybe wrong. But when he opens his eyes and focuses on Sam, his brother doesn't seem terribly worried and Dean lets that guide him and reassure him. He's fine. Nothing is wrong.
As the afternoon progresses, Dean's beginning to feel worse and worse. His throat is screaming, and it's all he can do to force dinner down. For a minute, while Holly is feeding him he debates on telling her that something doesn't feel right. But he's a Winchester, and Winchester's don't complain - especially about something as little as a sore throat. It's hard to change ingrained habits.
When dinner is done, Holly sets Dean up for his bowel routine, his least favorite part of the day next to the suctioning. Thank god it's an every other day type of thing and he's not forced to live through it as often. She lowers the head of the bed back down flat and shoves a waterproof pad underneath his butt before bending his legs back in a frog-like position and propping them up with pillows. The gloves go on, and this time one of the fingers is lubricated with KY Jelly before she opens a suppository - Magic Bullets, they're called - and goes to work. Once she's done down there, Holly removes the gloves and positions herself next to Dean, where he can see her, to wait.
"Are you feeling alright, honey," she asks in that grandmotherly way of hers, concerned eyes looking Dean up and down as her hand comes to rest on his forehead. "You look a bit pale."
Truth be told, he's feeling mighty dizzy right about now, and like he just may throw up. Memories of his captivity, throwing up through the vent hose after the halo was removed, have Dean thisclose to admitting how he's feeling. But it's probably just nausea from the bowel routine, feeling sick to his stomach simply because he hates the procedure so much. He figures just about anyone would feel sick when they're being manhandled and forced to take a public crap laying in bed. That's all it is; he's sure of it.
'I'm fine,' he mouths, blinking once for good measure. 'Just tired of this.'
Holly purses her lips and gives him a sympathetic half-smile, glances down to see his progress at the other end of the bed and then returns her gaze to meet his eyes. "Can't be easy, getting used to all this. An athletic guy like yourself. You're doing well, all things considered."
Dean doesn't say anything. What is there to say? He's been through it all; the "I wanna get better's" and the "This totally blows," and the "Let me die's." If not with the nurses or Sam then with himself. But no amount of wishing or hoping or cursing makes the feelings of inadequacy go away. He's a ticking time bomb, just waiting for something to go wrong and kill him. And yet, he can't do it himself; can't even kill himself.
The routine takes anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour, and in that time Holly sits with him and talks, tries to engage him. He never feels like talking much, but today is even worse. He's got a headache the size of Mount Rushmore building up on top of everything else he's been feeling today. Yet he forces himself to stick with the conversation for the simple fact that he doesn't want her to realize there's anything wrong.
"I don't know much about your past," Holly is saying when Dean returns his focus on her. "I know it's just you and your brother, that you're on some type of a road trip or something. But I don't know much about you, who you are, what you did before all of this."
I'm a fucking hunter. It's who I am and what I did. 'Odds and ends,' Dean mouths. He doesn't want to get too much into it, has just realized that he and Sam never spoke much about a cover story and he doesn't want to go stomping all over whatever it is his little brother has worked up.
"Nothing static?" Holly asks, surprised. "Didn't you go to college? Technical school? You strike me as an intelligent young man."
Lady, I barely finished highschool, Dean thinks to himself bitterly, and then finds himself wondering what that ultimately means for him. Because he's not educated. The only time he's ever pushed his brain to do more than chase skirts is when he's strategizing on a hunt, and that sure as hell isn't going to get him far. What is he supposed to do now that he's stuck only with his mind.
Dean blinks twice, hard, trying to filter every ounce of bitterness for this newest revelation into his answer. 'Sam is the college boy,' he mouths, then averts his eyes, blinking hard to keep his tears at bay. He chalks the emotions up to the same damn routine that's making him nauseous. Stupid intestines that won't work properly.
Holly takes a minute to read her patient's reaction, reaches out and brushes his hair back and uses that guise to nonchalantly wipe the stray tear out of the corner of Dean's eye. "Doesn't mean you can't change that. You could go back to school."
He snorts, realizes it loses something with the lack of air to back it up, and raises an eyebrow instead. "Don't think that will happen now." Even if I wanted to go back to school I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm not smart enough. And let's not forget that I CAN'T FUCKIN MOVE!
"I wouldn't be so sure of that. You're still young, you've got plenty of time to be making decisions on your future."
This isn't a conversation Dean wants to be having, especially not with his nurse, and not now when he feels like crap. Clamping his mouth shut, Dean turns his head the slight bit it will go and closes his eyes.
"Sorry, hon," Holly says, sympathetically. She pats his cheek a couple of times with her open palm. "Guess you're not ready to talk about that, huh? Let's maybe talk about something else."
Dean doesn't answer, doesn't open his eyes. The dizziness is becoming more pronounced as the evening progresses, but that's only half the reason for his despondency. Despite his desire to do anything but, the conversation has pushed Dean into thinking solely about his future and Sam's future and what the hell they're going to do now that he's down for the count. How they'll get by, money and living arrangements and life sustaining measures. He's not sure how they're going to pay for everything - this has already got to be costing a fortune and the fake insurance scam must be raising red flags by now. He thinks back to the conversation with the doctor and the suggestion that he be put into a nursing home, knows he would rather die than spend his days being cared for in some smelly old folks home with Grandpa Melvin and his false teeth laying in the bed next door. But also knows he can't ask Sam to give up everything just to care for him.
It's that knowledge that has Dean ignoring the fact that the flush in his face is getting far worse, the sweating more pronounced. He can barely swallow around the tube anymore, and his head is absolutely killing him. In the background Dean can hear Holly prattling on some more, but she's long since stopped trying to engage him in conversation and he's long since stopped paying attention. Something is definitely wrong; if he hadn't known before he knows for certain now.
Opening his eyes Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to get Holly's attention. He doesn't want to live like this, but he's not yet ready to die, either. The nurse has moved from the chair, is back down below working on cleaning him up, and doesn't see him try to make eye contact. Next thing he knows, another wave of dizziness attacks and then his face and neck go all tingly and super-hot before all the remaining muscles he has left stiffen convulsively and the lights in the room flutter into and out of his vision. And then his world goes blank.