Disclaimer: I don't own 'em *pity* but if I did, I'd love the stuffing out of Sammy and Dean
Beta: The fabulous Raven!
Summary: This is the long-awaited follow-up to Accident, and, obviously, follows the aftermath of the car crash. In the heat of the moment, the Winchester's find their strength in each other, but what happens after the adrenaline high wears off? What's left behind?
Author's Notes, Pt. 2: Sorry for the delay, I had a nasty incident with a glass shattering in my hand as I washed it and well, ended up with some stitches in my poor little right index finger. I've been trying to deal with the pain, especially while typing. So, again, sorry for the delay, and without further ado …
Aftermath, Ch. 2 – On a Stormy Sea of Moving Emotion
Disjointed, nightmarish visions chased him through his mind. One minute he was studying the bark in front of him, head locked into windshield's splintered glass and unable to look away from the tree limb before him. The next he was battling against an unseen enemy, throwing punches, kicks and blocks up as fast as he could and still getting beat all to hell.
His head was . . . he wasn't sure where his head was. He could barely make out the sparkling remains of glass in front of him, and he was looking out of the truck?
Glass . . . ?
He struggled against the animal before him, still unable to see his attacker yet somehow knowing it was an monster of some kind.
Claws – they shredded his skin and caused blood to well … he couldn't block them, and instead his arms were tattered and bleeding. Why was this thing hurting him?
He fought.
He struggled to push free of the heavy weight.
It was a fruitless effort, and he fell with a sob, a crushing weight trapping him …
"BP is still high."
"He's still struggling, Doctor!"
"I don't care, keep full pressure on him … arms are ripped to shreds … stitches …"
He heard someone speaking and didn't understand. What were they saying?
He wasn't able to decipher the voices murmering behind the blackness around him. He still struggled against the animal, but it was crushing him.
"… you going to be able to …?"
"…shattered. Poor kid."
"Jerry, check his … is he fully out?"
"Shit … he's … not enough anesthesia …"
So heavy …
Weighed down, unable to see his enemy, he sank further into the shadows.
John Winchester was not the sort of man brought to tears. So he wasn't crying and lightly petting his son's damaged face and too-long hair.
Nope.
Ah, who the hell am I kidding?
"Sammy? Oh, Sam, buddy … I'm here."
The last twelve hours were hell. He lost count of the number of cups of black sludge he chugged, awaiting word from the doctors working on his boy. Sam had four broken ribs, one of which was perilously close to nicking his lung, which they couldn't do anything about.
Both his arms were sliced all to hell, and between his arms, his neck and face, his Sammy had over 150 stitches crisscrossing his abused flesh. The first of three doctors to talk with him about his son's condition, Dr. Hale was the initial Emergency Room doctor. The wizened, bald-headed older man had shaken his head, eyes sincere, when he told John and Dean how close the windshield glass had come to his son's carotid artery. Part of the reason Sam was in surgery for so long was that they had actually called in a plastic surgeon to help lessen the scarring of all the stitches.
Worse still, the hardened father was left shaky as a second doctor, Dr. Escobar, explained in a softly empathetic voice that Sammy's arm and leg were both still in danger of partial amputation.
His gangly teenager had completely shattered his leg, and the doctor said it was a near thing. The surgery lasted over four hours, interspersed with small periods of re-stabilizing Sammy as his blood pressure spiked and then bottomed out. The teen made it through the surgery, but the prognosis was guarded at best. The older doctor warned the distraught father that his son was likely to lose full range of motion and ability in his leg – even if he was able to keep it.
John was halfway to shock himself, and Dean had to catch him when he listed to the side. Dean helped him sit while they explained that Sam had a busted shoulder, too. They decided to pack the gaping wound there after getting the blood to stop flowing; one of the doctors explained that infection was a major concern. John was familiar with half the terms they were using, but they still went in one ear and out the other.
Beyond all that, the second doctor added, they were concerned about how hard Sam had hit his head. A hurried CATSCAN had reassured them that while Sam had a serious concussion, there was no indication of a hemorrhage. The serious concussion, however, meant that his brain had suffered a major trauma. They assured John they would be watching this closely.
"Troubling." That's all the doctor could say about the possibility of brain damage.
John's head hung, exhaustion, guilt and regret weighing him down. How? He just couldn't understand how it had happened. It was just a stupid fucking accident. His son, his Sammy, shouldn't be struggling to survive.
They'd been arguing … they were always arguing these days. He thought it was part of being a teenager, and at fifteen Sam qualified as the bitchy teen he was. If only …
If only's and regrets laced his thoughts as he flinched, memories crashing into him.
"And I said this is what you're going to do!" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sam lean his head against the window. Tension was still high in the set of Sam's shoulders, even if he huddled in on himself over there in his own little pity party. Probably calling him names in his head.
"Whatever." That kid …
"I swear, Sammy, you need to listen when I'm talking to you! And show me some fuckin' respect!" He saw the barest flash of something, nothing he could call respect, though. He flexed his fingers, gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeline in the ocean of teenage angst and emotions.
A flash caught his eye, as a squeal of breaks from the other side of the road had him turning just in time to see a Honda cross the midline.
"Damn idiot driver!"
John flinched at the memory. Stupid driver. The other guy had walked away with a few scratches and he still fisted his hands over that – it wasn't fair! He didn't want to be around when Dean heard that news. Of course, Dean had tried to bully him into being checked out in the ER, which he stubbornly insisted wasn't necessary. He assured Dean and the concerned nurse who was eavesdropping that he didn't need anything but some Tylenol. Disgruntled, Dean had finally relaxed after John called him on his attitude. Hell, his oldest son had refused treatment for far worse when he or Sammy had been hurt in the past. Besides, right now he just needed to be here for his youngest.
He rubbed a few strands of Sam's soft hair between his thumb and forefinger before gently sweeping the chestnut strands from his son's scratched and bruised face. The boy's forehead was one massive bruise, causing him to withdraw his touch for fear he'd unknowingly hurt Sammy.
"Damnit!" If he could just see those eyes open …
His Sam, he had such open eyes. He heard somewhere that the eyes were the window to the soul, and man that was never truer than with his boy. Big brown puppy dog eyes. His head dropped again.
Oh, Mary.
Mary. Mary. Mary.
Just look at him, Mare. Our boy. Shit, I wish you were here. Wouldn't even have had a stupid accident if you were here, wouldn't be living this way.
It's so fuckin' hard to do it without you …
In a hardback plastic chair, in the middle of machines and IV's, he wept silently as he watched his youngest. Dean was gracious enough to ignore the tears, thankfully, but he was grateful for the weight of his oldest's hand on his shoulder. The comfort he took in the small act reminded him of just how much Dean took care of him, as well as Sammy. Hell, the boy – no, the man – had been taking care of him when he was just a boy. He raised a heavy arm, placing his hand over Dean's, and squeezed.
He replayed The Argument, as he'd started calling it. Over and over again, The Argument played in his mind's eye. He struggled to understand what had put them on this path as he remembered harsh words and hurt feelings in equal measure.
"I don't know why you have to fight about this, Sammy. It's for your own protection."
"Dad! You know …" He glanced at his once again mad-as-hell teenager. It was the same old argument.
"You're just not ready, yet, Sammy. Not for a hunt like this." He just couldn't bear it if his boy got hurt. And he sure as hell wasn't going to put him in the middle of a rawhead hunt. At fifteen, Sammy was just young enough to be an enticing target, and John wasn't ready to use him as bait. No.
"Dad, I just …" Why the hell did he always have to argue?
"That's enough, Sammy, I gave an order."
"Yeah, but …" Time to nip this in the bud.
"'But' nothing, Samuel. I gave you an order, I'm dropping you off at Jim's, and that's that."
The tired man shook his head at the memory. He'd laid it on the line, not that it made a whit of difference. Sam was just too damn stubborn for his own good.
He knew Sammy'd been getting more frustrated lately, that he'd been working hard on his schoolwork even as he threw himself into training. Hell, he was even proud of him; he knew his son was strong and smart. What was wrong with thinking he would funnel that into the hunt, and maybe following a damn order once in a while?
Dean's weight was still warm and comforting on his shoulder, but his thoughts slipped into long-ago memories as his eyes blurred. He could hear Mary as though she were still here, whispering words from long ago …
"He's so beautiful, babe, isn't he? Look at him looking around at the world." Her blue eyes shimmered with happiness as she studied little Sammy before leaning back against John. "He's going to take over the world. Babe. You can already see how smart he is."
"You said the same thing about Dean-o Mare." He chuckled softly as he snuffled against the nape of her neck, a grin pulling at his lips at her response.
"Well … they both are. Dean and Sam. Sammy and Dean. They're gonna have the world at their fingertips, John. They are."
"Yep, they're both gonna be president someday. Hell, they'll both be smarter than Einstein."
"Oh, shush, John. They're both smart. And Sammy, just look into his little eyes. So curious … you can tell he's smart. Mark my words, he's going to have the world at his fingertips." She leaned back down to rub noses with her future genius and John huffed at her.
"Between the two of them, maybe they'll support us in our old age."
"Nah, your shop's gonna take off, sweetie. I just know it. And our boys? They're gonna have the world at their fingertips. They will."
John remembered his boy's birth, remembered holding his wife close as she continued to exclaim over their sons. He remembered thinking she was so beautiful.
Damn, but he missed her.
He remembered, once upon a time, sharing all of those ridiculous hopes and dreams, believing their sons would take over the world. The bed before him seemed to almost swallow his baby, and he almost couldn't bear to look at him, his pale face highlighted by bruises and the white of bandages. The hours passed in a daze as he watched his son and prayed in fits and starts for his recovery, for his future. He didn't care if Sam took over the world. Hell, he didn't care if he was a natural hunter.
No, he didn't care what his son did when he grew up. He just wanted him to grow up. And, though he was rarely one to say or believe in dreams and prayers these days, his desperate mind kicked into a short, needy prayer.
God, please. Just let him grow up.
Sam floated, his thoughts lax and slippery in a sea of memories.
Blinding light.
Pain.
His Dad's truck was crumbled, a twisted prison for his broken body, the image frozen as a moment in time.
The blood …
He turned away again, this time panic infusing him as he was met with an argument. No, it was The Argument, the one before …
"And I said this is what you're going to do!"
He leaned his aching head against the cool window, watching the blur of trees and guardrails. Why couldn't his Dad ever see things from his point of view? It was like he was just an extra, not part of the team. Not that Dad cared at all.
Asshole.
He peeked at his dad's profile, but didn't see any sign that his dad could actually read thoughts, which was a good thing. He was almost sixteen! He sure as he . . . ck could decide what he wanted to do with his own time and his own future!
But noooo. He wasn't allowed to even dream of doing anything outside of the family business. As though he wanted to be a mechanic for the rest of his life.
"Whatever." It was his standard line, guaranteed to show Dad just how ticked off he was. Kind of guaranteed to make Dad just as mad; which was really the point.
"Sammy, I'm here, kiddo. I'm here. Please … please, just … would you wake up for me here, buddy?" Dad?
"I know you're in there, Sammy. You just, you just wake up now, son, you hear me? Wake up. Please …" Dad? Dad?
"D'd?"
"Sammy?"
"…" He meant to reply, but he couldn't really concentrate on his Dad's words, though he knew they were for him. It was taking so much energy to just be awake.
He blinked heavy eyelids, his lashes sticking together.
"Sammy?" He forced heavy eyelids open just a bit further, seeing his brother's blurry face leaning over him.
"D …" He couldn't spit it out.
He blinked at the blurry looking room, and tried unsuccessfully to focus on his Dad. He knew he was there, could tell with the leather and Old Spice he was able to catch a hint of, even through the sterile oxygen mask …mask? He couldn't really focus on Dean anymore, either, as his eyes became heavier. But he could still scent that leather and gun-powder smell, even through the sterile oxygen.
Hmm.
His eyes drooped and before he had time to worry about oxygen masks or numb bodies he was slipping back to sleep, his brother and his Dad's voice following him along with the memory of something, something he couldn't quite find it in himself to care about.
Something about Dad's truck and an argument and …
He sighed as his body gave in.