Chapter 6 : Rescue
Sam wasn't sure where he was finding the strength. He'd passed exhaustion what seemed like hours ago. His body had protested that it was near collapse, more than once, and yet still it moved when he asked. It was almost as if he couldn't feel the pain anymore, and yet, simultaneously, he was fully aware of the burns and aches. He felt weak, and yet his feet pounded the ground, one in front of the other, because none of it was important. His exhaustion, his weakness and his pain, were irrelevant. He had only one focus, and that was getting to his brother.
This time when the relief hit, when he saw his brother, saw that he was moving, saw that he was alive; it was like sunlight flooding a room when a blind was pulled, and he savoured the sensation for just a moment. He let it wash over him, bathed in it, pausing mid-step to take a breath. "Dean," the acknowledgement dropped almost silently from his lips, and finally he realised just how afraid he'd been that he would be too late, that the last memories he would have would be of his brother's screams, and a mangled corpse. The tears formed and this time they fell, clouding his vision as he began to move forward again. Stumbling a little as his body now, perversely, seemed to want to give up. When he was close, so close.
He reached out to steady himself on the wall, his hand touching the rough gnarled surface, his head coming up. He drew in a sharp breath against the aching in his lungs, as he finally looked for more in his brother than signs of life. His mind acknowledging the awkward curled posture, the arm hanging at an odd angle, the strafing bloody wounds, the gaunt agonised face, and faint muscle tremors. Maybe he had celebrated too soon?
His steps forward once again took on an urgency, but as he moved Dean curled away from him. "Dean," he called out, as he recognised the instinctive reaction to danger, but he wasn't a danger, and the slight movement away hurt, even though he knew Dean had not seen him, didn't know that it was him, probably thought that he was that thing, there to take another swipe, and his breath hitched as he tried to form a denial. "Dean, it's OK it's me." He dropped to his knees, not sure if his brother could hear him or not. He tried again. "It's me, Sam, You're going to be OK."
Dean was waiting for death, suspended in a half waking limbo, his mind ready on some levels to accept the inevitable, but his instincts still fighting it. There was more movement, and something else, sound, speech, words, but they weren't quite processing. The bastard was probably cajoling, or ordering him to beg again. He sucked in a breath. "No. . .won't. . ." he managed to squeeze out hesitantly. "Won't beg. . . " he completed, trying for defiance but only exposing his true weakness as even the cough that followed held no strength.
Sam inched closer, scanning his brother for somewhere to touch him. He needed that reassurance of contact, needed to re-establish that contact, to get his brother to see that it was him, and why the hell would he think that he was supposed to beg? For what? But there was nowhere, nowhere that was not covered by a cut or a bruise, or a scrape. Finally he grabbed his hand, tried to hold it still against the shakes, but even if that had been possible then the tremors from his own muscles thwarted him.
"Dean its Ok, you don't have to . . ." he couldn't quite bring himself to say beg. It caught in his throat; he couldn't imagine his brother being forced to beg for anything. "You don't have to say anything. It's gone for good this time." He paused scanning his brother's face for any sign of recognition, gripping his hand tightly now. "Dean?"
"Sam?" Dean's focus was fuzzy, but the words were finally processing. The blurry outlines forming into sharper edges, and, even through the grime and soot that caked his hair, Dean recognised his younger brother.
The tears flowed again as the gleam of recognition formed in Dean's eyes, and Sam was too exhausted to even try to hold them back, as they streamed down his cheeks leaving white tracks as evidence of their passage. He sniffed them back as a tired smile broke through. "It's gone for good Dean, I found the crystal and destroyed it." He paused to smile again. "You're going to be all right. Help is on the way." He tried hard to be calm, to be reassuring, to believe it himself, so that his brother would believe it, but Dean was a long way from all right, was struggling to catch his breath properly, and his skin had a worryingly translucent quality, seeming to glow under the thin sheen of sweat, and instead of relief his expression still held fear.
Sam could understand that. He'd been there himself, nearly two hours ago now, but he'd been there himself. Torture involved more than just pain, and the effects didn't go away when the physical violence stopped.
"Sam," Dean said, returning the grip on his hand and trying to use it to pull himself up towards his brother. There was something important he should do, something that he needed to stop. Sam needed to get away before it came back. It wasn't safe. He had to warn him. His breaths were sharp and painful. He needed to speak but somehow he couldn't get enough air. He had to warn his brother before. . . "Sam!"
Sam watched horrified as Dean tried to pull himself up, tried to speak, but it was clear his breathing was compromised. He said his name and then went limp, dropping back onto the hard stone floor. "Dean!"
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam acknowledged that help was already there. The muffled shouts, and flashes of torchlight that danced in patterns as their owners ran down the corridor behind him evidenced that. It was the only thing that prevented him from firing up into his own panicked anxiety bomb, or dropping into a well of despair. He wasn't entirely sure which course his body would have taken, or maybe it would have just ripped him in two, but the signs of help arriving were just enough to prevent either, as he gripped his brother's hand more tightly. "Hold on Dean, help's here."
He was vaguely aware of an oxygen mask being placed over his face, vaguely aware of a slight sharp prick in his arm, vaguely aware of the attempts to prise his brother's finger's from his, but mostly his focus was on what the EMTs were doing for Dean. He watched them as they knelt down and swore at the state he was in. Saw the momentary acknowledgement of the horror, before their professional personas dropped into place to mask it, watched as they worked frantically to stabilise him. Held his focus until they were strapped to the chopper heading for St Clare's County Hospital, and then even he couldn't fight any longer, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
SUPERNATURALSUPERNATURAL
"Doctor?" Sam asked again, impatiently.
"Aren't you even slightly interested in your own condition and prognosis?" Dr. Stevens asked.
"My brother?"
The Dr Sighed heavily, Sam's recovery instructions were clearly going to have to wait until after he'd updated him on the patient in the neighbouring bed. "Well, your brother was very lucky. He has several deeper puncture wounds to the abdomen, but fortunately there were no major organs damaged, and no damage to the bowel, although we'll have to watch closely for signs of infection. He has four broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung, which we've dealt with. The surface abrasions are deep and cover large tracts along his arms, torso and legs; all of them have been cleaned and stitched. His shoulder is going to need surgery to repair the dislocation, I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess but with physiotherapy he should be able to regain full movement." He looked across at the other bed. "He has quite a long recovery ahead of him but he's young and strong, as I say he was lucky. Lucky we got to him when we did."
"So he's going to be all right?" Sam pressed.
The doctor looked back at him. "Given time, yes."
That was all Sam needed to hear. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and allowed himself to relax. Dean would be all right. He turned his head. Now, if only he would wake up so that he could yell at him for pulling that stupid stunt with the parchment, and so that he could thank him for pulling that stupid stunt with the parchment. He gave a small smile. Oh yes, that was going to be a real chick flick moment. Dean would hate it. Come on Dean, Wake up.