Supernatural isn't mine.
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When You Put Your Arms Around Me, Chapter Two
So Dean's day is going from bad to worse, and considering the bad was more like really fucking atrocious, that's a pretty bad sign. Sam's skin is turning blue, and Dean doesn't have a clue what to do about it, and Sam's arms and legs are still jerking like he's having a fit (a seizure, he's having a goddamn seizure), and Dean's not sure whether to try and stop them or not, and he's trying to dial 911 at the same time as reaching for Sam's legs where it looks like they're going to smash against the taps, and then Sam's head slips under the water and Dean curses and drops the phone (he's an idiot, he's a fucking idiot, he should have got him out of the tub first) and plunges forward, the freezing water like fucking needles on his skin, like getting an instantaneous set of full-sleeve tattoos, grabbing Sam around the chest and hauling him out.
Fuck, though, Jesus fucking Christ, because whatever it is that Sam's having (seizure), it's made him breathe in water, and he was only under for a few seconds but now he's not breathing, he's still jerking like he's being shocked but he's not fucking breathing, and Dean can't breathe himself, because how can he breathe if Sam's not, he doesn't know how.
He's not thinking straight (not thinking at all) and he's still got his arms wrapped round Sam, the skin of Sam's neck burning against his cheek, and he drags him fully out of the tub and lays him on the floor and for a moment he just has no idea what to do (Sam's not breathing) and his chest is burning, there's water dripping down his arms and his hands and feet are tingling and going numb and oh Jesus Dean breathe, you can't help Sam if you don't breathe.
So he breathes, because if there's one thing he really needs to do, it's help Sam. And once he's had a couple of breaths, he hauls Sam up again and gives him the Heimlich, which is pretty much unavoidably funny (come on, they always use it on those crappy slapstick shows), except for how it's really, really not, and Sam's still not breathing and his jerking is slowing down now and a second ago Dean would never have believed that that could make him feel even worse.
He does it again, face pressed between Sam's shoulderblades and he can't tell if he's crying or if it's just the water from the bath, because now that Sam's out the droplets on his skin have warmed up pretty damn fast. And then Sam chokes and spits out water, coughs and breathes in, and Dean collapses on his side, arms still locked around Sam's waist, and Jesus, Jesus that's got to never happen again, not ever.
Sam's breathing raggedly, and he's stopped jerking (seizing), and for a minute Dean just lies there on the soaking tiles and wonders how the hell this happened. Then he remembers the phone, remembers the ambulance, and, well, he pretty much hates letting strangers look after his brother, but on the other hand, maybe they won't be dumb enough to almost let Sam drown. Yeah, ambulance is a good plan.
----
OK, so, ambulance would have been a better plan if they had let him freakin ride in the back, because Dean hasn't seen his brother for four hours, since they slammed the doors of the sick-wagon and left him to follow in the Impala, and he's ready to start shooting some people to find out what the hell is going on. The doctors are about as helpful as a set of skis in Hell, and the nurses are shooting him looks like they're gonna kick him out if he doesn't stop pacing and growling (and if they try, some serious shit is gonna go down, Dean's not fucking kidding around here), and the walls are the colour of freakin guacamole, who in God's name thought that was a good idea, it makes Dean want to start punching holes in them.
Dean's done this before, too many goddamn times, but before he's always had an idea, at least, he's seen Dad or Sam go down, seen the injury, he's got experience, he knows how to tell when something's serious. This time, he has no clue. Sam had a cold, then Sam had a fever, then Sam had a fucking seizure, and there's nothing, there's nothing to explain what the hell is going on and no-one will fucking tell him.
That's it, Dean's going to find the nearest doctor and beat the shit out of him until he gets some answers. That is, until one of the fuckers actually shows up and calls his name (or the name he's going under right now, anyway), and, well, she's kind of a girl, so Dean figures maybe beating the shit out of her isn't such a great idea.
"Mr. Maxwell," she says. "Your brother's going to be fine."
Oh thank Christ. Dean feels his legs start to give way under him, and he puts a hand out, leans against the wall (he's just tired, OK? He can't have slept more than three hours). "What the hell happened?"
"He had some sort of infection," the doctor says, "but he's responding well to the antibiotics, and his fever's coming down rapidly. You did the right thing calling the ambulance, you saved his life."
Sammy could have died. Sammy would have died. OK, Dean really needs a chair now, and anyone who makes anything out of that is getting a knuckle sandwich just as soon as his hands stop shaking. "What kind of infection?" he asks. Where did he get it? How the hell did it get past me?
That's where the doctor frowns a little, and OK, Dean's kind of freaked out and not at his best, but he knows a frown when he sees it. "The bloodwork's inconclusive," she says. "Could be all manner of things. The important thing is, the treatment's working."
And yeah, OK, Dean's willing to admit that that's the most important thing. Sammy's not going to die. That might just be the most important thing ever.
----
They let him see Sam around dawn, and Dean stumbles gratefully into the room and drops into the waiting chair. He's done this before, he knows how to do this, bedside vigils like fucking General Hospital except without so much melodrama, at least while Sam's still out of it. Everything's OK, and he's just got to wait it out, because OK, the fever lasted less than twenty-four hours, but it was high (dangerously high, the doctor said, like he didn't know that, like he hadn't freakin felt Sam burning against his skin), and Sam's body's had a lot to deal with. He asks them about the seizure, but they shake their heads, quiz him about epilepsy and then tell him that he must be mistaken, and Dean's not mistaken, he remembers Sam's eyes rolling back in his head, his limbs jerking (Jesus Christ Sammy's dying, Sammy's going to die), but he's too tired to argue. Sam's getting better, and it doesn't matter any more.
Around ten, Sam wakes up. His face is still flushed and sweaty, and he looks pale, weirdly thin even though it's not been long enough for him to have lost weight. Dean leans forward, smiles too wide. "Glad you could join us, Rip van."
Sam blinks, groggy, and puts a hand to his head, missing by an inch. He pulls the hand forward and wiggles it in front of his face, staring in confusion. "What the hell happened?"
"Dude," says Dean, "you know, just because I said you were a whiny bitch when you had a cold doesn't mean you have to prove anything to me."
Sam's shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I have... a cold?" he says, and Dean sees that teasing's not going to get him very far. Sam's fever's come down a hell of a lot, but he's still not all there. Which, really, is the most awesome time to make fun of Sam, so.
"Not any more," Dean says. "The doctors say you burned all the snot out of your system. You know, most people just go for that stinky shit, you know, eucalyptus or whatever, but hey, I say go with what works."
Sam stares at him and blinks once, frowns. "You making fun of me?"
Dean lets his smile spread even wider. "When am I not?"
Sam's eyes slip closed. "Jackass."
And yeah, OK, Dean kinda is a jackass. Lucky he's so goddamn handsome, or people might dislike him.
----
Dean wakes up with his head on the edge of Sam's bed and Sam's hand under his (what? Dean can't be held responsible for where his hand might have landed while he was sleeping, for Christ's sake), and it takes him a minute to work out where he is. Another minute, though, and he's aware that something's wrong, because Sam's hand is actually uncomfortable to touch, it's so hot, and he can hear someone moaning.
He's sitting up in a second, leaning over Sam and grabbing his face, and Sam's skin is so goddamn hot, slippery with sweat under his fingers, and Sam's eyes are open, staring, his pupils dilated even in the semi-darkness. He's gasping like he can't breathe properly, and Dean's fucked, he is so fucked.
He's yelling, he realises, but he has no idea what the words are, he just hopes that someone hears them because they said he was getting better, they said it, but Dean knows better when he sees it, and this sure as hell isn't it. Someone's grabbing his arms, pulling him away, and he has to force himself to remember that he's in hospital and that he can't help Sam, no matter how much he wants to, has to force himself to let go and not take a swing at the bastard who's dragging him away from his brother.
There's a swarm of people round the bed now, and Dean staggers back, hits the wall, which is good because otherwise he thinks he might have just fallen over (Sam was getting better). He blinks, tries to listen to what they're saying, but Sam's body has gone rigid and now he's jerking again, his eyes rolling wild in his head and Dean can't watch, can't bear to watch his brother move like that, it looks so inhuman, but at the same time he can't look away because if Sam, if... if something happens and Dean's not looking, if Dean looks away and loses his last chance to look at Sam, well, that's not something he wants to contemplate. So he keeps his eyes on Sam even as he slides down the wall, doesn't look away for a moment, because he didn't see this for Mom, didn't see it for Dad, and it hurts like hell but Sam deserves to have someone watching at least.
"Temp's 107.8," says one of the nurses, and a doctor curses roundly, and Dean feels the room swimming in front of his eyes.
"He's stopped breathing," someone else says, and at that point Dean doesn't hear anything else, it's like all sound has just stopped, like someone's cut the wire to the speakers, and the doctors are moving, one of them's leaning over Sam, forcing his mouth open and shoving in something that looks like a medieval torture implement (and Dean should know, he's seen enough of them), and for a moment he thinks they're torturing Sammy, why are they torturing him, they're meant to be saving him (except, obviously, it's Dean who's meant to be saving him), but before he can get to the point of trying to stop them his brain kicks in and he knows what they're doing, he sees the doctor carefully push a tube into Sam's mouth and down, deeper that it should be able to go, Sam ought to be choking on it but he isn't, Sam isn't doing anything except lying there like he's dead.
Then someone's blocking his view (blocking his view of Sam, oh God, he needs to see Sam), and he fights them, tries to push them away, but moments later he's in the corridor with no idea how he got there and he can't see Sam any more. He turns to go back into the room, but there's a guy standing there and he says please, sir, let the doctors work, and Dean's torn, because maybe going in there will interfere, stop themfrom saving Sam, but maybe they aren't going to save Sam anyway. It's his job, saving Sam, and he doesn't know if anyone else can do it (doesn't know if he can do it).
Sam was getting better. And forty-eight hours ago, Sam had a cold. Dean doesn't know what to think any more, so he sits down on the floor and waits for this nightmare to be over.
----
It's not the same doctor as before, this time it's a guy, but Dean's past the stage of wanting to kick the shit out of someone by now (past the stage of wanting anything except for Sam not to be dead), so the guy's pretty safe. He looks grave, though. Dean hates it when people look grave.
"We managed to bring your brother's temperature down to safe levels," he says, and Dean breathes out long and slow. "You say he had a seizure before you called the ambulance?"
Dean nods, slowly, because he's not convinced his head is going to stay on his shoulders. "Like in there," he says, and pushes away the images of Sam's lips turning blue.
"What was Sam doing before he got sick?" the doctor asks, and Dean shrugs (because he figures burning a witch's altar isn't exactlywhat the guy wants to hear) and says nothing special.
"And then you say he had a slight fever which got steadily worse?"
Dean nods. He's said all this before, more than once. He wants to know what the hell's going on, and now that he knows Sam's not dead, he's maybe actually thinking about the whole beating angle again, because damn, these questions are beginning to piss him off. "Doc, what's wrong with my brother?"
The doctor glances down, nervous, and Dean thinks shit, but he's getting better, right? Then the guy says, "Mr. Maxwell, fever isn't a disease in itself, it's a symptom. The problem is, in Sam's case, we haven't been able to find out what it's a symptom of."
Dean thinks about this. "You said he had an infection."
The doctor nods. "All the bloodwork came back clean. We've done ever test we can think of, and there's no sign of any infection."
Dean frowns. "Then what...?"
"His most recent... episode was indicative of heatstroke," the doctor says, his mouth pulled down at the corners, and Dean's about to say what the fuck?, because Sam's been in the freakin hospital all day, it's not like he's in Death Valley or whatever, they're in goddamn Washington for Christ's sake. Before he has the chance, though, the doctor says, "Obviously, that can't be the case, given that Sam hasn't been exposed to abnormally high temperatures. The problem is, it's the only explanation for the seizures."
Dean's shaking his head slowly, because the more he listens, the more he's thinking that this is not natural, and that's screwed up, and suddenly he can remember the fucking witch babbling in Bulgarian or whatever the goddamn hell it was and saying you'll regret it, and Christ, he said he was looking forward to it. "Can't you get seizures from fever?"
The doctor shakes his head. "Febrile seizures only occur in young children. It doesn't make any sense. But then, nothing about your brother's case makes sense."
Dean rubs his hand over his face. He needs to shave. How can he freakin shave when Sam can't even breathe for himself, when every time he closes his eyes he sees Sam jerking like a landed fish? He'd probably just end up cutting his own throat, and OK, so he would be in the right place to get fixed up, but he figures no-one would thank him for getting blood all over the floor. "He's gonna be OK, though, right?"
"Sam's fever is coming down," the doctor says. "It was dangerously high for an hour, which is long enough to cause organ damage, but all the signs are that he came through OK. But given his relapse and the fact that we still haven't found the cause, I can't make any promises."
Dean's listening, kind of, but his brain's stuck on organ damage. The witch is dead. She is so fucking dead. And when he's killed her, he's going to resurrect her so he can kill her all over again. "Can I see him?" he asks.
----
They won't let him into the room with Sam this time; they say that since they don't know what's causing the fever, they can't risk him bringing in any other infections that could fuck Sam up in his weakened state. OK, yeah, so they don't actually use the words fuck Sam up, but Dean knows they're thinking it. The room's got an observation window, though, and Dean stands behind it, mesmerised by the sight of his brother's chest moving in tandem with the concertina of the ventilator. Concertina down – Sam's chest up. Concertina up – Sam's chest down. It's like they're freakin dancing or something, and Dean almost grins, because it's so lame and clumsy and not to any kind of rhythm, which is exactly how Sam dances, like he's a puppet and the guy who's pulling the strings only listens to electronica crap. He doesn't grin, though, because they're not dancing, that machine right there is pushing air into Sam's lungs, forcing Sam to breathe, and that's enough to make Dean want to puke.
Dean doesn't fall asleep this time. He's going to kill the witch, he's going to head on right back there and rip her head off (after she's reversed the spell, of course), but he wants to make sure Sam isn't going to up and die on him while he's gone. The nurses come in every now and then, wearing masks and plastic jackets like Sam's got some freakin sci-fi apocalypse disease or whatever, check the temperature, comeout and smile at Dean. After five hours, Sam's temperature is only half a degree above normal, and the doc shows up, shakes his head in amazement and pulls the tube out of Sam's throat.
They let Dean in, then, though he's got to wear the stupid mask thing too, and it makes him look like he's a doctor on General Hospital, which he guesses is a step up from distraught family member of the week, but, you know, he's never liked that show so he's still kinda pissed off about it.
Sam's awake from the extubation, and he blinks up at Dean, frowns.
"That you, Dean?" he asks, and Dean thinks he's delirious until he remembers Sam can only see his eyes.
"Yeah, kiddo. You believe this outfit? I thought you were the only one who got a kick out of dressing me up, but I guess maye it's contagious or whatever."
Sam grins weakly. "I told them to make you wear the pirate costume, but no-one ever listens to me."
Dean feels like maybe he's going to fall over from the relief of hearing Sam being Sam, but he keeps a hold of himself (because he's not the one who goes around passing out like a girl), and asks "How're you feeling?"
Sam rolls his head slightly on his shoulders, closes his eyes, opens them. "Like crap. How'm I looking?"
Dean shrugs. "Like crap."
"At least I'm consistent," Sam says. "So what'd the doctors say?"
"That you're a freak," Dean says, "but I knew that already, so, you know. Not useful."
Sam closes his eyes again. He's sweating. "Dean, seriously. What, do I have to beat it out of you?"
"I am being serious," Dean says (and OK, he wasn't, not really, but fuck that, he's had enough serious (serious fever, serious condition) to last weeks). "They have no clue what's going on. Say there's no reason for you to be putting out enough heat to power half of New York."
Sam opens his eyes again, but only half way. "Only half? Man, the way I felt, I should have been able to do the entire state." He swallows a couple of time. "Witch?"
Dean looks around, but no-one's at the observation window. "That's what I figure. I'm going back to waste the bitch."
"Wait," Sam says. "Please, just. Stay. For a little while?"
And OK, Dean really really wants to kill something, but seriously, Sam's such a fucking manipulative bitch with his puppy-dog eyes that are still glittering with fever, what the hell's Dean supposed to say to that? Maybe Sam's a witch, too. It would explain a lot. So Dean sits down (just for a few minutes) and Sam drifts off, and half an hour later his fever's on the up and up again and Dean gets hustled out of the room and he just can't do this any more.
Except that this time, Sam's fever peaks much lower and comes back down almost as soon as Dean's gone. And when Dean's allowed back in, it starts to rise again. And yeah, Dean's a pretty face, but that doesn't mean there's nothing going on underneath, he's not stupid. What he is, though, is fucked. So utterly fucked. Because it's him, all this time it's been him, and he remembers falling asleep next to Sam and wrapping his arms around him when he was seizing and it was him, Jesus fucking Christ.
Dean leaves the hospital and starts to run. For the first time in his life, he wants to get as far away from Sam as he possibly can.