Author:Mirrordance
Title: One Night
Summary:He was going under the knife tomorrow. He wasn't sure if he was going to wake up. It was perfectly excusable to torment his estranged brother at Stanford for one night, wasn't it? Set Pre-Pilot, that last time Dean bothered Sam before Episode 1.
Note: Thanks to all who read and even more to all who reviewed. I was gonna post specialized replies but I thought you might like it more if I posted Chapter 2 right away instead, haha... Reviews are fuel. When I posted Chapter 1, I wasn't even halfway through Chapter 2 and well now here it is, and the fic (which will have 3 chapters) is almost done. I've never receved this much responses from this fandom so it's very very rewarding. C&C's are always welcome if you can spare them. Have fun and 'til the next post!
" " "
2
California
" " "
He scratched his neck irritably, once.
Twice.
He shifted uneasily on the squeaky bed. The springs were supposed to be subtle, he knew, but it was just so quiet that the sound amplified and annoyed him in that small, white room.
He scratched his neck a third time.
He was at that odd cusp between boredom and blinding fear. That was what stupid, empty rooms like this was for, he guessed, these little holes that were used to prepare people for surgery.
Would it kill 'em to give him a TV?
He shifted, and grunted, and frowned. And then scratched his neck again. He did the same things over once more, and then changed the order, and then tried another permutation, and then another. He made a sour face. And then yawned. And then tore at the neck of the hospital gown he had on.
I'm fricking half-naked, on top of it all...
He wished he was in a whole lot of other places but here, though admittedly, there were much, much worse ones to be in...
He could be back in a house fire in Lawrence for one. He had been at a cave-in at a Wisconsin mine too. He was stuck in there for two days and he never ever thought he'd see daylight again. There was that ridiculous corn maze in Tennessee with a fricking scarecrow breathing down his neck as he turned and twisted and got lost in a game of hide-and-seek / cat-and-mouse for two damn hours, until he finally killed the thing and got lost for two more. It was decidedly not fun. There too, was that night he spent with this waitress in Florida. Coyote-ugly without her cute outfit and makeup after all, and when he woke up next to her the only consolation he could come up with was that if he was zonked enough to come onto her last night, then someone must have slipped him something super awesome even if he remembered nothing about it and the morning sucked.
There too was the night Sam left for college... Dad storming out of their motel room, slamming the door behind him and expecting Sam to be gone by the time he got back. Dean remembered the smell of the lonely, forgotten dinner on the table. There were clothes scattered on every available surface of the place and Sam just snatched them up and shoved them in his duffel. Dean watched his younger brother's face, had never seen it closed off like this, like he'd never change his mind, like he was going away and he was never going back. Never even looking back. He wouldn't even look at Dean.
Dean watched Sam's long, elegant fingers as he sorted out his clothes from Dean's and their father's. Would raise up some of the very, very few ratty shirts the two brothers shared, as if in consideration.
Should I bring this? Should I leave it with Dean...?
Sam never even bothered with asking his brother, he would just look at the shirt, pause, and then leave it. Dean watched as he left everything that was their shared property.
"You can take that one," Dean said, quietly, of the Astroboy vintage graphic tee that he knew Sam loved, when Sam raised it up thoughtfully.
Sam set his jaws, but nodded. He shoved the shirt in his bag, but let his fingers linger a little, before he returned to his task.
Dean watched him carefully, wanting to make sure he didn't forget anything. His brother was leaving. He knew this beyond any doubt, and he knew there was no stopping him. The most he could do was to make sure he was prepared. Because damn he was shit-scared of sending his brother out in the world out there.
I wish I never encouraged you, he thought, I wish you weren't so smart. I wish I didn't think you deserve to have this, a good, decent shot at life. Mostly... it just comes down to I wish you didn't have to leave.
I wish you didn't want to leave.
Sam closed the zipper with a flourish. He did not at all look at Dean throughout the process of packing. Dean wondered if Sam was mad at him by association. Sam slung the bag over his shoulder.
"I'm not--" he hesitated, "I'm not making a mistake, am I?"
Sam's eyes were wounded and earnest when they finally, finally settled on his older brother's face. And then Dean understood why Sam has been avoiding looking at him.
Tell me, Sam seemed to be saying, Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stay. Ask me to, and I'll stay.
Because Dean was the only thing that could keep him here. The realization was crippling, and Dean was suddenly assaulted by a sense of relief. He could keep Sam. He could!
But Dean couldn't lie, not when it came to things that he knew were good for his brother. He wished he could, but a wish was all that it was.
"You'll be great out there, bro," he said, quietly, licking his lips and looking away, not wanting to look at Sam anymore, because looking at him made Dean want to lie and keep him, the same way Sam didn't want to look at him because looking at Dean made him want to stay.
That night, he drove Sam over to the bus station that would take him to California. He gave him several hundred dollars (he forgot how much now) of hustling money he had saved over the last few months. He gave him every coin he could find in the Impala, everything he could find from under the carpet, in between the seats, just cleaned himself out. Gave him the few real jewelry he had for some pawning action. Was going to resort to the silver bullets except Sam had drawn the line there. Sam was too financially scrapped to say no, to both their reliefs. Dean reminded his brother of his allergies as he searched his car, insisted he bring a small knife (which Sam agreed to) and a shotgun (which Sam sob-laughingly declined)...
And that was that.
Things could be infinitely worse, Dean conceded, looking up at the ceiling of his hospital room, I could be back there then, losing Sam.
Conversely, things would be just as bad if Sam could be here now, losing me.
This is good, he decided, This is not so bad.
But you know your life's been fairly shitty if being alone as you waited for surgery is considered any form of consolation.
"Mr. Hernandez?" a pretty nurse came by his door, smiling shyly. Her tag showed her name was Lisa. It was a nice, solid, reliable name. He's liked lots of Lisa's before.
"Yep?" he asked, "Are the chefs ready to dice me?"
"Just about," she replied, walking toward him with a clipboard and several sheets of paper, "We were reviewing your forms, and noted that you did not list any family contact, or any possible medical proxy, in case..."
"In case I kick the bucket?" Dean asked, wryly, "Yeah well, my insurance checks out, right, and I left the number of the account agent of the company to handle other details--"
"It's not a question of billing, sir," she said, earnestly, "If things do not go as we expect them to, is there anyone we can... notify? Or someone who can make decisions for you? An emergency contact."
Dean frowned. "I don't think I'd need one, I mean, this operation's pretty normal, I was told."
"It's done on a normal basis, yes," she insisted, "But it's a very, very serious one. You're in the best hands possible but there can always be a complication. And generally, it is advisable for patients not to be alone. The healing process will be a long one. You'll be discharged still experiencing a lot of discomfort--"
"I think I can hack it," he said, dryly, "I just wanna get this over with nice and quiet."
She frowned at him in disapproval. Smart, pretty Lisas usually get what they want, especially out of Dean.
"We won't call them unless things go south," she assured him, "We respect your right to your privacy, we are oath-bound to. We won't call them if you're fine. That means if we do call them, you'd be too far gone to care. So what would it hurt?"
He sighed, frowned, and took the proffered clipboard. He scrawled in some invented name and a random number, and handed the stupid thing back to her.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked him, pleasantly, except her eyes were clouded, "Just speaking from personal experience, though... no matter how sucky your relationship is with your family, it's always better to have someone here with you."
He looked at her earnest face. Wondered if he could get her to play nurse with him (the fun kind, not like now) when this is all over and he was feeling much better...
"And it's not just about that," she added, "If something happens to you... the people who care about you have a right to know, don't they? They deserve to know and not just... wonder."
He blinked at her. Once. Twice.
"Damn it," he growled, opening his hand out to her, motioning for the clipboard, "Give me back that thing, will ya, sweetheart?"
She smiled at him triumphantly.
He wrote down Sam's phone number.
" " "
One Week Later
" " "
"On top of the world as always, Mister Winchester," his professor grinned at him as he handed him his marks. Sam didn't bother to hold back his own smile. He had known from the very moment the test ended a week ago that he had done well. It was just one of those things.
He stepped out of the hall still proudly wearing his goofy grin. Classmates whizzed by, saying hello, patting his back, giving him his due for a job well done. The sun was up, and there was a low, cool breeze in the air. It was a good day. Heck, it's been a great week, if he was being accurate.
An inexplicable weight has been lifted from his shoulders, after Dean had visited. He couldn't understand it (he never has), but just appreciated it and attributed it to their being brothers. All he knew was that he slept, he woke, and everything was going right.
A familiar sight crossed the corner of his vision. Crimped blond hair, nice legs, brilliant eyes... gorgeous, smart, funny--
He jogged toward her before he overwhelmed himself with superlatives, before he psyched himself out of asking her out, the way he always did.
"Jessica?" he called, catching up to her. She was with friends, which would make this even worse, but he figured things were going his way lately and he really might as well take the biggest gamble of them all.
He stood there, hemorrhaging nerve. His momentum was slowing down and for a long, blank moment, all he could think about was that he hoped the earth would open up and swallow him.
Her lips quirked, knowingly. "Yes."
His brows must have shot to the sky. "What?"
"You're asking me out, aren't you?" she pointed out.
His cheeks were going to spontaneously combust. If it was Dean here instead of him, Dean would probably say, Well now that you asked me out in front of your friends, I'd hate to embarrass you, sweetheart. Or he'd say, Yes, huh? I wasn't thinking date, I was thinking rollin' around in the hay--
"Seven tonight?" he asked, looking down because he was embarrassed as hell, but then glancing up at her earnestly.
"You got it, Sam Winchester," she said, smiling, "I'll see you then."
He was tempted to pump a fist up the air in sheer victory. He just smiled back at her instead, and nodded at her snickering friends. He took deep breaths, trying to contain himself.
Oh screw that, he thought, pumping up his fist anyway, and then laughing at himself for looking ridiculous.
His phone rang, and he answered it cheerfully without checking who was calling. He didn't care. He was on top of the world.
"Yeah?" he asked, his voice still laughing.
"Mister Hernandez?"
He never lost the Winchester habit of literally just accepting calls. He's never used this alias before, but what the heck. He was having a good day, he might as well do a good deed. He might be able to refer the caller to Dean or his dad.
"That's me," he said cheerfully. Man, he had to get rid of this funk, he really did. If this guy was calling about a job, Sam should probably sound a bit more serious or sympathetic...
"You're Rodrigo's emergency contact and I'm sorry to say but there were some complications," the man said.
"Did you mean to call this number?" Sam asked, his blood turning cold, already thinking Damn it, Dean, as he read through his cellular number.
"Yes, he's your brother, isn't he?"
And then he just knew.
Damn it Dean!
"Is he alive?" came the low, breathless question. He felt gutted. He felt as if the Earth was removed from beneath his feet. Yeah, this sounded just like his relationship with his brother the last few years. Spectacular high and then the crash, when the reminders of What was he just thinking about a week ago? How easy it was to fall into Dean's charms and assurances, again only to have it all crash down over his head?
Forget crash, he thought, angrily, as he paced back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, it's a fucking avalanche. The sky is falling.
Please, please, please God..., Sam thought desperately, Let him be alive...
...Everything else I can live with, I swear.
" " "
He ran to the reception desk, racking his brain for Dean's alias, but all he could remember was that it was ridiculously inappropriate and couldn't remember anything else. For some reason, though, the woman at the desk knew who he was right away. It scared the hell out of him, the thought that things must have really, really gone bad if all the nurses knew they had to look out for him and bring him to Dean immediately. He could not have kept the fear from his face.
"It's not that there's a red alert out on you or anything like that, darling," the middle-aged, heavy-set woman was telling him. She wasn't moving very fast, leading him forward, and he was tempted as hell to just pick her up and start running, "He kept saying you were incredibly tall..."
"Is he awake?" Sam asked, a lick of relief just-barely making itself known in his pounding heart.
"Kind of," she said, and he felt as if it would have been more bearable if she kicked him in the face. She led him to a young doctor, who had a crop of roan-red hair standing on all sorts of ends, looking as if he was on the harassed end of a harsh shift. His face was deceptively calm, though, eyes clear beneath slim, silver glasses. He looked exactly like the type of doctor whom Dean could warm up to (could being the operative word, as Sam had never seen such a supernatural phenomenon before) - unconventional, confident, straightforward.
"Doctor Mathis," the nurse said, "This is Santino Hernandez."
Who?!
"Mr. Hernandez," Mathis shook Sam's numb hand, "I'm handling your brother's case. You are not as tall as advertised – your brother promised us a Sasquatch."
"Is he okay?" Sam asked, right for the guttural. Whatever he was saying was supposed to be funny and disarming, reassuring. Maybe later. But right now, Sam just needed life painted in black and white, before he died of a fricking Dean-stimulated, patented heart attack.
The nurse excused herself, and the doctor herded Sam to one of the empty rooms lining the hallways. Sam was going to protest, ask to see his brother right away. But sense told him to just listen to what was going on first.
"How much do you know about your brother's condition?"
"Nothing," Sam said, "No one's told me anything."
Knowing the job, though, Sam feared he was dealing with a concussion, massive blood loss, a stab wound, broken bones, internal injuries... God, the list of possibilities was endless--
"The tumor--"
"The what?!" Sam exclaimed, The what?!
"He didn't tell you," Mathis said, flatly, stating the painfully obvious, "I'm... I'm starting to not be surprised, from what I know of your brother."
"What are you talking about?" Sam said, breathlessly. The room was starting to do a quiet little spin. This wasn't an occupational hazard. Of all things he had to fear, he never thought he'd be fearing something like this. A fricking tumor. Could there be any supernatural implications? Or did Dean, again, just win the unlucky lotto?
"Where?" Sam asked, urgently, "Is it cancer?"
"He has what's known as Bronchial Adenoma," Mathis explained, "It's a pretty broad definition, boiling down to tumors found in and around the windpipe or bronchi. His case was referred to me by friends in Indiana, who said your brother came to them with an old and relatively mild chest injury. Your brother was wondering why he wasn't healing quickly enough."
Sam figured Dean must have jogged something during a hunt, waited out a few cracked or busted ribs, which sounded typical enough. Going to the doctor, though... that was something unheard of.
"What do you mean?" asked Sam.
"He was having trouble breathing," Mathis said, "Low grade fever, fairly symptomatic of the injury except he rightfully insisted that the bones have healed, and he was wondering why the rest of him didn't follow. Said it was keeping him from his job."
He would say that, Sam sighed, understanding that if there was anything that would get Dean marching to a clinic, it was that he had something else to do and wanted to get rid of an illness or an injury quickly. The motive was almost assuredly the job or, maybe, if he was meeting up with their father, the motivation would have been Dean's desire to keep his injury a secret.
"The doctor ordered an x-ray," Mathis continued, "Practically had to tie him down to do it but your brother finally relented. It was a good thing too, because the tumors just winked at them from the prints."
"There's more than one?" Sam asked, feeling so damn small, right now.
Mathis nodded, "We removed the smaller ones with non-invasive surgery, but there was a large one, in a tricky position. It was the one causing the symptoms – the breathlessness he had complained about, the coughing up blood that he didn't. We had to open him up for that one. None of them are cancerous, we found that out right away, but keeping them around would have eventually killed him. The position was starting to disrupt the basic functions already."
"So they're out," Sam said in an exhale, "All of them right? And non-cancerous."
"That's correct," Mathis replied, "The smaller ones they took care of in Indiana. The large one we removed last week."
"Last week?" Sam said, feeling a kick in the gut.
"Exactly to the day," Mathis said, "He checked himself in the morning, and we had the procedure done in the afternoon."
Sam turned his face away from the doctor, pressed at the bridge of his nose, thinking back to his brother, standing with injured eyes and that rakish grin at his apartment door.
"Sorry I uh... I guess I shoulda called first, checked if you were busy..."
I'm gonna kill him.
"Hit the books, dude, I'm not crying myself to sleep about this or anything. I'll see you soon."
I'm really gonna flat out kill him.
"He'll be fine," Mathis told him, gently, noting his apparent despair.
"I know," Sam said, "It's just... I saw him, the night before. He didn't say a thing. Not a damn thing. Why call me now, though?"
"It's always dangerous messing around with the lungs," Mathis said, "Especially for this kind of surgery. There were risks he knew about, and risks we were prepared for. He bled out a lot. His heart stopped."
And Sam's, perforce, just now, did so also.
"We got him back," Mathis added quickly, "Post-op, he caught pneumonia and has been fighting it since. The fever's finally broken, but he was very disoriented, delirious." He opened a palm out to Sam, "Hence the infamy of the Sasquatch, amongst a litany of other terms I can't pretend to begin to understand."
"God," Sam muttered, clenching his eyes shut, and then opening them and turning to face the doctor again. Tumor, surgery, heart stopping and pneumonia. What the hell was next?
"We were informed that we were not to call you unless there were severe circumstances," Mathis said, "And when he started talking about monsters and muttering weird chants, the people here started thinking brain damage from when he was clinically dead."
Sam rubbed his face, stared at the doctor wearily, "Monsters and chants."
"We figured family would be best judges at this point," Mathis said, "Does that sound like your brother?"
You have no idea.
"Let me see him," Sam said, softly.
" " "
"I'm scared, Dean."
Sam's voice pierced through his subconscious, where previously he had been busy doing... something else, he couldn't remember. When Sam came into the world, it felt as if he had come alive also.
"I don't believe you, Sammy," he had said. He forgot when. He just remembered they were sitting in the dark and there was something out there wanting to take a bite out of them; he was unsure if it was real or a child's imagining. But he was sure he had been lying. Of course he believed that Sam was scared. Kid had these brilliant, expressive, honest eyes. But Dean needed him to believe something else, so the lie stuck. He always felt that honesty was the most overrated virtue anyway.
Sam had looked at him incredulously, as if saying, You can't possibly be serious.
"Why would I lie?" Sam asked him.
"Your eyes go any larger, bro," he said with a half-laugh, "And I swear they're popping out of your head, and I'm gonna get stuck putting you back together."
Sam wasn't amused. He started shaking his legs anxiously. "Dean..."
"Listen," Dean told him, "Sammy. You're not scared, all right? I know you. You're not scared of anything."
Sam bit his lip, nodded jerkily, "Okay."
Sam had calmed down then, and then it seemed as if the two of them lived on like that. Sam was relentless, unstoppable. Fearless. Acing school, going after smart and gorgeous chicks, going on hunts, doing research, standing up to their dad. He tore the world down, and Dean thought that maybe it hadn't been a lie after all. Or Sam had lived to make Dean's lies true. And all Dean had to do was watch on, and watch his brother's back. He never heard I'm scared again.
Wanna know about fear, bro, Dean thought, miserably, You gotta start asking me.
It was annoyingly ironic, how he felt as if he had so much more to fear than Sam, even if, looking back now, he had been a big part of killing it for his brother. He spoke of it less if at all, sure. But it was there, it always was, underlying his life.
Fear was staring at fires and thinking it took your mother, it's gonna take your father and your brother and you too.
Fear was watching Sam step into a bus and staying back.
Fear was his father leaving him every now and then, and him wondering if this time was the last time.
Most recently, fear was coughing up blood in a dim bathroom in the middle of nowhere, thinking This is it, this is how I'm kicking it, and No one's ever gonna know. I'm just gonna be some dead guy with eight fake credit cards in a ratty motel. Fear was surviving that rough night and living through traces of the disease in the days that followed, taking jobs from his father's impersonal messages and wondering if he was going to get somebody else killed because he wasn't good enough. Fear was his father asking to meet him and him trying to find a decent lie to avoid it until he could figure out what was wrong with his body.
Fear was a doctor telling him they needed to slice him open.
Fear was him trying to get in touch with his dad, out on the hunt in an un-reachable mountain somewhere by friends' accounts, in a bid to settle affairs in case things didn't turn out all right. Fear was writing his dad a ridiculous goodbye letter, and being scared shit-less now that he can't remember where he put it and someone might find it. Ewww...
Fear was visiting Sam, wondering if he would be welcome. Fear was him thinking he was mucking up what was potentially the last time he would see his brother.
Fear was him wondering what would happen to his father and his brother after he was gone. And then the one selfish thing he indulged himself in: fear was wondering if they would remember nice things about him, what they think they lost.
I'm scared, Dean.
He heard it again, as astutely haunting as the first time except, he was beginning to realize that though the tone was the same, the voice was different. Older. And... and nearer, because it wasn't a memory anymore.
" " "
"Dean," Sam called, softly, for the nth time, "Dude. You waking up?"
He sat on a chair by Dean's bed, competing for elbow room with IV's and machinery. His brother was sleeping so uncharacteristically still that in unnerved him. He gripped Dean's forearm, felt its warm alive-ness and was grateful for the sheer simplicity of having it rest underneath his palm.
His first day at the hospital had stretched to two, and still Dean slept on and Sam bit his nails and sweated the wait. He needed his brother awake. He needed his brother talking and bitching. He needed his brother to rag at him about the nail-biting thing. He needed his brother to tell him how to soften up a royally pissed-off, stood-up blond without breaking out the brother-in-the-hospital card. He just. needed. Dean.
"Dude, come on, no one sleeps like this," Sam said with a soft chuckle. But it was a lie. The doctor said not to expect Dean to come around fully for a few more days, although stranger things have happened. His brother always was a fighter, and already his fever has fled, his skin began to get more color, his breathing had eased.
"See what one night can do?" this nurse, a nosy Lisa had said, "It's always better to have someone around who cares about you, I told him..."
"Wake up," Sam said, giving his brother's arm a tighter grip. Everyone said he was going to be fine, but not 'til those hazel eyes opened and said so would Sam believe. Dean always knew how to mold his world.
"I'm scared, Dean.
"Wake up."
" " "
Sam was desperate enough to consider calling up their father, which would be the first time since they bellowed at each other things that couldn't ever be taken back, and they stormed away from each other's sphere, as if the world wasn't big enough to contain them.
He picked up his phone, fiddled with the keys a little bit. Dean's hospital room was so quiet. The machines were beating and whirring, and the television was on CNN, but the room was deathly silent to Sam until he could hear his brother talk.
He wished I-have-a-tu-mor was in Dean's extensive mouthy repertoire of words, but this was apparently five more syllables in a litany of words Dean would never care to utter, right up there with I'm sick, I miss you and I need your help. If Dean had told him... well, things would be slightly better, he thought. At least he would have a better understanding of what was going on. Be more prepared, in terms of acquiring an understanding of his brother's condition, of course, but also about other things, like what to do about their father.
Sam was pretty sure John Winchester didn't know about any of this. He begrudgingly had to admit that though his father tended to be a bastard, if Dean had told him anything, their dad would probably be here right now if he could. And so Sam didn't call him, out of respect for Dean's privacy. Didn't know what to say anyway. Might as well wait for Dean to wake up and mop that shitty situation up, like he always did.
If he had known about Dean's illness sooner, this... this pit in his stomach would also be easier to bear. The pit was made of guilt and regret.
Sam imagined his brother surrounded by these white-coated guys, telling him about the decisions he needed to make, the risks he had to face. He had lost weight, so Sam imagined his brother sinking into his seat, looking thin and pallid and bull-headed. Surly and antagonistic because deep inside he was still ten years old and embarrassed about the attention. Because the damn coats were treating him like he was refusing treatment because he didn't understand or know any better, and not because he was scared. Scared of what the hell to tell his father. Scared of being a bother to him. Scared of handling it alone, even as he already knew he had to. Scared of what would happen to him. Scared of what would happen to his family if he died.
Sam growled to himself, wishing he had been there from the get-go. If he had been there, he'd have known something was wrong right away. If he had been there, he'd have sat with Dean, facing up against the coats. He'd have found a better way to tell Dean he simply had to get this done, like, like, tell him it'll help him do his job better, or, or, mom would want you to. If he had been there, there would have been less to fear. He'd have bugged Dean to distraction, or mothered him so he wouldn't ever have to ask for the help that embarrassed him...
But he hadn't been there. He'd been in school, studying. And thinking about pretty blonds with sharp eyes and quirking mouths.
But I'm here now, Sam thought, The more I see you, the more I think I should come back... You need someone with you, bro.
Maybe I should.
" " "
Sam went from school to hospital and back, making quick trips to his dorm for showers and clothing and nothing else. He pushed back homework and reading assignments in favor of reading over research on his brother's condition.
He played with the idea of leaving school for a little while all throughout the day, not at all paying attention to class.
That could work. Dean was strong, the doctors said, but the surgery had cut him wide open, and he was going to be recovering for some time, especially since he had a heavy bleeding issue and the pneumonia.
You owe me big time, bro, he thought, I lost a date with my dream girl. I'm fucking up classes. The least you can do is wake up.
Dean would have to lie low for awhile, Sam decided, even as he thought, Good luck with that. Maybe if someone sat on him, someone like dad. Or... or someone like Sam. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He could take a leave, or something. Just 'til Dean gets back on his feet.
" " "
Dean slept through the entirety of day three also. On day four, Sam had decided to cut classes, having already decided to take a leave of absence anyway, and head straight for the hospital. He walked down the now-familiar hallways, and could hear his brother raising hell from three doors away. Voice hoarse an unused, scratchy and ill, but as irrepressible as always.
At least he's finally awake.
Sam started walking faster.
"You weren't supposed to call him, Lisa," he whined and coughed, "Damn it."
"Doesn't it take a lot of breath to be whining?" the nurse told him, teasing, "I thought you were still sick."
Dean wasn't going to get derailed. "I told you, no bothering him unless I was dying, for godssakes..."
His voice trailed off.
Realization hits.
"Oh," Sam heard him say in a low voice, only because he was already almost to the door.
"You were," the nurse told him with a sigh, "They were scared of brain damage. And I'm glad we did. I see him everyday, you know. He'll be taking care of you now, all right?"
"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean muttered.
" " "
He felt him, before he actually saw him.
Dean knew to straighten up right away, and was more-or-less sitting up alert when Sam appeared by his door, looking chagrined.
"Hey Dean," he said with that small, uneasy smile, "You look better."
To be concluded...
