A Moment Too Late
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, its characters, its ideas or its situations, obviously.
A/N: This chapter has a little bit of cussing in it. But I hope you enjoy! :)
Yet again, a huge thank you to the ever-fantastic Victorian Taxi for all her help!
Chapter 4
For Dean, returning to consciousness felt like clawing his way through a mound of fluffy sheep. It was warm and dark and fuzzy, but getting out was thick and slow, and there was a constant pressure trying to keep him down. Plus there were occasional stabs of pain, like a sheep was kicking him in the chest. As he drew closer to full consciousness, though, he found himself wondering what the flipping hell was he on to come up with such a bizarre metaphor… simile… thing. And for that matter, why was he even trying to figure out … whatever the hell those things were called? That was Sam's territory, knowing stupid, pointless academic stuff. The important thing was getting away from the sheep… and their similetaphorthing.
Which – eventually – he managed to do, rousing himself enough to open his eyes and blink blearily at a grey tile ceiling. He squinted, trying to bring the world into focus and grimaced, as he looked to either side, less than thrilled to see the monitors, IV stand and other such paraphernalia. Something tugged at his memory about why he was here – something about lungs and—
He broke off his train of thought as he heard a soft (familiar) moan and felt a shift at the end of his bed. Gritting his teeth against the soreness of his chest and grunting at the absurd amount of effort it seemed to take, Dean pushed himself up, propping his weight on his elbows so that he could get a better view. As expected (because – honestly – who else would be visiting him long enough to fall asleep?), Sam – folded into one of the hellishly uncomfortable hospital chairs1 – was slumped over the end of Dean's bed, using his arms as a pillow, though it didn't seem to do much good in making Sam comfortable, if his distraught expression were anything to go by.
Dean recognized that Sam was having yet another of his nightmares and started to sigh but stopped as inhaling too deeply wasn't too comfortable at the moment; instead, he settled for shaking his head. Watching Sam, he wondered whether or not to wake his little brother. On the one hand, he did want to know what had happened as soon as possible, and he knew Sam would appreciate having the nightmare cut short; on the other hand, given Sam's tendency to avoid sleeping as much as possible, when he was having such dreams, it was probably good for him to keep on resting.
And yet… who could pass up the opportunity to kick his brother off the end of a bed? Oh the dilemmas of brotherhood!
Dean was just making up his mind to awaken Sam in a less than gentle fashion, when Sam shifted, again, and cried out – this time audibly. "Dad, please don't – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Frowning, Dean wondered if Sam was dreaming about whatever had happened – if it were really something that bad – but when Sam murmured something about their mother and Jessica, Dean wasn't so sure.
The only concrete thing Dean knew about the date was that it was sometime in November (unless, of course, he'd been out of it for a lot longer than he thought), so it seemed more likely Sam's current dream was entirely seasonal. Abruptly, though, Sam broke Dean out of his musings by snapping awake, jerking back in his seat and staring straight ahead with a heartbroken, terrified and utterly guilty sort of expression. The younger man was breathing hard, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn Sam was trembling.
Dean figured he should be a good big brother and say something comforting and possibly profound; instead, he said, "Good morning, sunshine!"
Jumping in his seat, Sam looked at Dean for a long, wide-eyed moment before relaxing and forcing a smile. "Ah, Dean – you're awake, again!"
"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Dean's voice cracked a bit, and he coughed, grimacing.
"And more with it, too." Sam rolled his eyes, but his smile turned a little more genuine. "How're you feeling?" he asked, rising and going to the sink to fetch a cup of water. "You look better than you did this morning."
"Like someone tried to claw open my chest." He paused to take the water and sip at it. "Other than that, though? Just peachy." Dean flashed his brother a quick grin. "So, how long I been here, anyway?"
"Uh… about two days."
Two days. Well, that wasn't so bad, Dean supposed, given that he'd been asleep for most of it, but he sure hoped he wouldn't be in here much longer. Hospitals had never sat well with him, after all – too sterile and boring, even when there were hot nurses to keep him distracted. Speaking of…
"Any hot nurses swooning over my gorgeous body?" Dean asked, finishing his water.
Again, Sam's lips twitched in some semblance of a smile. "No, no swooning. And it's mostly grumpy middle-aged ladies, anyway."
Dean made a face. "Of course. Well, whatever. So… how'd I wind up in here, again? I know someone said… something. But it's, um… fuzzy."
"A demon tried to rip out your lungs." Sam figured it wise to borrow Bobby's explanation, but he looked down, now, at the floor tiles.
"Huh." Dean contemplated this, once again trying to remember. Something about eyes stirred in his memory. "Which demon was it? I mean… was it the Yellow-Eyed Sonuvabitch or…?"
"Yeah." Sam's voice came out in a choked whisper. He cleared his throat, nodding. "It was."
Frowning, Dean wondered what exactly had happened – Sam's tone and demeanor made it clear that it had been nothing good. "How's Dad? Where is he, anyway?"
Sam tensed, but he forced himself to look up. "Dean… what's the last thing you remember before waking up here?"
"Um… let's see… after we caught that Meg hellbitch, we went and got dad back, and we were on our way to Bobby's, but we stopped for the night at an old cabin Dad knew about, annnnnd… uh, that's about it. I'm guessing demons attacked while we were there…?"
Sam didn't answer for a while, instead simply nodding once, looking anywhere but at Dean.
"Sam?" Dean prompted, eventually. "What happened?"
Silence.
"Is…" Dean hesitated, as his mind unwillingly settled on a likely reason for Sam's nervousness and sheer unwillingness to say anything. "Sam, is…" His mouth went dry. "Is Dad… is he…?"
Although Dean couldn't bring himself to voice the dread thought, Sam already knew the question. He closed his eyes and nodded once more – he couldn't bring himself to voice it, either. Dean, meanwhile, stared at him in horror; he almost forgot to breathe, and swallowing hard, he tried to process this news.
"How…?" he whispered.
Still, Sam made no reply, fidgeting more than ever.
"Sam… what happened? Tell me."
"Dean, I…" 2
He broke off, silent again as he struggled between the need for Dean to know and the desire to avoid speaking or even thinking about… it –Sam struggled, too, to formulate a way to deliver the news that wouldn't result in Dean hating him forever. He closed his eyes.
"Oh god, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean for… I'm so sorry… I shouldn't've, but he… and…I…"
"Woah, woah – Sam. Slow down. Start with the cabin… what happened then? Were we followed? What?"
Sam shook his head, taking a deep breath. "N-no… we weren't – we weren't followed. It was… Dad… he – he was possessed."
Dean's eyes widened. "Wait, what? But didn't we holy water him? I mean…"
"Y-yellow Eyes… little holy water doesn't – doesn't do much against him." At long last, Sam risked a glance up at Dean, who was staring at him in disbelief and horror, which quickly turned to anger.
"Goddamned son of a bitch!" Balling a fist, Dean pounded on the mattress beside him, causing his brother to flinch, and he found himself dreading whatever Sam had to say next, a horrible picture already forming in his mind.
"You… you noticed first," Sam continued – eyes once more anywhere but Dean. "Noticed that Dad wasn't quite right – you realized he was possessed. But… before we could do anything, he… he pinned us against the walls. … talked… then he – he started t-torturing you. God, he…" Sam trailed off, swallowing and attempting to repress a shudder at the memory. "Dad… he broke through somehow – for a second or two, managed to regain control, so I was free for… for a moment, and I grabbed the… the Colt… sh-shot him in the leg… It … didn't kill the demon, but it broke the last hold he had over you… and Dad regained control… and he – he… oh god, he told me to – to – to sh-shoot him."
Dean briefly interrupted him with a "What?! You didn't…!" but Sam kept going. Now that he had started, he found that he couldn't stop; for all that each word took everything he had to get out, he just couldn't stop.
"Told me to shoot him in the heart." Sam swallowed once more and closed his eyes. "I – I pointed th-the gun at him, and you told me – you told me not to do it, and… I wasn't – I didn't want to, but… but then… the demon started to – to escape, and Dad screamed, and I… god, I'm – I didn't mean, but… I… he… I sh-shot… the demon escaped, and I still… I … sh-shot him."
For several heartbeats, Dean just stared at his brother in shock. As the silence drew on, he attempted to formulate a coherent thought – his mouth opened and closed, as he tried to articulate something – anything. But nothing came out, and all he could do was gape. However, as the truth of what had happened sunk in, emotions coursed through Dean, as if breaking through a dam. A sense of betrayal washed over him, and so, too, came a wrenching sense of loss and confusion, horror and anger – outrage at Sam, at the demon – hell, even at their father for dying and even more so for having asked such a thing of his son.
It was all too much – too much all at once, and Dean just couldn't deal with it all, and having Sam right there made it worse. A visible, audible, palpable sign of what had happened – the messenger and doom bringer all in one. And Dean had a sudden strong desire to be alone, now.
"Leave," he whispered. "I… I can't…"
"… Dean…?" Sam murmured, warily.
"Go, Sam. Now. Just… leave."
And Sam did, scurrying to the door, though he paused beside it and looked back to see and hear Dean again pounding his fist into the mattress, snarling, "God damn it – god fucking damn it."
A/N
1. Not all hospital chairs are hellishly uncomfortable, mind you, (in fact, many of them are quite comfortable, for waiting around in) but I've sat in a few that are and figured I might as well pretend this hospital was one of those with hellishly uncomfortable chairs. On the whole, though, they're much more comfortable than airport terminal chairs, at least.
2. Originally, when I set out to write this part, I was dead tired and rather stressed out; therefore, I was in a deranged state of mind and so wrote, "Cthulu ate our Dad, OK?! God, I can never look at calamari the same way again…" Why am I telling you this? Um… mostly because my roommate insisted that I include this footnote. :) "Cthulu ate my/the ____!" has consequently become something of an inside joke between the two of us. But on this note, I may be writing a oneshot dealing with the Winchesters encountering Cthulu… anyone interested in reading it, or should I spend more of my time on this instead? xD
My apologies for taking a while, as usual – and also for this being slightly re-cappy. Yes, that's a word.
Anyway, I would appreciate any and all comments or questions! Thank you so much!
- Snarky
PS: Cthulu ate the dingo that ate my baby.