Chapter Twenty-six
Dean sat in a chair in the ER, waiting for them to bring Sam back from some kind of test. The moment he sat down, he knew he was in trouble. Now he realized he had been running on pure adrenaline from the moment he saw those cars piled on Sam. The adrenaline drained off and his side felt like he just went a few rounds with grizzly. Dean doubted he would be able to stand up on his own, but he planned to keep that his secret as long as possible.
When Bobby slipped out, claiming to want some coffee, Dean figured he was really out for more information about Sam. So he sat alone with his memories of Sam and that freaky amnesia plaguing him. He wanted to lean forward, bury his face in his hands, try to shut it all out. Unfortunately there was no way he could move, so he stared at the wall of quiet monitoring equipment and waited. He hated waiting on Sam in the ER. Then again, he hated ERs on general principal.
"Dean, any word?" Bobby asked from the glass doors.
Dean shook his head, not bothering to tear his eyes away from the wall. A disposable cup with brown rings and a tiny flower print dangled in front of his face. Dean took it, the warmth from the coffee seeping into his fingers, reminding him that he could still feel. "Thanks."
"I ran into someone in the hall," Bobby said, motioning to an area behind Dean.
"Who?" Dean asked, sipping his coffee. Turning in his seat was a little beyond him at the moment.
"Hey, Dean."
Dean groaned at the sound of George's voice. Really, he did not need this right now. "Later, George," he snapped, not caring how he might offend the guy.
"Roll up your sleeve," George instructed, moving to stand beside him. Dean noticed his doctor carried a hypodermic in one hand, apparently ready to go.
Dean glanced up, no intention of following orders. "I said later."
George's eyebrows shot up. "When? When you can't get out of that chair?"
Dean sneered. "I can get up."
"Do it," George challenged, motioning for Dean to stand. "Bobby, put your coffee down so you can help catch him when he passes out."
"Hey!" Dean shouted, lowering his coffee.
"George, give us a second?" Bobby jerked his head toward the door.
Dean clenched his jaw, preparing for the priority list speech.
"Dean," Bobby moved to stand in front of him. "You look like crap. I'm afraid you're going to pass out any second, and if you do you won't do Sam any good. Now you let George give you that shot so we can both get back to worrying about that brother of yours. You hear me?"
Dean's eyes widened. Now that was a persuasive argument. He nodded, pushing up his sleeve.
"Hurry up," Bobby snapped at the doorway, "before he changes his mind."
Dean met Bobby's eyes, trying to read what was going on under that old stained ballcap. He barely felt the needle plunge into his arm. Bobby was worried, he realized. Really worried. Well, he should be. There was a nasty gremlin on the loose still and they had no idea what exactly should be able to hurt it.
"We should name this place after you," a familiar voice said. Dean turned his head at the sound. Doc Wayne followed one of those rolling hospital beds with Sam in it. "The Cooper Room. Whenever you two are in town, you're filling my ER one way or another."
"How's Sam?" Dean asked anxiously, standing. Yep, that was a really bad idea. The shot obviously did not have time to work and the room spun around his head, not to mention the little fact he couldn't breathe. Dean slammed his eyelids closed against it, holding on by sheer will. When he opened his eyes, both George and Bobby hovered just a little too close. "Well?" he demanded.
"No brain damage," Doc Wayne replied. "And so far, I'm not seeing any fluid build-up or anything. He has a concussion, so we'll need to keep Sam overnight at least. How about I put you two in your regular room?" The sarcasm dripping from Doc Wayne's voice was pretty strong.
"Gee, Doc, I didn't know you were a comedian, too."
"We could leave the second bed in there, in case any of Sam's family wanted to stay overnight," George said. Dean looked between the two, noticing an unspoken agreement.
"Right. No problem," Doc Wayne replied, though his voice was a little nicer this time.
Dean had the distinct feeling that they were referring to him, not that he would leave Sam alone in the hospital right now anyway. That gremlin already tried attacking him here before.
"Bobby?" Dean turned to face his old friend. "I'm going to need a few things."
-
Bobby carried a large duffel into the hospital room. Dean sat in a chair beside Sam's bed, his eyes a little red around the edges. Bobby had the feeling he was intruding, probably on Dean blaming himself for this. He dropped the duffle with a clatter. Dean jumped in his seat, but Bobby noticed the boy did not get up.
"Hey, Bobby." Dean sounded tired and weary. He motioned to the unconscious Sam. "You didn't miss anything. Hasn't woken up yet."
"He should soon," Bobby replied, trying to reassure Dean. He knew Dean had a huge capacity for self-blame, only equaled by his father's.
"That's what the doc said," Dean replied. "You get it all?"
Bobby opened the duffel and rummaged in it, naming the items as he took them out. "Salt, chalk, a medicine pouch, and a change of clothes for you and Sam."
"Medicine pouch?" Dean asked, taking the small leather pouch from Bobby.
"Well, I figured if the wards on my house were working, then this should protect any individual who wore it," Bobby explained. "It's pretty powerful."
Dean stood, a wince flashing across his features. He hung the pouch around Sam's neck.
"I was thinking of the door," Bobby said carefully, wondering if that might set Dean off.
Dean shook his head. "It's targeting Sam. He needs it most."
Bobby pursed his lips but did not comment.
"Give me the salt. I'll do the windows and doors and you can use the chalk. You and Sam are much better at that stuff anyway." Dean held a hand out.
Bobby hesitated. "Has George checked you out yet?"
Those hazel green eyes flashed with irritation and indignation. Dean bent down, purposefully, and removed the salt canister from the bag. Without another word he started salting the window sills. Bobby blew out a breath before taking his chalk to the floor. He started with a circle around Sam's bed, which would later need to be salted as well.
"I don't know how we're going to keep the nurses from cleaning all this up," Bobby remarked.
"I got Doc and George working on that," Dean replied. His voice sounded strained. Bobby looked over. Sweat beaded up on Dean's forehead and all the color had drained from his face.
"You damn fool," Bobby snapped, dropping his chalk. He grabbed Dean by one arm and pushed him toward the empty bed. "You get your ass in there and lay down!"
Dean shook his head. "Gotta finish…"
"Nevermind that!" Bobby glared hard at the boy. Damn, but this one was probably more stubborn than John! He did not realize that was possible. "I can take care of a little salt, Dean," he tried using a softer voice, "this isn't my first rodeo, you know."
Dean's eyes dropped and he nodded, guilty. Bobby chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering how he should react to that. Instead of reassuring Dean, he forced the boy into bed. By the way Dean quietly climbed into bed, Bobby realized this was probably one of the ways John manipulated his son. Things like that used to really irritate Bobby. He was starting to understand now, though. Sometimes you did what you had to do.
After he was done with the inscriptions in chalk on the floor and salting the entrances to the room, Bobby checked on the boys. Sam was still out, but there was a little more color to Dean's face.
"Feeling better?" Bobby asked gently, hoping the kid did not hold a grudge against him.
Dean turned to look at Sam in the other bed. "Not yet."
Bobby patted Dean's shoulder, wishing he could offer some words of comfort. He wanted to say that Sam would wake up soon, that everything would be fine. But if he did and he were wrong…well, Bobby did not think he could face that. So he pulled Dean's chair between the two beds to sit and wait.
-
"What's the name of this movie again?" A deep, gruff voice asked.
"Starship Troopers. Seriously, Bobby, I thought you would've seen it. It's a nonlinear storyline. They use news spots and propaganda features to tell the story. Plus, it's got some awesome aliens that spurt goo when they get blown apart."
He knew that voice. It was familiar and comforting.
"Now why in the world would I have seen that?" The gruff voice demanded. "Do I look like somebody who goes in for, what did you call it? Nonlinear storylines?"
"Not the point," the familiar voice said. He wanted to curl up inside those tones, let them just wash over and protect him. "It's just a different story telling technique. The point is the aliens. You wouldn't believe those things. And they filmed the whole alien planet in Hell's Half Acre."
"Wyoming? Seriously?"
"Yep. Dad and I went there between hunts. Pretty amazing." He heard sheets rustling. "It looked a lot bigger in the movie."
"Half an acre isn't very big," the gruff voice agreed. "So your daddy actually took you sightseeing? I didn't think he went in for that kind of thing."
"Not usually," the familiar voice replied hesitantly. He recognized that tone. It meant this was a topic Dean did not want to discuss. He wondered if Bobby would be able to drag it out of his stubborn brother.
"But?" Bobby prodded.
There was a long pause. "He's awake."
Damn it. How did he always know? Sam shifted uneasily, attempting to pry his eyelids open. The room was blurry, but it cleared after a few hard blinks. They were in a hospital room. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but it was too dry to speak. Bobby stood, poured out some water into a cup and held it for him. Sam sipped, the cool fluid streaming into his mouth, soothing his tongue and throat. He gripped the cup, downing the rest greedily before motioning to Bobby to fill it up again.
"Let that settle first, Sam," Bobby said gently, pushing him back down into the thin hospital pillows.
"How's the head?" Dean asked.
Sam relaxed into the bed, taking stock. One leg had a dull throb in it, like it was severely bruised, as did one shoulder. His neck ached and one side of his head felt like a little man with a jackhammer was trying to escape. "It'd be better without the jackhammer," he admitted.
"He's fine," Dean said. Sam turned toward his brother's voice. Dean's grin was wide and sincere, so whatever happened must have scared his big brother.
"What happened to you?" Sam asked.
Dean's grin widened, both arms coming up to prop up Dean's head with his hands. "Just taking a little break."
"That reminds me," Bobby said, moving away. He returned a moment later holding some blue chalk.
"What's that for?" Sam asked.
"I've already put the sigil around your bed, now I need to do it for Dean's," Bobby explained.
"What!" Dean pushed himself to a sitting position. "Bobby, it's not like I'm going to be sleeping tonight."
"The hell you're not," Bobby snapped, kneeling down to work on the floor. "I'll get George to drug you if I have to."
Dean sat glaring hotly at Bobby. That expression reminded Sam of something. He looked around, but it wasn't here. "Dean? Did you remember Batman?"
-
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going to have to go into hiding and change my name now, right? I'll do my damnedest to post the next chapter this week, honest!