I do not have a medical background, so please forgive me any medical errors…
chrissymi
oooOOOooo
After the unexpected and sudden oblivion of nothingness, fleeting disorientation was his first conscious impression. However that was followed closely by the return of pain that effectively wiped out all other senses…
There had been all too vivid realism before that; of creatures, and fire, and an endless, shadowy cavern… where there was nothing but torment; incessant… agonising… excruciating torment. And pain. Pain like he'd never felt before, pain that gouged beyond the flesh and into his very soul. After endless eons of time, and torture, and agony, when he had almost forgotten he had one, he imagined he could hear his name being called…
"Ego evocare Spiritus Dean Winchester…" Words that would usually have taken a determined effort to decipher bled into his consciousness with a message pure and simple: I summon the spirit of Dean Winchester.
The demand was gruff and urging. Something about the voice was familiar and instinctually he felt he should obey the order. His tormentors shrieked with anger and what he imagined was desperation. Gradually their snarls of fury subsided, drowned away by his own screams of agony…
He was yanked upwards, as the creatures clawed and scraped at him, and they attempted to ground him, or to cling to him…
He was caught in a sudden vacuity, where the pressure crushed down around him, hoisting him upwards, until his tormentors disappeared into obscurity. His breath was sucked from his lungs, and a vice-like grip squeezed around his chest, crushing his thumping heart until it could beat no more. Then sheets of searing pain skated across his limbs, as if he was being skinned alive.
"Damn it… DEAN!"
And damned he was.
Then everything was sucked away into a huge void. There was an all consuming darkness at first, suddenly thrust upon him like somebody had flicked a light switch off. It was followed by an icy cold tingling throughout and complete obscurity… and freedom; a numb nothingness amid the disorientation and the unrelenting agony.
It was like he was floating, on the tepid waters of a mountain lake in the deep of night. Nothing but a black emptiness surrounded him; no noise, or smells, nothing to see, or really feel, just… nothing. Just blissful oblivion. Physical senses were at a loss… he felt, and he sensed, however the sensation of being corporeal was lost to him. Like somehow he'd been disembodied. His senses became ambiguous and hazy, like he was disintegrating into a million shattered pieces… The void of nothingness was slowly beginning to consume him, almost as if he was slowly evaporating into the oblivion, becoming part of it.
It was as if everything had ended and been replaced by tranquil emptiness cloaked in a void of endless darkness.
Or he had ceased to even exist… And if this was to be his entire destiny he welcomed it with open arms. Nothingness was an easy path when his only other choice was Hell's torments.
Only as quickly as he had been enveloped by the nothingness, something swiftly dragged him out. Then iciness shrouded him again. Confusion and disorientation swamped his consciousness.
And he was being pulled downwards again; only something else was manoeuvring him, forcing him further and further down.
And then he was touched by familiarity. It was the sense of being in Bobby's presence… of the emotional bonds that had been forged between him and his pseudo father.
In an extraordinary twist of sensations he was surrounded by warmth and caring that sent shivers trembling through his consciousness, tantalising emotions that had almost been completely exterminated. Great anguish and sorrow was fused with the sentiments… Even so, the closer he came to it, the more he craved it. He felt himself intertwine with the strength and comfort of the familiar presence, as he rapidly diminished into its grief and sadness, although he felt neither.
"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei." In what must have been yet another of Hell's tortures he was ripped away from the bizarre sense of caring. "Patris omnipotentis, et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus…"
Hell beaconed once more …
Something sank its claws back into him and latched on with a resolute grip. It clawed at him, it tried to drag him away, but he fought its inclination. One of Hell's own had him in its icy grasp again, and it had latched onto him with an indomitable grip. Panic and disorientation circled him, mingled with steely determination and fortitude in sensations and emotions he wasn't entirely sure were all his own. The entity amalgamated with his thoughts and with his senses… and he felt its panic.
Its chilly presence only made him fear that it was dragging him back… to the torment and pain of Hells many dungeons of torture. When all he wanted was the nothingness… the reprieve from the hurting… he fought the deathly grasp upon him. It was strong, too strong. Far stronger than he, and it was dragging him… to or from, he didn't know, but he fought its urgings. But it was far more powerful than he.
He was consumed by a downward thrust, so prevailing he had no power to halt the transference from shattered elusiveness into the suction of the overt.
"Dean." Hazy, muffled pleading echoed through his distraught, confused mind. Something reminded him of who he was, or had been… and of where he had been condemned for all eternity.
With the realisation of self came the agony. And all too quickly the torture returned. The pain slammed back into him like he'd been hit by a freight train, but somehow it was different. The pain was more constricting this time, it was excruciating and suffocating and far more intense than before… He was trapped in a stifling cocoon of pain and agony.
"Please Dean." Even the sound of his own name hurt to be heard. It made the task of pushing the pain and agony away, far too hard, for he couldn't loose himself, and the pain, if he thought too much about who he really was. Only ambiguity gave him any solace from the memories of a past so swiftly lived; memories far more painful to recall than the tortures inflicted upon him by his tormentors. And he was sure he couldn't loose himself in the so wanted oblivion if he still had an identity.
"Please wake up." Hell was surely tormenting him… again. This was simply a new tactic.
His lungs felt like they'd been filled with hellfire and molten lava, and refused to suck in air. His whole chest seized with torturous pain, as if razors hacked at his ribs with every attempt to breathe. His legs trembled and convulsed with agony. His shoulder was ablaze with searing, excruciating pain and his arm pulsed with waves of throbbing.
"Dean, you have to…" The words bled in and out, lost in the cavernous emptiness he was now ensnared within. Trapped again in the grottos of pain and torture from which he thought he had escaped. The dungeons of torture that were always filled with the screams and cries of the damned, fated for all eternity, to Hell's persecutions and suffering.
Only now there was only one scream… it was his own, he realised, from somewhere deep within himself.
His whole body trembled with agony, antagonised by other external forces, for he was relatively certain he hadn't quite regained any form of bodily control, and yet he was being jostled and dragged… tugged at and pulled. And every movement amplified the pain's intensity.
"Please Dean… I can't do this without you… I can't keep the darkness away… not without you… Please… please…"
But he wanted the darkness, he wanted the oblivion, and he wanted to be free of the pain and torment.
Only something was unequivocally dragging him further away from the reprieve of oblivion's nothingness and thrusting him back into pain's torturous charge.
Something vile and evil, one of Hell's own creatures, had snatched away his brief clutch at redemption from his grasp. He tried to fight his way back into the oblivion, and back to the all consuming darkness of nothingness. He fought against the ties that bound him to the pain; however he was fast loosing the struggle. Hell's leash of torment was wrapped tightly about him, steadily asphyxiating him. There was an iron vice of constraint and restriction about his torso. Like a huge anaconda, something was wrapped around him and threatened to completely crush him. As he regained control of his cumbersome, pain racked body he managed to force his eyes open, however he was refused clear vision. A hazy murkiness surrounded him, however he could just make out the menacing, obscure silhouettes that hovered over him. They swarmed around him, and their agonising clutches squeezed him tighter. Terror welled swiftly within him and, in panic stricken desperation, he struggled free.
He commanded his body to obey his will, snapping back into the pilot's seat as he forced the biting sting of air into his traumatised lungs and then hissed his only thought. "NOOO…" He wanted it to stop, wanted to be free of the pain…
As his motor skills improved he stumbled to his feet and ran, hoping to find the numbing oblivion again, to disappear into its obscurity and welcoming nothingness …
The shadows pursued him… grabbing at him, circling him, every touch sending debilitating shocks of pain surging through his waning body; sucking him back into the overwhelming, perpetual existence of agonising abuse and torment.
He was running, staggering actually, aimlessly away; away from the torment and torture… away from his persecutors. However his legs failed him. Every footfall had his chest flare with pain and a fiery agony burst up from his thigh so intense that his leg finally buckled beneath him. His shattered body crashed to the ground in an explosion of more pain. His chest collapsed in on him, and any chance of gasping in breath was met with painful objection. Warm, salty fluid erupted from his mouth, in a hacking cough, as his lungs expelled the asphyxiating blood that flooded them. The sheer terror and panic of being sucked back into the depths of Hell's torment overwhelmed him and overrode his body's surrender. He dragged himself across the stony terrain, rocks and gravel bit further into his wounds like a million razor blades, hacking away at his already shredded flesh. His desperate struggle sent a tirade of agony coursing through his entire body whilst amplifying the sheer will to persevere.
Oblivion was close… he could finally feel its icy tendrils of beckoning wisping at his soul. All he had to do was yield to its yearning to consume him… and he desperately longed for it. His struggle ceased and he relinquished all will to survive… and hoped the darkness of oblivion would finally take him.
Then his mouth was filled with an overpowering foul tasting essence that mingled with the earthy, salty intrusion of dirt and blood. The suffocating intrusion maintained a steely grip upon him, furrowing down his throat like an acidic, burning, noxious gas. Any struggling attempts to breathe were halted altogether.
He was gripped by a paralysing hold, where even his heart ceased to beat and his traumatised lungs were refused any further attempts to inhale. His mind was instantly swamped by an intense, searing pain of pressure, and intrusion. A high pitched squeal deafened him, and bright light blinded his sight. And he wondered if it was oblivion that had finally caught him in its embrace...
Except there was no darkness, no sense of nothingness, no relief from the pain... And he feared his brief interlude with oblivion had simply been another of Hell's torments. Something to remind him that, sensations other than pain, actually existed, and to reaffirm for him the agony he would be forced to endure, for all eternity…
He was incarcerated into himself, in a prison where all that existence was the pain and agony. His body refused to obey him, and yet his limbs moved against his will, every movement flooding him with more waves of excruciating pain. And he knew then, that once again oblivion had been snatched away from him.
After some time he realised, something else was there with him; he could sense its evil presence. One of Hell's creatures had him cornered.
And he was trapped within himself: Spinning around uncontrollably in a state of panic and terror.
He was trapped in a whole new kind of Hell…
oooOOOooo
St. Anne's Hospital
Wyoming
6 minutes later…
Bobby high-tailed it to the nearest hospital as fast as the Chevy allowed him, breaking any number of road rules (and possibly land-speed records) in the process. Dean's failing body was challenging, even for the demoness, to sustain in the land of the living. The Impala came to a squealing halt, almost ploughing straight through the double glass doors leading into the Emergency rooms. As the bright sign of the casualty department cast an eerie blue glow into the Impala's interior Ruby made her escape. It would seem Hells injuries, even those past inflicted, still had a devastating effect on the demoness. The savagery of the Hell Hounds attack, combined with Devoratus's Hellfire and the lingering effects of the Colt's charmed silver bullet were draining her of her strength. Barely conscious herself she fled Dean's tainted body before she succumbed altogether. However Ruby had kept her promise; she'd kept Dean alive until they reached the hospital. As soon as her essence left him, spewing from his mouth like an avalanche of black smoke, Dean gagged and spluttered as he lost the artificial life-support the demoness had offered him. She fled through the slightly ajar window, and dispersed into the dark skies and swiftly disappeared into the night. Neither Sam, nor Bobby took the time to ponder just where the demoness had gone; they were far too concerned by Dean's declining state. Dean's breathing immediately yielded to the blood flooding his lungs and he was at certain risk of drowning in his own bodily fluids. When his gagged breaths stopped altogether Bobby practically sat upon the Chevy's horn in a bid to obtain urgent medical attention. As doctors, nurses and orderlies rushed to aid the ailing hunter, consciousness eluded him, thankfully, as his remaining wounds burst open as fresh, and as gory, as the day they were inflicted.
He was whisked away so quickly the remaining two hunters were left in a vacuum of mixed emotions and pounding hearts. Fear, anxiety and trepidation bubbled with relief and exhaustion in a cauldron of churning, unleashed sensations. For a moment they simply stood, completely dumbfounded as their emotions caught up with them, beneath the blue Casualty light. They watched as Dean was rushed away, in a flurry of activity and shouting, until he was lost in a swarm of medical staff, whisked away into the depths of the ER. However, in an instant their senses were again under their own control and they hauled ass in pursuit.
Bobby and Sam barely saw him again, as they were ushered out of the ER whilst the doctors fought to keep Dean's waning clutch upon life viable. Instead the hunters found themselves accosted by a brusque, middle aged nurse demanding details. They were subjected to an intense inquisition and a series of delving investigations, to which Bobby, well skilled in the art of deceitful, but plausible enlightenment, responded. The nurse seemed content, if not humbled by the account. With obvious signs of an animal attack, Dean's several fractures, combined with the deep gash to his thigh and Devoratus's burns to contend with, the nurse was treated to one of Bobby's most imaginative explanations: Of a camping trip gone wrong. Bobby's creative and colorful story told of a pack of wild dogs attacking them, and Dean heroically fighting them off and effectively saving them all… but not without a desperate struggle. The scuffle had him tumble into the camp fire, and ended with a plummet into a ravine. But not before the feral hounds had savagely attacked and mauled him almost to death. With the wounds all as fresh as the day they had been inflicted, everything appeared legit.
Sam and Bobby were then swiftly rallied away, left once again in a suffocating sensation of turmoil. Relegated to a dimmed waiting room they could do no more than wait, and ponder and silently pray to any and all, known gods and deities, and voodoo idols... Neither spoke to each other, save the offer to procure coffee, because there really wasn't anything else to say. They both knew that although they may have saved Dean, he was more than just knocking on Death's door… the door was opened wide and Dean had been well and truly invited in! And neither hunter was much for hollow words; deceitful babble of reassurances and false hopes that Dean would recover from his ordeal and live some kind of 'happily ever after'… In their world it was 'happily ever after' that was pure fiction, not the fantastical creatures they hunted! No, they both knew the dire circumstances of Dean's condition, and they both silently hoped he'd pull through. Their only reassuring salvation was the knowledge that, at the very least, they'd freed Dean's soul from Hell. Although, neither anxious hunter wanted to contemplate the possibility that should Dean succumb to his injuries, and die, that he may well find himself condemned back into Hell, based on his own past actions and deeds, or in Dean's case, misdeeds…
Sam shifted uneasily in the waiting room chair, as he twisted and knotted his fingers until his knuckles went white. His leg bounced anxiously as he subconsciously expelled his nervous, energetic need for progress. Meanwhile Bobby wore a path into the grey-marble linoleum floor, his methodical pacing interrupted only by an occasional pause as he frowned, and grumbled with clear disgruntlement, as he examined the clock on the wall. He studied the small black and white time piece with consternation, as if checking the time now required some inexplicable calculus formula to calculate. And the obtrusive ticking of the waiting-room clock pounded in their heads, wiling away each second with what seemed to be a thunderous tick… or tock. Over and over… every second drawn out into its own endless eternity.
"Mr. White?" The doctor queried cautiously as he entered the waiting room, some eight hours (and what felt like twenty-five years), later.
"Yes?" Sam practically tumbled out of the ass-numbing embrace of the molded plastic chair that was far too short for his long legs, in order to approach the doctor. "My brother, Dean, is he?"
"For the time being, he's stable." The doctor replied. "My name's Evan Rogers, your brother's surgeon…" Evan Rogers was a tall and far too slender man whose age was a hard fact to determine, for his salt-and-pepper hair belied his still somewhat youthful features. He had clear blue, piercing eyes, with somber features, however his smile of encouragement seemed genuine and softened his expression, giving him total credibility.
Sam sighed, and relief washed over him in an emotional tidal wave. Suddenly the room was hazy and distorted as his own exhaustion and apprehensions came unstuck. The room threatened to swallow him whole with its gaudy peach colored walls and seascape paintings adorning the walls in some vain attempt to make the room seem lively… or cheerful… hopeful maybe… He realized after some moments that the doctor was still speaking, although his mind continued to reel uncontrollably and he made no great effort to concentrate fully.
"… his condition is still quite serious…" The surgeon's gaze wavered from Sam to Bobby as he spoke. "we've had to repair… bleeding was quite significant… several fractures… induced coma… next 24 hours will be crucial … miraculous he's survived at all… thankfully he's young and fit… work in his favor…"
All Sam registered of the surgeon's elucidation was that after all the hours of surgery, and numerous blood transfusions, Dean had miraculously survived, all else blurred into a hazy, monotone garble.
However Bobby frowned with trepidation as he listened intently to the surgeon's every word. Evan Rogers made no promises; Dean was damned lucky to have survived as long as he had. In fact, Dr. Rogers had been so bold as to prepare them for the worst. Dean had sustained numerous profound lacerations. The degree of the hounds' savagery was extensive and one of the hospital's plastic surgeons had been called in to repair the damage to Dean's muscles, tendons and nerves, whilst Dr. Rogers and his surgical team endeavored simply to save his life. They were told Dean's femoral artery had survived being severed by mere millimeters, no thanks to Kalfu's savage attempt to remove the Colt's bullet. His blood loss had been severe none the less, and should probably have been fatal. He had half a dozen fractured ribs, smashed, seemingly, from the inside-out; a state that had the medical staff examining his x-rays, over and over, in amazement and awe. Dean's left lung had been punctured and subsequently collapsed, and the right was at risk of suffering the same. The damage had caused bleeding into the lung and almost drowned him in his own blood. A respirator now kept him breathing, whilst his lungs healed. Scans of his head injury revealed a hairline skull fracture with minor bleeding on the brain. The doctors had decided to induce a coma, to allow his brain time to recover, hopefully avoiding the necessity for further surgery. His fractured collar bone and broken right forearm were seemingly the least of his injuries.
"…just transferring him to the ICU…" Dr. Rogers' gaze fell on Sam. "I should warn you, you may need to prepare yourself… there's a number of monitors and tubes…"
Sam just nodded, he wanted to go… NOW! He had to see Dean, right now, and he didn't need the compulsory warning spiel. Nothing he hadn't already seen before… He grabbed Bobby's sleeve, unconsciously urging the elder to hurry things along so they could get to Dean as soon as possible. The doctor sensed his urgency and stopped mid-sentence.
"I guess you want to go straight up…" The doctor reflected. "Fifth floor, one of the nurses on duty will take you to see him as soon as he's settled."
As he entered Dean's room Sam shuddered at the eerie sense of déjà vu. He couldn't help but contemplate the paradox of the situation, so much like before, when Azazel had almost killed him: What was it? Two years ago? And yet so vivid in his mind it was like he'd entered the exact same hospital room… Only this time the damage was far more visible, even though Dean was swathed in bandages.
The gash to his brow had been bandaged, beneath which vivid red-purple bruising was splashed across half his face, and slight swelling distorted his cheek and eye. His fractured forearm had been set and his arm was now adorned with a stark white cast. Grazing, lacerations and maul wounds continued up his arm though, almost to his shoulder. His left arm disappeared beneath the blanket, strapped snuggly to his chest to support and immobilize his fractured collar bone. A number of gashes and superficial puncture wounds marred the surrounding flesh across his chest and neck, much of which was hidden from sight by the bandages that strapped his fractured ribs. Further scratches, grazing, and heavy bruising blemished his muscular torso, the worst of which, his most gruesome wounds; Devoratus's Hellfire burn, and the savagery of the Hell hounds' attack, were concealed beneath heavy bandages across his left shoulder.
Only the slight movement of his broad, ravaged chest showed any signs that the hunter lived. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the respirator, which filled the room with a monotonous, regular hiss, interrupted only by the rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor. Sam grew dizzy with the far-too-familiar scenario and wondered if they would ever see a time when the days could pass without one, the other or both of them being subjected to pain and injury. He wondered if the constant sense of trepidation and fears would ever truly end for them and he wondered if their lives would ever be free of death's constant menace.
Right now, he wondered if Dean would ever open his eyes again…
Last time it had taken a deal with a demon to save Dean's life, when their father had begun what could easily have become a new Winchester tradition of bargaining with demons. But now it would end. Sam knew that, knew that no more deals could be made… knew that Dean's sacrifice, already made, would be worth nothing if he was to follow in his father and brother's footsteps… This time there would be no more deals. Dean had to recover from this ordeal on his own.
Bobby stayed close by, but gave the brothers breathing space. He hovered in a corner, silently observing the reunited Winchester brothers. If he hadn't known that the copious quantities of blood that stained Sam's entire attire weren't his, Bobby would probably have sworn he was a dead man walking. There was just too much blood… and there was something not quite right that so much red should taint Sam, whilst Dean was so pale and colorless. He'd faded away beneath the stark white of the bed sheets, and bandages. The injured hunter looked far too insipid, and motionless to be Dean Winchester. The kid always had a sense of activity about him; always on the go, with things to do… or kill.
Bobby's heart pounded a little harder as he gazed on the brothers. They were as close to family as he had. He'd kind of adopted them after the death of their father (weather they liked it or not). He noted that Sam looked almost as haggard and drawn as Dean. Even though Sam's demeanor had relaxed to an extent, Bobby could still read the apprehension in his scowl.
"Hey Dean…" Sam muttered awkwardly as he pulled the nearby chair closer to Dean's side. "it's… ummm… it's good to have you back." He reached out tentatively to grasp his brother's plastered hand, however although his hand lingered briefly over Dean's, he pulled away, his fingers simply brushing over his brother's. Winchesters simply didn't hold hands… It had never been a spoken rule, of course, just John's way. His whole life Sam had no real recollections of any kind of 'tender'. Sure they had an embrace; that manly, blokey grasp that could last no longer than a few fleeting seconds, and was always accompanied by a rough slap on the back. But nothing that ever expressed any love, or tenderness, or affection… or emotional vulnerability. It was a hard habit to break. Besides, Dean'd have his guts if he ever found out they'd held hands. A definite invasion of personal space!
Bobby shook his head silently. It was as if John was right there in the room with them. He'd stamped out their ability to reveal their true feelings long ago. It angered him. John Winchester may have been one of the best darned hunters he'd ever known, but he fell well short in the fathering department.
"You here Dean?" Sam queried, his gaze cutting through the room in hopes Dean might somehow materialize before him. "Any chance, you could, you know, give me a sign? You must be getting' pretty good at all this astral projection stuff by now." However no sign was forthcoming and Sam sighed, several minutes later, with measured disappointment.
Bobby left the brothers early the next morning, however he didn't venture too far. He drove the Impala to a nearby motel and he booked himself and his nephew, Sam, into the homely 'Inn'. After a refreshing shower and clean clothes he organized a taxi to take him back to the cemetery so that he could collect his abandoned pickup. On the way back to town he stopped at a local café and bought a couple of 'breakfasts-to-go'; a hearty serving of scrambled eggs, a couple of hash browns, some sausages and bacon. A meal Dean would certainly be envious of, had he been conscious. And then he promptly headed back to St. Anne's.
He found that Sam hadn't moved from his vigilant bedside post. The younger Winchester was so close to exhaustion Bobby feared he'd soon be visiting another patient. Dean's condition hadn't changed, hadn't gotten any worse either, so for that Bobby was thankful. In fact he was sure a smudge of color had returned to the injured hunter's cheeks.
"Doc says he's doin' as well as could be expected." Sam muttered despondently. He tried to force a smile, but Bobby read his underlying concerns.
"That's real good." Bobby replied. "He's tough Sam, ya know that."
"They… umm… they have to do some more tests." Sam informed him.
"Pretty sure that's to be expected." Bobby replied optimistically.
"Yeah…" Sam sighed.
Although Sam managed to push his breakfast around the container that it came in, hardly more than its aroma was ingested, although he did managed to guzzle down both his coffee and Bobby's. It took Bobby an hour and a half to convince Sam he should leave his brother's bedside to get himself cleaned up.
"Motel's just down the block… Flowerdale Inn, room 3." Bobby explained as he pushed the motel door keys into Sam's palm. "Ya can walk if ya want… or take my truck. Place has pipin' hot water… damned best shower I've had in a long time… got ya duffle in the room… amazin' how much better ya'll feel after a hot shower and some clean clothes…"
"No." Sam mumbled decisively.
"Sam, he's made it past the worst of it…" Bobby sympathized with him, but he wasn't about to watch Sam crumble in the wake of Dean's quandary. "He's got a lot of healin' to do yet Sam. And he's gonna need us both to help him get through this. He's gonna need you on top of your game…"
"What if he…" Sam muttered.
"Ya know he ain't gonna wake up yet." Bobby replied instantly. "Drugs are gonna keep him… sleeping…" 'Induced Coma' just didn't seem like an optimistic justification.
"I know Bobby, but he might try and… contact me." Sam stated blankly.
"Contact ya? How the hell could he… Ohhh…" Bobby grinned to himself, in recognition, as he nodded. "Look Sam, I'll call ya straight away if the furniture starts flyin' around the room." Bobby's gaze was firm. "I'll call ya if anything changes…"
Eventually Sam had to concede defeat; once the nurses started urging him to go he realized his presence had become intimidating. Even for a professional care giver, it was obvious that the amount of ruddy-crimson that stained his clothes was disturbing, and beginning to reek… and he had something he needed to collect from the Impala's boot.
oooOOOooo
Bobby didn't query Sam when he returned less than an hour later with a Ouija Board in hand. He'd at least changed his clothes, even if Bobby suspected his shower may have only just sprinkled him with a token splash of water. Sam waited until the nurse had done Dean's observations before placing the Ouija board on the floor by the bed. He smiled with hopeful desperation at Bobby as he set up the board and planchette, although he did not request Bobby's assistance. He only needed Dean's involvement to make the talking board work…
"Come on Dean…" Sam continued to beg after forty-five minutes. "You gotta be here. Just answer 'yes' that's all I need… just so I know you're… I just need to know its you… please Dean..." He continued to stare at the board, his hand trembled upon the planchette… he could almost have willed it to move, but even he knew it wouldn't really be Dean. Wherever Dean was, it wasn't transcendentally in the room with him. Sam hoped that maybe the drugs kept him tied to his body, or maybe he wasn't as close to death as he had been last time, after Azazel… Or worse, maybe Ruby had lied; maybe Dean wasn't there at all… What ever the reason, Sam got no response from his attempt to contact Dean. He dejectedly pushed the board under the bed, as he sprang to his feet when the nurse came in to check Dean's vitals again.
As the days passed Dean's condition continued to improve. He wasn't exactly jumping out of the bed and dancing a jig… the doctors still had him unconscious in a medically induced coma. However, although he remained on the respirator, Dean's doctors reassured both hunters his lung was healing well. Most importantly the swelling and bleeding to his brain had greatly subsided. As such Bobby found it easier to pull Sam back into a routine that vaguely resembled normal. He managed to get the young hunter to at least eat small quantities of food, generally in sync with breakfast, lunch and dinner… He eventually convinced him that he also really did need to shower on a daily basis. And after never-ending coercion Bobby managed to get him to attempt sleep, occasionally, as long as he, himself, remained glued by Dean's side whilst Sam was away. The task was made marginally easier by Dean's improving condition. His recovery was astounding, his doctor had grinned when he last checked in on his patient.
Even so, both Sam and Bobby took turns sitting with Dean, in a round the clock vigil – Sam more so than Bobby of course. It was on the fifth night, some time past midnight when Sam was woken from his dozing by the sounds of agonising gasping. Sam already recognized the sounds, an echo of Dean's miraculous recovery once before. The doctors had ceased to administer the drugs that had kept him in a coma earlier that morning, although their concerns had not entirely ceased. Dean hadn't awoken during the day as they had hoped. Instead his mind had fought the lingering haze of unconsciousness well into the night, and chose this instance, with only Sam by his side, to wake. However as he regained consciousness his body's natural reflexes caused him to gag as he struggled to breathe against the ventilator tube shoved down his throat.
oooOOOooo
Hell's beast had snatched the darkness away from him and kept him securely trapped in his own tortured body, where all that existed was the pain and agony. As the beast evacuated his body an intense shock flared through him, like every nerve ending had been set alight. Even after it had left him, he could feel the acidic burn of its residual presence. He instantly crashed and burned. And his body shut down. Agony swept through him briefly, and was then replaced by the welcomed darkness he so longed for.
However, oblivion only teased him and tempted him, briefly, once more. Something new kept him coupled to his own personal Hell. He tried to fight the shackles of torment, however, they had him securely bound: Bound to his suffering and pain.
The pain never ceased. Waves of agony continued to drown him in a sea of misery. And amid the agony things crept and slithered out of the vilest recesses of his mind to torment him; creatures from his memories… from his nightmares… and Hell itself. Monsters that had doled out their own retribution upon him. They stalked through his mind in a never-ending stream of horrifying recollections until they were real once more. In his mind, he knew: They were responsible for his agony.
His shattered psyche simply couldn't distinguish between what had been and gone, and the illusions his mind now continued to replay…
Even when his nightmarish illusions shifted slightly he had no sense of reality.
It began with a crushing force bearing down on his chest until he couldn't breathe, every attempt was met with a suffocating pressure down his windpipe, like he was fighting to breathe in a vacuum. The harder he struggled the more his chest tightened and constricted his breath. And the more he fought to free himself of the intrusion, the more pain flooded his every limb.
oooOOOooo
Sam lunged on the call button, as he simultaneously screamed for assistance. Within seconds the room was crowded with nurses and orderlies, followed closely by the doctor on duty, all eager to aid their struggling patient. The hunter fought against the intrusion to his windpipe, trying to rip the ventilator tube out, and he lashed out at all those trying to help him. He grasped the tube, clumsily, with his plastered hand and yanked it free amid self inflicted convulsions of gagging and gasping. However his struggles continued as he cowered away from the imposing bevy of hospital staff. Pure terror and panic fuelled his desperate fight to flee from the daunting horde.
Dean grappled with an orderly, lashing out at the man trying to calm him down, with well honed upper cuts. Eventually it took another three orderlies to pin him down so that he could be sedated: To protect both Dean and others, the doctor had explained.
oooOOOooo
Something had forced itself down his throat, some huge demonic serpent, Dean was sure. Its vicious, venomous bite was tearing his insides apart, ripping its way through his lungs and ribs. Although his arm tenaciously objected to his actions, he managed to raise his heavily weighted hand and clumsily grasped the serpent by its tail. Already tortured flesh ripped and tore open once more as he wrenched it free from his windpipe.
His surroundings baffled him. His senses were overloaded. The pain distorted them, twisted and shredded them into a cold hard explosion of confusion. The gloomy shadows of his incarceration were gone, replaced by white, too much white, and too bright light. The bright illumination of his surroundings blinded him, it was brighter than he could ever recall. As he blinked the obstinate glare from his sight, blurry images swarmed over him. The terrifying, shadowy silhouettes had returned and they grappled with him, tried to pin him down once more. Instincts prevailed as did the need for retribution for his past suffering. He fought back. Lashed out at his oppressors with strength he shouldn't have had. And he fought the agony every move caused him…
But the shadows fought back. His limbs were crushed beneath their grasp. He struggled to free himself, only to have their clutch upon him tighten. Then there was stinging radiating out from his arm, followed by warmth. Fogginess filled his mind, and he felt himself falling through a vast emptiness. Whilst his thoughts still functioned he hoped desperately that oblivion lay at the bottom of his downward plunge...
oooOOOooo
It would seem Dean's comatose state had merely been replaced by horrific, nightmarish delusions instead. Almost as if he'd been possessed all over again, but this time by a madman.
"It's normal to show signs of disorientation at first, once he realises he's safe he should calm down." Or so the doctor had theorised…
Sam called Bobby in, and they both eagerly waited for Dean to regain consciousness again. However, a few hours later, as his drug enforced slumber wore off, Dean became agitated and restless. He was visibly fraught with renewed terrifying nightmares.
oooOOOooo
Creatures continued to torment him. He was trapped in a never ending routine of persecution and torture. As the terrors faded, from one to the next, the inability to breathe returned. Grogginess blurred his mind and made it hard to fight through the pain. It clung to him and he imagined he was trying to run, through gaseous tunnels filled with the stench of sulphur. The acidic vapours ate through his lungs, ate at his flesh. Creatures pursued him, clawing at him, sinking huge fangs into his limbs. The Hell Hounds were mauling him again. He grappled with the huge beasts, their jaws clamped down on his limbs and shredded his flesh from the bone. Huge clawed paws ripped his muscles open, and he could feel the blood gush from the wounds with every beat of his heart.
Something yanked at his mind, dragged his perception into another realm. He was shocked to find himself somewhere else. Again there was light, far too bright light. Through the glaring dazzle he could make out the shadows of others who sought to torment him.
oooOOOooo
Dean startled back to semi-consciousness, with renewed terror clear across his face. Both Sam and Bobby tried to hold Dean down to stop him from fleeing his bed in fear. However Dean had miraculous strength, for all his injuries, and fought himself free of their grasp. He cast his plastered fist with deadly accurate aim towards Bobby's face, decking him with a plaster-encased backhand. Bobby was down for the count as Dean lunged from the bed, ripping his I.V. drip, drainage tubes and oxygen cannular out and numerous monitor wires off.
oooOOOooo
The vengeful silhouettes had returned to confuse him; the shadows that stalked him and lurked in the too bright light. Hell's persecution never ceased to exist, it simply presented new ways in which to torment him. He heaved his weary, pain wracked body from his vulnerable reclined position. He knew he had to move fast, before the silhouettes caught him once more. They pounced upon him again, however years of honed instincts provoked an impulsive reaction: His unusually, heavy-laden fist struck its mark with a satisfying crack.
He struggled against their restraining grasps that sought to keep him down, as he lashed out at the shadows and thwarted their attempted clutches upon him. His body felt awkward and cumbersome as he tumbled from a height and smacked into the hard ground beneath him. The pain gave him the energy to flee, knowing that only more pain was promised if he didn't. However his body betrayed him, as he rounded a corner into a long tunnel of more bright light, and too much white. His strength ebbed away, with every staggered step, however, he forced his maimed limbs to maintain his momentum.
oooOOOooo
After staggering into the corridor outside his room, in his desperate attempt to escape his delusions of terror, Dean's body obstinately objected and he collapsed to the floor. He crumpled in on himself, cowering away from the evil he imagined to be in pursuit of him, as he succumbed to the overbearing pain that swamped his body. He clutched at his retaliating ribs that constricted his breathing with powerful waves of excruciating agony, and he gasped desperately for every painful breath. He had expelled his strength, and aggravated his injuries to such a point that his leg and shoulder had begun bleeding profusely, leaving bloody streaks across the grey-marble linoleum floor. Dean flailed about like a fish out of water, in a crimson pool beneath him, fighting those who sought to help him, and the hallucinations that apparently plagued him.
Sam was swiftly by his side, cautiously trying to restrain him, whilst a number of staff tried to clear the overly protective hunter away so that they could tend to their patient. When Dean's nurse tried to calm and console him, Dean snarled at her in horror and punched her full in the face, almost certainly breaking her nose. His plastered wrist had become a lethal weapon. Several seconds later Dean was pinned beneath the full weight of two beefy orderlies, with apparent little regard for his injuries, as he was sedated again.
oooOOOooo
His senses blurred around him; ringing pulsed through his ears in deafening decibels, the too bright light seared into his retinas and the pain overwhelmed him. The shadowy silhouettes clawed at him again, trying to lay purchase upon him, all the while antagonising the agony already surging through his body. Then his body exploded in acute pain as he crashed to the ground once more. He longed to curl up and fade away into the oblivion he knew existed, but refused to claim him. Oblivion that he knew the silhouettes denied him…
The shadows clawed at him, mocking him with his name, and there was a voice of familiarity… Hell was taunting him with Sam's reassurances. He knew better… Sam was gone from him, for ever. It angered him that Hell could so easily use the memory of his brother to torment him so cruelly. His fury spurred him into a frenzied retaliation. He lashed out at his tormenters as his struggle continued, thrashing out at the silhouettes as they sought to seize him again. Gradually the pain gave way to sharp cutting agony that filled his torso in pounding waves, his breath hacked like razors and he crumpled in on himself. Then there was burning, that flared out from his arm. His mind undulated from the stark reality of pain to hazy distortion. His mind surrendered to the vagueness. There was heaviness through out his body that prevented him from moving. Warmth that made his mind muddled and distorted and his limbs too heavy…
And he was falling again, into another of Hell's torture dungeons…
oooOOOooo
"It has obviously been a severely traumatic event… I'm not sure we can expect any different when he comes around again." Dr. Howard, the attending ward doctor, warned as Dean tossed and turned in the grips of another nightmare, despite still being sedated after minor surgery to repair the self-inflicted damage he had caused himself. "We may have to think of more extreme measures in helping him heal, both physically and… mentally." He was obviously concerned at the mental state of his newest patient. As a precaution, once Dean's exasperated injuries had been tended to, Dean was restrained securely to his bed, lashed down by hand and foot, like an animal, and much to Sam's disparity.
As the night passed into day, and one day into the next Dean's terrors escalated rather than ceased. With reoccurring episodes of hellish panic and all-to-real nightmares, Dean's physical health took a serious decline. His agitated, neurotic delusions wouldn't allow him peace, to rest, or recuperate. His constant thrashing and fighting against his restraints had aggravated the numerous lacerations, and his breathing had suffered with the repeated jarring of his damaged ribcage. He wouldn't eat, couldn't in his delusional state and he'd ripped his I.V. line out on more than one occasion.
Dean continued to suffer from terrifying hallucinations both when semi-conscious and when sleeping. Even under sedation Dean lashed out at the monsters he imagined to be around him, Sam and Bobby included, hitting viciously out at anyone who ventured too close. It was as if Hell had firmly sunk its claws into him, and obstinately refused to release the terror struck hunter from his damnation, even though his soul had been freed. Fuelled by his overwhelming pain, his mind hadn't been able to distinguish Hell's torment from the tortures and agony of his injuries.
His terrors soon spread to the medical staff, a trepidation that was further fuelled when he'd managed, despite the restraints, to latch on to one of the orderlies as he'd tried to change his bed sheets. Dean lashed out at the man with such vehemence even Sam and Bobby knew he'd fractured the man's wrist.
Staff started obstinately refusing to tend to the distraught hunter.
After a week of escalating incidents, Dr. Howard, came to speak to Sam and Bobby directly. The middle-aged doctor had wavy brown hair and dark, features a little too angular. His tense face suggested he had very little humour or any capacity to relax. Sam had the feeling Dr. Howard had very little to say that bore no gravity or consequence.
"He's trapped in his own delusions and they only seem to be getting worse..." The doctor explained. "And until we reach him, there's not much else we can do… except keep him sedated, and restrained, to stop him from hurting himself, or anyone else… And I think it's in his best interests to…" The doctor paused. Sam scowled in anxious anticipation. If the doctor's grim expression was any indication, his recommendations were not going to be pleasant. "I've made arrangements to have your brother transferred to the Psyche ward in the morning."
"What? NO!" Sam objected. "He's not crazy…" Although clearly he was, and even Sam knew that. But he also knew that no psychiatrist would ever understand why. "I won't let you lock him up in some padded room in a straight jacket!"
"I'm sorry son, but you won't have a say." The doctor snapped back. Understandably so, all Dean was to him was an angry, vicious lunatic, who'd lashed out at everyone around him with brutal intent. "He's already assaulted your uncle, and one of my nurses. That orderly he attacked has a fractured hand. We could have him charged with assault if you'd prefer! If he's deemed mentally insane he'll be committed anyway! And you will have no say over his treatment what so ever!"
Sam had to concede, Ruby had been right; Dean really was a little 'frazzled'!
oooOOOooo
"Bobby thanks for doing this. I just couldn't let them lock him up." Sam thanked with clear desperation in his voice as they walked along the dimly lit corridor.
"I know Sam. But if it wasn't for the fact that I know they just ain't gonna do him no good anyways, I'd say we were nuts for trying to stop 'em." Bobby admitted. "But Sam, how, in all sanity, d'ya reckon we're gonna get him outta here? Dean's… well, Dean's stark ravin' mad, Sam, ain't no rose-colored glasses about it. He'd just as easy try an' kill us, as what ever monsters he's seein'!"
"I know Bobby, but we gotta try…" Sam sighed. "He deserves at least that…"
They'd procured orderly uniforms from a laundry basket in the ward beneath Dean's room. The hospital was eerily quiet at two in the morning. They'd decided the cover of darkness, and manned by the lesser known nightshift staff to be the best time to 'bust' Dean out. Sam strolled along confidently, with the wheelchair firmly in his grasp as they passed a couple of nurses, heading for a break. Bobby glanced away, hiding the vivid splash of colorful bruising across his cheek and eye as they passed. Sam may have thought he'd go unnoticed; however both the pretty young girls paused and glanced back at the new orderly, whose pants were just a little too short. They giggled and fantasized about what they'd like to do with him in the supply room…
The hunters waited by the elevator doors as Dean's nurse, accompanied by a muscular orderly made their way out of his room.
"You'd think…" The nurse commented as they left. "It should be enough to down an elephant…"
"Outta ya hair tomorrow, I hear." The orderly commented.
'No wondering who they were discussing.' Sam cringed to himself.
"Yeah, thank God!" The nurse replied. "Still, I'd hate to imagine what he musta gone through… I heard it was a pack of dogs set on him… I guess he just can't let the memory go."
"Ya think he'll ever snap outta it?" The orderly queried as they paused beside a vending machine, whilst the nurse purchased a cola.
"I'm sure shock treatment and a lobotomy will work!" She giggled, although Sam wasn't altogether convinced she was just joking.
The pair walked away together, around a corner and back to the nurses' station.
"Now's our chance…" Sam said to Bobby.
"Finger's crossed; let's hope she just sedated him!" Bobby mused as they stole into Dean's room.
Dean lay restlessly, jerking spasmodically in his sleep, and cringing at the terrors in his dreams. The ragged laceration across his brow stood out vividly against his face, now so pale in the dim light. The bruising across his brow and eye had faded to a pallet of pale purple and yellow. His face contorted in fear and pain, as he softly repeated the words 'No, no…'
Sam sighed as he contemplated the task at hand; getting Dean out of the hospital and back to Bobby's unnoticed. A task that would be far easier if Dean had been a more compliant abductee…
Bobby set about disconnecting Dean's I.V. line, and removing the oxygen cannular from his nose, whilst Sam unbuckled the thick leather restraints that bound him by hand and foot to the bed. Bobby switched the monitors off and contemplated the sheer lunacy of their actions when Dean flinched with their touch, cringing away like they'd scorched him with a blow torch. However he remained in his drug induced sleep.
Both Sam and Bobby expected resistance when they raised his inert weight from the bed, into a sitting position, and Bobby knew to duck when Dean thrust his plastered wrist his way. The hunters had to physically force Dean to his feet so that they could maneuver him into the wheelchair. Once he was seated Sam had to restrain him to keep him in the wheelchair. Even in his semi-lucid, drugged state, Dean thrashed and flinched with every touch, until, after some minutes he became accustomed to the wheelchair and he calmed, to a degree. However, just to be sure, Sam taped Dean's wrists to the wheelchair armrests as a precaution. Bobby collected Dean's belongings, however ripped and blood stained his attire may have been, whilst Sam procured Dean's, or more precisely Dean White's, medical file. From there they made a speedy escape.
They managed a clean getaway, having forethought to leave through the maintenance doors, past the huge trash dumpsters, to avoid encountering any medical staff or security.
With a limited window of opportunity before Dean's medication wore off, the hunters made fast tracks back to Bobby's, still some five hours away. Bobby had already organized for Fred to meet them there, and hoped, with a few hours head start, that the doctor would be there by the time they arrived. As a precaution Bobby had also brought his own supply of medications with him, to keep Dean in a compliant state if needed, however much sedation that would take…
oooOOOooo
Singer's Salvage,
SOUTH DAKOTA
"Isn't there anything we can do to help him?" Sam pleaded with desperation.
Dean had been lashed to Bobby's rickety cast iron bed, in much the same manner he had been in the hospital. Even Sam had to admit it was the only way to protect the hysterical hunter, and also themselves. Fred was at hand to render medical aid, and even that was mostly at the doctor's peril.
"I really don't know. With everything he's been through…" Fred muttered with uncertainty. "I wish I knew what to do. But I can honestly say I've never had a patient suffering post traumatic stress after being incarcerated in Hell before!"
Dean was like a bound, wild animal; crazy, angry and terrified. His violent outbursts had become a common response from the hunter. He cowered from, or attempted to attack, all those around him, as well as the adversaries of his imagination's conjuring. His only settled periods were in the grips of heavy medication. Fred struggled to keep him sedated; a state he had warned was no solution. He continued to warn both Sam and Bobby that the degree of sedation necessary to subdue the terror struck and panic stricken patient was verging on near lethal dosage.
Dean's semi-lucid periods terrified even Sam and Bobby, when he would thrash about violently, pulling at his restraints to such a degree he, at one point, dislocated his own shoulder with his frantic attempt to free himself. Repairing the aggravation he managed to inflict upon his lacerations became a regular routine for the exasperated, yet kind-hearted doctor. Even so, although Dean was in obvious agony, he continued his incessant battle to both free himself and also fight all those around him, real, or imagined. His physical injuries seemed oblivious to him, as he lashed out at whom ever dare venture too close to him.
"Like that Doc in Wyoming said, he's trapped in his own delusions Sam…" Bobby replied remorsefully.
"I've seen this happen to a lot of men… not just hunters." Fred remarked after struggling to check Dean's wounds, and inserting another I.V. line. "Wouldn't take much to fracture a man's psyche, especially with the things you boys see, the things you do, but mostly, this time, the things done to him. I've seen men suffer horrific injuries. But this… Your brother's been tortured by, I fear, the best; his mind is more ravaged than his body."
"Will he… will he ever be ok?" Sam whispered hoarsely as emotions got the better of him, he couldn't bring himself to say it out too loud.
"Well…" Fred sighed. "I'd be lying if I said yes. He's alive, heaven knows how, so there's always hope… but I gotta tell you Sam, I'm really not sure how anyone could ever really… survive. Maybe he'll claw his way back to some semblance of sanity, but not without… scars; mental scars… there's a long road for him to travel before we'll ever see your brother again. When his physical pain is so inconsequential to him right now, I'd hate to image what they did to his soul…"
"He's literally gone to Hell and back for you Sam – That was his decision." Bobby consoled. "And I have no doubts he'd do it again! And there's not a doubt in my mind that if anyone can bring him back it's you, Sam. It may just take a little time… and patience, and a mass of reading through a few Psyche books…"
"But what if he's…" Sam's query paused mid-sentence. He seemed surprised he had actually asked the question out loud. "…what if he's not really Dean?" Sam groaned. "What if he's…"
"Possessed?" Bobby finished. "Ruby didn't seem to think so. An' I can't see why she'd lie about that… I'm not sure he could even be possessed by more than one entity at a time." He continued to contemplate the possibility; however he was reasonably sure it wasn't possible. "Ruby did warn us he was…"
"What?" Sam mumbled in response. "A little… 'frazzled'?"
"Yeah." Bobby sighed. 'To put it mildly.' He corrected to himself.
"But… What if he's still trapped… in Hell?" Sam sighed.
"I'm guessing, in a way, he still is." Bobby admitted. "I don't think he's actually realized that he's free yet."
"So what do we do?" Sam groaned.
"We hope he can find a way back to us." Bobby replied, with a noticeable lack of confidence. "And we keep trying to get through that thick skull of his until he does!"
Even though they tried to break though Dean's hallucinations and delusions, nothing seemed to fracture his impenetrable walls of Hell. No amount of hours upon hours of trying to talk Dean back into reality seemed to work. Sam tried everything, from soft soothing reassurances to screaming at him like John would have, ordering him snap out of it, but still nothing worked.
After a week Fred began to worry about Dean's declining wellbeing. He suggested Dean be readmitted to hospital, psychiatric or otherwise; he needed more care than any of them could give him. The I.V. line gave him vital fluids, however the distraught hunter was wasting away before their very eyes. He was barely more than skin and bones and at risk of succumbing to his wounds once more. His health was seriously deteriorating.
As the days passed, Bobby took to researching the possibility of anyone else had ever literally been 'to Hell and back'… he wanted a heads up on just how Dean may be if, or when, he ever woke up. The results weren't encouraging. 'Near death' experiences he found by the dozens, and most of those he was skeptical about. But to Hell and Back… aside from Dante's works there really wasn't much… But if Dante's descriptions held any truth or reality, he wasn't looking forward to the reunion.
"Hell, Bobby… What have I done?" Sam groaned as he watched as Dean was consumed by his nightmares again. He was deathly gaunt and pale, his face in a constant grimace of pain and torment. "I should never have… this was a mistake… We shouldn't have brought him back."
"No it wasn't." Bobby rebuked adamantly, sporting a new pallet of color across his jaw from one of Dean's proficient cuffs that he hadn't quite ducked in time. "He was in a hell-of-a-lot worse place before… hell Sam, he was in Hell! Even if this is as good as it will ever get for him, its better'n Hell!"
oooOOOooo