I
The rain that trickled down the glass in rivulets did nothing to improve Dean's mood. He sighed deeply and turned back to Dr. Henricksen and his damnable little voice recorder that meant Dean could let loose none of the profanity he'd dearly like to unleash.
"Yes," he said, confirming to the doctor from Infection Control for the third time, "The vein hook was dropped. We sent it to be decontaminated and sanitized, and then we put it into the autoclave in the room. The nurse gave me the indicator along with the hook when it was done. The indicator was changed. From what I could see, the autoclave got to the temperature and pressure it should've, and it ran for a good ten minutes."
"So there isn't a doubt in your mind that the instrument was safe to use?" The man across from him looked up expectantly, and Dean felt a new wave of dislike rush through him. Dr. Henricksen was a different sort of doctor, a Ph.D. in infectious disease, and kept on staff with the medical group for the specific purpose of tracking infection rates and proposing ways to reduce them.
"If there had been, I wouldn't have used it," Dean said evenly. "I'm not an idiot."
"And you are likewise sure about the supplies and instruments you opened onto the field?" Dr. Henricksen looked up from his tablet in expectation.
"Dr. Henricksen," Dean said, leaning forward. "I know you're just doing your job. But do I really look like a moron who doesn't check to make sure sets are sterile, and then lies about it repeatedly during an investigation?"
"We're just being thorough," Dr. Henricksen began.
"You've been thorough three times now," Dean interrupted. "Very thoroughly questioning whether I'm competent enough to do my goddamn job. It's not rocket science. Are the little lines black? Is everything dry inside? We're good to go! Hallelujah!"
"Mr. Winchester," Dr. Henricksen said flatly, "If you don't want to cooperate, it will affect more than just you. I strongly suggest you reign in your attitude."
"I've been cooperating for two hours. Which is two hours I'm not scrubbing cases. If you wanna keep paying me to answer the same questions over and over again instead of assisting surgery, then by all means." Dean spread his hands.
"Winchester," Dr. Henricksen said, and Dean was glad he had dropped the obsequious "mister," "a patient died from a case you were responsible for keeping sterile. If you don't respect the gravity of the situation you are in –"
"I respect it," Dean interjected. "I respected it the first time you said it, and the second time, and I respect it now. But if you keep asking me the same questions expecting different answers so you have someone to point a finger at, it's not gonna happen." Dean crossed his arms. "I will swear on my mother's grave that everything we touched in that case was sterile according to every indication that I had access to, barring precognition."
"Will you swear on Dr. Novak's license?" Dr. Henricksen asked seriously. "Because that's what it could come down to."
"Absolutely," Dean replied firmly.
Dr. Henricksen sighed heavily. "Go have lunch. Come back here at one."
"Are you serious?" Dean asked incredulously.
"I need to meet with the team as a whole," Dr. Henricksen replied flatly. "Believe me, if I could exclude you, I would."
II
The second hand had been stuck for at least two minutes now, leaving the clock in the tiny conference room suspended at ten minutes to five. Dean stared at it, paying absolutely no mind to the tired, somewhat irritated words that were being exchanged between Bobby and Dr. Henricksen about the patient's body temperature during the procedure.
"Is the clock really stuck?" Dr. Novak murmured next to Dean's ear, leaning over so that no one else could hear. Dean caught the barest hint of his cologne and he closed his eyes to suppress the completely inappropriate urge to inhale more deeply and revel in it.
"Either that or we died, and this is hell," Dean responded in the same low tone.
"Interesting theological concept," Dr. Novak mused. "Hell: going over your life's worst mistakes in meticulous detail."
"You didn't make any mistakes," Dean replied automatically. "Thought we agreed you weren't going to do that again."
"We did," Dr. Novak said, "but then I went home and didn't think about anything else for three days."
"Am I going to have to follow you around hitting you with an 'it's not your fault' stick?"
Dr. Novak looked mildly taken aback, but was saved from having to respond as Dr. Henricksen cleared his throat loudly, closing his folio that lay on the table in front of him.
"The documentation is hard to argue with," he said, "as well as your testimonies. I'll compile my report, but from what I've seen, I don't think that there is anything more this surgery center could have done to prevent this infection, aside from taking another look at the continued use of cloth caps."
Dean bit back a retort about how they were not rubbing their heads on surgical sites, and that disposable caps would make no difference and were stupid besides. "So we're off the hook?"
Dr. Henricksen shot Dean a long-suffering look. "Wait until the report is official, Winchester. I still need to check the biologicals on the autoclaves for all the instruments you used. One of them might be faulty. And the patient's family could still be well within their rights to sue for misfeasance."
"Who?" Dr. Novak asked suddenly.
"Pardon?" Dr. Henricksen asked.
"Who is the family I put into bereavement?" Dr. Novak clarified.
"Doc," Dean said warningly under his breath. Either the surgeon didn't hear or was pretending he hadn't.
"As I understand it, she's survived only by her granddaughter," Dr. Henricksen replied.
Dr. Novak nodded, setting his jaw. "Right. Are we done here?"
He didn't wait for an answer before standing up and pushing out of the room. Dean stared after him for a moment before sharing a glance with Ellen and following.
III
"Doc."
"Dean."
Dr. Novak didn't turn; with his back to Dean, it was impossible to tell that anything was wrong. He sounded perfectly calm. The set of his shoulders was firm, controlled. Even the hands resting on the rails of the balcony were relaxed, not white-knuckled as they gripped the metal.
Dean knew better. He was well-practiced enough at hiding in plain sight to know when someone else was doing it, even if they did it well.
"You need a drink."
It wasn't a question, but Dr. Novak answered it anyway. "I need several."
Dean nodded. "It's payday. I'm buying."
Dr. Novak's shoulders rose and fell once as he took a deep breath. Dean waited, a vague anticipatory quiver snaking through him.
"Okay."
IV
"Did she need the surgery?"
Dr. Novak blinked blearily at him from across the table. "What?"
Dean gestured with his empty shot glass. "In your professional opinion, as a doctor, did she need the surgery?"
"She was in constant pain," Dr. Novak hedged.
"That isn't what I asked."
"She could have lived without it." A brittle, self-loathing grin spanned Dr. Novak's face. "Would have lived without it."
"In constant pain," Dean pointed out, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from where Dr. Novak was determined to drive it. "You advised her to get the surgery – which was the right thing for her."
"I advised her granddaughter, actually," Dr. Novak admitted. "Victoria had dementia. Her granddaughter was just trying to find a way to make her grandmother more comfortable."
"Okay," Dean said quickly, snapping his fingers in Dr. Novak's face to keep him from lowering it into his hands again. "The surgery was necessary for the diagnosis. Do we agree on that?"
Mutely, Dr. Novak nodded.
"Doc, you may recall that I was there. That case went flawlessly. Everything was beautiful. And everything was sterile." Dean thumped the table, making Dr. Novak jump. "I'm damn good at what I do. If it turns out that your patient – Victoria, right? If it turns out that Victoria died because of contaminated instruments…" He shook his head. "I know I don't have as much at stake as you. I could lick every instrument in that pan and legally it'd be on you, since surg techs don't get licenses. But, Doc." Dean wanted to reach out and forcibly lift Dr. Novak's chin to prevent him from studying the wood grain of the table again. He didn't. "You and I – we did a good job. Documentation shows that. We've got everything on our side except you."
"I don't even know her name," Dr. Novak said in a low voice. "I took her grandmother away from her and I can't even remember her name."
The thick walls of the shot glass were all that saved it from shattering as Dean slammed it down on the table. "Dammit, Cas!" The rest of the bar hushed by a fraction as Dr. Novak looked up in utter surprise at the use of his name. Dean resisted the urge to swallow as the surgeon's eyes met his. "You did the right thing, for the right reasons. Just because it went to hell doesn't mean it turned into the wrong thing. You did the right thing, and it is not your fault that bad things happened." Dean broke the gaze to glance in the direction of the door. "You don't believe me, I'm not gonna stop you if you leave. But if you stay, it means you're willing to let me convince you of that."
The background noise of the bar had resumed its normal volume, but it seemed somehow softer around the edges, as though the only sounds that mattered were what crossed the table at their booth in the corner. Dr. Novak's brows furrowed slightly. "Dean," he said slowly, "why do you care?"
Dean blinked. "What?"
Gesturing at the seat Dean occupied, Dr. Novak sat up a little straighter. "Why are you here, wasting your Friday night, trying to talk me into admitting what I already logically know?" Dr. Novak let his hand fall to the table with a dull thud. "I know everything you're telling me. I've been saying it to myself all week. Why are you spending your precious time repeating what I already know?"
Dean leaned forward on his elbows. "Because clearly, you're not getting the message." The surgeon's eyes were a deep, clouded blue in this light, and Dean tried to force every ounce of sincerity into both his voice and his gaze. "You're a good surgeon. Probably the best I've worked with. And honestly, it would kill me to sit back and watch you beat yourself up over something that, I will say again and again until you fucking hear me, is not your fault."
Dr. Novak stared blankly for several heartbeats before his eyes slowly looked to the door. A sickening, falling sensation gripped at Dean's chest as Dr. Novak stood and walked away from the table, the sound of his footsteps lost to the clamor of the bar around them. He didn't turn to watch the surgeon go, opting instead to watch the reflection of the lights and action of the bar in the curve of the shot glass.
V
Two thick-walled tumblers made a crystalline thunk on the table, their amber contents splashing against the sides and clinging in a film before draining back to the bottom of the glass. Dean straightened from his reverie, startled, looking up in disbelief.
"Convince me." Dr. Novak slid onto the bench across from Dean, thrusting one of the tumblers across the table. "Because I think you're the only one who could, and I know you're the only one who would."