I blink awake slowly, immensely confused and stunned by the blinding pain that spikes through my head. My face is pressed against something cool and soft, and I realize suddenly that I'm upside-down and swinging gently from side to side and something is gripping my legs. I want to panic but can't summon up enough energy.
The swinging motion is disrupted and my head bobs, smacking into whatever it is I'm up against. Pain erupts in my temple again and this time I groan. The swinging stops abruptly and my head connects twice before stopping, and damn it hurts.
"Sam?" It's a gruff voice, low, and I moan again as I feel myself being moved, then I'm on my back on the ground and I finally grasp that someone was carrying me.
"Dad?" I ask, my vision too blurry to make out the face in front of me.
"No Sammy, Dean," the person says, and that makes sense to me. Still.
"Where's Dad?" It slurs a bit as I ask it, and I can imagine Dean frowning in worry, forehead crinkling between his eyes.
"Sam…Dad's dead. Two weeks ago. Can't you remember?" I realize that Dean sounds more than worried, sad maybe, or in pain, and then I do remember. I remember Dean being hurt, dying, and Dad…We'd both figured out pretty quickly that Dean's miraculous recovery and Dad's sudden death were related. I remember Dean's words, too. "Dead things should stay dead, Sam."
Yeah, I remember. Dad's dead and Dean thinks it's his fault. And we're stuck out in the middle of a forest, a hunt gone wrong, what's new, and my head hurts like a bitch and I can't even think straight.
"Sammy? Do you think you can walk?" I think about it for a minute, knowing the answer is pretty much no, but I grunt something that I hope sounds like yes. Dean gently hefts my left arm over his shoulder, and I remember then that my right arm is dangling uselessly by my side. As if in response to this remembering, pain flares up there, too. Great.
Dean pulls me upright and the moment I stand pseudo-vertically the world starts spinning crazily. I lurch uncertainly, careening to the side. Dean makes a strange strangled sound as he struggles to keep me standing but it ends up being all he can do to help me to the ground without painfully dropping me.
"S'rry," I slur, just before a wave of nausea overwhelms me and I retch. Dean mumbles something, but I'm too preoccupied to pay much attention to him, let alone comprehend whatever it is he's saying. I lay there a moment, catching my breath, then I'm being lifted. This time, I my arm is tucked around his neck, my head nestled by his shoulder, his arms under my legs. He's carrying me like a girl.
I must have blacked out, because now I blink my eyes open again. The pain isn't so bad this time and I can think a bit more clearly. It isn't pleasant. All I can think about is that we were distracted on this hunt, a simple haunting that honestly should have caused us no trouble ended up going down the toilet, because neither of us could think straight. It's Dad's fault.
He left us on our own. I mean, I know that it isn't like he hasn't left us before, Dean and I were hunting alone for a good while before we caught up with him. But he was still there, still a phone call –or two or three- away from us. And his leaving broke Dean, as surely as if he'd picked my brother up and torn him in half. Bastard.
The rhythmic movement I've grown so used to stutters suddenly, and with a pang I realize that Dean doesn't sound right. Something just sounds…wrong. His breathing is wheezing and labored and with horror I notice the wetness under my cheek. I bring my broken hand up, damn it hurts, and tentatively touch his chest. Definitely wet. And I know what it is. Holy shit, Dean.
"Dean," I say, but he continues to plod forward, and I notice that he's limping badly. How the hell could I have missed all of this? But the continuous pounding in my head answers that. "Dean," I repeat, desperate to get him to stop. He stumbles, nearly going down, and I hear a small whimper despite his obvious attempts to bite it back. I feel myself being lowered to the ground, landing impossibly gently on soft grass, then look up to see my brother's hulking shape above me.
"Dean," I say again, and this time it seems to register.
"Sammy," Dean whispers, and the tone of his voice scares the crap out of me. "I'm sorry." I blink in confusion just as Dean crumples to the ground. It's like slow motion, his knees giving out and hitting the ground and then his torso and then his head, smacking next to me.
"Dean, come on, answer me!" I mutter, crawling to his side. He's pale in the moonlight, lips parted slightly, eyes closed. His breathing is slight and shallow, and the blood covering his torso is made horrifyingly clear. I swallow back tears and panic and try to figure out where he's hurt, but my hands are shaking and I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat again.
"Please, God, help me," I whisper, because I'm terrified. My head hurts like hell and my wrist is sending flares of agony up and down, but I know that I'll live. Dean, on the other hand…What if I'm here alone? Left behind by everyone I know and love, alone with all the darkness that most people are oblivious to or simply ignore…I can't do it. There's no way.
I don't try to hold back the next round of vomiting, and tears mix with it as I heave. Everything is spinning again and there's blackness infringing on my vision but I can't bring myself to care, and then everything's gone.
xxxx
I wake up to the familiar and unmistakable feel of a hospital. Same white sheets, same annoying IV and beeping heart rate monitor, same bland walls and floors. I gingerly touch my head, feeling the bandage there, lift the heavily casted right wrist with a grimace. Turning to the chair next to the bed, I'm surprised that Dean isn't camped out in it. Must be getting a coffee…Oh, shit. Dean.
I hit the call button on my head, slamming it again and again until a flustered and angry looking nurse comes into the door.
"What do you need?" She asks, fakely sweet. I know she hates my guts right now. I don't care.
"Where's my brother?" I demand, and she raises an eyebrow.
"Mister Schneider," she starts, and that must have been the fake ID we had, "Maybe he just went to get a drink, or to take a shower." I have no time for this shit.
"My brother, the one who was brought in with me!" Suddenly I realize that it could have been just me. I have no idea how in the hell I got here, and the thought petrifies me. What if Dean was left out there? Or he's dead? No, no way, no. He's here. The nurse looks at me and steps out of the room, talking with someone. When she steps back in, she's smiling.
"He's here, Winston," she says, and I have to hold back an eye roll. Dean and his stupid names. "He's in the room next to yours. He's recovering nicely from his surgery." I blanch. Surgery? Damn. I want to ask questions, demand to know exactly how he is and how we got here, but that's not the number one priority right now.
"I want to see him." The nurse shakes her head, and I glare. "I want to see him, now."
Five minutes later, they wheel me next to Dean's bed, and I take his heavily IV'd hand in mine. I look at his sleeping form, and I promise to myself and to him that I'll be there when he wakes up. I'll always be there when he wakes up.
