Chapter 9
The drive to the motel passed in something of a blur for Dean. He followed Dr. Sinclair's silver BMW for the five-minute trip, driving the Impala mostly on muscle memory, and checked himself and Sam in basically on autopilot.
It had been a long few days for Dean. He'd been in South Carolina when he called Sam to say he was coming to Blue Springs, and was worn out from the cross-country drive before he even rolled into town. So by this point - early Wednesday morning - Dean could reasonably be mistaken for the walking dead. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his hair hadn't seen a comb in days, and he needed a shower and some clean clothes. Desperately.
The young woman sitting at the reception desk barely looked up from her glossy gossip magazine as she checked him in. For once in his life, Dean didn't mind that - if she didn't look up, she wouldn't notice the fact he was covered in dirt and dried blood. This was a very good thing, because the only explanation he'd come up with thus far in his emotionally exhausted, sleep-deprived state was "It's okay, the blood isn't mine". Even half-dead as he was, Dean knew that wasn't his best work. If those words actually came out of his mouth, they'd probably get him arrested.
Dean managed to keep his aliases straight as he filled in the little check-in card ('James Hetfield' was checking in today) and paid for the room in cash. His brain was still functional enough to remind him that he shouldn't leave a paper trail by swiping one of their credit cards. Although the way John had drilled that sort of thing into his sons, that probably qualified as muscle memory too.
Dean had specifically requested a pretty out-of-the-way room; again, because that's what John taught him to do when they needed to hide. It was so out-of-the-way that you couldn't see it, or its parking spot, from the road; Dean wasn't about to let the Impala out of his sight while Sam was recuperating, but he didn't want her visible to passers-by either. Anyone looking for the Winchester boys would know immediately whose car it was.
It was harder to move the heavily-sedated Sam without the wheelchair, but Brad and Dean managed to get him inside and into one of the two queen-size beds without doing him any further damage. When he was satisfied Sam was safely ensconced under the covers of the bed farthest from the front door, Dean left his little brother in Dr. Sinclair's capable hands and ran across the road to 7-Eleven for some supplies.
The cashier glanced at Dean's bloodied shirt as he rang up a few bags worth of items, including two 3lb bags of salt and a huge foil bag of ground coffee, but if he noticed the bloodstains he didn't show it. Nevertheless, Dean casually pulled his jacket closed and tried to look non-threatening as he handed over some more of his hard-earned cash.
This guy's probably used to pretending he doesn't see stuff like that, Dean told himself as he walked away from the counter towards the automatic glass doors, but glanced over his shoulder when he got outside just to make sure the cashier wasn't calling the cops. He wasn't; he was over by the in-store microwave, showing a customer how to heat up a breakfast burrito. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and hightailed it back across the road before the cashier could think about it some more and change his mind.
By the time he got back to the motel room, Brad had Sam settled in. The youngest Winchester was laying on his back, head resting on a nicely-fluffed pillow, completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. An aluminium IV stand stood to the right of his bed, and the chest tube collection canister was on the left, sitting on the floor and taped to the leg of the nightstand. A small amount of bloody fluid ran down into it as Dean watched.
Honestly, he was pleasantly surprised to see how comfortable Sam looked, cleaned up and laying in a real bed. The covers were pulled up to his chest and his arms rested by his sides on top of the dark blue bedspread, covered in white bandages, dressings and the fresh white plaster on his left forearm. Dean knew the only reason his baby brother looked peaceful was because he was medicated up to his eyeballs, but if he could push that thought to the back of his mind, Sam could almost be sleeping. And Dean could deal with that.
Dr. Sinclair spent the next fifteen minutes walking Dean through everything he'd need to do for Sam until he was well enough to get out of bed. Pain relief, medication, wound care - things Dean had never thought he'd need to know, and some things he wished he didn't. For instance, until Dr. Sinclair told him, Dean hadn't realised that the clear plastic bag hanging from the knob on the bottom drawer of Sam's nightstand was the collection container for a urinary catheter.
Dean took in every word, though, and even made notes. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Sam, and he was sure as hell going to get this right. Sam's life literally depended on it. But that wasn't going to stop Dean actively trying to forget all about catheters and nasogastric feeding tubes the second his little brother could get out of bed.
When he was satisfied Dean was as prepared as he could make him, Dr. Sinclair left the Winchester boys alone in the motel room with instructions to call if anything changed, and headed home for a few hours' sleep. He'd assured Dean he was going to come back that night, but that didn't stop the eldest Winchester feeling very alone and out of his depth as he shut and locked the door.
Dean stood with his back against the door and sighed as he looked around the room that would be home for the foreseeable future. It was nothing special - just your average, unremarkable Midwest motel room. The walls were a yellowed beige so nondescript that Dean refused to even think of it as a colour, and a couple of generic American wilderness prints hung about the beds. Presumably they'd been intended to break up the taupe monotony, but they were so full of sandy and brown tones that they kind of blended into the dull expanse of the walls.
The floor was covered in a hard-wearing, short pile carpet that was very similar in colour to the gravel carpark outside, and beginning to get threadbare around the bathroom and at the front door. The furniture was pretty simple: mass-produced from cheap pine, or chipboard covered liberally with wood-grain laminate. Functional, and sturdy enough, but clearly not chosen for its visual appeal.
The beds were to Dean's left as he stood in the doorway, and to the right there was a small kitchenette with a slate-pattern linoleum floor, worn straw-coloured benchtops, a small fridge, a stove/oven, a microwave, and - thank Christ - a coffeemaker. The place mightn't be particularly roomy, or especially well-appointed, but it was quiet, clean, the door locked securely and heavy curtains covered the well-framed windows. All in all, a decent place to hole up until Sam was in good enough shape to travel. God knows, they'd stayed in worse.
"Right, Sammy," Dean said, clapping his hands together as he stepped away from the door, "hope you like it here, because it's gonna be home until you can get up and walk out the door." He knew he was basically talking to himself, because Sam was all but comatose, but it broke the heavy early-morning silence and just the fact that he was talking to his baby brother made Dean feel a little better.
He went over to the kitchen table, where he'd dumped his shopping from 7-Eleven, and picked up one of the 3lb bags of salt. He sliced a corner off the bag with his pocketknife and started salting the narrow sill of the window by Sam's bed.
"So what if you can't hear me?" Dean said conversationally, checking the immediate area outside through the glass as he poured the salt. He didn't see anyone. "Can't sit here in silence for-" Dean paused for a second, briefly wondering exactly how long it would be before Sam woke up, "for however long you're gonna be playing Sleeping Beauty." he said, finishing the line across the windowsill. Sam of course didn't stir, and Dean took the bag of salt to the window by the front door and started a nice, thick line there too.
"I mean, people talk to pets. They even talk to plants." Dean paused again as he heard himself comparing Sam to a plant for the second time in a matter of hours. "You'd better not stay out more than a couple of days, Sammy. I might drive myself round the bend if I've only got me to talk to," he said drily, not entirely joking, and moved on to the front door. He poured an inch-wide line of salt across the threshold of the room, starting a couple of inches to the left of the doorframe and finishing the same distance beyond the right. Better safe than sorry; demons and other supernatural nasties usually tried the door first.
After he'd secured the room with salt lines, the next thing Dean did was sit down at the little yellow-laminate kitchen table and call Bobby. He'd phoned last night from the clinic to say he had Sam and that he was going to live, but Dean knew the older hunter would want to know how Sam was and where they'd holed up. And talking to Bobby was better than talking to himself.
As it turned out Bobby was on the road, driving to Blue Springs to clean out Sam's motel room. That meant he didn't want to get into a long conversation about the exact events that took place in the warehouse when Dean turned up to get Sam, for which Dean was extremely grateful.
Dean had already given Bobby a basic rundown of the previous night's events, and the older hunter knew none of Sam's kidnappers had made it out alive, but Dean hadn't said any more than that. And he really didn't feel like explaining over the phone exactly why and how he'd killed three people in under ten minutes.
"You sound terrible, son," Bobby said, a note of concern in his voice. Just because he wasn't asking for details about Dean's daring rescue didn't mean there weren't other things he wanted to talk about.
"And that makes me feel so much better. Thanks." Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair.
"How long since you got any real rest?"
Dean paused to think for a second, genuinely unsure when he'd last had a full night's sleep, and Bobby continued speaking before he could get a word out.
"Exactly my point. You make sure you get some rest, Dean - you're no good to Sam if you're dead on your feet. Get some shuteye and stay sharp, you hear?" Bobby's voice was stern, and reminded Dean vaguely of John when he gave an order. He instinctively felt like he should obey.
"Yes sir." Dean replied, only a touch of half-hearted sarcasm creeping into his tone. Right now, sleep was a very attractive proposition - given the chance, Dean reckoned he could probably sleep for a week. You know, if he didn't have an unconscious little brother to look after.
"You want me to extend this little road trip of mine and bring you Sam's things?"
Dean sighed. "Better not - we don't know who might be watching." As much as he'd love some help looking after Sam, it was too risky. "We can fend for ourselves until Sam's ready to move, and the second he can travel we're getting the hell outta Dodge and making a beeline for your place. Hang onto Sammy's stuff and we'll come to you."
Although God knows when that'll be, Dean thought, looking at his sedated baby brother. Not anytime soon, that was for damn sure.
"Be careful, Dean. Keep your eyes open." Bobby knew he didn't need to say it, but he did anyway. There was a short bark of bitter laughter from Dean's end of the line.
"Nothing and no-one is coming near my little brother again, Bobby." There was a hard edge to Dean's voice that made Bobby's heart ache. Even from 100 miles away, he could tell Dean was blaming himself for Sam's current predicament - he'd known that's what would happen the second Dean had called to say his little brother was missing. It was standard operating procedure for big brother Dean to shoulder the guilt, whether real or perceived, whenever Sam got into trouble.
"You know this whole mess ain't your fault, right?" he said anyway, and Dean sniffed. He obviously didn't agree.
"Yeah, whatever you say. I'll call when something changes." Dean hung up before Bobby got a chance to work the "it's not your fault" angle some more, and went over to start the coffeemaker. He filled the cold water reservoir and moved to go and get the coffee, but turned around to find Cas standing silently right behind him.
"Holy crap, Cas!" Dean took an involuntary, stumbling step back, crashing into the lip of the kitchen bench. "I told you not to do that!" he gasped, rubbing at the sore spot on his lower back. That's gonna bruise, dammit!
Castiel blinked, regarding Dean with that oblique, mildly perplexed expression he seemed to get a lot around the Winchesters. But he took a step back and out of Dean's personal space.
"Hey, here's an idea - next time, why don't you materialise outside and ring the freaking doorbell?" Dean continued, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly as he leaned back against the bench and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Castiel blinked again, and knit his brows as he took in Dean's rumpled clothes, bloodshot eyes and general state of exhaustion. "I'll remember that next time," he said sedately, and Dean's eyes came up to meet his in a half-hearted glare. Then he straightened and his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the angel.
"How'd you find us?" he asked, images of Sam's sigil-clouded chest x-rays coming to mind.
"I visited Bobby and he told me where you were. Is Sam all right?" Cas asked, genuinely concerned. He didn't mention how Bobby had been driving at the time, and had nearly run his Chevelle off the road when Cas had suddenly appeared in the passenger seat.
"No, Cas, Sam isn't all right." Dean said wearily, his voice a little harsher than the question probably deserved. He glanced over Cas' shoulder, and the angel turned to see for himself. He looked shocked at the extent of Sam's injuries.
"If I could heal him, I would," he said, quietly, and Dean let out a little snort of derisive laughter. Cas turned to look at him, that perplexed expression back on his face: as usual, the angel hadn't grasped the sarcasm.
Dean noticed the look and sighed. "Cas, if you could heal him, I would've taken you with me to the warehouse and Sam would've been able to walk out of there." His tone was slightly bitter as he turned away and yanked the glass pot from the bottom of the coffee maker, and he could feel Cas' eyes on his back as he rinsed it with hot water from the kitchen sink. Cleaning the kitchen appliances in their random motel rooms before using them was a habit of Sam's that had rubbed off on Dean.
When he looked up, Cas was watching him. The expression on his face was unreadable, and he looked like he might be studying a particularly complex, detailed painting on the wall of a gallery somewhere. "Bobby told me what you had to do to get Sam," he said simply, and Dean immediately looked away.
"And?" he asked, deliberately avoiding eye contact as he slid the coffee pot slowly back into place.
"And you did what you had to do." Cas replied, furrowing his brow. He could see Dean was upset, but he didn't quite understand why. "They don't deserve your sympathy, Dean. They were going to torture Sam to death, and likely you as well."
"That's not what bothers me," Dean said slowly, after a long pause. I must be crazy, talking about feelings with an angel. But he continued nonetheless.
"It's not that they're dead - I would've lined them up against the wall and shot them one after the other," he continued, turning to face Castiel, and saw the angel raise his eyebrows slightly. Even Dean was surprised he'd actually said that out loud. "For payback, yeah, but also for insurance. They would've come for Sam again, and me too, and I wasn't about to let that happen. That's a no-brainer." Dean looked past Cas and over at Sam.
"Then why are you upset?"
Dean finally met Cas' eyes, and saw the angel genuinely didn't understand what the problem was. "Because Sam shouldn't have been there in the first place. He should've been with me instead of off on his own in some random town without any backup. Without anyone to look out for him." Dean confessed, quieter, and Cas finally understood what was going on: Dean was blaming himself for Sam's current condition. He thought he should have been there to protect his baby brother.
"I abandoned him, Cas." Dean sighed, and leaned against the kitchen bench with his arms crossed tight over his chest. "I left him alone, with no-one to watch his back. This is my fault." He looked at Sam, so still and pale, and took a shaky breath. "And I should've found a way to get to him sooner. Those bastards had him for a whole day, while I was sitting around in Kansas City with my thumb up my ass." Dean growled, closing his eyes as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a headache as a vague but increasing pressure about an inch behind his forehead. Great - just what I need.
Cas just looked at him silently, not sure what to say. Dean was entirely unsurprised. "It's okay, Cas, I don't expect you to get it." He exhaled slowly, and went over to the table to retrieve the bag of ground coffee. As an afterthought, he shook a couple of Aspirin out of the bottle he'd bought and swallowed them dry before he went back over to the coffeemaker.
"From what I understand, you did everything you could." Cas offered, after a pause.
"You think?" Dean scoffed, almost slamming the bag of coffee down on the bench before he started tearing at the seal with his fingernails. This is what I get for talking about emotions with a freaking angel! He reached for his pocketknife again, silently cursing the irrationally strong adhesive that was holding his caffeine hit hostage in its foil prison.
"I think Sam couldn't have stayed with you, and you'd both likely be in worse trouble if he had. And what more could you have done to find Sam when those hunters actively concealed their location?" the angel went on, and Dean stopped what he was doing and looked up at him in surprise. That was a much more insightful response than he'd expected from Cas.
Dean looked over at Sam, chewing slightly on his bottom lip. He knew intellectually that Cas was right, but somehow that didn't make the older Winchester feel any less guilty. It was his job to look after Sam, and he'd screwed it up (again) - no matter how much his brain said it wasn't his fault, Dean's conscience screamed louder that he should have found a way to protect his baby brother. He looked back down at the bag of coffee, frowning, and sliced the seal open with his knife.
Cas didn't stick around long - he'd barely been in the room a couple of minutes before the ongoing battle to avert the Apocalypse and save the world required his attention. He vanished with the customary rustle of feathers, leaving Dean alone with his freshly-opened bag of coffee.
"Always nice to see you, Cas," Dean said to no-one in particular, and left the coffee to go and sit on his bed. He leaned forward with a sigh, resting his elbows on his thighs, and just looked at his baby brother.
Apart from the wounds that littered his arms and chest and the bruising on his face, and now that he wasn't in pain and struggling to breathe, Sam looked comfortable in his deep, drug-induced sleep. Dean was still thinking of Sam's current condition as 'sleep', even though it was more of an induced coma. 'Sleep' was much less confronting.
"Well, Sammy, the doc says he's going to keep you out for the next few days - gives your body time to start healing, apparently," he said, trying to ignore the feeling that he was talking to himself, and also the slight echo of his words in the silent room. Dean wanted nothing more than for Sam to be awake and talking back, but Sam was definitely more comfortable the way he was - the second his little brother woke up, he was going to be in pain. It's better this way, he told himself, and tried to believe it.
"I know, it's ridiculous, right? We haven't seen each other in months, so another couple of days shouldn't make that much of a difference." Dean tried to sound upbeat even though he knew these last couple of days had made one helluva big difference. "I wanna know how you were doing, Sam. I mean, do you still want demon blood? Do you want to start hunting again?" Even as he was talking, Dean couldn't quite believe he'd let himself lose track of his baby brother so completely. Again.
When Sam left for Stanford, Dean hadn't made much of an effort to keep in contact. The odd phone call, maybe once every six months, but that was about all. Then, when he came to get Sam to help look for their dad, Dean had found a completely different person to the one that left almost two years earlier. It had actually taken a couple of days for Dean to get to know his little brother again, and at the time he'd sworn that he would never let that happen again.
So much for that.
"Guess I should've called earlier, huh?" Dean forced out a strained chuckle, blinking back tears. A few days earlier, and Owen and Ray would've had two Winchesters to deal with.
And Sam would be sitting next to you in the Impala, instead of laying on death's freaking doorstep.
"I shouldn't have left you alone, Sammy. I should've been there to keep an eye on my little brother. I would've noticed these guys hunting you and put them out of business before you even knew they existed." Dean closed his eyes and sighed.
No matter how much Bobby and Cas tried to convince him otherwise, Dean knew deep down that some of the blame for Sam's current condition was on him. If he'd paid closer attention, instead of just getting his news second-hand from Bobby… he could have saved his baby brother from the hell Owen and Ray had put him through. Dean had made some pretty big mistakes in his life, but this one was going to haunt him.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean said softly, and rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand as he yawned. Those three hours of restless sleep on the hard gurney hadn't done anything to recharge his batteries, and he'd given up on the coffeemaker so he hadn't had his morning caffeine either.
He glanced over at the digital clock on his nightstand, and had to squint slightly with his sore, tired eyes to read the luminous numbers - just after 7am. As much as Dean hated to admit it, Bobby was right - if he was going to be of any use to Sam, he was going to have to get some sleep first. Sam wouldn't need any more medication for hours yet, so Dr. Sinclair had said, and Dean's bed was unexpectedly soft and comfortable...
Dean didn't even bother to get out of his clothes. He just put his phone on the nightstand, kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed, taking one last look at Sam before he closed his eyes and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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True to his word, Dr Sinclair came by each morning and night for the next two days to check on Sam, bringing fresh IV bags, nasogastric feeding mixture, and meds. Mostly it was antibiotics, sedatives and pain relief; but on Friday evening, he finally brought something to wake Sam up.
When Brad pulled up at the motel he found Dean sitting outside, well away from the fluorescent light above the door, smoking a cigarette. "Didn't think you were a smoker." he observed, getting a cardboard box out of the back seat of his Beamer.
"'m not." Dean replied, around the cigarette. He took one last, long drag and then ground the butt into the concrete with the toe of his boot.
"Uh huh." Brad arched an eyebrow as he looked pointedly at the small tobacco-stained mound, in amongst a couple of packs' worth of similar mounds.
"Cigarettes help with the stress, okay?" Dean sighed, rubbing his left hand over his face. "I can't drink, 'cause I've gotta stay sharp for Sam, so smoking's the next best thing."
"I'm not judging, Dean," Brad replied simply, and Dean blinked in surprise.
"Gotta say, doc, I was expecting a lecture." he admitted, and Dr. Sinclair smiled.
"When Sam's up and around, he'll lecture enough for the both of us. I'll leave it to him." He was pleased to see that got a little smile from Dean - it had been nearly three days since he'd brought Sam to Columbus on the brink of death, and the eldest Winchester looked more exhausted now than he had that night. He could do with a little levity.
"How is Sam?" Brad continued, following Dean as he turned and went back into the motel room. The doctor was careful not to disturb the salt line at the front door as he went inside.
"He hasn't moved a muscle, doc." Dean stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, and watched as Dr. Sinclair checked Sam's vital signs and the chest tube site. He always hovered when Brad was checking on Sam, and couldn't help but wince whenever he saw the chest tube incision - it was by far the cleanest and neatest of Sam's wounds, but it looked like it would hurt like hell.
"He's looking okay," Brad assured Dean, checking the capillary refill in the hand on Sam's broken arm. "His heart rate, blood pressure and breathing are good, his temperature is almost normal, and there's virtually no fluid draining from his chest." He pulled a new bag of saline out of the cardboard box and began swapping it with Sam's nearly-empty one.
Dean could read between the lines - he understood what Brad was saying. "You're going to wake him up, aren't you?" he asked, uncertainly.
The doctor threw the empty IV bag into the trash and pulled his latex gloves off. "There's no reason to keep him sedated now. He's starting to get better."
Dean took a long, slow breath - he knew this should've been good news. He should be happy. But instead, there was a little flutter of uncertainty in his stomach.
Although Dean wanted nothing more than for his baby brother to wake up and tell him he was okay, there was a persistent little voice in the back of his mind that kept asking unsettling questions, such as "What if he isn't okay?" and "What if he doesn't wake up?" Things Dean really didn't want to consider and had been doing his best to put out of his mind. Now that the moment was here, Dean suddenly had an overwhelming urge to tell Brad to keep Sam unconscious.
Dr. Sinclair saw all that play out on Dean's face. "It's time to wake him up, Dean. We can't keep him sedated forever," he said gently, and Dean closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Deep down, he knew that.
Sam's already been out for nearly three days, and you can't put it off any longer. Time to bite the bullet.
"Okay. Let's do it." He sighed, and went over to sit by Sam's left side.
Dr. Sinclair stood on the other side of the bed, by the IV stand, and took a syringe out of his familiar black padded case before he spoke. "I want you to be prepared, Dean - when he comes round, Sam's going to be disoriented and probably in some pain," he said, choosing his words carefully. Dean's head snapped up, and his eyes locked on the doctor - that was not what he'd wanted to hear.
Dr. Sinclair held one hand up, palm out, in a placating gesture before Dean could speak. "He's still got some morphine in his system, but after I reverse the sedation it's probably not going to be enough. I have a larger dose right here," he indicated another syringe on the nightstand, "but it'll put him straight back to sleep for a few hours, and I want him to be fully awake before I give it to him. Just to see how he is." Brad continued, still cherry-picking his words.
He was trying not to come right out and say it, but what he really meant was "I want to make sure Sam's brain isn't mush". Dean understood that perfectly, but didn't say anything. He just looked back down at Sam, frowning, and took a few deep breaths.
"When Sam comes around, you need to be right in his field of vision. If he sees a familiar face, he'll be less likely to panic and hurt himself." Dr. Sinclair added, turning off all the lights in the room except the lamp on the nightstand - Sam's eyes would be sensitive to light after three days' sedation.
Dean sat wordlessly on the bed and moved to take Sam's hand, but with the cast in the way, he had to settle for laying his hand on an uninjured section of forearm. Sam's skin was much cooler now the infection was under control.
"I'm going to give him the medication now. Are you ready?" Dr. Sinclair asked, and Dean nodded tersely. He wasn't, really, but waiting an extra couple of minutes wasn't going to change that.
"Just do it."
Brad injected the medication into Sam's IV before Dean could change his mind, then stood back silently and just watched.
It was half a minute before the drug started to take effect, and Dean took a sharp breath when he saw Sam's eyelids flutter. Then his whole body tensed and he let out a low moan of pain. His breathing suddenly became shallow little gasps as his broken ribs announced their presence, and his eyes flew open as the pain brought him suddenly and cruelly back to consciousness.
"Sam? You okay?" Dean asked, looking anxiously down at his little brother. His eyes locked on Dean's, and he blinked a couple of times.
"De..." Sam tried to speak, his voice a dry whisper, but he didn't have enough breath in his lungs to finish the word. His eyes, still on his big brother, were dull and bleary and ringed by dark circles that stood out against his pale skin. He looked confused and terrified.
"I'm here, Sammy." Dean gripped his arm a little tighter, wishing he could do something more. Sam shut his eyes as he tried to take a proper breath, and Dean saw little beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
Sam's eyes suddenly flew open again and started anxiously scanning the room - his brain had started ticking over, trying to work out where he was. He started to try and push himself up into a sitting position, but the explosion of pain throughout his body stopped him almost immediately. Sam collapsed back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a little 'O' of shock, and Dean felt him start to tremble. The kid looked like he was in agony.
Sam opened his eyes again a few seconds later, looking desperately up at his big brother. Dean could see the carotid artery pulsing in his neck and his heart was obviously racing. "Hurts." Sam whispered, his voice strained. Dean felt his stomach tying itself into painful knots; it physically hurt him to see his baby brother in so much pain. He couldn't leave Sam like this.
Dean looked up at Dr. Sinclair, silently pleading with him to put Sam out again, and Sam turned his head slightly to follow his brother's line of sight. He furrowed his brow when he saw Brad, like his face was familiar but Sam couldn't quite place it. Then he saw the syringe in the doctor's hand and his face creased into a frown.
"Whassat?" he asked softly, a note of alarm in his voice. His eyes widened as he watched Brad remove the needle's plastic cap.
"It's okay, Sammy. It'll make you feel better." Dean told him soothingly, squeezing his arm. Sam grit his teeth and tried to reach out to stop the doctor injecting the contents of the syringe into his IV, but his face twisted in pain as he moved, and his arm dropped back onto his midsection. He let out a pained cry as the impact aggravated the fractures in his wrist and pelvis.
"It's all right, Sam," Dean gently put Sam's arm back by his side, then held up a hand to Brad. "Hold on a sec." The doctor frowned, but paused before he injected the morphine.
"Sam." Dean squeezed his brother's forearm, but Sam's eyes were still locked on the syringe. "Look at me, Sammy." Dean reached out and turned his head gently. Sam's gaze settled on his face, his bleary hazel eyes still wide, pupils dilated from a combination of the dark room and the pain he was obviously in.
"You're in a motel in Columbus, Missouri. We're safe here - no-one's coming after you. You're going to be okay." Dean said, firmly and clearly. Sam blinked, his foggy brain struggling to absorb that, but Dean felt some of the tension leave his body. Sam understood what he was saying, and it was definitely calming him down.
"I'm looking after you, Sammy. It's all right." he went on, and Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. "Okay." Dean took a deep breath. "You don't have to worry - that syringe has morphine in it. It's going to make you feel better." he said, and Sam gave another small nod. A look of relief flashed across his face, and he visibly relaxed now that he knew what was going on.
Brad took that as his cue, and injected the morphine into Sam's IV. The clear liquid ran down the tubing into the back of his hand, and his racing heart started pumping it towards his central nervous system. Dean kept his eyes on Sam's until they started to flutter closed, then his breathing got deeper and slower, and he drifted off to sleep again. Dean got up off the bed and studied him with a hand pressed to his mouth, his own heart hammering in his chest.
"He woke up." Dean said to himself, running the hand back over his hair as a small smile touched his lips. He could hardly believe it, but Sam had woken up. Opened his eyes and actually spoken. He was sore, yeah, but Sam was in there!
"Feeling better, are we?" Brad asked, a smile on his face too. Dean couldn't help but grin as he looked back down at Sam, sleeping peacefully again, then sat heavily back on his own bed.
"He's okay." Dean sighed, and the relief showed in his voice. Knowing his little brother was (more or less) all right was like a physical weight lifted off his shoulders.
He paused before he went on, watching Brad take Sam's pulse and blood pressure again. "I wondered if... you know, maybe they might have done some permanent damage." He chose his words carefully and didn't put too fine a point on it, but Brad understood what Dean meant. The same thought had crossed the doctor's mind: that maybe Owen and Ray had broken something inside Sam's head, physically or psychologically, and that Sam might not be Sam when he woke up. If he woke up at all.
"Only time will tell for sure, but honestly, your brother is doing as well as we could expect - better, even. I'm impressed he was able to carry on a conversation, such as it was," the doctor replied, gathering up his things and looking down at Sam once more before he started for the front door.
"He should come around again in a few hours, but he won't be so groggy and the morphine should keep the pain at bay for a while after that. I'm heading straight into work right now, but call me if there's any drama. Otherwise, I'll be back tomorrow morning." Dr. Sinclair said, opening the front door. He stepped over the salt line and out onto the concrete patio, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
"Thanks, doc." Dean told him, having been unable to find any other more appropriately mushy words.
"I'm glad he's okay." Brad smiled, genuinely pleased that Sam was on the road to recovery. Dean watched the doctor get into his BMW and pull out into the carpark, and for the first time, didn't feel a pang of anxiety as the Beamer's tail lights disappeared around the corner.
Firstly: sorry about the three-month gap between Ch 8 and Ch 9! This was a 'stepping stone' chapter, and although I know EXACTLY what happens after this, that doesn't make the segue any easier. (I'm going to blame the delay on my muse - I swear, she went on holiday or something!)
I don't know if I'm thrilled to death with this chapter, but it's much better than it was a week ago and it's time to move on, dammit! Bring on the angst! :)