Chapter Two
The werewolves transported the Winchesters back to the Impala, where Andrew carefully manoeuvred Sam into the back, then stood back and growled urgently, gesturing with his long arms. Go! Just go!
"We'll catch up," gasped Ronnie, collapsing to her knees as she shifted back to human form and struggling to get her breath back, "Can't keep up, we'll just slow you down. GO!"
The scenario was one that Dean had been through before, and it didn't get any easier: heading for the nearest hospital with Sam bleeding in the back seat, alternating between begging him not to die and threatening to kill him if he did, yelling for help, then seeing his baby brother, his baby brother whom he was supposed to look after for fuck's sake, whisked away by grim-faced medical staff exchanging rapid-fire salvos of incomprehensible doctor-speak.
Then there was the well-meaning triage nurse who looked at the bruises and scratches on his face and arms (Ronnie had been more concerned with speed than providing a comfortable transit back through the woods) and wanted to check him for signs of concussion as he spilled the story of being attacked by a pack of dogs whilst out on a camping trip.
He allowed an intern who looked about fifteen to clean up his wounds, then it was the long, agonising wait in a waiting room fitted with the usual unbelievably uncomfortable chairs, outrageously mislabelled 'coffee' machine that dispensed lukewarm dishwater apparently piped directly from the drain of the nearest dishwasher, a homeless guy who was just looking to get out of the cold for a little while and a whining child who had been dragged along by over-anxious Mommy because he'd fallen on his precious little ass and bumped his precious little foot and was now bored and overtired and attempting to alleviate the situation by doing a precious little aeroplane impersonation round and round the room (adding in precious little machine gun sound effects every time he went past Dean; Dean resisted the urge to trip the precious little asshat up, just so that at least the kid would end up with a legitimate reason to be there. Hopefully, he'd sprain his precious little tongue.)
What seemed like an age later, as he was staring out the window and willing Sam not to be dead, his hindbrain twitched, detecting the smell of actual coffee, then there was a bump at his elbow.
"Here," Ronnie handed over a cup, "I know for a fact you won't get anything except recycled sewage out of those bloody machines. And only the stuff that missed the recycler." She waved a bag of donuts. "Got these, too. Good for what ails ya, as Bobby would say. Donuts can fix a lot of things."
Dean snorted mirthlessly. "Can they cure a Black Dog attack?"
"No," conceded Ronnie, "But they can make an anxious wait marginally less uncomfortable. Any crisis is best dealt with on a full stomach."
"That's another one of Bobby's," he grunted.
"And he's right. He's a Man of Knowledge, doncha know." She proffered the bag.
"Where's Andrew?" he asked, taking the bag, and wincing as the precious little child did another circuit (having changed from turbo prop to jet turbine).
Ronnie gave him a long-suffering look. "Stuck. Where else?" she sighed. "It's difficult at this time of the moon. He hasn't had as much practice as me, although he's getting better. He's in the back of the truck, with a six pack. He'll emerge when – if – he's feeling more human. I just hope that he doesn't growl at any traffic cops. I've gotten away with the story about the South African Hippohound a couple of times, but it's only a matter of time before somebody calls me on it. Or, worse, asks to be put on the waiting list for a puppy."
Dean couldn't help laugh at that. "You could put a collar on him, as part of his cover," he suggested.
"You kinky bastard," she grumped, handing over the donuts. "If you give me your keys, I'll bring you some stuff from your car, because I know for a fact you're going to stay here until..." her voice trailed off. "I can get Jimi, too, take him home with us. He can stay for as long as needs must."
"Thanks," he mumbled, feeling his knees wobble as the adrenaline of the occasion wore off, and the realities of the situation really started to sink in. He sank into one of the awful chairs. "Thanks, for... for everything." He handed over the key.
"I just hope it works," she replied quietly.
He took the lid off the coffee, and took a gulp of the strong black brew, then sank his teeth into the sugary calorie-laden nutrient-free goodness of a donut.
There was a sudden scream from near the exit.
It seemed that, just as Ronnie was leaving, the precious little asshat had tripped over, and was now sitting on the floor screaming the ear-splitting scream of a precious little asshat with whom there is really nothing wrong, but they're determined to make a scene anyway because, well, just because.
As over-anxious Mommy dropped her magazine and hurried to precious little asshat's side, Ronnie offered him a beatific smile, and mouthed: Oops.
Dean shared a smile, and a donut, with the homeless guy.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Mr Kilmister?"
Dean's head snapped around. "That's me." He hurried to the tired-looking woman holding a clipboard. "I'm Sam's brother. How is he?"
"Well, you can wipe that expression of your face," she found a smile, "Because he came through the surgery just fine. Better than fine. Frankly, Mr Kilmister, given the state of his injuries and the blood loss when you brought him in, he's doing remarkably well."
She talked some more, using words like 'laceration' and 'perforation' and 'puncture' and a whole lot of jargon that just washed over him. He was only interested in one thing.
Sam's alive.
"Can I see him?" he asked, putting as much pleading into his voice as he could.
"Of course," she told him, "He'll be in ICU for now, but I think we may be able to move him onto the general ward as early as... well, later today, now," she grinned ruefully.
It never ceased to amaze him, just how small Sam could look when surrounded by machinery going beep, bong and ping, with leads and tubes and fuck knew what else, and once more he felt the crushing sense of guilt and failure that had left his little brother in this state – guilt and failure because it had happened on Dean's watch, which was 24/7 when it came to looking out for his baby brother. And guilt and failure, because of the desperate remedy he'd sought.
Does that make me selfish? he wondered, sinking into a slightly more comfortable chair by his brother's bed, That I would do this to keep you here with me?
Hunters die on the job; goes with the territory.
I just always think that it'll be me who goes first. It should be me who goes first. I won't be the one to be left behind, to grieve, to light a pyre, to say goodbye, then try to pick up the pieces, and go on. Is that selfish of me to wish that on you? Is that just how much of a screw-up I am?
"I'm sorry," he whispered, not sure what he was apologising for, not being quick enough or not being able to let his brother go or making a decision on Sam's behalf where maybe he had no right to. "I'm sorry, Sam, I just..."
He's alive. Sam's alive.
That's what matters. Screw sorry. Sam's alive.
Maybe Sam would yell at him, maybe Sam would hate him, maybe the first person Sam came after on his first shapeshift would be his brother. He didn't care. It was on him, and he'd wear it, because Sam was alive.
He looked into his little brother's sleeping face, and his breath caught.
Sam's face wasn't the unhealthy, frighteningly pale colour he'd seen too many times when his brother had been badly injured: there was a wash of colour in his cheeks that hadn't been there when he went into surgery. They'd done a good job.
Or was... it working?
Checking that he wouldn't be seen, he reached out to take his brother's hand, a natural gesture of concern under the circumstances, and ever so carefully brushed the heavy silver ring against the skin of his arm...
A small red welt raised immediately, looking like a small burn from a quick splash of water from a boiling kettle.
Dean jerked his hand back, belatedly stunned at the enormity of what he'd done.
My brother's a werewolf.
My brother's a werewolf, because I couldn't let him go.
My brother's a monster.
My brother's alive.
Slouching down in the chair, listening to the quiet beep of the heart monitor, he thought his head might explode. He thought he might not mind so much. He felt vaguely sorry for the poor bastard who had to come and scrape his congealed brain matter off the walls and floor.
He was just wondering whether it might be a good idea to find something to use as a drop sheet, just in case, when his cell buzzed. Mind fogged with worry and fatigue, he checked it.
It was a message without preamble, and it was the best news he'd heard from her since she'd told him the pie was cool enough to cut and he could have two pieces if he wanted:
Bobby says we can unto it
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Exhaustion finally overtook him, coffee notwithstanding; he fell into a doze in the wee small hours, no stranger to snatching sleep in an uncomfortable hospital chair.
When he awoke, peering groggily around himself, someone had draped a blanket over him. Someone had left a bag with some clean clothes and toiletries by his chair. Someone had left another real coffee.
Oh, and somebody was wheeling his brother away.
"Hey!" he blinked blearily, almost falling when the blanket tangled around him, "Hey, where are you goin'? Where are you takin' him?"
One of the nurses turned to him, and smiled. "Oh, good morning, Mr Kilmister," she said, "We didn't mean to disturb you, we were going to let you sleep as long as possible..."
"Where are you goin'?" he repeated, heading for the bed, which was disappearing out the door. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, there's nothing wrong, Mr Kilmister," the nurse assured him, "Quite the opposite. Sam did very well overnight. He's much improved, so he's going to a general ward. He doesn't need ICU."
"Yeah?" Dean blinked at her.
"Yeah," she smiled again, clearly accustomed to dealing with worried, sleep-deprived relatives. "That's good news. That means he's on the mend."
"Can I go see him?" Dean asked immediately.
"Just give them some time to get him there, get him settled, and do the handover paperwork," she suggested. "Your friend was here, left you some stuff, why don't you have a shower first, get something to eat, then go see him when you've looked after yourself?"
He took her up on the offer, heading for the bathroom where he bundled his bloodstained and torn clothes into the bag, then let the hot water work some of the stiffness out of his body, which seemed to have seized up in places he didn't even know he had places.
Sam was alive. Sam was doing well. Sam was healing up.
And the werewolf transformation could be undone.
Also, not very far from the hospital there was a donut shop that did pretty good coffee.
He allowed himself a smile; suddenly, things looked better than they had in the bleak chill of the dark hours.
Dean's stomach let out a loud gurgling growl, letting him know that his brain might've spent the night angsting away, but the other poor grunts who kept the damned thing supplied with oxygen and glucose needed refuelling if he wanted that demanding grey fucker to keep functioning. He decided to go look for that donut shop first, then go to see Sam. Bobby was right, he decided. Any crisis was best dealt with on a full stomach.
If I had a racing greyhound, or a horse, I think I'd call it Mister Kilmister. It's a good name for a racer. Unless it was female – unfortunately, Bodacious Tatas has already been used... Sadly, the only thing I've ever raced is cardboard frogs on a string. Have you ever raced cardboard frogs on a string? I thoroughly recommend it. It's hilarious fun. Especially when copious quantities of alcohol are involved. Stay sober, and win money off the drunk people, because you'll quickly find that it's a bad idea to drink and hop.
Now, feed the bunny some reviews, because Reviews are the Unexpected Donuts In The Waiting Room Of Life!