Contact – ch. 1
Hi, everyone. It was amazingly encouraging to get such an enthusiastic response to this story – thank you so much! It's been a crazy couple of weeks at work, so I haven't had a chance to respond the way I'd like to, but please know I'm so appreciative.
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"Dr. McCrae?"
A hand shook him roughly, and Michael opened his eyes groggily. "Yeah?" He cleared his throat, squinting at the face on the other end of the arm attached to the offending hand. He sat up slowly. If he was being woken up, it was bound to be something that would require his getting out of bed.
"They're calling all hands on deck; building collapse, multiple traumas."
"Yeah," Michael said again. "OK." He looked at the clock. 3:24. A.M. He'd gotten less than an hour. Halloween was a busy night in any ER. "Coffee?" He thought he actually could smell it, he needed it so bad.
"Don't burn yourself," was the response as a hot cup was placed in his hands. "And don't drop it," was the amused follow-up admonition when he startled a bit in surprise.
Michael nodded gratefully, drawing the paper cup closer to his chest with both hands to steady his grip, then raising it to his lips for a careful sip. Ah. "Thanks." He peered at the woman again, brain beginning to clear. "Martha."
Martha laughed. "You're welcome, hon." She patted his shoulder. "Now get going."
"Right." Michael got to his feet and headed for the door. He no longer took his shoes off when he got a chance to sleep while on shift, and with the hand not clutching his coffee, Michael straightened his white coat and his ID badge as he went, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to smooth down his hair.
Everyone in the ER was in motion as Michael arrived and though it may have looked chaotic, Michael knew it wasn't, and he entered without hesitation into the dance of preparation for a large-scale emergency. He'd finished off his coffee in the elevator in one long, burning gulp – a skill he'd perfected since arriving for his residency in emergency medicine – and tossed the cup in a trash can so he could take the handful of sterile gloves being thrust at him.
There were eleven victims, all in their late teens or early 20s—broken bones, lacerations, internal injuries. They'd been in the basement of an abandoned house about 15 minutes east of town when the floor above had collapsed on top of them. One of the kids had managed to call for help before passing out.
"What the hell were they doing in there anyway?" asked the attending doctor as she checked the responsiveness of the pupils of an unconscious girl.
"I heard they were out at the old Davis place," said one of the techs, clipping x-rays into the light boards for Michael to read. She glanced at another of the techs, who rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He'd just wheeled in a fifth victim, handing off the paperwork to another resident who was in the process of stripping off bloody gloves and dropping them into a medical waste container.
The attending caught Michael's eyes, confused and annoyed. He shrugged. "And?" Michael prodded, eying the films, looking for more breaks in his patient's femur beyond the messy compound fracture he was already well aware of. This kid had a long recovery ahead of him.
"It's supposed to haunted," said the second tech, Dwayne. Both he and the first tech were from the area and were often good sources of information for people new to the area—whether that was where to get the best BBQ in town or local myths and practices. At the skeptical looks he was receiving from Michael and the attending, he added, "I'm just telling you what I've heard."
The other resident, Taya, snorted, then grimaced at the long, thin splinter of wood impaling the moaning boy on the gurney that had been rolled in front of her.
"Oh, for God's sake," said the attending, disgusted. "I hate stupidity." She dismissed the conversation and turned back to her patient. "We're going to need a CT scan for this one," she gritted.
Michael forced his attention back to his own patient, well-versed by this point in his residency at putting aside anything that might distract him from caring for a patient. But the mention of a haunted house… Stop. Michael rolled his head around on his neck, listening for the responding pops before focusing deliberately on the x-rays at hand. There. Five more breaks. Damn.
The house collapse had not been the only emergency that night – Halloween was always a nightmare at the hospital. Any hospital. Tricks gone wrong, drinking, driving, over-anxious parents who were sure little Jimmy's vomiting was due to poisoned treats instead of the fact the kid had eaten 107 pieces of candy while his mother and father had their backs turned. Michael had learned to hate Halloween since he'd started working in hospitals.
By the time they'd cleared the ER, it was closer to seven in the morning than six, and Michael was sitting in the doctor's lounge, another cup of coffee in hand trying to decide whether he was going to need breakfast or sleep more when his shift ended in 20 minutes. Today was… Monday. No, Tuesday, which meant Jake's first class started at 9:10. If Michael called to see about meeting for breakfast, his little brother would be pissed about being woken before absolutely necessary – 8:55 in Jake's opinion – given they lived within walking/sprinting distance of the law school, but Michael didn't much care. Jake generally forgave these "early" morning wake up calls once he'd had coffee. Michael reached for his phone.
"McCrae."
Michael didn't quite stifle his groan.
"Don't whine," was the clipped reply. As attending, Camille Hubbard, had the least amount of compassion Michael had ever experienced – and it didn't matter if you were a colleague (subordinate or superior), or a patient. She dispensed equal opportunity contempt. Sadly, she was good enough at her job that most people gave her a pass.
Michael didn't respond to the reprimand, just stuck his phone back in his pocket and stood.
"Another bus is on its way in, and you're the only one who's still around."
Of course he was. Everyone else had made themselves scarce when things had calmed down – available by page, but not dumb enough to actually hang out in the first place Hubbard would look if she needed an assist. He was never going to learn.
"Yeah," he said, resigned, following her out of the room.
He and Hubbard stood outside the ER doors waiting on the arrival of the ambulance. When it arrived, the guy on the gurney they were unloading was tall, feet hanging off the end, one leg splinted with what looked like another compound fracture, the other bent somewhat awkwardly, like the EMTs had tried to make it fit on the stretcher as best they could. The cervical collar was almost unrecognizable given that it was coated with blood, and the strap across the man's forehead was the same crimson. Michael could see even under the gore that the skull was fractured, a slight, but noticeable depression at the hairline over the left eyebrow. The man's face had already swollen, features blurred and distorted under the congealing blood.
"Has he been sedated?" barked Hubbard as she trotted alongside the gurney, already lifting an eyelid and checking for responsiveness.
"No," returned the EMT sharply, the "you, bitch" implied if not stated explicitly. "He's unconscious." George was in and out of the ER with enough regularity to be familiar with Hubbard's bedside manner, but that knowledge didn't always make it easier to deal with her default assumption that everyone around her was incompetent. "He's another victim from the house collapse."
Michael's eyes snapped to the EMT. That meant the guy had been hours without appropriate treatment for what looked like a massive trauma to his brain.
"Yeah," agreed George grimly, without Michael actually having to say a word. "Evidently one of the initial kids was finally coherent enough to talk, and they realized there was another person in the basement. Looked like this guy was right under the spot where the floor came down – the rest of the kids were on the fringe – believe it or not – of the collapse."
It was hard to believe, given the injuries they'd seen earlier. They'd made it to the examining room and the background details no longer mattered as much as assessing the man's current condition.
Michael stepped into the role of support for Hubbard without thought as she examined the head wound. She might not be easy to work with, but Camille Hubbard was one of the best in the field of emergency medicine. Frankly, Michael was always glad for the opportunity to watch her work and learn what he could.
The CT scan confirmed what they could see quite plainly with their eyes—depressed cranial fracture. The man had been stabilized in the field, airway cleared and circulation assessed, and now Hubbard was focused on determining the next step in treatment.
"Bring that light around, McCrae."
Michael dodged the people working on the patient's broken leg—yep, another compound fracture of the femur, ugh—and internal injuries, swinging one of the overhead lamps toward the head of the table. He expected nothing more than the chance to observe. And maybe hand the woman instruments. If she was feeling generous.
Dr. Hubbard jerked her chin at the head wound and then at the CT results. "What do you see?"
Michael faltered. Hubbard was notoriously stingy with her expertise, sharing it with residents only when ordered to by her superiors. Not that the woman considered anyone her superior.
"Well?" she snapped.
And Michael stepped forward.
xxxx
Dean woke slowly, groggy and aching. He'd gone to bed early the night before – though "night" wasn't really accurate, more like late-afternoon – with a headache he hadn't been able to get rid of and a throat that hurt so bad he could barely swallow. Sleep hadn't improved either his head or his throat, and he stifled a groan as he rolled over.
In the dim light of morning filtering through the blinds, Dean could see that Sam's bed was rumpled, but empty. Dean didn't hear his brother in the bathroom, which meant he could have it himself, if he could make it over there. He got painfully to his feet and shuffled his way toward the toilet.
When he staggered back out of the bathroom, Dean leaned heavily on the doorjamb before aiming his exhausted body back to the bed. He collapsed onto the mattress and lay there unmoving for a long time, trying to catch his breath.
Damn.
He wondered if Sam had gone to get breakfast and hoped vaguely that he wouldn't bring any food back with him as just the thought of eating made Dean's stomach roll uncomfortably. Dean swallowed convulsively, felt himself start to drift back to sleep and didn't fight it.
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"Hey."
Jake turned around at the sound of his brother's voice.
"What are you doing here?" Michael looked beyond exhausted, and there was a bright red smudge of what Jake knew had to be blood on the hem of his scrub pants.
"Looking for you. I brought you something to eat." Jake held up a bag of his brother's favorite breakfast tacos.
Michael reached for it eagerly, if somewhat clumsily, and took the cup of coffee Jake handed over next. "I'm off shift," he said, heading toward the break room as Jake trailed after him. "How'd you know I was here?"
Jake scoffed. "Where else would you be?"
Michael sank into one of the couches, setting his cup of coffee on the nearby table. He gave his brother a rueful look. "Fair enough." His eyes sharpened as they skimmed over Jake's face. "You look hung-over," he observed clinically.
Jake laughed. "I am a little bit, yeah." There'd been a party the previous night for Halloween, and though Jake hadn't planned to stay long, he had. And had too much to drink. And not gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep last night. He'd made his 9:10 class—barely—but a lot of his classmates hadn't.
Michael shook his head. "You eat anything?"
"Not up for it quite yet," Jake admitted.
"I guess the party lived up to its name," Michael commented wryly.
The annual Halloween bash had been a tradition at the law school for decades, and though it was no longer officially called the "Fall Drunk," like it had been early on, the principle remained the same for many students.
Jake shrugged. He reached for Michael's coffee, and his brother handed it over absently before turning his attention to wolfing down the tacos. Jake took a sip and grimaced at the bitter blackness of it. Jake still needed a little cream and sugar in his own.
They sat for a while as Michael ate.
"Come on," Jake said. "I'll give you a ride home." It was just after 11, and Michael had been at the hospital for over 40 hours. It was time for him to leave.
"Yeah," Michael said tiredly. He wadded up his trash and swallowed down the last of the coffee after taking it out of Jake's hand. "I've just gotta check on one patient before…"
"You 'gotta'?" Jake interrupted. "Or you wanna?"
Michael gave him a small smile. "Wanna," he admitted.
Jake tried to stare his brother down, but Michael's gaze didn't falter.
Jake sighed. "Fine. But I'm going with you to make sure you don't get lost and wander into another emergency," he grumbled.
Michael's smile turned into a grin. "When did you become Mom?" he teased.
"Shut up," Jake muttered.
Sadly, though, it was true. Since they'd moved in together last spring with Michael starting his residency at the hospital, and Jake slated to start law school in the fall, Jake had unwittingly taken on Aunt Jo's tendency to fuss and worry over his brother. Michael had started at the hospital right away while Jake had gotten a job at a local coffee shop to earn some money and keep himself occupied. He'd had plenty of time, though, over the summer to get in the habit of making sure his brother ate and slept occasionally. Starting school had distracted him, admittedly, but Jake was determined to do what he could to keep Michael from working himself to death when he had time.
"It won't take long, Jakey, I promise," Michael assured him. "The guy is still in surgery. I just want to see how it's going."
Jake followed Michael out of the lounge and down the hall to the surgery department.
"When's your next class?" Michael asked.
"2:15."
"Are you going to be home tonight?" Michael used his ID to get them into the back part of the surgery.
"Not until late. I have a writing project due on Friday that I've got to get finished. I'm going to stay at the library as long as I can stand it."
"Okay. I think I'm going to make chili after I get some sleep."
"Sweet." He thought for a second. "Maybe I'll work at home," he mused.
Michael tossed him a glance from where he'd moved toward the door that led into the actual surgery theater, and Jake just shrugged.
"I'll be right back," Michael said and eased into the scrubbing area, from where, Jake suspected, he'd watch whatever operation it was that he was interested in.
Jake settled in to wait, wishing he'd brought his backpack. He might have been able to get a little studying in while Michael was checking on his patient.
His brother wasn't gone long, though.
"Everything OK?" Jake asked.
"Hard to know," Michael said grimly. "He had a bad skull fracture and a compound fracture of the femur."
"Compound? That's where the bone sticks out?" Jake choked on a gag reflex at the mere thought of it. "Gross."
"Yeah." Michael scrubbed his hands over his head. "Let's go."
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When Dean woke again it was significantly darker in the room. He lay on his back, head still pounding, throat feeling like sandpaper. He didn't know that he'd ever felt this bad without being actually physically injured. He rolled his head gingerly to the side. The other bed was still rumpled and empty. He peered toward the bathroom, but it also seemed vacant to his gritty eyes.
"Sam?" he rasped. Started to cough weakly.
Damn.
There was no answer, and Dean slapped haphazardly at the bedside table trying to reach his phone. When he managed to get a hand on it, he hauled the little piece of technology toward him. Had it always been this heavy?
He peered at the display. It was almost five in the evening and there was nothing to indicate Sam had either texted or left him a voicemail. Dean struggled to remember what he and Sam had talked about before Dean had turned in the night before. As far as he could recall, Sam had been sitting on the opposite bed, watching TV.
Slowly, Dean raised his head enough to squint for the speed dial and pushed the button. When he got Sam's voicemail – after almost falling back asleep while the phone was ringing—he managed, "Hey, man." Dean cleared his throat around the pain and the roughness. "Where are you?" He fished around in his foggy brain for something else to say, but couldn't come up with anything, so he ended the call. He wondered if it would sound as pathetic to Sam when he listened as it did to Dean as he'd said it. He let his head ease back in to the pillow. Not to have heard from Sam for such a long time was not good. He needed to get up and go look for his brother.
But maybe he'd rest for just a second.
xxxx
When Dean woke up again, it was full dark, and it took a minute for his brain to clear. Then…
"Damn it!" Dean cursed himself as he struggled upright, had to pause, panting once he was sitting. His head was pounding and there was an exhaustion in his bones that had him listing to the side, just wanting to lie back down again.
"No." Dean ground his teeth, jerking up, forcing himself to stay vertical as he searched the bedclothes for his phone. He found it under his butt, but there was still nothing from Sam.
Dean got unsteadily to his feet and headed for the door. It took him a little while to get the bolt undone, but when he opened it, what he was looking for was right there. The Impala was still in her spot in front of their room. So Sam hadn't driven anywhere.
Dean closed the door behind him and dialed Sam again. He was shuffling around the room, casting around for his boots when someone answered the phone.
"Hello?"
The voice was young and female and definitely not Sam. This could not be good.
"Who is this?" Dean ground out.
"This is Detective Irma Moreno. Who is this?"
Dean swallowed. Damn. "My name is Dean. I'm trying to reach my brother."
It was odd to use his real name, but a few months ago he and Sam had paid a lot of money to have a very talented, very expensive tech person scrub their history. Sam had taken care of the details, but he'd assured Dean that they were clean in the system. It had been a good feeling. And if they kept their heads down, they should be able to stay off the radar of anyone who might remember who they were.
"Dean, I'm at the scene of a house collapse, and this phone was found in the rubble."
Dean froze. "Was he…? Is he…?" Dean couldn't get the question out.
"All of the victims have been taken to Brackenridge hospital. At this point I'm not aware of any fatalities." The woman was kind, if cool, as she relayed the information. "Do you know why your brother would have been in the house?" she asked.
He hesitated. "What house?" Dean asked, though he had sneaking suspicion that he knew.
"It's at 8432 Bowie St." She pronounced it boo-y like the knife. Not bow-y like the singer.
Yep. The house they'd been checking out for a haunting. And just down the street from where they were currently staying. But the ghost shouldn't be active for another week, so Dean couldn't think of any reason Sam would have been there.
"I can't think of any reason," Dean said truthfully. In spite of the urgency now nagging at him, the exhaustion in his voice didn't fade any. "I've been sick, and I just realized Sam wasn't here."
"Where are you, Dean?"
Dean told her the name of the motel, not seeing a reason to hide where he was.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "That's not far from the house."
Dean knew that. They'd deliberately picked this place for its proximity.
"Really? We're just passing through, so I'm not familiar with this area. Where did you say my brother was again?" He wanted off the phone, wanted to get to Sam.
Dean coughed heavily into the phone. It was only partially put on. He'd felt the tickle of a cough in his painful throat since the conversation had started, but felt like some indication of illness might win him a little sympathy. Unfortunately once he let the coughing out, he couldn't stop and by the time he was done hacking up his lungs, he was breathless and nauseous. Maybe not such a great idea.
Except that… "Wow, that sounds painful," said the detective sympathetically.
"Yeah," Dean rasped, wiping at the moisture that had sprung up in his eyes. He wheezed into the phone, "I'm sorry, I…"
"Don't apologize, please," said the detective. "Listen, I'm not sure exactly which of the victims your brother might be, but all the casualties were taken to the ER at Brack." She rattled off the address. "You might get there as soon as you can. I'm sure they'll have information about your brother." He heard her talking in a low voice to someone in the background. "I'll have someone take your brother's phone by the hospital with the rest of the personal belongings we're finding."
"Thanks," Dean said sincerely if still a little breathlessly. "I'll head that way."
When he could get air into his lung again.
After he hung up with the detective, Dean forced himself to pause and catch his breath. His mind was screaming move, move, move, but his body just wasn't having it. Finally, he resumed his search for his boots, eyes narrowed against the pain in his head. When he found them – one sticking out from under Sam's bed, he bent over to pick them up off the floor and almost face planted into the carpet. Fortunately, he managed to catch himself before he fell. But it took him another few minutes to regain his equilibrium and actually get his shoes on.
When he finally made it into the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush his teeth, the reflection in the mirror did not look good – he was pale and his eyes looked oddly swollen. He definitely needed a shower, but all things considered, it was possible he'd pass out if he tried right now. Better to make it to the hospital, even looking like he'd been hit by a truck, than not to make it at all.
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