Contact, Ch. 2
Just a quick disclaimer: There is going to be more discussion of medical stuff in this story than I've ever done before. And, honestly, I don't feel very comfortable with that. However, I don't have time to get my medical or hospital administration degrees before I finish this! I'm trying to do the best research I can on the interwebs, but I know I'm going to mess things up. If you're a medical person and haven't already abandoned this story due to egregious errors – thanks! And I hope you'll continue to be patient with me. :)
On with the show….
xxxx
Dean had to take another few minutes after he'd parked the car to gather up the energy he needed to go into the building. He'd forgotten to take anything for his head before he left the motel, so he rooted around lethargically in the glove box until he uncovered the bottle of Advil they kept there. Shaking out three capsules with the care of someone who was afraid his head might fall off, Dean uncapped an old bottle of water and carefully tossed the medication to the back of his mouth before chasing it with a slug of water.
"Ow, ow, ow," he whispered when swallowing reawakened the pain in his throat.
The walk from the parking garage was exhausting, and when he approached the information desk, the volunteer sitting there was already standing and pointing down a hall where Dean could see the sign for the ER. Awesome. Dean shook his head.
"No," he rasped. "I'm actually looking for someone who's probably been admitted."
The older woman in the pink smock eyed him with concern. "Are you sure, sweetie? You don't look good."
"You should see the other guy," he tried to deflect with an attempt at a charming grin. The woman did not seem impressed. Dean sighed. "My brother was in the house collapse?" he asked. "I don't know if he's been identified. His name is Sam Winchester."
The volunteer's expression changed again, and she turned immediately to her computer, typing quickly. "Here he is. Intensive care, fifth floor."
"Thank you." Dean looked around uncertainly. He needed to know… "Where…?"
The woman leaned over the desk slightly and pointed. "Elevators."
Dean was already turning around and flapped a hand at her over his shoulder in thanks. When he reached the elevators he pushed the top button. He fought the urge to lean against the wall as he waited, because he wasn't sure he wouldn't just slide down to the floor and not be able to get back up again. He held himself stiffly, body tensed in an effort to stave off the weariness loosening his muscles and making him feel like the only appropriate position for him was horizontal.
When the elevator dinged and the door slid open, Dean stepped inside and concentrated some more on staying upright until he could move again. The ride to the fifth floor seemed to happen between blinks, and Dean was vaguely concerned that he might have actually drifted off there for a moment. But it didn't matter as long as he was where he was supposed to be. And he was, if the desk in front of him with the sign that said "Intensive Care Unit" was any indication. And he hoped it was.
There wasn't anyone at the desk and as much as Dean wanted to see his brother as soon as possible, he decided that asking about seeing Sam while looking – apparently – like someone who needed an emergency room immediately might not help him out much in that department. He could see a men's room to his right, so he made his way there.
His reflection confirmed that his appearance hadn't improved any since he'd last seen himself in a mirror. He blinked heavily at his image and tried to think through possible triage. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Maybe he could pass it off as a hangover. Last night had been… Monday? Not really a party night, but. Oh. And Halloween. That really might work. He turned the water on as cold as he could and splashed it over his face. He forced his eyes open as wide as he could and plastered on a grin. He checked his reflection. Yeesh. That was going to get the psych ward called. So he tuned the grin down to a more rueful, damn-my-head-hurts-maybe-that-last-round-of-shots-wasn't-such-a-good-idea level and tried again. Better.
"Hi."
The guy who was now at the info desk gave Dean a doubtful look as he approached.
"They told me downstairs that my brother is up here – Sam Winchester." Dean was doing his best not to sound as exhausted as he felt, but he didn't have to force the impatience he was feeling into his voice.
The man checked the computer and nodded. "He's here."
"I'd like to see him."
Narrowed eyes ran over him, assessing. "If you're sick…."
"Look, man," Dean said, rubbing his hand over his neck. "I had a bad Halloween, and I was sleeping it off, but got woken up by someone calling to tell me a house collapsed on my little brother. Can you just give me a break?"
With a shake of his head and a huff of a laugh, the guy hit the button that opened the door into the ICU. "Ask at the nurse's station."
Dean thumped his fist twice on the desk. "Thanks."
While the nurse at the interior desk gave him a suspicious look not unlike the man's outside, he still led Dean directly to his brother.
"The primary concern right now is the head injury," the nurse told him as they entered the room, "though Dr. Ward said the surgery went well. They were able to repair the skull fracture, and they've implanted a bolt to monitor the pressure for now. Sam also suffered a severe leg fracture that's going to require intensive physical therapy."
Dean nodded along, feeling somewhat dazed, as the guy talked, making his way to the bed, eyes already on an almost unrecognizable Sam. His brother's face was puffy, the usual sharp angles of his cheek bones and jaw blurred by swelling from the surgery and the original trauma. Sam's left leg was encased in an oversized splint, held motionless by a series of pulleys and what looked like a weight that hung off the end of the bed.
"Can I stay?" Dean asked. Different hospitals had different policies on visiting, and he was relieved when the nurse nodded.
"That chair pulls out almost flat," he said, gesturing. "And I'll get you a pillow," he added as he left.
"Thanks," Dean said after him. With the nurse out of sight, Dean sank – collapsed, actually – into the indicated chair, the ability to pretend draining out of him now that he was with Sam, and they were alone.
He turned toward his unconscious brother and just for a moment rested his forehead against the mattress by Sam's arm.
"What the hell, Sammy?" he muttered.
xxxx
When Dean woke it was light again. He'd settled back in the chair after the nurse – Andy – had brought him a pillow, wrestling the damned thing into a reclining position before essentially passing out. He had hazy memories of people coming in and out during the night, but nothing that had really roused him. He rubbed a hand over his face trying to clear the cobwebs, but the exhaustion that he'd been feeling the last few days still weighed him down. It didn't seem like any amount of sleep was helping.
He checked his watch – it was almost 10 – then glanced at the bed. Sam looked even worse than he had the night before, the sunlight streaming in from the window showing the bruising and swelling on his face and body in stark relief. In addition to the mess of his head, the skin of Sam's arms and shoulders exposed around the hospital gown he wore were mottled with ugly looking bruising that made Dean's already aching body twinge in sympathy. It had been a long time since either of them had been injured this badly. Dean hadn't missed it.
Slowly Dean got to his feet.
"I'm just hitting the head," he rasped at his brother. "Don't go anywhere."
He made his way to the bathroom. Given how crappy he felt, Dean really didn't want to check the mirror to see how bad he looked, but he figured he might as well be prepared. His eyes flicked to his reflection, and he winced. It was not good – he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he looked even worse than he had the night before. He needed to think of some reason for his appearance as he was fairly certain the nursing staff would not be falling for a multi-day hangover excuse.
When he came out of the bathroom, he was met by a nurse who was unfamiliar. She took one look at him, and the frown on her face told him he was busted.
"Who are you?" she asked.
Dean tipped his head at Sam. "I'm Sam's brother."
She glanced down at the chart in her hand. "Mr. … Winchester?" At Dean's tight nod, she continued briskly, "We can't allow ill people in the ICU. The chance of infection…"
"Yeah," Dean admitted tiredly. "I thought it was a hangover, but…."
"You're going to need to leave immediately and…"
"Look." Dean wasn't sure that interrupting the woman would help his case any, but he wasn't leaving yet, and there was no point in letting her think he was. "I don't want to cause trouble, and I don't want to make my brother sick any more than you want him to be sick, but I'm not leaving until I talk to the doctor. I'll do whatever you want me to do, but I'm the only family he has, and I need to know what's going on."
The nurse glowered at him for a long minute. Then huffed out a breath. "Well. You can't wait in here."
Dean started to protest, but was unable to muster up the breath to say a word after his last statement, and the nurse plowed on. "That's not negotiable. You can sit in the waiting room outside of the ICU until the doctor gets here. I'll let you come in when he's evaluating your brother, but you're wearing a mask and scrubbing with anti-bacterial soap and not getting anywhere close to your brother or any other patient." She paused, daring him to contradict her. "Do you understand me?" she asked sternly.
"Yes, ma'am, I do," Dean said. And he did. He didn't like it, but he didn't have the energy to fight her on it.
She pointed to the door, physically blocking his access to Sam. "I'll let you know when the doctor arrives."
Dean nodded, hesitated before obeying the gesture. "I'll be back, Sammy," he said, angling his head to address his brother around the nurse.
There was a slight softening in the woman's expression. "I'll let you know," she said again.
xxxx
Michael shrugged into his white coat and slung his stethoscope around his neck. He'd managed just over 24 hours away from the hospital. Jake had mocked him as he'd left the house, but Michael had wanted to get in on surgical rounds to see how some of the patients that had come through the ER Halloween night were doing. As an emergency department resident, Michael didn't often venture into other parts of the hospital, but he liked knowing how things worked outside his own area of interest and growing expertise. He felt like it made him better in assessing emergencies if he knew more about where patients were headed next.
"Were you in on the house collapse the other night?" Charlie Warren was a fourth year med student that Michael had gotten to know some since he'd arrived at the hospital. They were waiting for Dr. Arnold to join them to lead rounds.
Michael nodded. "Yeah. Figured I'd see how y'all were treating them," he grinned at his friend.
Before Charlie could respond, Dr. Arnold stepped into the group. "Dr. McCrae, glad you could join us."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said. It wasn't the first time he'd trailed a group Dr. Arnold was shepherding through rounds.
"Did I see you in the gallery for one of the house collapse surgeries?" the man asked, glancing down at the list of patients they would be seeing that day.
"Yes, sir. Fractured skull and compound fracture of the femur."
"Right." The doctor looked around the group. "Dr. Mani, you were in on that surgery, weren't you?"
"Yes, doctor."
"Let's start there then. I want to check the bolt we inserted and monitor the intracranial pressure." Arnold started down the hall. "Dr. Mani, fill in your colleagues."
They entered the ICU through the staff corridors.
"Doctors," the nurse at the desk greeted them.
"Jane," said Dr. Arnold, "we're going to start with…" he checked his notes again, "Winchester this afternoon. 522?"
Michael blinked.
The nurse nodded. "His brother's here in the waiting room. He's sick, but I told him if he waited outside, he could talk to you before he left. I'm going to go get him."
In something of a daze, Michael turned to watch her go, almost following her to see…
"Mike."
Michael whipped back around at the sound of his name. Charlie jerked his head in the direction the rest of the group was going. "You coming?"
Michael's head swiveled toward the nurse, then back to his friend. "Yeah." He hustled to catch up. "Sorry." He passed Charlie quickly and pretty much elbowed his way to the front of the huddle of students around the bed.
The man lying there had been cleaned up since Michael had first seen him, the streaks of blood and dust no longer masking his features. The swelling, too, had abated some and…
"Sam Winchester is a 34 year old male who suffered a series of blunt trauma injuries when a house collapsed on top of him."
Holy crap.
xxxx
"Mr. Winchester?"
Dean came awake slowly, foggy and achy, but responsive to the snap of the nurse's voice above him. He'd stretched out on a couch in the waiting room and….
"The doctor is here to see your brother." The woman stepped back as Dean pushed himself up off the couch. "Put this on." She handed him a surgical mask that he fumbled over the lower part of his face. "And use this on your hands and arms up to your elbows."
She held out and upended bottle of sanitizer and Dean extended his hands. She squeezed an enormous dollop of the liquid into each palm. As Dean began to rub the cleanser over his hands and arms, the woman started to walk.
"Follow me."
Dean stumbled after her, struggling to keep up both physically and mentally. He'd obeyed the woman almost instinctively, not completely sure in the moment what she was telling him, but aware on some level that he needed to do what she said.
As they entered the ICU Dean's head began to clear again, though the damn headache was still present in full force. Doctor, right. They were going to look at Sam and tell Dean what the hell was going on with his brother. He stepped up his pace to keep stride as best he could with the nurse.
When they got to Sam's room, there was a crowd of white coats standing around the bed, one young woman talking while the rest nodded and took notes. Dean opened his mouth to ask how his brother was, but shut it again when the nurse frowned at him, putting a finger to her lips. "Wait," she whispered. Dean frowned back at her, but did as he was told, frustrated when he realized she couldn't see his mouth behind the stupid mask. He narrowed his eyes at her as ferociously as he could to indicate his displeasure. She ignored him, attention now on the doctors in the room.
They weren't talking at a volume that allowed Dean to hear well enough to really follow what they were talking about, but he caught a reference to pressure on the brain and a follow up remark about possible ramifications of damage. He was afraid for a minute he might be physically sick. He forced the bile back down and took a slight step forward, straining to hear better, intent on the oldest doctor in the room, the one who was guiding the conversation about Dean's brother.
He was so focused on the lead doctor that it took a little while for it to register with Dean that he was being watched. It was prickle at the back of his very tired brain that made Dean take his eyes off the older man and begin to check for who might be watching him. His gaze moved over the cluster of student doctors, but they were either attentive to the one talking or examining Sam with assessing, clinical eyes. Then his attention was caught by a man standing right next to the bed Sam was in, one hand actually on the bed, almost touching Sam's arm, head bent slightly, eyes currently taking in all of Sam, not just the horrible injuries the rest of the doctors were focused on.
When the man's head came up, his eyes met Dean's directly, astonished. And familiar.
Michael.
Dean actually mouthed the word behind his mask, knew his eyes were now as comically wide as Michael's.
"Mr. Winchester?"
With an effort, Dean wrested his attention from Michael – Michael – to the doctor who was addressing him.
"Yes," he managed hoarsely.
"I understand you're Sam's only family?"
Dean's eyes flicked to Michael. "Yes."
"And you're sick?"
Again, Dean looked at Michael – couldn't seem to help himself – and saw the kid – though, God, so not a kid any more – narrow his eyes, taking in Dean critically, too, now. Michael's mouth tightened unhappily at what he saw and, man, he looked like his aunt in that moment and Dean couldn't…
"Mr. Winchester?"
"Dean." Michael. Now right in front of Dean, hand on Dean's bicep, head dipping slightly to catch Dean's eyes and when had Michael gotten taller than Dean? Why did the kids around him insist on….
"Dean." Michael said it with an oddly sharp yet gentle tone, shook his arm slightly.
Dean blinked, coming back to himself. He hated that he kept fading out like that. "Sorry. Yeah. I feel like crap." When he looked at the doctor he saw the man was now looking at Michael in confusion.
"You know the Winchesters, Dr. McCrae?" The question was simply curious, and the rest of the little group had similar expressions on their faces.
Doctor?
"Yes, sir. Dean and his brother are old friends of our family." Michael's hand was still wrapped lightly around Dean's arm, not letting go. He looked at Sam in the bed and shook his head. "I had no idea it was Sam when he came into the ER." Looked back at Dean. "It's been a long time."
"Well, do you want to fill in your friend while we continue with our rounds?"
"Sure. Thank you."
The doctor nodded and started toward the door. "Be sure you have Mr. Winchester follow protocols with his illness."
"Yes, sir, I will."
The grip on Dean's arm shifted. "C'mon, man," Michael said. "Sit down." He guided-slash-manhandled Dean toward a chair in a corner of the room, away from Sam. Dean did as he was told.
Michael maneuvered another chair close to Dean's and sat down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"How sick are you?" he asked. "Saying you look like crap would be a massive understatement."
Dean shrugged. He didn't need to be told that. "How's Sam?"
Michael sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "His condition is serious, Dean. Surgery went well, so what could be fixed has been. But there's always a concern about infection with a compound fracture. And with the skull fracture…." He broke off, sighing again. "Well, at this point it's going to be a matter of waiting to see how he's functioning when he wakes up."
"How bad is his head?" Dean couldn't bring himself to say "brain injury."
Michael grimaced slightly. "That's really where the waiting and seeing is going to be important."
"How bad could it be?" Considering how things usually went for them, Dean figured he might as well be prepared.
Michael hesitated, then, "Given where the injury is, there may be issues with Sam's language and logic functions as well as some memory impairment."
Dean felt ice steal down his arms and legs. Sam with language and logic and memory impairment. He closed his eyes, drew in a shaky breath.
"Those are possibilities, Dean," Michael said calmly. "You asked how bad. We don't know yet how Sam's been impacted, OK? This is why we need to wait and see."
Dean nodded, opening his eyes. "Right," he said heavily.
"Good." Michael's eyes were running over Dean assessingly again. "Let's talk about you now," he said. "What are your symptoms?"
Dean sighed. Closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. There was no point in not coming clean any more. "Headache, sore throat, I hurt all over, can't stay awake." It took him a long minute to realize that Michael actually had a hand on Dean's forehead. "Stop." He moved his head sharply to dislodge Michael. Then groaned when the pain in his head exploded, squeezed his eyes tighter closed.
"Fever," Michael said, and Dean slitted his eyes open to glare. Michael's right hand then moved to his neck, left hand joining on the other side, pressing up under his jawline by his ears. "Your lymph nodes are swollen. I'm going to get a thermometer to see how bad your temp is." Michael stood. "Stay here," he ordered, pointing at Dean.
Like Dean had a choice. He shut his eyes again.
"Open your mouth."
Michael back. Dean obeyed, though he didn't open his eyes, closing his lips around the thermometer as it was stuck under his tongue.
"Give me your finger." Michael was already taking Dean's hand, separating Dean's forefinger from the rest. There was a sharp jab.
"Ow!" Dean yelped, sitting up abruptly, thermometer falling out of his mouth. "What the hell, man?"
Michael scowled as he picked up the thermometer from Dean's lap and reset it. "Open."
"You need to work on your bedside manner," Dean complained before doing what he was told.
Michael ignored him. "I need a blood sample to be sure," he said, doing something with the little instrument he'd stabbed Dean with, "but I think it's possible you have mono."
It took Dean a second to process that. The thermometer beeped, and Dean took it out of his mouth. "What?"
"It doesn't happen much with old men like you," Michael said. "But it does sometimes." He looked at the thermometer. "101.4. Not too bad." He smiled slightly. "You haven't been kissing teenage girls, have you, you pervert?"
Dean didn't dignify that with an answer, just leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Because of course he would have mono with Sam laid up due to a house collapsing on him. Of course. "How would I even have gotten it?" he rasped.
"Hard to tell. Drinking after someone who has it. Sharing a toothbrush. Mono incubates in adults for over a month, so you may never know." Dean could hear the shrug in Michael's voice. "We should probably test Sam just in case."
Well, sure, Dean thought. Let's add mono to a brain injury for the kid.
The silence stretched out for a while and Dean had, frankly, almost fallen back asleep when Michael cleared his throat gingerly.
"Dean."
Dean opened his eyes.
"Sam's probably going to have a long road ahead of him and with you sick…." He gave Dean an uncertain look. "Is there anyone I can call? Maybe Mr. Singer…?"
Dean shook his head. "No." He rubbed a heavy hand over his face. "Bobby…. Bobby died a few years ago," he told Michael.
Michael met Dean's eyes soberly, sadness and sympathy there, understanding. "I'm so sorry," he said sincerely.
It had been years – years – since Bobby had died, but Dean felt an unexpected tightening in his chest at the simple statement from someone who knew him and who'd known Bobby, who knew what Bobby had meant to him and to Sam. Dean thought maybe Michael's was the first expression of human sympathy he'd received since Bobby's death.
He cleared his throat. "Thanks," he managed.
Michael didn't say anything for a while. "What…," he hesitated. "What would you think if I called Mom and Luke?" he asked. "They'd want to know, want to help. If you'd let them."
It's not like Dean couldn't have anticipated that Michael would suggest that. Of course he would. Because that's what this family did. Took in sick, wounded strangers and treated them like they belonged. That's what they'd done over ten years ago when he and Sam had first landed on their doorstep. What they'd continued to do until the life the Winchesters lived had taken them so far into the darkness there hadn't been any going back to the comfort they'd found with the Sweeds. At least it had felt that way.
When Dean didn't respond right away, Michael huffed out a breath. "I don't know why I'm even asking. It's not like either of us really have a choice. I have to tell Aunt Jo I saw you. And you know nothing in the 'verse is going to keep her from hightailing it down here."
Dean couldn't help the rueful smile in response. He did know that. And he sighed, looking over at Sam in the hospital bed.
But he didn't answer, couldn't quite wrap his head around seeing Michael again, being dropped back into the orbit of the family that had meant so much to him and Sam so long ago. That he knew they'd hurt and disappointed with their silence these last years.
"Unless… Unless you really don't want me to call."
Dean dragged his eyes back to Michael at the quiet offer.
"It's your choice," he said softly. "But, it would mean a lot to them – to us – if you'd let me do that. I won't force you, though, if you don't want." His elbows had been on his knees, and he dropped his head slightly. "I've always figured it must have been something…bad that kept y'all from coming back, from letting us know how you were doing," he whispered. Then his head came up, and his lips quirked in a small grin. "Jake googles y'all, you know. Every once in a while just to see if you pop up." His face sobered. "Mostly, I think, to see if you're dead. And I know Luke has checked for y'all in the databases he has access to." Michael glanced at Sam, didn't speak for a beat, and since Dean couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to, the silence dragged out. Finally, "It's been hard not to know," Michael said, voice tight. He didn't look at Dean.
"I'm sorry," Dean said tiredly. And he was. More than he could say. "It was bad. For a long time. And we just couldn't…" he broke off, shook his head. "We just couldn't."
Michael turned to look at him and after a second, nodded – more sad understanding. "I'm sorry," he said again.
Dean drew in a shaky breath. "Yeah. Well." He looked over at Sam, still unmoving and unhelpful in terms of deciding what to do here.
Michael heaved a big sigh and stood. "Look. You don't have to decide right now, OK? But you should know, it's not going to matter to Mom or Luke. You do know that, right?" He waited until Dean turned to look at him. "We know your life is… what it is. We never thought y'all just decided we weren't important to you any more, OK? We knew – all of us knew – that it must have been something enormous to keep you away. But it still sucked." He gave a small smile. "We were worried about you, not ever mad." He paused. "OK, maybe Jake was a little mad."
Dean huffed out an uneven laugh. Ran a hand over his eyes that had gotten kinda damp over the last few minutes.
"We love y'all. And we only want to help in whatever way you'll let us." He reached over to grip Dean's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze and a gentle shake. "I'm going to run this to the lab. Stay here."
Dean nodded, then tipped his head against the back of the chair. And fell asleep.
xxxx