A/N Full explanation and responses to comments at end of chapter. This one runs the gambit between heavy angst and some medical bullcrap that my engineer's brain insisted I couldn't leave out. Hang in there, we'll be getting some better explanations soon. ish
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Singer Salvage
Sioux Falls, ID
June 8, 2001
12:35 pm
Bobby had gotten them out of what Dean could now only think of as The Trap, and they'd carefully loaded Sammy's still, shredded and bloodied form onto the old toboggan Dean had once used to entertain his little brother on snowy days, using bungee cords to keep Sammy from falling off.
Bobby had put the chainsaw into the old red Radio Flyer wagon Bobby had given Sammy for Christmas when Sammy had been 5 or 6. (It had been meant for both of them, obviously, but at nearly 10, Dean had been affronted by what he considered a toy for kids. Of course, since Sammy wanted to ride in it, Dean had agreed — reluctantly of course — to drag Sammy around the yard. And when Bobby had taken Sammy for rides, naturally Dean had gone also, to ensure his baby brother's safety in the clearly unsafe contraption.). They'd carefully tied the toboggan's pull rope to the back of the wagon, and dragged Sammy home, where Dean had ever so gently carried him up to the room they'd shared at Bobby's for so long.
Dean had spent hours cleaning his brother's wounds, then carefully bandaging them, using yards of gauze and Ace bandages and tape to set and hold the shredded skin into the proper place. Bobby tried to help, but nothing the elder Hunter did was good enough, in Dean's opinion, and every time Bobby tried, Dean got more agitated, so in the end Bobby had provided the supplies and left Dean to his horrible task.
It had been like putting together the most precious and most disgusting 6'-4" jigsaw puzzle the world had ever known, and when Dean was finally done with his painstaking task, and Sammy lay still and practically mummified beneath the covers of his bed, Dean had bolted across the hallway to the upstairs bathroom and vomited for nearly ten solid minutes.
Afterwards, he'd cleaned himself up and returned to Sammy's side. Bobby hadn't even tried to get him to leave.
While he waited for Sammy to wake up, Dean had tried listening to his music, on the radio or the small stereo Sammy had gotten him for Christmas last year; but without Sammy telling him to turn the volume down, the music he'd always loved held no interest for him, anymore.
He'd tried reading to Sammy, picking up the fantasy books his brother loved so well, or some book of lore; but without Sammy interrupting with some useless bit of trivia or some reminiscence, without the corrections to Dean's mispronunciations (many of which were deliberate, big brother aggravating baby brother just for fun), it seemed sort of pointless.
Finally, he'd just talked to Sammy, reminding his brother of fun times they'd had and of all the things they'd talked about for the future — California, Stanford, getting their own place together one day. He'd talked most of last night and into the early morning before he talked himself to sleep; had only just awoken an hour or so before, and wasn't ready to start another marathon of gab, quite yet.
Instead, he simply sat on the side of Sammy's bed, one hand resting lightly over Sammy's large, cold hand.
Of course he heard Bobby's heavy tread on the stairs, the slight and familiar squeak of the hinge expected rather than startling in the silence broken only by his own breathing.
"Dean," Bobby began softly and moved to stand behind him, resting a gentle hand on one stooped shoulder.
Dean shook his head, and kept his eyes on his brother. "Don't, Bobby. Please just…fuckin' don't."
Bobby sighed. "It's been two days, boy," he said as gently as he could, and lowered himself slowly to sit across from the brothers, on the edge of Dean's bed.
Dean shook his head. "One day," he corrected. "One day, fourteen hours."
"Okay," Bobby nodded. "Just over one and a half days, then. That doesn't change the facts."
"And what facts are those?" Dean demanded angrily, still looking only at the heavily bandaged form lying unmoving on the bed.
"It's time, Dean," Bobby said quietly even as Dean shook his head. "It's past time we dealt with this. Let Jim and Caleb know. Call your daddy, if you want to. Set up the pyre. Give Sam the Hunter's send off he deserves."
Dean shifted and slowly turned to look at Bobby, his eyes bloodshot and his face blotchy from crying off and on for one day, fourteen hours, but the green of his eyes were clear as emeralds and just as hard.
"You don't do that when they're not dead," Dean reminded firmly. "It'd be murder."
Bobby shook his head, sadly. "Aw, Dean. I don't want it to be true any more than you do, boy, but…" he let his gaze drift from Dean to the still body behind him. "I hate it too, Dean. But Sam…" Bobby's voice caught and closed his eyes, for a moment, trying to hold back tears pooling in his own bloodshot eyes. He forced himself to look at Dean again. "Sam's gone, Dean. He's dead. And it's time it was handled."
"He's not dead, Bobby," Dean insisted quietly, and turned his attention back to the bloodied body beside him.
"Look at him, Dean," Bobby urged. "There's no pulse. He's not breathing. There's no change, Dean. No improvement. Not a bit of healing. Not in a day and a half. He's gone, Dean."
"That's just it, Bobby," Dean argued and stood suddenly, turning to face his mentor and friend, his frustration and anger forcing him into motion. "It's been a day and a half, and there hasn't been any change."
"Dean…"
"No change in his color," Dean continued, "no pooling of blood at his back. His eyes haven't gotten cloudy. NOTHING!"
"Dean!" Bobby tried again.
"No!" Dean yelled. "He didn't even go through rigor, Bobby!" He stopped and made a visible effort to pull back the anger that was his natural defense against all things that threatened Sammy, to force himself to present his case logically, calmly — the way his Sammy would. "We're hunters. We've seen death, Bobby. Dozens, hundreds of times. Too many bodies to even remember them all. We've both seen the changes death makes to a person, the ugly, natural processes that happen, until the body barely looks human at all."
"Dean."
"So, you look at him! And you tell me…does that look like a dead body? Does that look like a two-day old corpse? To you? Because it doesn't to me." He turned and looked down at his brother again, fighting the tears. "It just doesn't."
Bobby sighed and looked at Sam again, frowning. Dean was right, to a point. He would have expected all the changes to the body that Dean had enumerated — pallor mortis, livor mortis, rigor mortis, the clouding of the eyes — all the changes missing from the still, torn body before them. Then again…
"We don't even know what killed him, Dean," Bobby reminded. "It was something we'd only seen once before, and we have no idea how that…wind, or storm, or whatever the hell it was that attacked you two, would affect his body, or the way it responds to dyin'."
Dean shook his head. "I don't care what they were. Sam is human. And no matter what kills them — ghost, vampire, werewolf, ghoul, or those…those…light things…that came after him! A dead human body is a dead human body. And Sammy. Is NOT. Dead!"
"Dean…"
"Look, you want us to go, we'll go," Dean promised angrily, turning again to face the older Hunter. "I'll find some motel somewhere and carry him inside. I've done it before, for Sammy or Dad when they were hurt badly enough. I'll wait it out there."
"Wait what out, Dean?" Bobby challenged. "What are you waiting for? What exactly is going to convince you, boy? You gonna just watch over him while he bloats up and splits like an overripe fruit? While he putrefies in front of you? Just how much punishment are you going to give yourself before you accept that Sam is gone and there's nothing you could've done about it?!"
"HE'S NOT GONE!" Dean shouted, shaking with frustration and anger. "How can you…He heals himself, Bobby. You've seen it. For fuck's sake, Bobby, he damn near bled out on your kitchen table, and then just fixed it. How can you possibly think that a bunch of fucking lights could do him in?"
"He's not breathing, Dean! He's got no fucking pulse!"
"He's got no pulse we can detect," Dean corrected. "And his breathing is too shallow or too slow for us to be able to tell. But he's still in there," Dean insisted, spinning to face his brother again. "He's alive, and he's in there," he repeated and sat again by Sammy's side. "And I'm not giving up on him."
"Dean," Bobby tried again.
"Do you want us to go, or not?" Dean snapped, his voice as stiff as his back.
Bobby closed his eyes and dropped his head in defeat. "Of course I don't," he assured his boy.
"Okay, then," Dean nodded, his posture and voice a bit more relaxed as the relief that Bobby was still on his — on their — side set in. "Thank you. I'll see you later."
Bobby opened his eyes and looked at the proud, frightened young man before him. "Okay, Dean," he gave in. "Okay. Just…when did you last eat?"
"I grabbed something last night," Dean assured him. "I'm not hungry now. But I finished the stew," he admitted with a shrug. "So you know."
Bobby chuckled and patted Dean's shoulder. " 'salright. You just help yourself to anything you need, boy. Just…I put a roast in the oven. Should be done in a couple hours. You come downstairs and get some when you get hungry."
Dean just nodded and picked up Sammy's hand.
Bobby sighed, and turned towards the door.
"Bobby?"
Bobby stopped, but didn't respond or turn around.
"Thanks."
"Anytime, boy," Bobby promised, and left the brothers alone.
Dean sighed, and sat against the headboard of Sammy's bed, resting one hand lightly on his brother's shoulder, offering comfort to at least one of them.
"So where'd I leave off?" he wondered. "Oh, yeah. California. That beach house we're going to get. It'll have to be in pretty bad shape for us to afford it, but that's okay. You and me, Sammy, we're used to manual labor. We've built a lot of stuff in our day, haven't we? Remember the fort we built in the back of that house Dad dumped us at, when you were eleven, in…where was that? Huh. You'd think I could remember, we set a record at that place, almost six months. Man, were you pissed when Dad pulled us out of school that time. You'd joined that choir thing at school, and they were going to sing at the Spring Festival, and they wanted you to do a duet with that pretty little red head you denied having a crush on. I'll never understand why they wanted you for that duet, or why they let you join the choir in the first place. You can't sing worth a damn, Sammy. Not that I'm any better. But you had to turn them down, because Dad decided we were leaving. You didn't talk to Dad for weeks, except to say yes sir or no sir. Made him crazy. Crazier, anyway. He finally lost it and just wailed on you, man. You hadn't even done anything. But the way you said yes sir was 'disrespectful', apparently." Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you, then, Sam. I'm sorry for every time I didn't protect you enough.
"And I'm sorry that I didn't get it, why you were so upset about having to miss out on some stupid show. I get it now, Sammy, I do. It wasn't about the choir, or the soccer team, or the debate club, or any other school activity you kept joining when Dad told you to just keep your head down. It was about belonging. Making a home. I'm sorry I didn't get that then," he sighed. "I'm more sorry that the choir in…wherever it was…was the last thing you joined, until we got out and away from Dad.
"That's all you ever really wanted, wasn't it? To belong. To have a real home. Something not on four wheels. And I…I still don't quite get it, you know? I mean, sure, I get what you want, but I can't figure out why you want it! Moving around the way we did, a new town, a new school, a new motel or a crappy rental…it was all you ever knew. It was your whole life. I didn't…I don't know why it always seemed so wrong to you. But it did," he shrugged, "and I guess that's all that mattered, really. It's weird, that you were the one who wanted normal, and I had no problem with being dragged all over the place. You'd think it would've been me," he admitted softly, "wanting a home of our own again. I'm the one who had it, and then lost it. You never knew anything different."
He fell silent for a moment, and sighed as he checked again for the pulse he couldn't find, and a breath he couldn't feel, then continued his rambling.
"I remember it, you know," he admitted. "Did I ever tell you that? I don't think I did. But I remember. I remember that house in Lawrence. What it was like to have a real home, and a real, normal family. I had my own room then, you know. So did you. Your walls were this pale blue-green. Mine were this really blue blue. Not a sky blue or something pansy like that. Royal Blue. I picked it out myself, you know. They let me pick a new paint for my room when they told me I was going to have a baby brother or sister, so I didn't get jealous when they redid your room. I had Star Wars sheets and Dad built me a bed shaped just like the Impala, but in red. Mom didn't want black in my room, too much of a downer, I guess. I had Star Wars drapes, too!" he laughed. "Such a geek. But, hey, I was only four, and at least I grew out of it! Unlike some people I could name."
He paused in his reminiscence, and brushed the hair away from Sammy's closed eyes.
"I know I picked the paint and all, but I don't remember doing it. That would've been a cool first memory," he decided and ran his fingers through Sammy's mop of hair. "But it wasn't. My first memory? It's you, Sammy. Did you know that?" Dean sniffled slightly and blinked against the sudden moisture in his eyes. "My first memory — the first one that's really solid, you know? The first one where I can just see it, and it's all so clear. It's when Mom and Dad brought you home from the hospital. Mom sat down in the arm chair in the living room, and pulled me onto her lap. And then Dad handed you to Mom, and Mom held you down where I could see you. 'Dean, this is your little brother. This is Sammy.' And you looked up at me. Right into my eyes," Dean smiled faintly. "I know, I know. Babies can't see that well for the first couple of weeks. That's what they said in Health Class, anyway. But you did. You looked right at me. I guess you always were an overachiever!" Dean laughed. "And those big eyes of yours. They were blue then, they didn't turn hazel until you were almost two. But you saw me, Sammy. I know you did.
"I remember being scared about it, how small you were. I was sure if I breathed wrong, I'd break you! I think I said that — that you were so small? And Dad said, 'well, that's why we have to look out for him. He's your little brother, and you and me and your Mom, we all have to take care of him. Can you do that, Dean? Can you help your Mom and me take care of Sammy, so he grows up big and strong and safe?' " Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard, wiping away the lone tear that slid down his cheek. "Of course, I said 'yes'. And I asked if I could touch you, and Mom just laughed and said sure, you weren't gonna break. So I did what I'd seen Dad do: I put one finger against your palm. And your little bitty hand…that perfect little hand, with its tiny little fingers and itty bitty nails…you just grabbed on, man. Just held on so tight, and you looked up at me with such…so much trust. Like you knew…you knew. I was your big brother and I was always, always gonna protect you. And that was it," Dean shook his head, laughing softly. "You had me right from the start, Sammy. From the minute you grabbed onto my finger and looked into my eyes. My baby brother.
"Mom let me hold you, then, sitting on her lap in the chair. Showed me how to put my arms just right, and how to support your little bald head. Damn, you were cute," he laughed through the lump in his throat. "What happened, huh?" he teased, and lightly punched Sammy's arm. He froze for a moment, waiting for a reaction that didn't — couldn't — come, and then kept on with his story. "I knew right then, there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for you. I'd walk through fire — hell, I did walk through fire — to protect you. I'd do anything for you, Sammy. Anything at all." He shook his head and the tears began to fall freely.
"Just tell me what I have to do, Sammy. What can I do? How can I make you wake up? Just wake up, Sam. Please? I'll do anything. Anything at all. Fuck it. I'll stop hunting. I'll find some technical college, and settle down, give you lots of nieces and nephews to spoil. Anything you want me to do, Sammy. Just…just wake up and ask, and it's yours. I'll let you drive my baby, any time you want. I'd sell my soul to get you back right now, Sammy, if I knew where to go, who to talk to. I'd give up my life for you in a second, and I wouldn't think twice. You know that right? Just wake up, Sammy. Tell me how to wake you up," Dean begged and closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the headboard and stopped fighting, just for a moment, to be strong.
He never knew how long he sat there, letting the tears roll down to his neck, not making a sound — he'd learned young to be silent when he cried — while his heart shattered, over and over again.
Eventually, he lifted his head and looked down at his brother, who lay beside him, unmoved and unmoving.
Roughly, he wiped his tears away and took a deep, shaky breath.
"Well, that was real helpful, wasn't it?" he scoffed, and blew out a breath. "Anyway. You need to wake up, here, Sammy," he repeated and wiped one hand over his mouth. " 'Cause, see, we got a problem, you and me. You've been just loafing around for almost two days, now, Sammy. And we're gonna run up against the Rule of Three, here, real soon."
He reached again to check for a pulse and breath, and sighed when nothing had.
" I just…" he shook his head. "Three minutes without air. You're breathing, I know you are. So, we're good there. But we're coming to the second three, Sammy. Three days without water. You're almost at two," Dean whispered. "I thought about just trying to get you to drink, but…Man, if I screw that one up? I could drown you," he shook his head. "So you gotta wake up, Sammy. Soon, okay. One more day, and you'll die of dehydration, man.
"What you need," he sighed, "is an I.V. But I don't know how to hook one up so it goes into the right place. I can't take you to the hospital. Last thing you probably remember, you were being attacked, so who knows what you'll do if you wake up in a strange place, with strange people around. You wouldn't mean to, but you could hurt somebody, and you'd never forgive either of us if that happened."
He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the burgeoning headache there. "What we need, is somebody who can come here. Somebody who could put an I.V. in, but where am I going to find…"
Dean froze. He jumped off the bed and started patting his pockets for his wallet. "Damn, Sammy, your big brother is an idiot. I'll be back, little brother," he promised and patted Sammy's arm as he sprinted out of the room.
"Bobby!" he called, rushing down the stairs and jumping over the last three. "Bobby!"
"Dean?" Bobby rushed into the living room, meeting him halfway. "Is Sam…"
Dean shook his head. "No, no change, no time," Dean grabbed Bobby's forearms. "Have you seen my wallet?"
"You…what?"
"My wallet! Have you seen my wallet?" Dean repeated, letting go of Bobby to quickly search around the couch and chairs in the living room.
"Uh…I…I don't…" Bobby stammered and followed Dean into the library. "Dean, what's so…"
"Dammit!" Dean spat, checking the pockets of the jacket he'd carelessly thrown over one of the library chairs. "Where the hell…Wait, wait." He spun and faced Bobby again. "Didn't I give you money for pizza?"
"Well yeah, but…"
Dean sprinted into the kitchen and reached up to the top of the refrigerator. "YES!," he crowed, pulling down the familiar leather bifold. He rushed back into the library, opening the wallet and fishing behind his driver's license to find a slightly rumpled business card. "Oh, thank god," he breathed and sank into a chair, staring at the card in his hand.
"Boy, what the hell…"
"Phone," Dean interrupted Bobby's question.
Bobby sat in his chair behind the desk and handled the cordless handset over.
Dean quickly dialed the number, and sat on the edge of his chair, nervously bouncing his leg up and down as he waited for someone to pick up.
"KnightMed," a gentle, feminine voice answered. "What's your emergency, Hunter?"
"I…ummm…" Dean stammered. "I…"
"It's all right, Hunter," the reassuring voice promised. "What's your first name?"
"Uh…Dean. I'm Dean."
"Are you the one who's hurt?"
"No, no, i—it's my brother, Sam, and I…I'm one of Maggie's Blooms!" he blurted out, suddenly remembering the name.
"Understood, Dean. Please hold on the line, while I try to reach Doctor Bloom for you."
Dean nodded and took a deep, slow breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart.
"Dr. Bloom," a familiar voice said suddenly, and Dean leaned back in his chair, suddenly relieved.
"Thank god," Dean breathed. "Maggie? It—It's Dean. Dean Winchester. I don't know if you remember me.."
"Dean?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "Of course I remember you. How are you? How's Sam? Are you still with your Uncle in South Dakota?"
"Yeah, yeah, we are," Dean admitted, relieved beyond reason that she still recognized his name. "Maggie, it's Sammy. He's…I…I think he's in some kind of coma, and I don't…"
"Sam's in a coma?" Maggie repeated. "And I take it you haven't taken him to a hospital or anything."
"Yeah, I—I think that's what's going on? I can't take him anywhere. I…It's hard to explain, but if I take him to a hospital, there…people might get hurt. I can't…just…it's been almost two days, Maggie, and I can't get any fluids into him without maybe drowning him, and…"
"And you need somebody to come in and set up an I.V., before he dies of dehydration," Maggie finished, her level, matter-of-fact voice an island of calm in Dean's sea of panic.
"Yeah," Dean sighed, barely holding back the tears that fought to come.
"Okay, Dean," Maggie said gently. "It's okay. We'll get you covered. Just let me check our list… Where exactly are you in South Dakota?"
"Sioux Falls."
"Sioux Falls, that's good," Maggie gave a relieved sigh. "We actually have a Nurse Practitioner in Dell Rapids, like half an hour, forty minutes from you. I'll get a message to her right away. What's your address?"
"I'm at Singer Salvage on…"
"Singer Salvage?" Maggie repeated with a laugh. "Don't tell me your Uncle Bobby is Bobby Singer?"
"Um…" Dean glanced at the hunter sitting on the other side of the desk, eyebrow raised, and arms crossed disapprovingly. "Yeaaah," he admitted.
"Good God, Dean, why didn't you say? Give him the phone," Maggie directed.
"It…it's for you?" Dean said with a shrug and held the phone out to Bobby.
"Singer."
Dean watched the sudden smile grow on Bobby's face. "Maggie! How the hell are you?"
Dean listened attentively to Bobby's side of the conversation.
"Yeah, they've been here since they left Asheville…Just under two days ago, like Dean said…Well of course, I remember Car…Honestly, Maggie, I ain't even sure the boy is still alive," he admitted and Dean frowned at him. "Dean and I are having kind of a difference of opinion over that one…Well, we can't find no heart beat, and there's no indication that he's breathing at all…No, you got that right…" Bobby shot Dean an almost apologetic look. "There're damn few hunters I trust more, even young as they are, I'll give you that, but both boys have got a kinda blind spot when it comes to t'other, particularly Dean…Okay, so you know what I'm sayin'…Well, yeah, there are some issues…Well, there's been none of the usual decay with a corpse, is Dean's point….Nope…Nope…Nope, none o'that, but so far the pupils aren't responding, and…No, still perfectly clear, but…Yeah, but how he came to be this way is kind of…Honestly, Mags, this ain't nothin' I've even heard of before, much less seen, and I been looking into this for about a year now…'Course I've reached out to…Yep, him too….and him…Look, I've hit all my contacts and nobody has any idea what the hell this thing could be….There's been some rumors, sure…something real old, hasn't been seen in a long time…yeah, could be, but it could easily be something that's completely new…Yeah, I'll be happy to, I'll email you tonight, same address?… Okay…Yep, I'll wait for her call…Good to talk to you, too, Mags….Sure," Bobby concluded and handed the phone back to Dean.
"Maggie?" he said hopefully.
"Okay, Dean," Maggie said reassuringly. "I've texted that Nurse Practitioner I mentioned. Her name is Carla Johnstone, and she's already let me know she gets off shift in about an hour. She'll be there within two hours, and she'll get Sam all set up, okay?"
"Okay," Dean sighed.
"You call me tomorrow, and let me know what's going on, okay? I'm off this weekend, so call me any time, Dean."
"I will, I promise," Dean nodded.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Just for the record, I still count you as a friend. You could call once in a while, okay? Bobby has my private number."
"Okay," Dean promised.
"I have to get back to work. We'll talk soon."
"Yeah. Thanks, Maggie."
"Bye, Dean."
Dean clicked the handset off and handed it back to Bobby.
For a moment, the two hunters just looked at each other.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Bobby said with a shrug. "I should've thought of calling Carla in to help, but…"
Dean nodded. "I didn't think of KnightMed either," he admitted. "If Sammy does die, because I forgot…"
"None of that, boy," Bobby interrupted. "Maggie says you only met her the once, and that was at a regular hospital. No reason KnightMed would be something you thought of right off the bat."
Dean nodded. "Why didn't you?" he wondered, careful to keep his voice from sounding in any way accusatory.
Bobby shrugged. "Honestly, I rarely think of KnightMed at all. I've never used their service myself. But Carla and I know each other, and she's given my name and number out to a bunch of docs and nurses and such who know what's out there, as a resource if they need to know how to counter something a specific monster has done to a patient. I get a call from somebody in the network once, maybe twice a year, if that."
Dean nodded. "I guess, uh…Maggie thinks he's still alive, too?" he whispered hopefully.
Bobby shrugged again. "She thinks he maybe could be. Carla will be bringing out some equipment for diagnostics with her. They should be able to tell us for sure. And if there's any sign of life, we'll get that I.V. in. That was a good thought, Dean," Bobby admitted and rubbed the back of his neck self consciously. "Not sure why I didn't think of it m'self."
Dean shrugged. "You think he's dead. No reason why you'd worry about keeping him alive."
"Dean, I'm sorry I…"
Dean shook his head. "It's okay, Bobby. I see where you're coming from. And you're probably right about me having a blind spot where Sammy's concerned."
For a moment, the two hunters just looked at each other, then Dean took a deep breath and smiled. "Do I smell that roast?"
=====SPN=====SPN=====SPN=========SPN=====
Singer Salvage
Sioux Falls, SD
June 8, 2001
5:58 pm
Nurse Practitioner Carla Johnstone turned out to be a kind, gentle, motherly-looking woman whom Dean was frankly shocked to realize used to date Bobby. It took him less than a minute to figure that little secret out. The awkward how are you; I'm fine, you? vibe in the foyer left no doubt in Dean's mind, and only served to strengthen his resolve to never, ever have a "relationship" with a woman. It was clearly too much baggage to add to the full set of emotional suitcases his brain already lugged around everywhere he went.
Once they'd gotten past the introductions, they'd showed Carla to the room the boys shared and gave a brief overview of what had happened with Sammy. In turn, Carla gave them a brief overview of the tests she had planned, before the kind, gentle, motherly woman changed into an Amazon Warrior who threatened to kick both their asses if they didn't leave her alone with the patient, assuring both of them she would not lift a finger to examine Sam while Dean and Bobby were "hovering around or underfoot and in my damn way".
Dean took one look at the fear on Bobby's face, and followed the older hunter downstairs to the library and, more importantly, the whiskey.
They'd been sitting in near silence for one hour, forty-three minutes (not that Dean was counting), slowly sipping their way through most of a bottle of the good stuff, both of them wishing their tolerance of alcohol was perhaps slightly lower, when Carla came into the room.
Dean started to stand, but Carla waved him back into his seat and nodded at Bobby who pulled out another glass and poured Carla a double.
After downing it in two gulps, she set the glass firmly on the table, pulled up the third chair in the room to take a seat, and turned her attention to Dean.
"You're brother is alive," she pronounced with a frown, and Dean leaned back in his chair and took, then slowly exhaled, a deep breath for what he was pretty sure was the first time since they were attacked two days ago.
His relief lasted exactly as long as it took for Carla to drain her second glass. "Don't ask me how," she continued, and Dean sat forward again, "because by rights the boy should oughta be brain dead."
"I…." Dean began and stopped when she raised a hand and shook her head.
"I'll tell you everything, Dean, just be patient," Carla told him, the kind motherly woman suddenly returning.
"That'll happen," Bobby snorted and Dean glared at him, suppressing a smile when Carla slapped the older hunter's arm.
"A couple things first," Carla continued. "Either of you familiar with the Glasgow Coma Scale?"
"Told you he was in a coma," Dean glared at Bobby, who rolled his eyes. "Vaguely," Dean answered Carla's question. "It's how doctors and EMTs and people figure out how bad a coma is."
"Basically," Carla nodded. "Scores range from a high of 15, which means a patient is perfectly alert and not in a coma at all, down to lowest possible score, which is 3, which really means the patient is dead."
Dean nodded his understanding.
"Your brother's score is 3," Carla continued. "He doesn't respond to any stimulus in any way."
"But…You said…"
"I said he wasn't dead, and he's not," Carla assured him. "He is in as deep a coma as I have ever seen, except that I'm not sure it is a coma," she admitted with a sigh.
"But…"
"Dean," Carla said, not unkindly, "if you can just listen for a few minutes, I'm sure all your questions will be answered. At least, all the questions I can answer will be answered. Okay?"
Dean nodded and took another sip of whiskey. Bobby refilled his glass.
"You both said that you couldn't find a pulse or tell if he was breathing," Carla continued, and both men nodded. "Well, he has got a pulse, but it's so slow that the normal methods of checking for 10 or 20 seconds would miss it. Same thing with his breathing. His heart rate, right now, is about six. Six beats per minute. He breathes about twice a minute. That's not coma. That's closer to, well, hibernating. Sam basically has the heart rate and respiration of a hibernating bear. Which, to the best of my knowledge, has never occurred with any person before.
"What's even weirder," she continued, "is that I checked his pulse ox — how much oxygen is in the blood as a percentage of normal, which is 100%. Normal pulse ox would be 95% and above. With as often as your brother is breathing, I'd expect the pulse ox to be in the range of not more than 10. It's actually 98. And I have no idea how or why."
"But that's good, though, right?" Dean asked, a little desperately.
"Yes, very good. With his pulse ox at that level, he wouldn't automatically have brain damage, but his Glasgow score indicated that he probably did. The next step in my testing was to get an EEG — to record his brainwaves to see what kind of activity was going on in his noggin," Carla smiled. She laid a hand gently on Dean's arm. "This part gets a little—complicated, dear, so pay attention."
She waited while Dean nodded and took another sip of whiskey before continuing.
"When I started recording the EEG," she sighed, "I really didn't expect to see much activity, if any at all. As I said, even though his pulse ox was good, everything else, from his pulse rate to the Glasgow Scale, indicated that he was probably brain dead — which he isn't!" she hastily added, before Dean could even react.
"But you did see activity," Dean pressed.
"That is putting it mildly," she nodded and raised her hand to stop Dean's further questions. "Let me finish."
Dean nodded and she continued. "At first, his brain waves were so tightly packed together that I thought he was having a seizure, except that the peaks and troughs weren't as extreme as I would expect. I looked more closely, and I thought I saw something, but wanted a second opinion. I sent a picture to a friend of mine, a neurologist who is also in the network, and asked him to take a look. While I was waiting for his answer, I took a look under the bandages…" She stopped and looked from Dean to Bobby and back again. "And while we're on that subject, which one of you mummified the boy, and why?"
Dean shrugged a little sheepishly. "I did," he admitted. "He'd been…well…"
"Flayed alive," Bobby provided. "Strips of his skin were just hanging off the boy. Why?"
"Well, first, because the bandaging was some first class work," Carla smiled. "I've met a lot of hunters, seen a lot of field bandages, but that — that was a work of art! I've seen some ER docs who weren't that neat or thorough."
Dean shrugged and looked away, embarrassed, as always, by praise.
"Wait a minute," Dean suddenly looked back at her. "Why didn't you know he'd been…" he stopped and huffed out a short laugh, starting to smile. "He's healed, isn't he? His skin, it's all…"
Carla nodded. "I thought it would be something like that, that he'd been somehow flayed or something. He has…well, stripes of skin is the best way to put it…all over his body that are as fresh and new as the skin of a baby. I took his bandages off, by the way. He just doesn't need them anymore."
Dean nodded.
"Did you hear back from your neurologist friend?" Bobby asked.
"I did," Carla nodded, "and he confirmed what I thought. Sam's brain waves…they're actually perfectly normal. They follow the usual pattern of brain waves that occur in a normal, healthy brain, what's called Beta waves. Beta waves indicate that a person is awake and functioning. That's what we found in Sam's brain, except there were way more than we would expect to see. Normally, you'd see 12 to 40 Beta waves a second. In Sam's brain — it's more like a hundred and fifty."
"And that means…." Dean said quietly.
"Honestly? I got nothin'," Carla shrugged. "My neurologist friend is stumped, too. It shouldn't even be possible for a brain to be that active. But Sam's is. And I don't know what that means." Carla shook her head. "I've run EEGs on accident victims, epilepsy patients, people in comas, perfectly functional adults," she admitted. "I've run them on a vampire, a werewolf and, god help me, and actually freakin' zombie. I have never seen anything like this. Now, my neurologist friend and I have put out some feelers to the rest of KnightMed, but so far? Nobody has seen this before. What we have here is a body that won't respond to any external stimuli, and a brain that's doing the work of four people."
"W…well, what do we do?" Dean demanded. "I mean…is it dangerous for his brain to be doing this? It's not going to, like, burn out or something. Is it?"
Carla leaned forward and took both of Dean's hands in hers. "I wish to hell I could tell you, honey. But I don't know. I don't think anybody knows. We just have to…wait and see, I guess."
Dean looked at their joined hands, and blinked rapidly against the tears of frustration starting to form.
"Look," Carla said gently, "we're going to keep Sam's body as safe and healthy as we can. I've got that I.V. set up, with just normal saline. I'll show you both how to change it before I go and I've got another 10 bags in my car to leave with you. I'll show you some exercises to do for him, to keep his muscles as strong as possible. I'll be talking to some people about what else we'll need to do in the next couple of weeks, for nutrition and things. And I'll be back as often as I can," she promised. "With my current schedule, barring other Hunter emergencies that may take up my time, I should be able to be back every three days. It's the best I can do," she told them and stood.
45 minutes later, Carla was gone and Dean was once again sitting at his brother's side, holding Sammy's hand and watching for any sign of change or movement.
"I know you're in there, Sammy," Dean said softly and brushed the hair off Sam's forehead for the fifth time since he'd come up stairs. "I don't know what you're doing, but you're in there. So…I need you to try to wake up, Sammy. Just…get your heart working a little faster," he suggested. "Remember when you'd get scared, when we were kids? And your heart would feel like it would beat right out of your chest? Remember what we did then? I'd hold your hand, just like this," he reminded, and pulled Sammy's hand to his chest, pressing it flat over his own heart. "And you'd just concentrate on getting your heart to beat like mine. Let's do that now, okay?" he suggested, and swallowed hard to push down the wad of sadness that was climbing up his throat. "Just follow my heart beat, Sammy. Listen to my voice, little brother." He shook his head and swallowed again. "I don't know where you are, or where you think you are. But I need for you to come home, now, okay? Just…I'm right here, Sam. I'm waiting. And I'll wait as long as it takes. You know that I will, but…I — I need you back, Sam. You need to come back. Remember, buddy, Stanford awaits! We got a lot of stuff to do before we move to California for the next few years. Don't you even think about leaving me to do all the packing, Bitch. So…wake up, Sammy. Please?"
Dean closed his eyes and lay himself gently down at his brother's side, keeping Sam's hand over his heart, putting his free hand on Sammy's chest.
"I'm waiting," he whispered. "Please come home."
Dean cried himself to sleep.
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A/N Yeah, I got a little medical with this chapter, sorry. I'm also not entirely thrilled with the end of this one, but I just kind of had to stop it somewhere. Sorry if this one was a little dry and technical. My brain won't let me move on until I address the technical bullshit. Further explanation of the technical bits below the responses to comments.
nightrider67 Glad to see you're still with me.I think this chapter should have put your mind at ease. Remember the original name of the story was "Evolution of a SamWitch". Not going to get rid of him this soon!
Soulless666 While I'm new to this venue, I have written many fanfics elsewhere, and I'm kind of known for coming out of left field with stuff. Or, at least, the boys in my head are! Glad you're invested, and I hope you stick around. We'll be having more action soon (I think). Glad that you got where I was going, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy the ride!
Technical explanations, for those of you who are not addicted to crime and forensics dramas (thank you Wikipedia):
pallor mortis: paleness after death. Occurs in the first 15 minutes to 2 hours after death.
livor mortis: the settling of blood in the body towards the lower part of the body, also known as lividity. Starts between 20-30 minutes after death, but is usually not visible to the human eye until about 2 hours after death. Lividity reaches maximum by 12 hours after death.
rigor mortis: stiffening of muscles after death, particularly noticeable in limbs. Can start as soon as 4 hours after death, and resolves over time. At room temperature, it usually resolves (goes away) within 8 hours of onset, or usually around 12 hours after death.
There's no specific name for it, that I could find, but within 20-30 minutes after death, a person's eyes will get cloudy.
Putting all this together, 1 days 14 hours after the incident, when the first scene takes place, should have Sam looking very pale, almost blue, with dark pools of blood that look like bruising towards his back, and cloudy eyes. He should have gone through rigor mortis and come out the other side.
The Rule of Three is a guideline for how long the average person can survive without the necessities of air, water and food: three minutes without air; three days without water; three weeks without food.
The Glasgow Coma Scale is real, and the values mentioned do mean what Carla explains.
I have no idea if it's even possible for a person to have a pulse and breathing rate as low as I say, but I'm going for it, and keeping the pulse ox reading — Sam is a witch, after all.
As for the EEG readings — Beta waves are normal for thinking, conscious people, at the rates I indicated, but I have no idea if anything else I said is possible
As far as being able to send a picture from a cell phone goes, by June 8, 2001, that technology had been available for just over 6 months.