Fic: Clatter and Keen, Part I
Part I
Dean wakes up very slowly. He knows he's awake because he can hear the faint buzz of people speaking, machines beeping, and the squeak of metal on metal. His head is nestled against a pillow and all he can see is a faint orange light, which he quickly realizes is through his closed eyelids.
Someone is beside him, he can feel it. The person moves and walks past the source of light, blocking it and the glow of warmth from his face. He makes a small noise of protest, and he hears a women say, “Ah, so you are awake.”
He hears a pen scratch against rough paper and the sound of shuffling papers. “Come on now, Mr. Page? Why don't you open your eyes?”
He thinks that's a pretty good idea, so he cracks a lid, and it's like wading through thick mud. When he finally gets it open, he doesn't see a lot, just a big blur. Then a brilliant white light shoots into his eyeball painfully and he slams his eyes shut. Figures pry open his eyes and the light is there, beaming right in.
“Your pupils are responding. That's good,” murmurs the lady. She lets go of his face and clicks off the light. Dean shuts his eyes and then opens them cautiously.
A blurry image of a woman in green scrubs stands over him, writing on a clipboard. She's got short grey hair and tanned skin, and holds herself in a confident manner. She looks up from her notes and looks Dean in the eye.
“Good to see you awake, Mr. Page. You're in the Saint Paul's Hospital. I'm your nurse and my name is Gloria,” The woman, Gloria says. She walks up to the head of his bed and reads some numbers off of a machine, then scribbles them down onto the notes held in her clipboard.
Dean, feeling more awake, turns his head and his vision swims with the motion. It's your standard hospital room, white walls, machinery, and an IV pole with a bag attached to him via his wrist. There's a green chair beside his bed, but it's empty.
Dean looks back to Gloria.
“Sam?” He asks. His voice is thick and it comes out in a whisper. He swallows to help clear his throat.
“Who?” Gloria replies.
“Sam. The big guy. He must be around here somewhere.” Dean croaks out, as he scans the room.
“Sorry, Mr. Page. You haven't had any visitors since you arrived, four days ago.” Gloria remarks. She puts down the clip board and heads for the door. “I'll get your doctor.”
Dean sits up. Or at least tries to. Muscles scream, his spine and shoulder shriek in pain as white hot agony flares through his whole body. He gasps and chokes, flails his limbs, which makes it far worse.
“Jesus! Don't try to get up!” Gloria comes back to the bed and pushes down Dean's trembling arms. He can't help but let out a whimper from the strain.
Gloria reaches above his head and pushes a button on the little machine attached to his IV. He immediately feels a flush of tiredness flow through him. He tries to raise his arms, but they're too heavy. His eyelids close on their own accord, and he's out.
Dean doesn't know how much time has passed, but when he wakes up again, his tongue is thick and welded to the room of his mouth. The room is dark, and the hallway outside is quiet.
He's not sure where he is. He has a fuzzy memory of a nurse with a clipboard, so he must be in a hospital. There's a deep ache in his left hip and leg, but it's covered with a blanket, so he can't see what's causing it.
He tries to sit up, but only manages to raise a few inches before dropping back down onto the bed. His back and ribs pulse with pain, but it's distant, and Dean feels very drowsy and disorientated.
He sees a control panel beside his hand, and paws at it clumsily until the top of the bed rises into a sitting position. This makes his ribs ache and he's out of breath, but he feels clearer headed than before and far more in control. Next he finds the nurse call button and presses it. He tries to wait patiently without much success, while thoughts drift through his consciousness.
Finally, a nurse enters, male this time. He's short, kind of scrawny looking with what Dean thinks in the weak light is short black hair.
“James, good to see you awake. My names Brian. How's the pain?” the nurse asks.
“Okay,” Dean tries to say, but it comes out as more of a cough. The nurse hands Dean a cup of water that until now Dean hadn't even noticed. He accepts it with shaking hands, and takes a sip. After a moment, he repeats, “Okay.”
“We've all been real worried about you. You were pretty beat up when you came in, James,” Brian rambles. He pulls out Dean's chart from the end of the bed and starts examining the contents.
Dean's not entirely sure why he's being called “James,” until he remembers that his most recent fake insurance cards were under “James Page.” Sam must have given them the cards when he was admitted. Speaking of such, why is he here? He has no recollection of the how or why he's here. Obviously he was injured on a hunt, but no memory of the hunt surfaces.
“What happened,” asks Dean. He takes another gulp of water.
The nurse looks up from Dean's chart. “Search me. I was going to ask you that.”
Dean blinks. Surely Sam made up some story to tell the hospital staff. Brian sees Dean's confusion and elaborates. “All I know is that you came in here four days ago, unconscious with a severe concussion, a cracked rib, broken left femur, small cuts and bruises, mild hypothermia, and dehydration.”
“But how did I get here? Has Sam been in?” Dean asks.
“Who's Sam? You've mentioned him before,” Brian remarks.
Dean doesn't really remember that, but apparently he has a concussion, so he probably hasn't been so coherent. “Sam. My brother. A big, tall guy with stupid floppy hair?”
The nurse thinks about it, “Hmm, no I haven't seen him. Or anybody for that matter. But then again I only work the night shift.”
“Wait a minute. I haven't had any visitors?” Dean asks, perplexed. He finishes the cup of water and balances the cup in his lap. A stab of anxiety hits his gut.
“Not to my knowledge. But you'll have to ask the day staff. Maybe your doctor will know.”
“Damn it,” Dean says quietly. He suddenly feels overwhelmingly tired. He rubs his face with his hands and his muscles twinge in protest. “Where's my phone? I need to make some calls.”
“Oh, you don't have one.” Brian tells him. “Or, at least there wasn't a cell phone on you when you arrived. Only torn up clothes and your wallet.”
“Well, who brought me in?” asks Dean. His heart begins to beat a bit faster; the air becomes just a little bit more stifling.
“From what I hear, a couple was driving up an old logging road on Bear Top Mountain to go hiking, when they found you passed out in the middle of the road.” Brain says. He plucks the empty cup out of Dean's lap and disappears, only to reappear with more water.
Okay, there's a problem here. Dean has no recollection of a Bear Top Mountain. He doesn't even know where the hell that is, or why he would even be there.
“What hospital is this?” asks Dean. He has a faint memory of being told this before, but hello, concussion.
“This is Saint Paul's,” replies Brian.
“But where?! In what city?!”
Brian blinks. “Jefferson County, Washington,” Brian looks him over in a way that's slightly condescending. “You really did take a beating, didn't you?”
Dean had no idea he was in Washington. He has no idea why he would even be in Washington. He tries to think back the last hunt he remembers. It was a run-of-the-mill poltergeist in New Mexico. It feels like it was yesterday.
Dean's anxiety begins to grow.
“What day is it?” he asks, already knowing he's not going to like the answer.
“Thursday, the 23rd of February,” Brian says. Then states helpfully, “year 2008.” And thanks. He's concussed, but not that concussed.
But hang on... February 23rd? The last date he can be sure of is February 5th.
Holy shit. He's missing eighteen days out of his memory. That's not good, not good at all.
“Hey, James? You okay? You look freaked, and you're sweating,” remarks Brian.
Dean is not okay. Not okay. He's missing time and memory, and Sam. That is so not okay.
“I, fuck. I got to go. I need to find Sam. Shit,” Dean says, more to himself. He pulls back the blankets, despite his muscles and joints protesting the movement.
“Hey, hey! James, you're in no condition to get out of bed. You're still really beat up. You need to rest,” Brian says, quickly. He tries to pull the blankets back over Dean's legs, but Deans slaps his hands away.
“Back off. I don't have time for this,” Dean finds wires attached to his chest, which he pulls off clumsily and tosses aside. A machine beside his bed which had been quiet until now, gives off a sudden high pitched squeal. The nurse talk animatedly, but Dean ignores him. He focuses on swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The right one is fine, but the left is covered from hip to foot in a cast, and it looks heavy as fuck. Dean tries to move it, but pain flares up and he gasps. After a moment, he grabs it with his arms and picks up his leg and shifts it to the side of the bed.
The whole process leaves him gasping and close to throwing up. The leg throbs firey hot pain that flows all the way up his left side and ignites in his skull. His vision whites out for a moment, and he comes back to himself to discover his legs are off the bed, but the rest of him is limply lying there, unable to more.
“No, no, no! Stop moving. You still need to get surgery done on your leg! It's only temporarily casted until you're concussion improves!” Brain says heatedly, while pressing the call button repeatedly.
Dean beings to rise up and Brian brings his hands up and pushes him back to the bed. It's pathetically easily.
Dean's visions swims, his whole body pulsates with agony, and he's drenched in a cold sweat, but none of that matters. Sam's out there, missing in action. He needs help right the fuck now.
“I gotta get Sam,” Dean pants. Knows how irrational he sounds, but doesn't care. “He's still out there.”
Brian keeps one hand on Dean's chest to hold him down and then reaches over to the IV and pushes the painkiller button. Dean almost instantaneously feels heavier, sleepier.
“James, if your brother is still on that mountain, then we will get him help. But right now you need help. You can't do anything in your current state. I'll get the cops to come here in the morning and they can begin a search and rescue. But right now, you need to relax and sleep it off.” Brian placates.
Dean's eyes grow heavy and slide shut. As he slips away, he faintly hears the nurse say, “Besides, it's snowing a shit storm out there. No one's going anywhere right now.”
And then he's out.
Dean's awakened by someone rolling him. It causes an adrenaline surge straight to his heart as pain roars up from his left foot to hip and pulsates through his abdomen.
He pulls his eyes open to assess for danger and can't see anything but the linens right beside his face and a bed guard rail. The world's a little too bright and it makes his gut give a nauseous tug, which doubly hurts as a result of whatever the hell is moving him.
The guard rail is lowered and a different bed is rolled into sight by a nurse that Dean doesn't recognize. He's a thick man with little hair, but when he see's Dean's awake, he smiles gently.
“Hey James. I'm John and that's Carey,” He nods to someone behind Dean, “We're moving you to get prepped for surgery. Now that the worst of the concussion has worn off, we'll be performing surgery on your leg. The anesthesiologist and surgeon should be in to talk to you soon.”
Dean licks his lips, gathering moisture. He clears his throat, ready to ask just what the hell is going on here, when the nurse and someone Dean can't see count down from three and efficiently move him to the other bed. The movement is swift, but still pulls the air out of Dean's lungs and he struggles against sparks of white hot pain that shoot through his body.
A harsh animalistic groan fills the air, and it takes a moment for him to realize he's the source of the groan. John and a smaller brunette female nurse, probably Carey, quickly cover him with a light blanket and tuck it around his body gently.
“Sorry about that,” John remarks. As an afterthought he says, “It's good to see you awake again. You've been really out of it. You remember anything?”
Dean blinks slowly and tries to remember what he... remembers...
Sam.
Dean jolts with the thought, startling the nursing staff.
“Has anyone found Sam yet?” His voice comes out gruff and quiet, but steady.
“Who?” Asks Carey.
“My brother! He was up the mountain with me!” Dean exclaims. He shifts, tries to sit up, but finds he cant. His ribs protest and he clenches his teeth through the pain.
“I never heard about this,” says John. He glances at Carey. “You?”
She shakes her head.
“I already told the other nurse! The guy. From last night!” Dean says forcefully.
The nurses exchange a look. “The last time you were conscious enough to talk to someone was two nights ago, and you weren't very coherent,” Carey says gently.
“What?” Dean demands. “I explained to the guy very clearly that Sam is in trouble. He's still up the mountain. Has anything even been done?”
“I don't think he thought you were being serious,” John says quietly. “Concussions can cause confusion, and pretty extraordinary dreams and hallucinations.”
“What the hell is the matter with you people?” Dean bellows out as strongly as he can, which isn't that strong. But god damnit, Sam's who knows where. “I tell you a person is in trouble, and nobody does anything?”
The nurses glance at each other. “Why don't I get Thomas, the hospital's ICU director,” placates John.
“Yeah, why don't you do that,” spits out Dean.
The two nurses scurry out quickly.
“And while you're at it, bring me a god damn phone. I'll fix this myself if I have to,” he calls out to the open doorway.
Dean lets his head thump against the pillow. God damnit!
After maybe a half hour, a short balding man enters his room. He wears a white medical coat and a tie, and he has an air of authority surrounding him.
“Hello Mr. Page, I'm Doctor Thomas, the Director of the Intensive Care Unit here at Saint Paul's Hospital. I hear you're quite upset about something.”
“Sam,” Dean says through gritted teeth. What is wrong with these people? “He's missing. He may be still up the mountain.”
Thomas shifts and picks up Dean's chart on the end of the bed. He flips through a few pages, focused. Dean tries to wait patiently, knows that if he freaks out, nothing good is going to happen.
After a moment, Thomas looks up at Dean, “What's the last thing you remember?”
Dean thinks back. “I was in New Mexico, road-tripping with my brother.”
“Do you remember being at Bear Top Mountain?” Thomas asks.
“No,” Dean remarks with a little shake of his head. It hurts and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them.
“Then how do you know Sam was up the mountain with you? Maybe he's not even in town,” asks Thomas.
Dean scowls. So this is how it's going to be.
“I know Sam was with me because Sam is always with me!” Dean bellows.
Thomas puts up his arms in a consoling manner. “Okay, James. If you're sure. I'll notify the police. They'll probably want to interview you after your surgery this afternoon if you're up to it.”
“Screw my surgery,” Dean barks. “I'm not going under until I know where Sam is!”
“James, it's not a good idea to leave your leg for much longer. Complications can occur if we don't go in and fix the break in the femur soon. The x-ray's show a few shards have separated from the actual bone. If these shift they could cut into an artery and then you'd have a massive internal bleed.”
Well, shit.
Dean closes his eyes. His mind is too fuzzy for this. He needs a clear head to deal with this situation. When he opens them again, Thomas is scribbling something in Dean's chart.
“Look, fine. I'll go in for surgery. But before you do, can you please give me a phone? I need to make some phone calls,” Dean asks.
Thomas nods. “A nurse will be in soon with a phone.”
Doctor Thomas leaves and Dean only has to wait a whole half hour for a phone to be brought in.
The first call he makes is to Sam's cell phone. The phone clicks right to voice mail. Although he doesn't think it will help, he leaves a message anyways. “Sam! I'm at Saint Paul's hospital in Jefferson County. Where the hell are you? Come to the hospital as soon as you get this.”
After he hangs up, he calls his own cell phone. This also goes immediately to voice mail. He doesn't bother to leave a message. He proceeds to call all their cell phones and gets no answer.
Dean then calls Bobby. Bobby picks up on the fifth ring, sounding as gruff and ornery as always.
“Bobby! It's Dean,” Dean says quickly.
“Hey Dean,” Bobby says with a friendlier tone. “Haven't heard from you in a while. Did you make it up to Washington?”
“You know I'm in Washington?” Dean asks.
There's a pause, then, “Well I did send you two knuckle-heads up there, didn't I?”
Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. It hurts his whole body to move, but he does it anyways. His skin is oily and he can feel scabs all over his face and nose, like he was dragged against a gravel road.
“Bobby, Sam's missing. I'm in a hospital and I can't remember anything since about three weeks ago,” Dean says. “I don't even know why we're in Washington.”
There's a pause, then Bobby says, “You okay?”
“I'm fine,” Dean dismisses. “We gotta find Sam, Bobby. Do you know where he could be?”
“Well, I sent you two up there because of some disappearances on Bear Top Mountain. Hikers kept getting eaten. You and Sam went to check it out, and that's the last I heard about it.” Bobby remarks.
A hot surge of anxiety curls in Dean's chest. Sam could be out there, being munched on at this very moment.
Dean clenches his eyes shut. A spike of pain flares through his head, the familiar pain of a headache starting.
“Dean?” Bobby calls over the phone.
“I'm here,” Dean replies. “I need help Bobby. I can't get out of the hospital right away-”
“I thought you said you were fine,” Bobby demands.
“I need surgery on my leg. Its, uh, broken,” Dean corrects.
“And a concussion, by sound of it,” Bobby mutters. “I'll head out right away. What name are you under at the hospital?”
Dean's head gives a pulse of pain, and he's forced to squeeze his eyes shut and breath through the pain. “James Page. I already talked to the doctor. The police are going to start a search and rescue-”
Bobby cuts him off, “Don't do that, Dean.”
“Bobby-” Dean begins to argue, but is cut off again.
“Listen, Dean. You've have a concussion so you're not thinking right. If that thing is still on the mountain, you can't send a group of people up there to its lair.”
“But we've hunted it.” Dean argues.
“How do you know you got it? Sam's missing and you're royally battered. That doesn't sound like a successful hunt to me.” Bobby pauses, allowing it to sink in. “I'm sorry Dean, but we can't risk this thing eating more innocent people.”
Dean swallows and feels helpless. “But... Bobby... Sam's up there.”
“I know, Son. And we'll get him. I can be up there in less than a day. Just hold on that long.”
Dean's chest tightens, makes it difficult to breath. He should have thought of all this. Fucking concussions.
“Dean?” Bobby probes.
“I'm here.” Dean mumbles into the phone. “This is fucked, Bobby. We can't just do nothing.”
“I know, but you cannot let civilians head up that mountain. Sam wouldn't want you to do that.”
It already sounds like Sam's dead. Missing on top of a monster infested mountain and everyone's assuming the worst. Dean lets out a humourless, slightly hysterical laugh, and it hurts his ribs and makes his brain explode with pain. He lets the laugh turn to a sob, and tries to calm himself but it doesn't really work.
In the background, Bobby keeps calling his name, sounding more worried by the second.
Dean sucks in a deep breath, well as deep as he can go with busted ribs, and demands himself to calm down.
“I'm okay, Bobby,” Dean whispers, voice wrecked. “I'll make sure no one heads up the mountain looking for Sam.” It kills him to promise this to Bobby, but god damnit! If anyone else gets hurt, he's never going to forgive himself.
“Okay,” Bobby says, satisfied. “I'm heading out right now. Get some rest, I'll be there before you know it.”
Dean kind of doubts that, but they both hang-up. He usually feels better after talking with Bobby, but he only feels panicked while riding a wave of pain.
Sam and him came up here for a job, some nasty eating hikers. Obviously they went up the mountain and got their asses handed to them. It probably wasn't something they're used to then, Dean muses. It would be something uncommon.
Or just something that's super charged.
Fuck. Where the fuck is Sam!
Fuck. How did things get so screwed up.
Dean lays in his bed, breathes in and out. Listens to the sounds of the hospital around him, watches dust float around the air in the sun light. Blinks, comes back to himself.
Fucking concussion. He's zoning out. This is so not good for being productive, which is exactly what he should be right now. He's the only thing standing between Sam and death and he can't even stay focused.
Dean presses his call button, asks a pretty nurse to bring back Doctor Thomas. It takes a couple hours for Thomas to come back, but in the mean time Dean's surgeon and anesthesiologist come and discuss the upcoming surgery on his leg.
They tell him that it's going to be a potentially long and complicated surgery. He's going to have pins in his leg. He's going to need eight weeks of a full leg cast, months of physical therapy. He's going to be in a lot of pain. The pain may be permanent if there's nerve damage. He may not walk unassisted ever again.
The words wash over him, and he nods in the right places, even asks a few questions. But it's not really sticking. Dean should pay more attention, he knows this, but he's a bit distracted, what with the missing little brother and all.
After his doctors leave, Doctor Thomas comes back in, looking tired.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Page?” He asks briskly.
Dean pulls his most silly whoops expression, and says, “I think I made a mistake.” He licks his lips, and fuck this sucks. “I told you Sam was up the mountain with me. I was confused. He's still in New Mexico. I forgot he wanted to stay down there and grab some more sun.”
Thomas smooths his face to neutrality. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah. I just talked to my uncle. He talked to Sam last night.” Dean clenches his fists under his blankets. “Sorry,” he adds.
Thomas, the good doctor, wrinkles his brow in concern. “James, frankly I'm concerned with your cognitive responses and memory lapses. The severity of your concussion is worrisome. Perhaps the surgery should wait.”
Dean shrugs, which hurts like hell to do. His voice comes out strained, “You're the Doc, Doc.”
Thomas nods. “I'll discuss this with your surgeon.” He goes to Dean's chart, and scribbles something in it, then drops it back into the holder at the end of his bed and leaves.
Great, now he's got the staff even more worked up about him. Dean hopes this doesn't impede his speedy recovery.
Dean allows himself a sigh and closes his eyes. His leg and head throb unceasingly. He wants to wake up and find himself in the Impala, vivid dreams of a hospital from a bender. Sam would be at his side, smirking in that obnoxious superior way he does, handing Dean some painkillers. And they'd continue on to the next gig, none-the-wiser.
If wishes were fishes.
Later, Dean assumes his surgeon gives him the go ahead, because the anaesthesiologist comes back with a trail of nurses. They inject something into his IV port that makes his stomach clench and twist, and the ceiling spin.
He's wheeled down to a different floor. Some of the staff talk to him, although the words flow over him and he can only give fractured, monosilibalistic answers. Most of the staff ignore him and prep the surgery room, talking over him to each other.
Eventually he either falls asleep or passes out. Dean's never had hardcore surgery before, a surprise considering his career choice. Even though it's stupid, he kind of expects to remember being 'under' for the surgery, like he'd be able to feel it under all the drugs.
But instead, one minute he's staring up at the ceiling with those super bright lights, the next he opens his eyes to a different ceiling, darker with those awful florescent lighting panels.
The room is dark, very quiet. There's another person sleeping silently in a bed on the opposite wall he can barely make out in the gloom. His bed is large and comfortable. Dean doesn't feel any of the pain he expected to feel coming out of surgery, but that just means they've got out the good stuff for him.
He lets his eyes trail from the doorway where he can see a sliver of light coming from the hall, to the windows to his left.
Sam's hunched over in the visitor's chair.
“Sam,” Dean says softly, his voice barely over a whisper.
Sam tilts his head, and his eyes glimmer in the dark. “Hey Dean.”
“Where have you been?” Dean asks.
“Sorry,” Sam smiles. “I came as fast as I could. Had to finish the hunt.”
Dean relaxes into the pillow, knots in his chest loosening. “You okay, though? You really scared the shit out of me.”
Sam nods and rolls his eyes. “I'm good, Dean. Safe and sound.”
Dean smiles and shuts his eyes-
A loud shriek is emitted as curtains are drawn along a rusted poll. Dean opens his eyes to see blaring sunlight shooting right into his eyelids. The light stabs like needles in his brain and Dean blinks in confusion.
A nurse looks to Dean, hands still on the curtains. The bright light makes her practically just an outline in Dean's vision.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you,” she soothes. “Why don't you go back to sleep for now. Breakfast won't be out for another hour.”
“Sam?” Dean calls, his mouth dry, voice just a croak.
“No, my name is Leslie. You're in recovery,” the nurse, Leslie, supplies.
“Sam?” Dean calls again. He was just here, right here. Dean rotates his eyes around the room, makes his neck work with infinite difficulty.
Sam is nowhere to be seen, and the movement makes his head spin and his stomach churn uneasily.
On the opposite side of the room is another bed with a sleeping patient, privacy curtain partially drawn.
Dean's stomach drops away. Sam's not here. That wasn't real, which means that Sam's not here, which means that Sam's probably dead, which means-
Dean's stomach tightens and his mouths is suddenly flooded with hot, acidic bile. He turns his head to the side, but it splatters over his face and he can feel it slide down his neck.
“Oh dear,” murmurs Leslie, sympathetically. She reaches into a drawer in a bedside table and pulls out a bag, and helps by holding it to Dean's face so he can start puking in earnest.
As Dean's stomach rebels, he clenches his eyes shut, humiliation and grief threatening to suffocate him. He doesn't realize until he's stopped gagging, that his face his hot and wet with tears.
Dean feels like shit.
Coming out of that surgery was terrible. When his stomach stops trying to propel itself out his throat, Leslie gives Dean a cup of water and helps clean him up. She changes the pillow, where the bile dripped down, and rearranges Dean's blankets.
His stomach continued to roll and twist on itself. The nurse injects a clear solution into his IV. “This is Malaxon, an anti nausea medication. Lots of post operation patients have bad reactions to anaesthesia,” she explains. The medication will help, but Dean knows that the anaesthesia's only part of the problem.
Since he began vomiting, Dean can feel his recuperating limb and it's making itself known. Waves of hot agony shoot up his bones and Dean has to grit his teeth as the nurse tucks his blanket around him to keep from saying something nasty.
His headache also makes a nasty reappearance and the bright light from the sunny morning outside is not making any of it better.
The nurse tells him it's 7:30 in the morning, which means it's almost been fifteen hours since he talked to Bobby, so he's got nothing to do right now, but worry, wait, sleep, and worry.
After Leslie leaves, Dean's doctor, a slim and short blonde woman named Doctor Mitchell, comes in and lets him know with a little bit too much graphic detail, that his leg is really fucked up, but he should regain most movement if he follows their demands.
After she leaves, Dean closes his eyes and tries to pass out again. And he want to because he feels sluggish in the head and like his stomach it trying to perform a mutiny and his leg feels like it's worse, not better. But try as he might, his head fills with thoughts and he tries to remember what happened on the last hunt. Anything.
There's a loud bang at the window beside Dean's bed. It sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to his heart and he bolts up, which causes every injury in his body to complain at once, but that doesn't slow Dean from zeroing in on the threat.
There's a flap at the windows, the sound of fluttering wings, and a large black crow lands on the window pane and shuffles its wings. It cocks its head to the side and looks in at Dean with one eye.
Dean lets out a sigh and allows himself to flop back to the bed, head throbbing with the movement.
The crow lets out a caw caw, which is a bit more musical and deeper than Dean's used to, but he's never spent much time listening to the sounds they make.
He shuts his eyes and tries to relax his body. The Malaxon is finally taking effect and his stomach muscles slowly unclench themselves in blessed release. The bird continues to squawk, and Dean's roommate wakes up with a hacking cough that makes Dean's throat ache in sympathy.
The bird doesn't go away, just continues to caw until a short balding staff member comes in with breakfast trays. He introduces himself as Earl while he bangs on the window and makes the crow flutter away.
Earl helps elevate Dean's bed, and then gives him a tray on his lap. There's a cup of tea and two pieces of dried toast, he explains helpfully.
Dean's stomach revolts when he eyes the two pieces of soggy toast, obviously made hours ago.
The warden notices Dean's grey pallor, and says, “Your leg hurting you?”
“And then some,” Dean mutters. He wipes his face, feels like there's still old crusty vomit there, but it's probably just in his head.
“Well the doctor can't give you any pain medication until you eat something,” says Earl. Dean opens his mouth to protest, but he's interrupted.
“You'll feel better if you eat something. Just like a greasy breakfast cures a hangover. Promise.”
Dean considers and then takes a timid bite out of his toast.
“Better,” says the warden. He turns and starts setting up the other patient in the room. While Dean eats his toast, he watches the man work his magic con into getting his next door neighbour to eat as well. Sly dog.
Dean's stomach settles a bit more when he eats the toast, which somewhat surprises him, but then he probably hasn't had food for quite a few days. He even drinks his tea, like a good little surgery recovery patient.
An hour after breakfast, Dean gets a dosage of pills that make him feel drowsy and relaxed. He dozes on and off through the day until lunch comes, which is a runny soup with a soggy sandwich. Dean eats it, the edges of his vision soft with a gentle hum of medication in his bloodstream.
It's hard to keep hold of any thoughts, they all seem to flutter through his mind's hands, unable to grasp what exactly they were or their significance. This may be partially the concussion, Dean thinks while he dozes.
Afternoon sun shifts along Dean's skin, the warm glow makes him comfortable, despite the throbbing pain of his leg and head.
At some point, Dean's woken up by Leslie, who comes and changes his bandages, gives him a new IV bag, and changes his urine collecting bag. It pulls at the catheter that Dean didn't really know was there until this point, and leaves him uncomfortable and feeling embarrassed.
“Once the incisions in your leg have healed up, we'll put a cast on,” Leslie tells him. Dean smiles like that's a good thing, and Leslie leaves the room with his soiled bandages and bag of pinkish urine.
Dean falls asleep again, and dreams of Sam covered in snow, blood everywhere. He cries out for Dean, and every time Dean gets close enough to pick Sam up, Sam disappears and reappears a distance away. The dream continues like that in a never ending chain for a long time. He's only awoken when he feels a calloused hand brush against his shoulder.
“Dean?” calls a gruff voice.
Dean cracks open his eyes to see Bobby silhouetted in early evening light. He looks tired, lines etched into his face, frown heavy. When he sees Dean open his eyes, he looks relieved and gives Dean a tight smile.
“Hey Bobby,” Dean says, and it comes out in a croak.
“You look like shit, boy,” Bobby murmurs.
“You don't look like a bed of roses either.” Dean clears his throat and swallows. “You know anything yet?”
“I just got here. Haven't even got a room yet. All I know is what I told you already. You and Sam came up here to look into some missing hikers,” says Bobby. He pauses, then asks, “you remember anything yet?”
Dean shakes his head a little, and it hurts so he stops. “No. It's a blank wall. It's driving me crazy.”
Bobby nods. “Well, it could be a Wendigo. Or a something out of the Native American lore. There's a lot of legends around the Olympic mountains. It's too early to tell. Do you know where you were staying?”
“No idea,” Dean remarks. “I'm using the James Page ID's, so I may be booked under that name at one of the motels.”
“Okay, I'll see if I can find your room. This isn't a big town, so it shouldn't take me long. If I can find your research, then hopefully we'll know what we're up against.”
“And my car?” Dean asks. He hadn't really thought of the car, until this moment, and he feels a pang of guilt for forgetting his baby. But considering the circumstances, hopefully she wouldn't take offence.
“I'll find that too,” Bobby assures. He stands, lets his joints creak.
“Bobby,” Dean licks his lips, worry eating away at him. “What about Sam? We can't leave him up there by himself. He needs us.”
Bobby looks at his feet, refuses to meet Dean's eyes, until the moment he does, and Dean can see the guilt in his eyes.
“I will, Dean. But I'm not going up there blind. If whatever's up there managed to beat two hunters, I want to know what it is before I wander into its lair. Sam-” Bobby pauses, looks away. “I can't help Sam unless I do this first. You know that, right?”
Dean can feel his face fall and his throat tighten. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and nods.
“Hurry, Bobby.” Dean pleads.
“I will,” Bobby promises.
Dean doesn't hear from Bobby for another eight hours. He spends the time partially trying not to have an anxiety attack, and trying to sleep. There's no television in his room for distraction. Dean's roommate gets a visit from his family, and Dean shamelessly listens in, jealous of how simple their problems and worries are.
He gets fed dinner, which is a greyish chicken breast with gravy and rice, a whole wheat bun, and some peas and carrots. He eats half of it, appetite not really there.
He gets another dosage of painkillers and antibiotics after dinner. They make him lethargic and somewhat incoherent. Dean's not entirely asleep, but when the cell phone Bobby snuck him starts to buzz under his pillow around one in the morning, it surprises him and leaves him confused on its purpose for a full fifteen seconds. When he manages to get it on and up to his ear, he answers with a whispering, “'ello?”
“Hey Dean,” Bobby greets. He sounds tired and worn out. “I found your motel room. You guys always leave it in such a mess? I think your laundry's so dirty it's attracting flies.”
Dean's not really in the mood for the tease, but he tolerates it. “Did you find anything?”
“Mmhm,” Bobby says. Dean hears him shift, papers being shuffled. “I found your research. Looks like there's been four people missing all within the last three months. Their names are Mandy Bronah, Chase Smith, Elise Peterson, and Michael Bourne. No connection between each of them. They never knew each other, didn't go to the same schools, all different ages and backgrounds. Doesn't exactly narrow things down.”
“Anything else?” Dean asks.
There's a pause, then, “Well, when they searched for Smith and Bronah, they didn't find anything. But They found Peterson's clothes and... skin. And Bourne's clothes, teeth, and some hair.”
Dean closes his eyes, refuses to believe that's all he's going to find of Sam. Sam's going to be fine. Just like always.
“You have any idea what goes and leaves bits behind?”
“Could be a Black Annis,” Bobby considers. “I think they leave skin behind. But I've only ever heard of them going for children. I'm going to check out the local college tomorrow and see if there's any more local lore and myth that matches up with this.”
Bobby yawns in Dean's ear, and he realizes with a pang of guilt that the last sleep he probably got was in Sioux Falls.
“Go to sleep, Bobby,” Dean tells him. “Let me know what you find tomorrow.”
“Will do,” Bobby says and the call disconnects.
Dean stays awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. He listens to the noise of nurses talking quietly outside his room, listens to his roommate's soft snores, occasionally interrupted by a nasty wet cough. He tries not to think of anything, except getting healed up enough to get out of here.
After a long time, Dean finally falls asleep.
Sam sits opposite to Dean in a barely lit diner, drinking coffee. Dean drinks his own coffee, and neither of them say anything. Sam looks good, quiet, yet a content smile gently pulling at his lips and his eyes crinkle when he realizes Dean's watching him.
“Hey Dean,” Sam says quietly.
Dean knows distantly, that this isn't right. “Where are you Sam?”
Sam sips his coffee.
“Sammy,” Dean asks again. “Where are you?”
“Here,” Sam says.
A small line of blood drips down from his forehead, which Dean realizes in dream logic, that it has always been there. It runs down between his eyes and off to his cheek, making a splat noise as it drips onto the table.
Dean reaches to brush the blood away, but the table is too wide now, and he can't make his arms go that far. He waves ineffectually at the air, and Sam opens his mouth and his teeth fall out and blood streams out his lips and splashes into his coffee. The teeth clink as they hit the bottom of the cup. Sam brings up a hand to his face, and Dean knows what he's going to do.
“Sam. No!” Dean cries out.
Sam grabs his skin and begins to remove it from his face. Big chunks of it fall onto the table, onto his lap, into his coffee cup that has now turned into a soup bowl. Blood spatters down, like rain, peppering Dean's hands as he tries to reach for Sam.
“Here,” Sam repeats, all that's left of his face is bone, muscle and blood. A toothless red wet smile rests on his face and his eyes sparkle mischievously.
Sam reaches for his eyes and Dean screams, howls in outrage and horror. He has to stop him from doing any more damage; Sam's body is falling apart-
Dean feels arms around him, holding him down, and he instinctively fights them, wiggles his body in such a painful manner, that the agony wakens him more than anything. He realizes he's screaming, staring up into the face of a big man wearing nurse scrubs. He pins Dean's upper body down, effectively keeping him from hurting himself more.
Dean lets the scream end, chokes air in and lefts out a painful cough, lungs sore. His heart races and he doesn't know what the fuck just happened.
“Hey man,” The big nurse says. “Calm down. You're fine, okay?”
Dean forces himself to stop fighting and go limp. He breathes heavily, focuses on how his body thrums with a hot pain that's making him nauseous. The nurse slowly releases Dean and backs up.
“It was just a nightmare. You're okay, man,” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Dean pants. “Sorry. Did I wake anyone up?”
“Don't worry about it,” the nurse says, but even in the low light, Dean can see his roommate watching him with a mixture of curiosity and hate.
The nurse picks up Dean's chart. “You're on some pretty heavy painkillers. And it says here you're suffering from a concussion. It's not uncommon to have bad nightmares. Don't worry about it.”
Dean nods and rubs at his eyes and greasy face.
The nurse leaves shortly, and Dean lies back and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning is a blur of pain, medication, breakfast, doctor consultation, sponge bath, and bandage changing. Dean's groggy and in a foul mood on account of the lack of sleep and, oh yeah, everything else in his life.
He gets a clear view of his leg for the first time since before the accident. It's a puffy red, edges of the incisions slightly inflamed, crisscrosses of lines all over his skin, making him look like someone dissected his leg then put the pieces back together wrong. It looks disgusting and not like his leg should look like at all. He can't move his toes or ankle, but the doctor tells him that's normal. He's going to have the wound bandaged and immobilized for about two weeks, then when the staples can be replace with dissolvable stitches, a cast will be attached from mid thigh to ankle, and that should last for two months. Then, the cast will be removed and he'll undergo intense physical therapy to regain strength and learn to walk again. He will likely need a brace for support or crutches or both for the rest of his life.
Dean takes this all in stride. His reduced mobility doesn't bother him as much as it should, mostly because he can't focus on anything except for the thought of finding Sam. Everything else is just something he'll deal with later.
Bobby calls around mid day. There's a nurse in his room, getting his roommate ready to go have a bath. Dean lets the call go to voicemail and waits until they're out of the room. He calls Bobby back as quickly as he can.
“Hey Bobby,” Dean says as a greeting.
“So I talked with a professor who teaches western Native American ancient beliefs and cultures, and I may have a culprit for our mountain monster. It's a Sasquatch.”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure. Bigfoot's stealing people away and eating them. We both know Bigfoot doesn't exist, Bobby.”
“Bigfoot sure as hell doesn't exist, but Sasquatches may. There are legends of Sasquatch in Coast Salish lore about big hairy creatures, and they're not big friendly giants. They sometimes carry off people up mountains to eat them. Similar to a Wendigo, but it's never been human.”
“But what about the skin, hair and teeth thing?” Dean asks.
“From what I can find, there's a lot of lore about that too. In some versions, Sasquatches would leave the skin and hair for the villagers as a thank you for the meal. In others, it was a punishment for hunting in its territory. In a different one, it talks about Sasquatches imbuing a human with a shape changing ability, and slipping their skin as a thank you for giving up a hunter's catch. There are so many different stories; it's hard to know what it could mean. The main thing is, the location matches. There have been all kinds of Bigfoot sightings on those mountains.”
“Okay,” Dean says. He licks his lips. “How do we kill Bigfoot?”
“I have no idea,” Bobby says. He sighs loudly over the phone. “Maybe fire? It's similar to a Wendigo, so maybe it would die the same way. It also has ties with local native faerie lore, so maybe iron or silver. It's hard to sort through all the Bigfoot bullshit. I'll have to do some more digging.”
“Okay, thanks Bobby. Let me know what you find out,” Dean replies. Bobby grunts in acknowledgement.
“Hey Bobby?” Dean asks. “What do you think Sam and I thought it was? Did you get a feeling that we knew what we were hunting?”
“I don't know. You may have gone in knowing what it was and not having the right weapon to kill it, or you may have thought it was something else completely. Too early to tell.”
Dean nods, tries to imagine what their research could have been like. He probably made up some Sasquatch related joke just to pester Sam on. Imagines Sam's puffed breath of exasperation at his antics.
“I'll talk to you later, Kid,” Bobby says.
“Yeah. Okay. Bye,” Dean says and hangs up.
Towards the evening, Dean starts to feel not very good. Like really not good. His muscles ache, his head throbs painfully in rhythm with his pulse, his mouth is dry, skin is clammy, and he's very hot. He pulls his thin blanket off his body as much as he can only to become overwhelmingly chilled twenty minutes later.
When his nurse comes in to give him his medication for the night, she takes his temperature and tells him he's running a bit of a fever. Dean's not surprised, he could have told her that herself.
“Probably because of the surgery,” she says. “It's not uncommon to get infections after these types of surgeries.”
Dean nods and sips his cup of water. He feels restless, muscles too sore to relax, to anxious to sleep. He hasn't heard from Bobby since mid day and he's anxious for news but he also doesn't want to nag him. Dean just settles on having his own private little pity party in his mind, sighing forlornly.
After his pain medication kicks in, the world smooths out, goes hazy around the edges. He falls asleep.
Part II