The Hours
"I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more." -- The Hours
“Winchester! Your brother’s here!” Jay hollered across the garage.
“Send him by!” Dean yelled back. Normally the employees didn’t announce visitors: family and friends swung by often enough that the mechanics didn’t blink.
“Really! Should get cleaned up!”
The hell? Dean slid out from under the Sedan and got to his feet, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. Sam was standing across the garage, hands at his sides, looking like he was about to burst. Dean grinned and crossed the space between them, tossing the rag aside as he went.
“Look at you, getting the trumpets and everything.”
“I got a letter,” Sam said, thrusting it out. Dean raised his eyebrows toward his brother, who nodded, still beaming.
Dean kept his face carefully neutral. For the past few weeks, he’d been doing all he could to keep them both busy, even as Sam returned home every night with news on who’d gotten accepted or rejected, and whether it was by a first pick or a safety school, and what aid they’d been offered, if any. And Dean listened and did his best to radiate calm confidence, even when his own hands shook every time he checked the mail.
Sam could have gone anywhere, but the dumb kid insisted on going to school nearby, and that meant KU. He had it all planned out: he’d take out loans to cover the cost of living, and he and Dean would get their own place, and Dean could keep his job and keep helping their Dad, and Sam could go to school and keep an eye on Dean, and they’d still be near Bobby and Ellen and Pastor Jim, and Dad wouldn’t have to feel abandoned. John could go to rehab, even. It seemed like the best damn thing since Hostess made mini-pies.
Except, it all hinged on that letter. And, as much as Dean didn’t let on, he was more and more nervous with each passing day without word. He’d assumed that dinky little university would take one look at his brilliant brother’s transcript and SATs and expedite his acceptance. The fact that there was no word set Dean’s head spinning. He didn’t understand how someone could reject his kid brother. His head was filled with motivational speeches, promises that they’d try again, internships Sam could do while Dean paid the bills. He didn’t want his brother ringing up old ladies at the grocery, or slicing deli meats, or unloading the back of trucks when he graduated. Sam should be learning, and doing, something awesome. He wanted him to have a corner office with his name on the door, and a business card, and a wardrobe with ties. That’s where Sam belonged. That’s where he would shine.
As far as Dean could see, his brother was in good spirits: no sign of tears, no crinkling frown lines. Dean armed himself with his most stoic big brother face and put his practiced reassurances on alert. However this went down, Sammy was not going to feel bad about it.
“Dear Sam, We’re pleased to welcome you to our student body...well no shit, we knew this would be a cake walk," Dean bluffed, relief flooding his chest, "...blah blah blah, you’re awesome...pleased to offer you a merit scholarship in the amount of-holy shit. Holy-Sammy.”
Sam was looking at him with a mix of thrill and nerves. “I got a free ride, Dean. They’re covering everything. And I’ve got a work study offer. I’ll just have to take out, maybe a little, for books and stuff. But there’s always the library and the used exchanges and...Dean?”
Dean was fine. He was not going to cry because his big geek of a brother had done what he’d always knew he could. Because people had finally wised up and realized just how smart and special Dean’s little brother was.
“Are...you happy? Dean?” And Sam now nothing but anxiety and a bit of hurt.
“Am I-damnit, Sam!” Dean flung his arms around his brother and pulled him close, losing his battle with a tear and forcing down the rest.
“Are you crying?”
“No!”
“Oh my God, you’re crying!”
“I’m not, you stupid freak,” Dean sobbed, yanking his brother’s giant head down against his own shoulder.
“Stop it, you’ll get me going!” Sam sniffed, clutching him. “Is it...okay Dean?” he asked, voice suddenly small and childlike.
“Shut the hell up, Sammy. You know-I knew you’d do this. I knew you could. I’m just...glad they know it too.”
“I qualify for off-campus housing at all sorts of crazy discounts. We can...we can do it together, Dean. You’ll see. If I can get through college and maybe to law school, you won’t have to worry about anything again.”
“Shutup,” Dean snapped. “I’ve been waiting all my life to see my dumbass dork of a brother go to college.”
“But I mean it, Dean.”
“So do I: Shut. Up.” Dean wiped his eyes and pulled back, beaming. “This is great, Sammy. This is...everything. You’re getting a free ride man. We’re going to celebrate.”
“We should tell Dad.”
“Screw Dad.”
“Dean.”
“No, for once, I mean it, man. This is...ours.”
“I know,” Sam smiled. “And we can celebrate it. I just...want to break it to Dad too.”
“Later,” Dean pleaded. “Sammy, this is your dream. Let’s just enjoy it. For a bit?”
Sam instantly sobered. “I don’t want you telling him.”
“Sammy-”
“No, Dean, you’ve sacrificed enough. You hear me?”
“Fine. Together. We’ll tell him together. Okay? After we enjoy ourselves.”
“Okay,” Sam managed, finally smiling. “Where are you taking me, jerk?”
“Dumbass bitch,” Dean mumbled, and yanked his giant, genius, college-bound brother back against his chest.
*
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me!”
“Quit being a girl,” Dean sniped.
“I do have friends other than you, Dean.” The implication being, Dean does not. It’s bitchy and it hurts more than Dean wants to admit. He feels his brother slump the second he says it, realizing. Dean had decided that, after the night they’d had-with way too many nachos and way too much beer-that they were calling out sick. Sam, normally the golden boy, had only groaned and rolled over, face in Dean’s pillow. Somehow-and Dean wasn’t sure how-Sam had ended up passed out in Dean’s bed, and Dean had ended up passed out on the floor next to him, wrapped in the pillow and quilt from Sam’s.
But then, over a late lunch, Sam had mentioned that he’d wanted to go out with friends. Dean didn’t have an issue with that. His issue was that Sam continued to press him to tell their Dad. And his sudden determination to go out without his brother spelled massive amounts of trouble.
“Why don’t you trust me?” Sam tries again, and Dean doesn’t need to turn his head to know he has his wide, sweet eyes on him in full-force. Dean softened.
“It’s not about trust. It’s that I’m older and you need to get that when I say you can’t do something, I’m saying it because I’m watching out for you.”
“I know,” Sam sighed. “But I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“Last time you took on Dad on your own, Jim had to stitch you up.”
“Jesus, Dean, I was thirteen! And I didn’t ‘take him on,’ he told me to make him a sandwich and then came at me when I opened a can of Albecore.”
“We are so close to what we’ve been working for. I don’t want-”
“Dean, I want it too!”
“I need you to just...stay out of his way. Okay?”
“Dean, we have to do this together. Please. I don’t want you telling him alone.”
Dean took a deep, slow breath. Thought of Sammy launching himself down on their Dad, all those years elarier. Thought of Sammy clutching him around the neck as Dean carried him to the old junker of a car. Thought of Sammy bleeding and crying and holding on for all he was worth. Thought of the big dumb kid standing in at the front of the garage. And caved.
“This weekend. Okay?”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He nodded. “So...can I go out?”
Dean smiled. “Home by eleven, y’hear?”
Sam beamed at him. “Yes, sir,” he joked, and Dean felt a rush of Sam and Dean, and unconditional love, and turned his clunker of a car toward home.
*
Dean was late: he came in five minutes after he’d told Sam to be in. He was always in early and instated whenever Sam was supposed to be home. He shouldn’t have had that last beer: he’d found himself having to coast the last half a mile. He’d thought about hooking up with Candy, a girl with crazy collagended lips, but his big-brother radar had won out. He wanted to make sure Sam was in, safe, for the night, and a text wouldn’t do.
There was no sign of their Dad’s truck, which was a relief. The downstairs lights were all on, so Dean didn’t bother tiptoeing around. “Sammy!” he called. No answer. Dean shrugged out of his jacket and stumbled toward the kitchen.
He saw Sam’s shoe than-sticking out from under a tumbled chair. His heart leaped into his throat.
I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-
Shh, I got this, let me look-
"SAMMY!" Dean's voice cracked as he flung himself to his knees. So much blood....the kitchen looked like a Goddamned horror movie set, awash with blood and whiskey from the shattered bottle of Red Label lying a few feet from Sam’s head. It couldn't be real. The brightness of the red pooling from Sam's head could only mean one thing--it had been seeping for awhile. Which meant oxygen loss--brain damage--
Oh no oh no oh no oh no not now, not when everything was finally coming together, not when I wasn't here!
Dean fumbled for a pulse, found one, laid a hand on his chest to feel his brother's shallow breaths. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay, buddy," he soothed, keeping his voice as calm and steady as he could, fumbling for his cell phone. "You're okay. Everything's fine. I'm gonna get us some help. Gonna get you patched up." His fingers were shaking so bad he misdialed 911. "It's alright, you're alright," he continued as the operator came on. He gave the information as quickly as possible, forcing his voice to stay steady and calm for his brother's sake. He dropped the phone as soon as the ambulance was confirmed and leaned back over the still body on the floor, feeling for the pulse once more.
"Alright, it's alright. Help's on the way, and I'm here. I'm right here, Sammy. I'll be right there the whole way. Turnabout's fair play, huh? You've taken care of me, I'll take care of you. Don't worry. I gotcha." Dean's eyes burned with sudden tears. "Sammy--" his voice cracked.
Don't leave me. Not after all this, after everything we've been through--when we're finally free! What'll I do? Oh God, Sammy, what'll I do if--if--
Dean clenched his jaw. "Listen to me," he growled, "I'm not going to leave you. I'm gonna ride with you and I'll be right there when you wake up. And you're gonna wake up, damnit. You're gonna wake up and I'm gonna kick your ass for lying to me and you're gonna be good as new. Everything will be back to normal. You'll be fine." Dean's voice broke once more. He pushed against the wound, like he could physically hold his brother’s head together with his bare hands. "You're fine," he murmured. "It's not bad. You're fine."
Of course, Sam isn’t fine. Sam is a trillion miles away from fine. But Dean had to keep calm, keep it together, and look after his brother. He hated seeing Sammy scared-it was even worse than seeing Sammy sick or Sammy sad. When he’s sick, Dean can give him pills and soup and crackers and when he’s sad, Dean can give him pep-talks and thumps on the back and hugs when he really needs them. But when he’s scared, that means that Dean’s failed to make him feel safe, and if he fails at that, than what the hell is he even living for?
So Dean gets his hands on a dishtowel and runs trembling fingers through his brother’s hair until he finds the site of the all the blood, and he pushes down, murmuring “sorry, I’m sorry, I’ve got to put pressure on it, babe,”-even though Sam doesn’t react to his brother’s manhandling.
Dean thinks he’d sell his soul to see Sam's bitch-face.
He sits there, shaking from head to toe, one hand trying to force the blood back into Sammy’s skull while the other rubs soothing circles over his heart. He keeps talking, not even sure what he’s saying, but he can’t stand to think that his brother is hurting and lost inside himself and doesn’t know that he’s not alone anymore.
The paramedics come in a swirl. They shift Sam up off the floor and strap him onto a board, tying him up in a way that makes Dean sick, because don’t they know that Sam likes to stretch out, and he gets sore easily, and if he’s in pain he’ll want to touch his head and be scared when he can’t? He must have said some version of this, because one of the medics looks at him and says “hey, buddy, you gotta keep it together if you’re gonna ride with us,” but he’s not unkind, especially when Dean stumbles out that it’s his little brother.
“You share a blood type?” he asks. Dean nods. “Good. If he needs it, we’ll give you a direct hook-up.”
He finds out later that that wasn’t possible, but at the time, he finally felt useful.
In the back of the ambulance, the guy continues to talk, explaining the readings while he radios them in, encouraging Dean to touch Sam while he hooks him up to an oxygen mask. It isn’t until they’re halfway there that his face suddenly changes, and he calls “critical inter-cranial pressure” and Sam erupts off the board, slamming his poor damaged head up and down, biting under the mask, hands and legs fighting against the restraints.
“Sam! Sammy, calm down-” Dean gasps.
“He’s seizing,” the paramedic says, gripping the sides of Sam’s head as blood spurted onto his uniform and gloves. Dean’s eyes filled.
“Do something!” he wailed.
“We’re almost there. They’re ready for him.”
Dean’s hands shook as he gripped his brother’s shirt, feeling him rolling and straining beneath them.
“Stay with me,” he pleaded. “You gotta stay with me, Sammy. I will fix this, I promise. You’re gonna be okay. I promise that everything is going to be okay.”
Sam just bucks and seizes and writhes and doesn’t listen to a damn word his big brother says, and Dean would sacrifice all the lives on Earth to rewind theirs.
*
Mary was tired. Her back hurt, her legs hurt, her stomach and abdomen hurt. The tiny, new body of her son was supposed to erase all that, but she wasn’t fooled. If she and John had another, she was getting drugs. No more of this “natural” talk. She’d had it.
“Hear me?” she cooed. Sammy was sucking at her breast, one tiny hand waving, eyes still unfocused. “Don’t try and be cute. You took your time, didn’t you?” The baby detached and stared up at her in wonder. She stroked his cheek. “Your brother didn’t take half as long,” she teased. “You’re going to be your father’s son, aren’t you?”
The baby made a face that looked like a smile: and then threw up all over her.
“Ewww!” Dean whined, appearing in the doorway to her hospital room. Mary quickly grabbed a fresh white spit-up cloth and cleaned herself and her new son. Her four year old ran over to the bed, at eye-level to her hip until John hoisted him up. “He barfed, Mommy!”
“You used to,” she teased, smiling and extending her arm. He instantly drew close, hugged her tight, and kissed her cheek. “Were you good for Mrs. Singer?”
“I was good.” He drew back. “Are you okay, Mommy?”
“We’re fine, angel,” she smiled. “You wanna meet your brother?”
Dean pulled back and stared down at the baby in her arms. Sammy kicked, eyes squinting, and made a little gurgle in his throat.
“His head’s weird,” Dean announced.
John chuckled and bent to kiss his wife. “That’s what’s called the ‘soft spot,’” he explained. “You have to be very, very careful not to touch it, Deano.”
“It’s weird! It’s...moving.”
“That’s his brain right there,” Mary explained. “When you’re first born, your head isn’t as hard as everyone else’s. It takes time.”
Sammy kicked his brother again. Dean frowned. “Quit it,” he scolded.
“He’s not kicking you, cowboy. He’s just kicking,” John said. “Remember when we touched Mom’s stomach, and we could feel him in there? That’s what he’s doing now.”
“Do you want to hold him?” Mary asked. Dean’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to hurt him. Come here.”
Together, she and John put a pillow under Dean’s elbow and nestled him in next to her. John sat near her thigh, a hand on Dean’s small ankle, while their eldest solemnly took the baby into his arms. Sammy kicked at her, then went still, blinking up at the new face.
“I’m Dean,” Dean explained. “I’m gonna be your brother.” Sam cooed at him. “Don’t worry-I won’t let anything hurt your head,” he promised, and Mary’s eyes filled as she took her husband’s hand.
*
Dean’s cell phone had been ringing and he didn’t even realize it. He stared at the caller ID: Singer Home.
“Yeah?” he managed.
“Thank God,” Bobby barked. “You boys okay?”
“Huh?”
“Your Daddy just came over here more lit than a firework on the fourth of July. Hollerin’ that I wasn’t takin’ his boys. Ellen’s revving up the truck. We’re coming to get you.”
“No. I’m not leaving.”
“Dean, he was in a bad way.”
“He’ll be fine,” Dean barked. Sammy will be fine.
“We’re coming to yours.”
It suddenly hit him that Bobby wasn’t talking about the hospital, or Sam. Bobby was coming to the house to get them out of there before they got hurt. And suddenly, he wants to see the Singers so bad his eyes fill up.
“Bobby?” he asks, and can’t believe how young he sounds. “Can you come to the hospital instead?”
“Hospital?” and then his voice softens. “Dean, what the hell is going on? Where are you?”
“I’m...downtown. It’s Sam, Bobby.” His voice breaks. “It’s Sam.”
*
Sam’s a dumb baby, Dean decides. Not a ‘dumb baby,’ but dumb for a baby.
Sam cries in the middle of the night because he’s hungry or wet or has woken up. He cries during the day for the same reasons. He makes his Mom look tired.
Dean’s sure he didn’t cause this much trouble when he was baby. His Mom says otherwise, but Dean isn’t buying it.
Sure, the older he gets, the cuter the baby is...even Dean can admit that. His eyes turn browner and his little limbs get fatter and his cheeks get chubbier and he starts making these little noises and grabbing at stuff.
But, still. Dean is less-fussed over now. And sometimes, he just wants things back to the way they were, when it was just him and Mommy and Daddy, and no whining little brother to interrupt them.
*
Thirty minutes later, Bobby and Ellen are sitting on either side of him.
Ellen rubs his back while he stumbles through the story. Bobby had swept him up in the fiercest hug the miserable old bastard had ever given him, and Dean had hung on for all he was worth, because he wasn’t so sure he could stand on his own anymore.
It almost feels like having parents.
“You think they’ll shave his head? He’ll be so pissed,” he laughs.
“It’ll grow back,” Ellen reminds him.
“I’ll have to buy him a hat. Or maybe he can wear one of yours, Bobby.”
“Sure,” Bobby says, unusually gentle. “We’ll get a family of matching hats.”
“I should get him one from KU. He got in yesterday. Did I tell you?”
“You told us,” Ellen says, and something in her tone makes him wonder how many times he has.
“He’s got a full ride.”
“Dean,” Bobby says. “I hate to bring this up. But have you thought about pressing charges?” Dean stares at him. “I think you should consider a restraining order. For you, and for Sam.”
“If there’s fees, we’ll pay them,” Ellen assured.
Dean rubs the charm around his neck. “Sam wants to take out loans for our housing, but I think I can pay our way if we have a guarantor on the deposit.”
“We’ll sign for you,” Bobby says.
“Honey...given how bad Sam’s hurt, we may have to delay his acceptance. I’m sure the school will do that,” Ellen murmurs.
“I’m not sure our Dad knows. Sam told me he’d hold out. He can be a damn idiot, but I don’t know if he is this round. I’ll have to check. When he wakes up. Sammy got a full ride to KU. Did I tell you? He got in yesterday.”
Ellen just strokes his hair. Her eyes fill for some reason. Dean wonders what Sam’s going to say when he tells him that he made Ellen cry.
“Dean Winchester?” a doctor says. He sounds nice. Dean springs to his feet. Ellen and Bobby rise beside him. “I’m Dr. Kaczynski. You can call me Jerry. I’ve been assigned as the primary physician to your brother.” He looks at Bobby and Ellen. “Are you blood relatives?”
“They are,” Dean doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Can I see Sam? Is he awake?”
The doctor’s face is calm and composed, but his voice is gentle. “Sam suffered a severe head trauma. The blow to his skull did more than crack the bone-it induced high inter-cranial swelling. Meaning, there was a great deal of pressure on the brain. That, combined with the blood-loss, makes Sam a high-risk for cognitive injury.”
“Okay. Can I see him? Is he awake?” Dean demands. He suddenly hates Ellen for rubbing his back, and Bobby, for looking at him with that damn grief.
“I need to be clear,” the doctor says. Dean decides he hates him too. “We’re not going to know the full extent of the damage, and the long term-cognitive difficulties, until he regains consciousness.”
“You’re talking brain damage,” Bobby said.
“Yes. If he makes it through the next few days without going into a coma, he has a good shot. But it won’t be until he’s fully conscious that we could begin to diagnose what parts of his brain may be impaired.”
Dean starts laughing. The group looks at him, startled. “I always said the kid was brain-dead,” Dean explains, and suddenly Sammy, with his perfect SATs and his free ride to college, with a friggin’ brain injury, is funny. He thinks of all the times he’s called his kid brother stupid, or a moron, or a retard, or a dumbass, and it’s the most hilarious thing ever.
“Take it easy,” Bobby says, and Dean’s laughing too hard to explain how funny this is. He’s laughing harder and harder and harder, so hard that he can’t breathe, and he doubles over with his laughter, and then he really can’t breathe, and he hears Bobby yelling “give him a bag or something!” and then Dean’s flat on his ass with something over his face, chest heaving, tears streaming, and his laughter sounds a lot more like crying, and he thinks it may for the rest of his life.
*
Everything changes the night of the fire.
For one thing, John just gives him Sammy-no warning about supporting his neck, or watching his head, or being gentle, all of which Dean does. He tells him to run, and Dean does that too. He’s as careful as he can be, cradling all of Sammy’s tender places, determined, even if he doesn’t know what’s happening, to keep the little boy safe.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he says, staring up at the flaming second story. “I’m here.”
When the trucks come, John sits in the back of the ambulance, in his bathrobe, breathing into a mask, tears streaming. Dean sits cross-legged on the lawn and won’t give the baby up, no matter who asks.
Sammy’s his now, and Dean’s going to make sure nothing ever takes him away.
Part 2