Angel Unaware
Title: Angel Unaware
Author: dragonflybeach
Category: Supernatural
Word Count: 17.7k
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Kevin Tran, (briefly Cas, Garth and [Spoiler (click to open)]Gabriel)
Pairings: none
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Season 9 spoilers, blood, gore, frank discussion of physical injuries, vomiting, canon typical ghost on boys whumpage, and a few naughty words. And alternating POV.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, but if I did, I'd probably write fanfic about it anyway.
Summary: Goes AU in Season 9, Episode 9 - Sam feels great after the trials - a little too great maybe, because he gets hurt on a routine hunt and doesn't realize it. When Dean has to kidnap him from the hospital after strange things start happening, Sam starts putting together all the little moments that haven't made sense over the past few weeks and quickly comes to the wrong conclusion.
"So I found us a hunt ... " Sam began as soon as Dean took his first sip of coffee.
"Sam ... " Dean grumbled warningly.
"Just a good old fashioned salt and burn, Dean." Sam shoved a newspaper across the table. "And it's not even 350 miles from here. Vengeful spirit haunting one of the old motor lodges on the original Route 66 outside Galena. Someone's trying to restore the place, and the spirit keeps destroying the construction equipment."
"Sam, it's only been a little over a month since the angels fell, then you got knocked out going after Abaddon, and you've had your bell rung a couple times since then. I'm not 100% sure you haven't had a concussion. " Dean tried to argue.
"So?" Sam shrugged.
"So this is right after you almost died, that's what!" Dean threw his hands up. "You coughed up blood for weeks! You ran fevers that should have killed you! You lost almost thirty pounds! You need to take care of yourself, Sam. There's no way you can be 100% yet."
"But I am, Dean, or at least pretty close to it." Sam insisted. "I've gained about twenty of those thirty pounds back already. I feel great! I'm running again - I ran three miles a day for the past four days. Whatever the trials did to me, they're undoing even faster. Actually I'm better than I was before the trials. I haven't felt this healthy physically since I was soulless!"
Dean's blood ran cold.
"Seriously, Dean," Sam continued. "I know you're worried. You're my big brother and you've always worried about me and I appreciate that. But I'm fine, and I want to do this. It's just a salt and burn. We could do it in our sleep."
Dean plastered on a smile he didn't feel and nodded. "If you think you're all right, I'll trust your judgement."
Sam smiled, his ten thousand watts of sunshine smile, which had always, from their childhood days, brightened Dean's day and lightened whatever burdens he carried.
This time, however, it just twisted the knife in his gut a bit more.
Tracking the spirit turned out to be one of the simplest jobs they'd done.
When the interstates were built in the 1950's and one of the other local highways was widened and repaved, the motel had languished and eventually closed. Mr. and Mrs. Nussbaum, the older couple who owned it, had continued to live on the property. The husband died a few years later of natural causes in a local hospital. The wife had remained at the motel and became a reclusive cat hoarder until someone realized in 1964 that she hadn't been seen for a while. Local police found her dead in the motel, having passed away at least several weeks before and more likely several months.
Considering that Myrtle Nussbaum was the only recorded death on the property and bitter about losing their livelihood, it seemed a no-brainer that she was the resident ghost. And handily enough, she was buried in an old church cemetery on the outskirts of town.
Of course they had to wait until after dark to dig up and burn the old biddy. Sam picked up his shovel and turned over soil like it was an Olympic event, despite having spent nearly the past twenty years whining about how much he hated opening up graves.
Dean stopped for water or to stretch out his cramping muscles twice, while Sam kept digging without a break.
They had just cleared the top of the old fashioned pine box and cracked it open in a few places with their shovels when the air around them suddenly turned cold.
Without a sound or a moment's hesitation, both brothers tossed their shovels onto the ground above. Sam linked his hands together like a step, and hoisted Dean up so that he could scramble out and reach down to pull Sam up as well. Dean grabbed the bag near the headstone, tossing the salt to Sam while he pulled out the lighter fluid with one hand and grabbed a salt loaded shotgun with the other.
Sam shoved his knife into the cardboard container, ripping the side open, and dropped the knife on the ground by his feet. He twisted the two ends of the carton to dump the entire pound of salt into the grave.
Dean fired a shot at the specter approaching them, muttering something about crazy cat lady ghosts being worse than witches. The spirit disappeared, while Dean tossed the lighter fluid to Sam and dug in his own pocket for a lighter.
The ghost reappeared behind them, knocking Sam into the open grave, where he landed on top of the already damaged coffin lid with a sickening crunch.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, the sound almost drowned out by another shotgun blast.
"I'm okay!" Sam shouted back, holding up his hands for Dean to pull him out of the grave again.
Sam spun around, still laying on the ground, grabbed the lighter fluid, plunged his knife into the side, and dumped the liquid into the grave below.
"Back!" Dean shouted.
Sam tossed the plastic bottle down and pulled away from the edge at the same moment Dean tossed in the lighter.
Mrs. Nussbaum appeared on the other side of the grave, moving toward them quickly, but erupted into flames before she could cross the open hole.
Dean, still on his knees, leaned back on his heels and dropped his head onto his chest to catch his breath.
Sam rolled over onto his back, panting and laughing.
"I missed this," he turned his head to grin at Dean.
"Are you on drugs?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"No, I mean, me and you, the salt and burn, the simple jobs, the adrenaline, no angels or demons or Leviathans or whatever." Sam answered.
"Yeah, the good old days." Dean snorted. "You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam sat up.
"When then let's cover up Moaning Myrtle and get out of here before the cops show up." Dean shoved himself to his feet and reached for a shovel.
Sam stood as well, and immediately fell over.
"Sam!" Dean dropped the shovel and whirled around, dropping to his knees to grab two hands full of his brother's jacket.
"Dean, I'm fine!" Sam protested.
"Then why did you ... "
"I don't know," Sam shook his head. "My left foot just wouldn't hold me for a moment. It doesn't hurt, but maybe I hit it harder than I thought when I fell in the grave."
Dean reached for his brother's leg, but Sam stopped him.
"Just help me stand up and walk it off." he asked.
Dean straightened slowly, holding Sam's arms, lifting him to his feet.
Or rather, foot.
Once Sam stood upright with his weight on his right foot, his left foot didn't reach the ground, and was turned outward at an unnatural angle.
"Holy shit, you're bleeding!" Dean watched in horror as the red droplets rolled across Sam's shoe, gleaming the lantern light. "Sit back down."
Dean lowered Sam back down to the grass, grabbed his knife from his belt, and reached for Sam's ankle.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Sam spluttered. "These are my favorite jeans!"
"Fuck the jeans," Dean muttered, neatly slicing the pants leg beside the inner seam.
He pulled the fabric back to reveal the leg underneath, smeared with blood, but not enough to obscure the fact that an inch of jagged white bone stuck out through the front of the calf a few inches above the ankle, and the foot was twisted sideways.
"Sammy ... " Dean murmured, going pale.
"It doesn't hurt!" Sam shook his head, looking at his leg in confusion.
"It's because you're going into shock." Dean immediately snapped into field medic mode.
He ran to the car, returning with a blanket, rags, and a jug of holy water.
"Dean!" Sam huffed.
Dean threw the blanket around Sam, then doused rags with water. "Gonna wash you up." Dean informed him. "Clean shirt, cut the jeans the rest of the way off, story's gonna be you fell down the stairs."
"I can do this!" Sam protested with a bitchface. "My leg is broken, not my hands!" He grabbed the cloth Dean was using to wipe his face. "You get the stuff in the car."
Dean looked at him for a long moment. He then held up his hand, two fingers raised in a victory sign. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Sam flipped him a bird. "How many am I holding up?"
"Fine," Dean grumbled, surrendering the wet rag. He turned away muttering about pain in the ass little brothers as he gathered up the shovels and equipment bag.
Dean got everything else loaded in the car, then wrapped Sam's leg with the cleanest rags he could find. He helped Sam change into a clean t-shirt, flannel overshirt, and boxers, draped the blanket around him, and assisted him to the car. Dean then changed into something not covered in grave dirt as well.
"It really doesn't hurt?" Dean asked again, once they were on the road.
"No, Dean, it really doesn't hurt," Sam insisted.
"Zeke!" Dean growled.
Sam's eyes flashed blue.
"Yes?" the angel asked, holding Sam's body rigid.
"What the hell?" Dean flung a hand toward Sam's deformed leg.
"Hell has nothing to do with this." Ezekiel frowned. "Sam's leg twisted beneath him when the spirit threw him into the hole."
"No kidding!" Dean thundered.
"I do not understand the purpose of this conversation." Ezekiel replied.
"Can you ... I don't know ... " Dean slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. "He doesn't even hurt!"
"I have suppressed Sam's pain receptors," Ezekiel explained. "Otherwise, he would be in great pain much of the time due to the damage to his body. I can lessen the suppression, but more than his ankle will hurt."
"Dammit." Dean hit the steering wheel again. "You're gonna have to. He's gonna know something is wrong when a compound fracture doesn't even hurt."
"I shall do so," Ezekiel agreed. "However, I will warn you, that the fractures are going to heal much more quickly than expected. You should be prepared to address that matter with Sam as well, unless you wish me to reset his memory for the entire time the leg is broken."
"No!" Dean jerked his head over to look at the angel. "You do NOT wipe out that much of his memory!"
"As you wish," Ezekiel nodded, and in the next moment, the figure in the passenger seat was Sam again.
"Dean?" Sam raised a hand, pointing at the upcoming road sign. "We're crossing the state line already? How fast are you driving?"
"Don't worry about it." Dean shook his head. "I'm just getting you to a hospital."
They went to Joplin Mercy Hospital, Dean figuring that both a bigger town and one they hadn't just burned an old woman's corpse in being to their favor.
Needless to say, Sam was taken back to the treatment area immediately.
The doctor's announcement that Sam needed immediate surgery wasn't a surprise to either of them.
"Both the tibia and fibula are broken here," she indicated the area where the bone protruded through the skin. "and again here," she pointed at his ankle. "they're snapped clean in two. If you were a smaller person, you'd have bone sticking through the skin there as well. We're going to go in and put everything back in place. We'll use screws through here," she laid her pen across the ankle bones in the x-ray. "to hold the ankle in place. With the higher fracture,we'll just have to see what it looks like when we get it cleaned up, but screws or metal plates or possibly both there as well. You're going to be a metal detector's worst nightmare."
"What about long term?" Dean asked. "It's all going to heal, right? He's gonna be able to walk fine?"
"Oh, he's definitely going to hurt when it rains," the doctor announced. "We'll know more after the surgery, but considering the fact Mr. Dougherty is relatively young, healthy, and not overweight, chances are good that he will make a full recovery."
Sam just shrugged. "Whatever we've got to do."
Consents were signed, and Dean was ushered out of the room so Sam could be prepped for surgery.
Dean managed to catch a two hour nap in the empty waiting room. He flipped through the less than two dozen channels on the hospital's television, finding nothing to watch, and sweet talked a nurse's aide out of a cup of coffee from the staff break room. He prowled the perimeter of the room, purposefully keeping his mind blank to avoid the thoughts he didn't want to deal with at the moment.
After six hours, he leaned over the unit clerk's desk.
"When is the doctor going to come tell me about my brother?"
She clicked a few buttons on the computer. "Your brother is still in surgery."
"What do you mean he's still in surgery?" Dean demanded. "They told me four to five hours! What's wrong?"
"Let me see if I can get an update from one of the techs," she smiled sweetly, reaching for the phone.
She dialed a few numbers, and carried on a hushed conversation with whoever answered that went on long enough that Dean started to become alarmed. Once she hung up, she smiled again.
"Everything is fine, Mr. Dougherty," she assured. "Your brother is doing well. They were just delayed in getting started. He apparently has a high tolerance to anesthesia."
"He's a big guy," Dean nodded, relaxing. "It takes a lot to put him under."
"Well the anesthesiologists thought they had compensated for his size, but he just wasn't going under. They gave more meds until the point they were afraid to give him anything else, and he was still perfectly alert and oriented half an hour later. The tech said it was funny, the doctor said 'We really need you to go to sleep so we can fix this leg.' and within a minute, he was under."
Dean was thankful he had already finished the coffee, because otherwise he probably would have dropped the cup.
Sam came out of surgery shortly before lunchtime. Dean was allowed to see him for a moment in recovery, but he was still unconscious. The doctor urged Dean to go get something to eat and some rest and come back that evening, when Sam should be awake and in his own room. He only agreed after being assured that Sam would not be awake for several hours, and that the nurse would call Dean's cell the moment he was.
Sam woke alone in a hospital room, with his left leg heavily bandaged, and began the familiar routine of calculating his surroundings. Daylight outside, so probably still Tuesday. A little after five according to the clock, so it's probably early evening. Empty chair beside the bed. No Dean. No pain. His eyes followed the tube taped to his arm up to the iv bags hanging by the bed. Broad spectrum antibiotic, bigger bag probably fluids for hydration. He reached up and pushed the bigger bag aside to see if there was anything else hiding behind it. There wasn't, so he was either still under the effects of the anesthesia, or the pain meds had been injected into the iv port.
"Oh, there you are," a nurse announced from his other side, startling him. She smiled as she jotted down the numbers from the monitor. "We weren't expecting you wake up quite so soon. I'll let the doctor know you're awake."
She left, and ten minutes later, a young doctor, no probably not a doctor, probably a trainee or resident or intern of some kind, stood over the bed, chart in hand.
"Mr. Dougherty, hi, I'm Dr. Bahri." the young man smiled and held out a hand for Sam to shake. "I assisted Dr. Simmons with your surgery. Everything went well. We placed screws in both bones in your ankle, and placed a screw and plate on your higher tibia fracture, and a plate on the higher fibula fracture. Those are permanent internal fixations, which means they'll stay in your leg. We won't be going back to take them out unless there's some sort of problem. It's going to take a while, probably two to three months before you're going to be able to begin physical therapy, but you should eventually make a full recovery. Of course, once your ankle has been fractured, it will always be susceptible to re-injury, so you'll have to be careful with it. Do you have any questions?"
"How long am I going to have to stay?" Sam asked. "And how could I be so badly injured when it didn't even hurt until I got to the ER?"
"It's not uncommon for someone with a fracture not to feel the full brunt of the pain at first. It has to do with the trauma to the tissues, the sudden swelling and so forth slowing the pain message from translating to your brain. My brother broke his leg playing football in college, and thought it was just bruised until he tried to walk on it. And besides, with all the damage from the electrocution, it's not surprising that your nervous system is a little wonky. As far as how long you'll be here, as long as everything goes well, three days or so." Dr. Bahri smiled. "Anything else?"
Sam frowned for a moment, wondering if he should correct the doctor and point out that it was Dean who had been electrocuted, and then wondering how the doctor even knew that, because it was many years and fake identities ago. When he realized Dr Bahri was still looking at him, Sam shook his head. "Not right now. I may have some questions later."
The doctor nodded. "That's to be expected. You're probably still a little fuzzy headed from the anesthesia."
Sam nodded in agreement, even though he realized at the moment that he actually wasn't.
"So could I ask you a few questions?" Dr. Bahri asked, gesturing at the chart.
"Sure," Sam shrugged, looking around the man to see if Dean was going to step up and stop the interrogation.
Dean was still nowhere in sight.
"Something came up with your insurance, when our clerk was verifying benefits. Apparently the insurance company had flagged your chart on their end. You were in Linwood Memorial Hospital in western New York state last month when there was a fire and explosion. Blue Cross asked if any of the injuries we were treating were sustained in the fire, you know, because of liability reasons, that the other hospital's insurance would be liable for those, you understand?" He paused, and Sam nodded. "Well, obviously this broken leg is new, but we had Linwood email us a copy of your chart, so we could see what was going on with you while you were there." The wannabe doctor flipped a page or two, and then tipped his head at Sam. "Where have you been for the past five and a half weeks, Mr. Dougherty?"
"Excuse me?" Sam frowned.
"It's not about your family taking you from Linwood." the doctor shook his head. "Under the circumstances, no one would question that. But I've never seen anyone recover from an electrocution like this, and especially not in under two months. According to their data, which of course ends right about the time of the explosion when the power went out, you were on the verge of being declared brain dead. Your last CT scan showed basically no brain function. Your MRI's showed massive burns to your internal organs. The only reason they hadn't pulled the plug on you already was because your brother refused to let them do so. Pardon me for saying this, but your recovery is nothing short of a miracle, so you can certainly understand my curiosity, right?"
Sam shook his head and frowned at the man again. "I was in a hospital?"
The man laughed. "I'm sure you don't remember it. You were comatose. But you know that you were electrocuted, right? And you know that you've been unwell and have been recovering, don't you?" The young man's mirth melted into concern.
"I ... I have gaps in my memory." Sam answered truthfully. "I know I was ... not myself, and I've been ... getting better, but I'm not sure ... I knew what ... happened."
"That's understandable." the resident shrugged. "I'm surprised that you're walking and talking at all. According to this," he held up the chart. "There was a downed tree in the road, and you came in contact with a high voltage power line. Does that sound familiar?"
"I think ... " Sam called on his acting skills. "I think my brother told me that. I don't really remember it."
"Yeah, well, like I said, the fact you're even able to have this conversation with me is unbelievable." the resident snapped the chart closed. "Your internal organs, including your brain, were cooked from the inside out." He paused, looking down at Sam's leg. "Mr. Dougherty, are you sure that you're ok with your brother? I mean, someone with your type of injuries, still recovering ... he shouldn't be leaving you alone. And he shouldn't let you near stairs unsupervised. Maybe we should contact Family Services, see if we can get him some help taking care of you ... "
"No," Sam shook his head, almost too adamantly. "He does fine. We have a couple friends who help him take care of me. I ... I got up while he was sleeping and tried to go downstairs. He told me not to."
The resident sighed and nodded. "I'll trust you on it this time. But if this becomes a habit, if you keep ending up back at the ER because your brother isn't taking good care of you, or he isn't watching you like he should, the administration is going to call Adult Protective Services, and there won't be anything I can do about it."
"That's not going to happen," Sam promised. "My brother takes good care of me."
"I sure do, Sammy!" a voice boomed from the doorway.
Dean walked in, a salad and a milkshake in hand.
"I brought you dinner, better grub than you could get in this place." Dean's smile was a little too tight, as if daring the resident to say anything to him.
"Ok, then," the young doctor backed away toward the door. "Glad to see that you're recovering so well, Mr. Dougherty. Let us know if you need anything. You should be discharged the day after tomorrow if everything goes well."
He pulled the door partly closed as he left, and Dean pushed it the rest of the way closed.
"Let me guess," the older brother rolled his eyes. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge?"
"Maybe not yet," Sam hedged. "Dean, what the hell happened when the angels fell?"
"Don't you remember?" Dean asked, putting the food on the tray table and rolling it to the bed.
He didn't look Sam in the eye.
"I remember being outside the church when the angels were falling." Sam informed him, watching for a reaction from Dean. "Then I apparently don't remember anything until I woke up about thirty something hours later in the front seat of the car, on the way to the bunker."
"Yeah ... " Dean prompted.
"But that doctor," Sam pointed at the door. "Said that I was in a hospital in New York about to be declared brain dead. The injuries he's describing that I had, there's no way I could have recovered from that in a day and a half. There's no way I should have recovered from it, period!"
Dean hesitated a heartbeat too long. "What can I say, Sammy. The trials wiped you out pretty fast. Letting go of them, apparently, you're healing even faster."
"Why did you not tell me I was in the hospital?" Sam continued.
"Did it matter?" Dean shrugged. "They weren't doing anything but telling me to let you go and that death was a part of life and all that bullshit."
"I think it was kind of a significant thing ..."
"Sam, seriously? The angels had fallen and they were seriously pissed and after us and blew up the hospital and demons were popping out of the woodwork and Cas lost his grace and we didn't know what the hell was going on with Kevin." Dean snapped. "So forgive me that I didn't hold your hand and gently explain that you'd been in a hospital that I had to carry you out of before somebody smited your ass while we were high-tailing it across the country!"
"How did the angels find us, Dean?" Sam folded his arms. "Because if I'm not mistaken, we're still branded with Enochian sigils."
Dean sighed. "I screwed up. I panicked. The doctor told me you were dying. They sent a fucking grief counselor in to talk to me, for God's sake! I ... I prayed. I tried to pray to Cas because I didn't know yet he had fallen, and when I didn't get an answer from him, I put out a message to any angel that was willing to help and gave our location. Unfortunately, most of the ones who showed up weren't there to help."
"Most of them," Sam frowned. "So some did come to help?"
"One," Dean snorted. "Some guy named Ezekiel, old friend of Cas'. He held them off while I got you out of there."
"But he couldn't heal me?" Sam tilted his head, trying to puzzle this out.
"He tried, but he was injured from the fall," Dean answered. "He wasn't running on full mojo. I dunno, though. He apparently got enough juice in you to kickstart this amazing healing you seem to be doing on your own." Dean gestured vaguely at Sam. "I mean, go from coughing up blood and being unable to eat to eating more than me and running marathons and setting some kinda world grave digging record in just a few weeks."
Sam nodded, watching his brother carefully.
He knew without a doubt that Dean still wasn't telling him everything.
Physical therapy came in for a few minutes after supper, just to help Sam stretch his hip and knee a little, keep him from getting too stiff from having to keep the leg propped up, help him get a little more comfortable in bed. The nurse came in with Sam's evening dose of pain meds just after.
Sam frowned at the pill she offered him. "I'm really not hurting that much."
"But you are hurting some, now?" Dean asked.
"Well, yeah, but it's really not bad right this minute." Sam nodded. "It's more like a mild headache than a broken bone."
"That's because you still have a little of your last dose in you," the nurse explained. "If you take this one now, it will start to take effect by the time the other wears off completely. Otherwise, in an hour or so when the other completely wears off, you'll be wishing you had taken it."
"Sam, I know you don't like taking meds, but you need to get some rest so you can get better," Dean looked at Sam significantly, reminding him that he had more than just a broken leg to recover from. "This is will knock the pain out and hopefully knock you out so you can get a decent night's sleep."
Sam watched Dean for a long moment, watched how the nerve in his jaw ticked almost imperceptibly, and wondered why his brother wanted him drugged and dulled when they weren't in a secure location. It was like there was something hovering just beyond the edge of Sam's grasp, something that would make all this make sense.
"Ok," he agreed, holding out his hand and gesturing for Dean to hand him some water. "You're right, a good night's rest will help."
The nurse handed Sam the paper cup with the pill, and watched while he swallowed it. "Let me know if you need anything." she patted his shoulder and then turned to Dean. "You've got about an hour before visiting hours end. But he's probably going to fall asleep on you by then anyway."
Dean smiled and thanked her as Sam watched, trying to unravel what secret his brother was keeping.
After 45 minutes, Sam feigned sleepiness, because Dean didn't seem inclined to leave otherwise. It was only for Dean's benefit, however, as Sam spent the first half hour alone flipping through channels and wishing he had the Men Of Letters' book on Sumerian mythology he had started reading before they had set out on this job.
His cell phone rang, startling him. He frowned at it for a long moment, before lifting it to see an unfamiliar number on the caller id. He frowned again, realizing by now it was on the third ring, and if he didn't answer soon, it would go to voice mail. Curiosity won out, and he pressed the button to accept the call.
"Hello, Sam," rumbled a deep voice on the other end. "Did I wake you?"
"Cas?" Sam pushed himself up a little higher in bed. "No. it's ... are you ok?"
"I'm fine, Sam. I spoke with Dean and he told me about your injury. I wished to call and express my condolences and offer whatever assistance I can, although without my powers, that would be limited." Cas continued.
"I appreciate the offer anyway, Cas." Sam thanked him. "You know one thing you could do for me would be to stop by the bunker some time. I'd love to see you and Dean was pretty upset when you left."
"I do not understand why." Cas stated. "Dean was the one who asked me to leave."
"Dean asked you to leave?" Sam said. "Why? Did you two have a fight?"
"He said that I was a danger to you if I remained there." Cas answered. "He said that the angels who were after me could come after you and Dean and that you were too weak to be involved in a fight."
"Huh." Sam couldn't think of anything better to say at the moment. "Can I call you back at this number, Cas?"
"This is my store supervisor's phone. You can call this number and she can get a message to me to call you." Cas replied solemnly.
"Ok, thanks Cas. Take care of yourself." Sam ended the call, and stared at the phone in his hand for several minutes.
Obviously, Dean was hiding something. Why would he think Cas was a danger to Sam? Why wouldn't he want Cas in the bunker, where they could keep him safe?
Most importantly, why did he lie to Sam about why Cas left?
Here is part 2
Author: dragonflybeach
Category: Supernatural
Word Count: 17.7k
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Kevin Tran, (briefly Cas, Garth and [Spoiler (click to open)]Gabriel)
Pairings: none
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Season 9 spoilers, blood, gore, frank discussion of physical injuries, vomiting, canon typical ghost on boys whumpage, and a few naughty words. And alternating POV.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, but if I did, I'd probably write fanfic about it anyway.
Summary: Goes AU in Season 9, Episode 9 - Sam feels great after the trials - a little too great maybe, because he gets hurt on a routine hunt and doesn't realize it. When Dean has to kidnap him from the hospital after strange things start happening, Sam starts putting together all the little moments that haven't made sense over the past few weeks and quickly comes to the wrong conclusion.
"So I found us a hunt ... " Sam began as soon as Dean took his first sip of coffee.
"Sam ... " Dean grumbled warningly.
"Just a good old fashioned salt and burn, Dean." Sam shoved a newspaper across the table. "And it's not even 350 miles from here. Vengeful spirit haunting one of the old motor lodges on the original Route 66 outside Galena. Someone's trying to restore the place, and the spirit keeps destroying the construction equipment."
"Sam, it's only been a little over a month since the angels fell, then you got knocked out going after Abaddon, and you've had your bell rung a couple times since then. I'm not 100% sure you haven't had a concussion. " Dean tried to argue.
"So?" Sam shrugged.
"So this is right after you almost died, that's what!" Dean threw his hands up. "You coughed up blood for weeks! You ran fevers that should have killed you! You lost almost thirty pounds! You need to take care of yourself, Sam. There's no way you can be 100% yet."
"But I am, Dean, or at least pretty close to it." Sam insisted. "I've gained about twenty of those thirty pounds back already. I feel great! I'm running again - I ran three miles a day for the past four days. Whatever the trials did to me, they're undoing even faster. Actually I'm better than I was before the trials. I haven't felt this healthy physically since I was soulless!"
Dean's blood ran cold.
"Seriously, Dean," Sam continued. "I know you're worried. You're my big brother and you've always worried about me and I appreciate that. But I'm fine, and I want to do this. It's just a salt and burn. We could do it in our sleep."
Dean plastered on a smile he didn't feel and nodded. "If you think you're all right, I'll trust your judgement."
Sam smiled, his ten thousand watts of sunshine smile, which had always, from their childhood days, brightened Dean's day and lightened whatever burdens he carried.
This time, however, it just twisted the knife in his gut a bit more.
Tracking the spirit turned out to be one of the simplest jobs they'd done.
When the interstates were built in the 1950's and one of the other local highways was widened and repaved, the motel had languished and eventually closed. Mr. and Mrs. Nussbaum, the older couple who owned it, had continued to live on the property. The husband died a few years later of natural causes in a local hospital. The wife had remained at the motel and became a reclusive cat hoarder until someone realized in 1964 that she hadn't been seen for a while. Local police found her dead in the motel, having passed away at least several weeks before and more likely several months.
Considering that Myrtle Nussbaum was the only recorded death on the property and bitter about losing their livelihood, it seemed a no-brainer that she was the resident ghost. And handily enough, she was buried in an old church cemetery on the outskirts of town.
Of course they had to wait until after dark to dig up and burn the old biddy. Sam picked up his shovel and turned over soil like it was an Olympic event, despite having spent nearly the past twenty years whining about how much he hated opening up graves.
Dean stopped for water or to stretch out his cramping muscles twice, while Sam kept digging without a break.
They had just cleared the top of the old fashioned pine box and cracked it open in a few places with their shovels when the air around them suddenly turned cold.
Without a sound or a moment's hesitation, both brothers tossed their shovels onto the ground above. Sam linked his hands together like a step, and hoisted Dean up so that he could scramble out and reach down to pull Sam up as well. Dean grabbed the bag near the headstone, tossing the salt to Sam while he pulled out the lighter fluid with one hand and grabbed a salt loaded shotgun with the other.
Sam shoved his knife into the cardboard container, ripping the side open, and dropped the knife on the ground by his feet. He twisted the two ends of the carton to dump the entire pound of salt into the grave.
Dean fired a shot at the specter approaching them, muttering something about crazy cat lady ghosts being worse than witches. The spirit disappeared, while Dean tossed the lighter fluid to Sam and dug in his own pocket for a lighter.
The ghost reappeared behind them, knocking Sam into the open grave, where he landed on top of the already damaged coffin lid with a sickening crunch.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, the sound almost drowned out by another shotgun blast.
"I'm okay!" Sam shouted back, holding up his hands for Dean to pull him out of the grave again.
Sam spun around, still laying on the ground, grabbed the lighter fluid, plunged his knife into the side, and dumped the liquid into the grave below.
"Back!" Dean shouted.
Sam tossed the plastic bottle down and pulled away from the edge at the same moment Dean tossed in the lighter.
Mrs. Nussbaum appeared on the other side of the grave, moving toward them quickly, but erupted into flames before she could cross the open hole.
Dean, still on his knees, leaned back on his heels and dropped his head onto his chest to catch his breath.
Sam rolled over onto his back, panting and laughing.
"I missed this," he turned his head to grin at Dean.
"Are you on drugs?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"No, I mean, me and you, the salt and burn, the simple jobs, the adrenaline, no angels or demons or Leviathans or whatever." Sam answered.
"Yeah, the good old days." Dean snorted. "You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam sat up.
"When then let's cover up Moaning Myrtle and get out of here before the cops show up." Dean shoved himself to his feet and reached for a shovel.
Sam stood as well, and immediately fell over.
"Sam!" Dean dropped the shovel and whirled around, dropping to his knees to grab two hands full of his brother's jacket.
"Dean, I'm fine!" Sam protested.
"Then why did you ... "
"I don't know," Sam shook his head. "My left foot just wouldn't hold me for a moment. It doesn't hurt, but maybe I hit it harder than I thought when I fell in the grave."
Dean reached for his brother's leg, but Sam stopped him.
"Just help me stand up and walk it off." he asked.
Dean straightened slowly, holding Sam's arms, lifting him to his feet.
Or rather, foot.
Once Sam stood upright with his weight on his right foot, his left foot didn't reach the ground, and was turned outward at an unnatural angle.
"Holy shit, you're bleeding!" Dean watched in horror as the red droplets rolled across Sam's shoe, gleaming the lantern light. "Sit back down."
Dean lowered Sam back down to the grass, grabbed his knife from his belt, and reached for Sam's ankle.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Sam spluttered. "These are my favorite jeans!"
"Fuck the jeans," Dean muttered, neatly slicing the pants leg beside the inner seam.
He pulled the fabric back to reveal the leg underneath, smeared with blood, but not enough to obscure the fact that an inch of jagged white bone stuck out through the front of the calf a few inches above the ankle, and the foot was twisted sideways.
"Sammy ... " Dean murmured, going pale.
"It doesn't hurt!" Sam shook his head, looking at his leg in confusion.
"It's because you're going into shock." Dean immediately snapped into field medic mode.
He ran to the car, returning with a blanket, rags, and a jug of holy water.
"Dean!" Sam huffed.
Dean threw the blanket around Sam, then doused rags with water. "Gonna wash you up." Dean informed him. "Clean shirt, cut the jeans the rest of the way off, story's gonna be you fell down the stairs."
"I can do this!" Sam protested with a bitchface. "My leg is broken, not my hands!" He grabbed the cloth Dean was using to wipe his face. "You get the stuff in the car."
Dean looked at him for a long moment. He then held up his hand, two fingers raised in a victory sign. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Sam flipped him a bird. "How many am I holding up?"
"Fine," Dean grumbled, surrendering the wet rag. He turned away muttering about pain in the ass little brothers as he gathered up the shovels and equipment bag.
Dean got everything else loaded in the car, then wrapped Sam's leg with the cleanest rags he could find. He helped Sam change into a clean t-shirt, flannel overshirt, and boxers, draped the blanket around him, and assisted him to the car. Dean then changed into something not covered in grave dirt as well.
"It really doesn't hurt?" Dean asked again, once they were on the road.
"No, Dean, it really doesn't hurt," Sam insisted.
"Zeke!" Dean growled.
Sam's eyes flashed blue.
"Yes?" the angel asked, holding Sam's body rigid.
"What the hell?" Dean flung a hand toward Sam's deformed leg.
"Hell has nothing to do with this." Ezekiel frowned. "Sam's leg twisted beneath him when the spirit threw him into the hole."
"No kidding!" Dean thundered.
"I do not understand the purpose of this conversation." Ezekiel replied.
"Can you ... I don't know ... " Dean slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. "He doesn't even hurt!"
"I have suppressed Sam's pain receptors," Ezekiel explained. "Otherwise, he would be in great pain much of the time due to the damage to his body. I can lessen the suppression, but more than his ankle will hurt."
"Dammit." Dean hit the steering wheel again. "You're gonna have to. He's gonna know something is wrong when a compound fracture doesn't even hurt."
"I shall do so," Ezekiel agreed. "However, I will warn you, that the fractures are going to heal much more quickly than expected. You should be prepared to address that matter with Sam as well, unless you wish me to reset his memory for the entire time the leg is broken."
"No!" Dean jerked his head over to look at the angel. "You do NOT wipe out that much of his memory!"
"As you wish," Ezekiel nodded, and in the next moment, the figure in the passenger seat was Sam again.
"Dean?" Sam raised a hand, pointing at the upcoming road sign. "We're crossing the state line already? How fast are you driving?"
"Don't worry about it." Dean shook his head. "I'm just getting you to a hospital."
They went to Joplin Mercy Hospital, Dean figuring that both a bigger town and one they hadn't just burned an old woman's corpse in being to their favor.
Needless to say, Sam was taken back to the treatment area immediately.
The doctor's announcement that Sam needed immediate surgery wasn't a surprise to either of them.
"Both the tibia and fibula are broken here," she indicated the area where the bone protruded through the skin. "and again here," she pointed at his ankle. "they're snapped clean in two. If you were a smaller person, you'd have bone sticking through the skin there as well. We're going to go in and put everything back in place. We'll use screws through here," she laid her pen across the ankle bones in the x-ray. "to hold the ankle in place. With the higher fracture,we'll just have to see what it looks like when we get it cleaned up, but screws or metal plates or possibly both there as well. You're going to be a metal detector's worst nightmare."
"What about long term?" Dean asked. "It's all going to heal, right? He's gonna be able to walk fine?"
"Oh, he's definitely going to hurt when it rains," the doctor announced. "We'll know more after the surgery, but considering the fact Mr. Dougherty is relatively young, healthy, and not overweight, chances are good that he will make a full recovery."
Sam just shrugged. "Whatever we've got to do."
Consents were signed, and Dean was ushered out of the room so Sam could be prepped for surgery.
Dean managed to catch a two hour nap in the empty waiting room. He flipped through the less than two dozen channels on the hospital's television, finding nothing to watch, and sweet talked a nurse's aide out of a cup of coffee from the staff break room. He prowled the perimeter of the room, purposefully keeping his mind blank to avoid the thoughts he didn't want to deal with at the moment.
After six hours, he leaned over the unit clerk's desk.
"When is the doctor going to come tell me about my brother?"
She clicked a few buttons on the computer. "Your brother is still in surgery."
"What do you mean he's still in surgery?" Dean demanded. "They told me four to five hours! What's wrong?"
"Let me see if I can get an update from one of the techs," she smiled sweetly, reaching for the phone.
She dialed a few numbers, and carried on a hushed conversation with whoever answered that went on long enough that Dean started to become alarmed. Once she hung up, she smiled again.
"Everything is fine, Mr. Dougherty," she assured. "Your brother is doing well. They were just delayed in getting started. He apparently has a high tolerance to anesthesia."
"He's a big guy," Dean nodded, relaxing. "It takes a lot to put him under."
"Well the anesthesiologists thought they had compensated for his size, but he just wasn't going under. They gave more meds until the point they were afraid to give him anything else, and he was still perfectly alert and oriented half an hour later. The tech said it was funny, the doctor said 'We really need you to go to sleep so we can fix this leg.' and within a minute, he was under."
Dean was thankful he had already finished the coffee, because otherwise he probably would have dropped the cup.
Sam came out of surgery shortly before lunchtime. Dean was allowed to see him for a moment in recovery, but he was still unconscious. The doctor urged Dean to go get something to eat and some rest and come back that evening, when Sam should be awake and in his own room. He only agreed after being assured that Sam would not be awake for several hours, and that the nurse would call Dean's cell the moment he was.
Sam woke alone in a hospital room, with his left leg heavily bandaged, and began the familiar routine of calculating his surroundings. Daylight outside, so probably still Tuesday. A little after five according to the clock, so it's probably early evening. Empty chair beside the bed. No Dean. No pain. His eyes followed the tube taped to his arm up to the iv bags hanging by the bed. Broad spectrum antibiotic, bigger bag probably fluids for hydration. He reached up and pushed the bigger bag aside to see if there was anything else hiding behind it. There wasn't, so he was either still under the effects of the anesthesia, or the pain meds had been injected into the iv port.
"Oh, there you are," a nurse announced from his other side, startling him. She smiled as she jotted down the numbers from the monitor. "We weren't expecting you wake up quite so soon. I'll let the doctor know you're awake."
She left, and ten minutes later, a young doctor, no probably not a doctor, probably a trainee or resident or intern of some kind, stood over the bed, chart in hand.
"Mr. Dougherty, hi, I'm Dr. Bahri." the young man smiled and held out a hand for Sam to shake. "I assisted Dr. Simmons with your surgery. Everything went well. We placed screws in both bones in your ankle, and placed a screw and plate on your higher tibia fracture, and a plate on the higher fibula fracture. Those are permanent internal fixations, which means they'll stay in your leg. We won't be going back to take them out unless there's some sort of problem. It's going to take a while, probably two to three months before you're going to be able to begin physical therapy, but you should eventually make a full recovery. Of course, once your ankle has been fractured, it will always be susceptible to re-injury, so you'll have to be careful with it. Do you have any questions?"
"How long am I going to have to stay?" Sam asked. "And how could I be so badly injured when it didn't even hurt until I got to the ER?"
"It's not uncommon for someone with a fracture not to feel the full brunt of the pain at first. It has to do with the trauma to the tissues, the sudden swelling and so forth slowing the pain message from translating to your brain. My brother broke his leg playing football in college, and thought it was just bruised until he tried to walk on it. And besides, with all the damage from the electrocution, it's not surprising that your nervous system is a little wonky. As far as how long you'll be here, as long as everything goes well, three days or so." Dr. Bahri smiled. "Anything else?"
Sam frowned for a moment, wondering if he should correct the doctor and point out that it was Dean who had been electrocuted, and then wondering how the doctor even knew that, because it was many years and fake identities ago. When he realized Dr Bahri was still looking at him, Sam shook his head. "Not right now. I may have some questions later."
The doctor nodded. "That's to be expected. You're probably still a little fuzzy headed from the anesthesia."
Sam nodded in agreement, even though he realized at the moment that he actually wasn't.
"So could I ask you a few questions?" Dr. Bahri asked, gesturing at the chart.
"Sure," Sam shrugged, looking around the man to see if Dean was going to step up and stop the interrogation.
Dean was still nowhere in sight.
"Something came up with your insurance, when our clerk was verifying benefits. Apparently the insurance company had flagged your chart on their end. You were in Linwood Memorial Hospital in western New York state last month when there was a fire and explosion. Blue Cross asked if any of the injuries we were treating were sustained in the fire, you know, because of liability reasons, that the other hospital's insurance would be liable for those, you understand?" He paused, and Sam nodded. "Well, obviously this broken leg is new, but we had Linwood email us a copy of your chart, so we could see what was going on with you while you were there." The wannabe doctor flipped a page or two, and then tipped his head at Sam. "Where have you been for the past five and a half weeks, Mr. Dougherty?"
"Excuse me?" Sam frowned.
"It's not about your family taking you from Linwood." the doctor shook his head. "Under the circumstances, no one would question that. But I've never seen anyone recover from an electrocution like this, and especially not in under two months. According to their data, which of course ends right about the time of the explosion when the power went out, you were on the verge of being declared brain dead. Your last CT scan showed basically no brain function. Your MRI's showed massive burns to your internal organs. The only reason they hadn't pulled the plug on you already was because your brother refused to let them do so. Pardon me for saying this, but your recovery is nothing short of a miracle, so you can certainly understand my curiosity, right?"
Sam shook his head and frowned at the man again. "I was in a hospital?"
The man laughed. "I'm sure you don't remember it. You were comatose. But you know that you were electrocuted, right? And you know that you've been unwell and have been recovering, don't you?" The young man's mirth melted into concern.
"I ... I have gaps in my memory." Sam answered truthfully. "I know I was ... not myself, and I've been ... getting better, but I'm not sure ... I knew what ... happened."
"That's understandable." the resident shrugged. "I'm surprised that you're walking and talking at all. According to this," he held up the chart. "There was a downed tree in the road, and you came in contact with a high voltage power line. Does that sound familiar?"
"I think ... " Sam called on his acting skills. "I think my brother told me that. I don't really remember it."
"Yeah, well, like I said, the fact you're even able to have this conversation with me is unbelievable." the resident snapped the chart closed. "Your internal organs, including your brain, were cooked from the inside out." He paused, looking down at Sam's leg. "Mr. Dougherty, are you sure that you're ok with your brother? I mean, someone with your type of injuries, still recovering ... he shouldn't be leaving you alone. And he shouldn't let you near stairs unsupervised. Maybe we should contact Family Services, see if we can get him some help taking care of you ... "
"No," Sam shook his head, almost too adamantly. "He does fine. We have a couple friends who help him take care of me. I ... I got up while he was sleeping and tried to go downstairs. He told me not to."
The resident sighed and nodded. "I'll trust you on it this time. But if this becomes a habit, if you keep ending up back at the ER because your brother isn't taking good care of you, or he isn't watching you like he should, the administration is going to call Adult Protective Services, and there won't be anything I can do about it."
"That's not going to happen," Sam promised. "My brother takes good care of me."
"I sure do, Sammy!" a voice boomed from the doorway.
Dean walked in, a salad and a milkshake in hand.
"I brought you dinner, better grub than you could get in this place." Dean's smile was a little too tight, as if daring the resident to say anything to him.
"Ok, then," the young doctor backed away toward the door. "Glad to see that you're recovering so well, Mr. Dougherty. Let us know if you need anything. You should be discharged the day after tomorrow if everything goes well."
He pulled the door partly closed as he left, and Dean pushed it the rest of the way closed.
"Let me guess," the older brother rolled his eyes. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge?"
"Maybe not yet," Sam hedged. "Dean, what the hell happened when the angels fell?"
"Don't you remember?" Dean asked, putting the food on the tray table and rolling it to the bed.
He didn't look Sam in the eye.
"I remember being outside the church when the angels were falling." Sam informed him, watching for a reaction from Dean. "Then I apparently don't remember anything until I woke up about thirty something hours later in the front seat of the car, on the way to the bunker."
"Yeah ... " Dean prompted.
"But that doctor," Sam pointed at the door. "Said that I was in a hospital in New York about to be declared brain dead. The injuries he's describing that I had, there's no way I could have recovered from that in a day and a half. There's no way I should have recovered from it, period!"
Dean hesitated a heartbeat too long. "What can I say, Sammy. The trials wiped you out pretty fast. Letting go of them, apparently, you're healing even faster."
"Why did you not tell me I was in the hospital?" Sam continued.
"Did it matter?" Dean shrugged. "They weren't doing anything but telling me to let you go and that death was a part of life and all that bullshit."
"I think it was kind of a significant thing ..."
"Sam, seriously? The angels had fallen and they were seriously pissed and after us and blew up the hospital and demons were popping out of the woodwork and Cas lost his grace and we didn't know what the hell was going on with Kevin." Dean snapped. "So forgive me that I didn't hold your hand and gently explain that you'd been in a hospital that I had to carry you out of before somebody smited your ass while we were high-tailing it across the country!"
"How did the angels find us, Dean?" Sam folded his arms. "Because if I'm not mistaken, we're still branded with Enochian sigils."
Dean sighed. "I screwed up. I panicked. The doctor told me you were dying. They sent a fucking grief counselor in to talk to me, for God's sake! I ... I prayed. I tried to pray to Cas because I didn't know yet he had fallen, and when I didn't get an answer from him, I put out a message to any angel that was willing to help and gave our location. Unfortunately, most of the ones who showed up weren't there to help."
"Most of them," Sam frowned. "So some did come to help?"
"One," Dean snorted. "Some guy named Ezekiel, old friend of Cas'. He held them off while I got you out of there."
"But he couldn't heal me?" Sam tilted his head, trying to puzzle this out.
"He tried, but he was injured from the fall," Dean answered. "He wasn't running on full mojo. I dunno, though. He apparently got enough juice in you to kickstart this amazing healing you seem to be doing on your own." Dean gestured vaguely at Sam. "I mean, go from coughing up blood and being unable to eat to eating more than me and running marathons and setting some kinda world grave digging record in just a few weeks."
Sam nodded, watching his brother carefully.
He knew without a doubt that Dean still wasn't telling him everything.
Physical therapy came in for a few minutes after supper, just to help Sam stretch his hip and knee a little, keep him from getting too stiff from having to keep the leg propped up, help him get a little more comfortable in bed. The nurse came in with Sam's evening dose of pain meds just after.
Sam frowned at the pill she offered him. "I'm really not hurting that much."
"But you are hurting some, now?" Dean asked.
"Well, yeah, but it's really not bad right this minute." Sam nodded. "It's more like a mild headache than a broken bone."
"That's because you still have a little of your last dose in you," the nurse explained. "If you take this one now, it will start to take effect by the time the other wears off completely. Otherwise, in an hour or so when the other completely wears off, you'll be wishing you had taken it."
"Sam, I know you don't like taking meds, but you need to get some rest so you can get better," Dean looked at Sam significantly, reminding him that he had more than just a broken leg to recover from. "This is will knock the pain out and hopefully knock you out so you can get a decent night's sleep."
Sam watched Dean for a long moment, watched how the nerve in his jaw ticked almost imperceptibly, and wondered why his brother wanted him drugged and dulled when they weren't in a secure location. It was like there was something hovering just beyond the edge of Sam's grasp, something that would make all this make sense.
"Ok," he agreed, holding out his hand and gesturing for Dean to hand him some water. "You're right, a good night's rest will help."
The nurse handed Sam the paper cup with the pill, and watched while he swallowed it. "Let me know if you need anything." she patted his shoulder and then turned to Dean. "You've got about an hour before visiting hours end. But he's probably going to fall asleep on you by then anyway."
Dean smiled and thanked her as Sam watched, trying to unravel what secret his brother was keeping.
After 45 minutes, Sam feigned sleepiness, because Dean didn't seem inclined to leave otherwise. It was only for Dean's benefit, however, as Sam spent the first half hour alone flipping through channels and wishing he had the Men Of Letters' book on Sumerian mythology he had started reading before they had set out on this job.
His cell phone rang, startling him. He frowned at it for a long moment, before lifting it to see an unfamiliar number on the caller id. He frowned again, realizing by now it was on the third ring, and if he didn't answer soon, it would go to voice mail. Curiosity won out, and he pressed the button to accept the call.
"Hello, Sam," rumbled a deep voice on the other end. "Did I wake you?"
"Cas?" Sam pushed himself up a little higher in bed. "No. it's ... are you ok?"
"I'm fine, Sam. I spoke with Dean and he told me about your injury. I wished to call and express my condolences and offer whatever assistance I can, although without my powers, that would be limited." Cas continued.
"I appreciate the offer anyway, Cas." Sam thanked him. "You know one thing you could do for me would be to stop by the bunker some time. I'd love to see you and Dean was pretty upset when you left."
"I do not understand why." Cas stated. "Dean was the one who asked me to leave."
"Dean asked you to leave?" Sam said. "Why? Did you two have a fight?"
"He said that I was a danger to you if I remained there." Cas answered. "He said that the angels who were after me could come after you and Dean and that you were too weak to be involved in a fight."
"Huh." Sam couldn't think of anything better to say at the moment. "Can I call you back at this number, Cas?"
"This is my store supervisor's phone. You can call this number and she can get a message to me to call you." Cas replied solemnly.
"Ok, thanks Cas. Take care of yourself." Sam ended the call, and stared at the phone in his hand for several minutes.
Obviously, Dean was hiding something. Why would he think Cas was a danger to Sam? Why wouldn't he want Cas in the bunker, where they could keep him safe?
Most importantly, why did he lie to Sam about why Cas left?
Here is part 2