The Scattered Pieces of Me -Chapter 4
Peoria, October 15
Sam is awake at dawn, despite having worked until midnight the evening before. He dresses and grabs his bag of dirty laundry. He’ll stop by the Laundromat on his way back from the hospital. He’s down to his last pair of clean jeans.
Sam locks the door of the room he rents on the first floor and stops by the bathroom with his shaving kit. He’ll take a shower tonight. It’s usually quieter then.
Walking downstairs, he stops to chat a little with Rose on the staircase. Rose’s husband is dying of liver cancer. She’s been renting a room at Hannah’s Shelter for the last two weeks. Roger, her husband, isn't doing well. He isn’t even conscious anymore.
“I think it’s better this way,” Rose tells Sam, smiling sadly. “He’s suffered so much.”
She’s a pretty woman in her early seventies. Her husband has been fighting cancer for the last five years and she admits without shame that it will be a relief for the both of them when he passes on.
Sam likes Rose. She’s one of the few people here with whom he has connected. Most of the other renters don’t stay for more than a few days, people with family members in the ICU or undergoing an important surgery. They’re like ghosts, haunting the house with haggard looks, keeping to themselves. And then they leave, some of them beaming with relief, some of them heavy with sorrow and grief.
In the big common kitchen, Maria Framingham, the co-owner of the house, is already busy making coffee and preparing breakfast. She smiles warmly at Sam.
“How are you doing?”
“Good.”
Sam grabs an apple from the table and waits for the coffee to be done.
“Still no change with your brother?”
“No. He’s stable.”
Maria is a discreet presence. Her husband Joe can be seen here and there, fixing a pipe, mowing the lawn, smiling shyly when he sees Jared, or giving a soft nod. The couple are in their late fifties. Sam had learned that they opened this house in memory of their daughter, Hannah, who died of leukemia fifteen years ago. They had been living in a small town one hour away from the hospital and all the trips for the chemotherapy, all the times they found themselves sleeping on plastic chairs in some waiting room at the hospital, gave them the idea to buy this house and help people in the same situation. A large portrait of Hannah hangs in the living room, a five year old girl with pig-tails and bright eyes. Sam can’t look at it without being assaulted by sadness.
“Hey Sam.”
“Hi Laura, how are you doing.”
Laura had already been here when Sam moved in. Her son had undergone an important back surgery to prevent his spine from getting too distorted. His name is Luke and he suffers from muscular dystrophy. There were complications after the surgery but the worst is behind them. Each day, Laura seems a little happier.
“The doctor said we could probably leave in a week, if Luke keeps improving. Can’t wait to finally take him home.”
Laura lives two hours away from the hospital. Her husband visits on the weekend. They seem like a strong couple, determined to let their son live the best life he can under the circumstances.
Sam sometimes wonders what Laura, or Rose -or even Maria think of him, of his situation. He doesn’t share a lot. They know that his brother has been in a coma for two months, that he isn’t improving or getting worse. He wonders if they pity him.
Sam doesn’t think a lot about those things, about Dean's unchanging state, about his new life here in Peoria, spending his days at the hospital, working in the evening as a janitor in a lawyer’s office.
Time passes, but Sam barely acknowledges it. He’s in a constant waiting mode. He can be patient. He can have all the patience in the world for Dean.
Bobby had visited last week and renewed his invitation for Sam to settle in Sioux Falls. Dean’s transfer by ambulance could easily be arranged. It would be so much easier for all of them.
Sam had refused calmly. When Dean wakes up, he's going to need special care. Sam prefers that care be provided by the hospital’s staff who already knows Dean well, in an environment Sam has come to feel comfortable in.
There's another reason Sam can’t express out loud, can barely admit to himself. Living with Bobby would mean getting close to the hunter’s world again. It would mean hearing constantly about Wendigos and demon sightings and hunters in need of backup. Sam doesn’t want to be associated with that anymore, not even to help with research. The supernatural world is the reason his mother and father died, and why his brother, who’s always seemed unbreakable in Sam’s little brother eyes, is laying in a bed, unconscious.
Sam has come to terms with the fact that neither he nor Bobby would find a supernatural cure. That had been the last door Sam had closed. He'd kept it open for as long as he could. No more hunting for the Winchesters. No more talking of demons and beasts feeding off people. They’re out. Whatever happens, whatever state Dean is in when he wakes up, they’ll never hunt again. Sam will make sure of it.
Sam chats a little longer then gets ready to walk the short distance to the hospital. He likes the exercise, plus, he never drives the Impala anymore. He doesn't like to leave it out in the open in the parking lot. Joe Framingham had offered to keep it in his garage, stating that such a beauty should be kept away from too many envious eyes, and Sam had accepted.
It’s cold that morning. Sam barely feels the wind blowing through his dull hair. He walks at a good pace along the road that’s become so familiar to him. Peoria is a beautiful town. When Dean wakes up, maybe they’ll go back to the zoo, like when they were kids.
The night shift staff is still there when he arrives on Dean’s floor. He likes arriving early because then he can have news about Dean’s night first hand.
He stops by the nurse station. Joseph, a tall black man who’s usually in charge of Dean’s section, is writing notes on a clipboard behind the desk. The head night nurse, Nora, smiles at Sam while preparing a syringe of clear liquid. It’s quiet.
“Hey, Sam,” Joseph greets him. “Give me a minute.”
“No problem.”
Sam fidgets near the desk, trying not to show his impatience. He feels guilty enough as it is, working four evenings a week. Those days, he has to leave the hospital by four in the afternoon, leaving his brother alone for the evening. He usually calls around ten to get some news before the evening shift ends and he always carries his phone to be sure he can be reached. Even with all that, imagining Dean so still, so quiet, alone in his room, always makes him feel like a jerk.
“How's he doing?” He asks when Joseph finally stands up and walks toward him.
“We had to take out his feeding tube again.”
Sam sighs.
“Yeah, but he's doing better now. Don’t worry, Sam. Some patients need some time to get used to it. We’ll try again in a couple of days.”
“Yeah…”
Dean’s weight loss is a concern. Sam doesn’t want to think about how he appears to have shrunk, somehow, since the beginning of his coma. Providing nutrients through an I.V. line is only a temporary solution. Eventually, the patients have to be fed through a feeding tube that passes through the nose to reach the stomach. Dean is having trouble tolerating it. When he’s fed, he always suffers from reflux. Even when it’s over, hours later, he’ll gag almost constantly. It’s hard to watch. Sam wonders if his brother can feel the pain. It can’t be comfortable anyway.
“We put him back on the I.V. hyper alimentation solution,” Joseph explains. “Oh, and we got the result of his urine analysis back. Seems like the infection is gone for good.”
That’s another consequence of being in a coma: a catheter that's in place for too long tends to make patients vulnerable to bladder infections. They’d only noticed it when emptying the U-bag, because of the smell.
“Good. No more antibiotics, then.”
“We’ll continue this round of antibiotics for another twenty four hours, just to be sure.”
Sam nods and thanks Joseph, then makes his way to Dean’s room The door is half open. It’s still dark in there, the curtains are drawn. Sam ignores the sugary sweet smell that surrounds his brother. That's what disease smells like, sweet and sour, a heavy stench that can almost be tasted. Nothing can get rid of it. Despite being washed every day, the odor seems to be seeping out of the pores of his waxy-looking skin. His breath in the morning is the worst, letting out that same smell with something more, something organic, wet. But Sam is used to it by now.
“Hey, Dean,” he greats softly, sitting on the side of the bed.
Of course, Dean doesn’t acknowledge his presence. He’s positioned on his side, a pillow propping up the left side of his back, another tucked between his legs. He has to be moved every two hours to prevent bed sores. It’s good for the blood flow and prevents his muscles from stiffening.
Dean’s eyes are half closed. It’s like they can’t close or open completely. His mouth is slightly open too, he snores softly. Sometimes, if Sam squints his eyes a little, he can almost make himself believe his brother is only sleeping. He can get over the thin, white face, the chapped lips, the fact that Dean looks so young, barely out of his teenage years. Now that his hair is growing, it’s pale and soft, almost two centimeters now. The scars on his scalp are visible and hairless. The doctor says hair won't grow back there.
“So, what? You needed a little attention?” Sam whispers, taking Dean’s hand between his. It’s cold and damp, lax. “Got Joseph to take out the feeding tube? You hate it, I know. Still, it would be better for you, Dean. Get some meat on those bones.”
Sam speaks to his brother for a little while, tells him about his job, about Rose’s dying husband, about a documentary he listened to on the radio at work. “So those silver foxes, they're tamed. You can have one as a pet. Can you believe that?”
Slowly, the room gets brighter and the noise in Dean's wing gets louder, like the whole building is waking up. The shift change is getting close. Sam always waits for the day staff to make their first patient check-up before giving Dean his sponge bath. Sam has discovered that, if he doesn’t follow the schedule he's devised for himself, the days pass so slowly he can almost feel the seconds ticking by.
Sam takes care of his brother, in every aspect possible. He inquires about Dean’s vital signs as soon as the nurse has taken them, then asks for the supplies he needs to give his brother his bath.
“Just buzz me when you're done so I can help you change the sheets,” Loren says softly. “And don’t forget, if you notice any red spots or-“
“Yeah, I’ll call you.”
Lauren rolls her eyes. She’s a nice, middle-aged woman who always speaks in a low, soothing voice. Sam likes her.
“I tend to repeat myself, don't I?” she asks. “Job conditioning.”
“No, it’s alright.”
It is. Sam’s not a nurse, more of a how-to-patch-up-my-bleeding-brother-and-father specialist. He’s grateful for the understanding everyone here seems to have. In the beginning, the staff had been somewhat reluctant to teach him how to care for Dean, but as the days went by and they realized Sam wasn’t going to give it up, some of them began to show him the proper way. The same had happened when Dean received his first physiotherapist visit. Sam had stood there, in silence, and had watched every move, every exercise done to Dean. Then he had asked questions. Physical therapy with comatose patients is essential to prevent the formation of blood clots and muscle atrophy. Dean has a session three times a week with a therapist, but Sam has been told he can do it up to once a day if he wants to.
Sam does it once a day.
As usual, he starts by giving Dean his bath with careful, soft motions. When he’s manhandled, Dean will sometimes groan or whine, but those are only reflexes, just like he will sometimes tense a leg or an arm when Sam makes him do his exercises.
It goes smoothly that morning. Sam concentrates on the motions instead of the fact that Dean would be mortified by most of this if he was aware of what was happening to him, especially when Sam changes his diaper, cleaning his genital area. The diaper is only there as a precaution. Since Dean is mostly fed with an I.V. solution, he rarely has bowel movements, but Sam doesn’t duck this part of his brother's care either. The mere idea that his brother is reduced to incontinence is enough to make him forget about the smell and the instinctive repulsion he feels. Dean would hate this so much. Maybe he does, maybe he has some kind of awareness of his surroundings and his state, of what is being done to him. That’s why Sam treats him with all the respect and affection he can manage. He speaks to Dean constantly while he gives him his bath, speaking to him like Dean might answer at any second, not in that baby voice a couple of the nurses sometimes use.
When Dean is all clean and changed into a fresh hospital gown, Sam shaves him. He uses an electric razor and only does it once every other day. Dean had never been fond of a close shave. That morning, he has to clip Dean’s fingernails. The toenails can wait.
By the time Sam is done, it’s almost ten o’clock. Lauren comes back with a change of sheets and helps him position Dean in a semi-sitting position. Sam never does the physical therapy exercises right after the bath. “He maybe not be able to express it, but the exercises are very tiring for him, just as his sponge bath is or any medical procedure,” Dr. Murphy had explained to Sam. “Better to let him rest between each.”
It makes sense.
The rest of the morning goes as smoothly. Sam has gotten into the habit of reading aloud to Dean, making a point of choosing stuff he knows his brother would like, funny or strange newspaper articles, car and weapon magazines. There's a small TV in the room, but Sam reserves it for the evenings or late afternoon. Daytime TV is boring as hell, as his brother -dying of a heart condition at the time- had once pointed out. When they watch it, Sam comments on everything he sees and, sometimes, he can hear Dean’s answers in his head.
He wonders if that's really healthy.
When noon comes that day, Sam takes a break. Not that it matters because. Dean doesn’t eat three meals a day. But Sam is more comfortable with this routine. He goes down to the cafeteria and eats something even though he isn’t hungry most of the time. During his last visit, Bobby had pointed out that he had lost some weight. “Makin’ yourself sick ain’t gonna help your brother,” he’d pointed out.
As he is most of the time, Bobby is right. Sam has already lost some muscle mass because he doesn’t get as much physical exercises as he did before. He can’t afford to let himself go if he wants to be there for Dean.
The cafeteria is serving meatloaf today. The smell alone is enough to make Sam’s stomach churn. He picks a salad instead, but buys a pack of peanut butter cookies to add a few more calories.
He eats by himself, reading the Huffington Post on his laptop, chewing each mouthful slowly. He allows himself forty five minutes and tries to stick to it. Still, he can’t help but check to make sure his cellphone is in his pocket a couple of times, just in case. It’s getting close to an obsession, he knows. Sometimes, he wakes up at night, covered in sweat, blindingly grabbing for his phone. What if he has missed a call? What if he forgot to charge the battery and something has happened to Dean…
God, Dean would make so much fun of him if he knew, calling it OCD…
There, right then, as he’s sitting alone in the cafeteria, it passes through him, a deep, violent wave of pain, physical and visceral. Sam’s eyes fill with tears and his chest constricts. He never knows when it’s going to happen, but it’s just as painful every single time.
How much he misses Dean. Every single thing about him, even his stubbornness and his freaking carelessness concerning his own well-being. His loyalty to John, his music, his bad eating habits and his womanizing.
Everything. Sam wants everything back. He wants his big brother.
Sam tries to keep his emotions under control. He wipes at his eyes, swallows his mouthful of tasteless cookie with some water and closes his laptop.
He still has five minutes left. He takes the time to bring his plate back and makes a bathroom stop. By the time he’s in the elevator, he’s shoved his sorrow deep down inside his mind to a place where it doesn’t really hurt anymore -hey, Dean isn’t the only Winchester able to do so. Besides, Sam tells himself stubbornly, having his own selfish breakdown won’t help his brother. The nurses have settled Dean on his side again while Sam had been eating. His brother looks almost peaceful, facing the door, his hands tucked together like a small child would do. This is strange, Sam thinks distractedly. Usually, they’re separated, one near his head, the other tucked against his body.
“Hey Dean, m’back,” Sam greets as he always does.
Dean blinks.
Dean blinks at him.
Sam closes his eyes for a second. It happens, sometimes -it’s a symptom common to people who are close to coma patients. They want so much to see a movement, to hear a noise, that they sometimes hallucinate it.
Sam opens his eyes and stops breathing.
Dean’s right hand is moving slowly, the fingers curling into a loose fist. His eyes are open, staring into nothingness, but staring still.
“God. Dean.” Sam chokes.
Dean opens his mouth and licks his lips.
Sam doesn’t even think about ringing the bell. He runs back into the corridor and calls a nurse in a loud, panicked voice.
Chapter 5
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