I Think I Have a Concussion
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This one takes place in S1, because I could really use from S1 babies. Just a simple hurt/comfort fic of some limp!Sam.
WARNINGS: head injury, concussion, haha.
The sound of a skull hitting the side of a car door at break-neck speeds isn’t exactly the best sound in the world to Dean’s ears, but he’d have preferred it not be his brother doing the skull-thumping. For a moment his insides are ice-cold, and he wonders if this at all is what it’s like to feel like a ghost - because Sam just crumples like a over-sized doll, a plaything to someone else, with no consideration for its parts. The junkyard is eerily silent for a split moment before Dean is unfrozen, focused long enough to fire a round of rock salt into the misty figure in the air.
Then he lunges, scooping up the lighter Sam had dropped when he was so brutally flung. Before he can even get his thoughts coherently sorted, there are bones blazing up and the ghost is screaming with a wide, gaping mouth. Then it’s gone. And Sam is not budging an inch, all sprawled, lanky limbs and wild locks that are curled in sweat on his forehead. His eyes are open - just open, staring at nothing, and Dean nearly screams, because Sam looks dead, he’s broken his fucking neck and he’s dead, oh fuck, oh no, no -
He collapses next to him as he flips him over with his hands keeping his neck as straight as possible. It’s too much like a corpse. He’s limp and Dean’s pretty near hysterics before he notices Sam’s eyes fluttering; there’s a big red stain on the crown of his head, where skin split from the impact, but he’s breathing beneath Dean’s fingers. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s unconscious. Or maybe he’s fucking paralyzed. Dean breathes out shakily, running a hand over his hair as he thinks about what to do; he should call 911. Cover everything up and tell them they were fucking around and Sam fell hard.
“It’s gonna be okay, Sam,” he manages, though it’s not an easy task. He rubs a palm against Sam’s cheek, too worried to try much else. “I’m here. It’s gonna be alright, little brother. I’ll… fuck… Sammy, wake up. Move your fucking monkey arms.”
Maybe it’s enough to beg a little, because Sam’s eyelids flutter again and his eyes start to roam listlessly until his brother’s gaze falls on him. He blinks. Then his whole body shifts, a small line of blood racing over his slightly jutted brow. “Dea’… Ffffuuuuck.”
Dean laughs, rubbing at his face. “God, Sam. Jesus Christ.”
“S'laughing, it hurtsss.” Sam swats at Dean’s hands, uncoordinated and weak with confusion and vertigo. “Where… Where’re'we? Face hurts.” And then he tries to sit up, but Dean’s carefully pushing to back to rest on his back.
“Colorado. Don’t move until I check you out more,” he says sternly, and Sam sort of flops pathetically to lay there as instructed. His neck feels okay when Dean paws along it, and he yanks off one of Sam’s shoes, pinching the toe; same with his fingers, and even prods all along his back for reassurance that the nerves are doing their jobs. His pupils are of course not reacting well to light, though. Shit. Dad always taught him not to fuck around with head injuries; this needs to be seen by a doc, even if their aversion to hospitals makes that a begrudging task. He pats Sam’s chest, above his heart, while his own heart is still pounding so fast he thinks maybe he’ll pass out next; it’s really hard to just shrug off thinking your brother was gone, just like that.
“Tell me how you’re feeling. Any pain other than your head?”
Sam groans, blinking away tears of pain. “No. Don’t think so. Head hurts. Lip hurts.”
And yeah, Dean could see why. He’s got a pretty nasty gouge there on his bottom lip. Must’ve bit it in the crash of flesh against metal. “Alright, Scrappy Doo, let’s get you vertical and to the car. I think we can handle getting to a clinic on our own; gonna have to get our good ol’ fake insurance crap going.”
He lifts Sam up, still practically dead weight - well, even worse than dead weight, because Sam’s trying to move his legs. It’s like a dog flopping around his own long paws, or a newborn deer. Either way, Dean’s half-convinced Sam is trying to drag Dean down with him for the Scrappy Doo comment, even if he isn’t fully aware of it.
“Where’re we? Why’s there - so many cars?”
“We’re avid car collectors,” Dean jokes, leading Sam in a straighter path than Sam himself is really shooting for.
“Are not,” Sam breathes. Blood drips down his nose, and Dean makes a note to grab the first aid kit asap. Until then, he grips Sam a little more firmly and directs him back over to the Impala, who has a broken out window - another story for another day, but Sam had been bitching all morning how the cold air was driving him batshit insane. He sets Sam down in the passenger seat with a grunt, while Sam reaches out and grabs his sleeve. “Dean… Think I hit my head. Where… why?”
“You’re asking the tough questions tonight,” he sighs, crossed between joking and serious as he retrieves the bandages and antiseptic. Sam’s at least compliant enough that he lays against the headrest, but his eyelids are sagging and Dean has to give him a light shake. “Don’t fall asleep, Sam; you got a concussion and a half right now.”
“I got a concussion?“
This is gonna be a long, worrisome night. He runs his hand over the bottom of his face, peering at Sam’s clueless expression before he finishes battling the hunter’s shaggy hair to get to the wound there. It’s not too bad, just bleeding a lot, but he has a hard time focusing when Sam is giving him a weird look.
“M'I dying?"
"No way. You’re a pro at outrunning death. Got the legs for it, Tina Turner.”
“… Dean?” Sam stops there, though, closing his mouth. “S’okay… happens sometimes.”
No time to pry into that. He just buckles Sam in, who whines in his throat when he turns his head sharply to keep his brother in his line of sight. By the time they’re back on the road, the wind is whipping through the busted passenger window, frosty enough to make Sam grumble under his breath, which is perfect, because us it means that Sam is awake enough to grumble about it. Regardless of Sam’s growing lucidity, Dean’s hitting the gas to get somewhere faster; they’re too far out into the countryside to be fickle with the speeding laws tonight.
“Dean?”
“That’s still my name. What’s up?”
“Dean… Y'put the ghost to rest?”
Dean would prefer to materialize that ghost and punt them clear across the great U.S. But instead he settles on, “It’s been taken care of. Laid to rest.”
Sam is looking at him again with that weird, soft look. There’s a smudge of dry blood on his chin where Dean had sloppily missed it. A hand snakes over, patting him on the shoulder. “Good to rest. M'proud of you… Y’re a good guy.”
“Jesus, Sam, you really clobbered yourself good. I prefer you get shitfaced drunk instead of nearly breaking your skull wide open, if you’re gonna be sentimental.” Nearest hospital shouldn’t be too far away. They’ll at least have a place to settle with professional help, in case it’s worst than it looks and sounds.
“Don’t gotta get clobbered to say it.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Hang tight, man.”
He leaves the radio off, listening for Sam, letting the whipping air outside cool the sweat on their brows. Sam’s got one hand curled on Dean’s old leather jacket for most of the trip, but Dean prefers to leave it be. It’s not like Sam’ll probably remember being like this anyway, and considering how close he was to losing one half of his terribly small family, Dean needs it more than he’d want to admit.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“…Think I have a concussion.”