Big Bang '10 - One Hundred Percent Reason to Remember [vi. 20% pain]
Masterlist
Previous
Creedmoor Regional Medical Center's monitoring ward is sectioned off from the rest of the hospital, settled in a small building that's only attached by a long, pristine hallway. Most of the patients are either comatose or so unable to function that there's hardly any trouble; most of the nurses say that their jobs are boring and routine, and they'd give anything to work up at the main hospital. Here they hardly feel like they're making a difference. Most of the patients don't make it out anyway, and the almost certain death sentence makes for a bleak atmosphere.
Sam is glad he doesn't work there. His routine visits to the cardiac patients that stayed for constant observation are depressing enough; there are only four or five of them, but it's the worst part of his day. Or it had been, once upon a time.
A few days ago, they'd brought Dean Winchester in. He's a heart patient in need of a transplant, waiting for his name to come up on the National Donor List. Meanwhile, he has to be under constant observation lest his own heart completely give out on him. It'd speed the process along, because emergencies tend to prompt the paperwork to move faster. But Sam didn't realize he even needed the transplant until he looked at his chart; from the way he talks, flirts shamelessly, taunts death... Sam hadn't guessed he was a cardiac patient at all.
The discovery of something so rare in so desolate a place made Sam rethink his visits to the monitoring ward. They weren't so horrible. He'd actually started looking forward to them, which was honestly something he never thought he'd consider.
He feels a little guilty for glossing over the other patients in the ward with only the minimal level of care - usually he was very thorough, and if he didn't maintain his commitment to delivering that the head of the cardiac unit would be on his ass. For the past week or so, the only chart that's been even near as detailed as his usual work was Dean's, and Sam only hopes no one notices.
The nurses greet him as usual when he arrives that day, give him their daily reports and send him on his rounds. The first four patients never change, their condition remains constant; it's unpleasant to see the lack of progress, but they'd tried every treatment the hospital offered and still nothing. So it's this, until something changed for better or worse.
Sam drops their charts off at the nurse's station and heads to Dean's room on the far end of the ward. He knocks, standard procedure, and lets himself in.
Dean's face lights up when he sees Sam walk in the room.
"Hello, gorgeous," he greets, beaming at him.
His skin is so pale it's almost impossible to distinguish where he ends and the pristine sheets began; his green eyes look even bigger surrounded by deep purple circles, but the crinkles on the corners show he 's good, considering.
"You see, Jo, he's the man I've been telling you about," he explains to the small blonde nurse who's taking his blood. "He's the cruel owner of my heart."
Nurse Jo hides a giggle behind a hand, as Dean turns toward Sam and looks at him adoringly. "When will you put me out of my misery and accept to be my lawfully wedded wife, doctor W?" he asked for the umpteenth time.
Sam chuckles and pulls the door closed behind him so the rest of the ward won't be bothered. “I don't know whether to be more disturbed by you calling me cruel or implying that I'd be the girl.” And he's glad for the low light, because there's no way his cheeks aren't heating. Jo fits the vials of Dean's blood onto her tray and leaves the room, mumbling some sort of promise to be back to check on him later; Sam doesn't hear her, too busy browsing the daily report the nurses have assembled for him and notating the information onto the chart that goes back to the cardiac unit. He checks his watch, writes down the time and then the important information from the beeping machine at Dean's bedside.
As soon as Jo leaves, Dean sits straighter in the bed and starts pulling invisible threads from his shirt. “You are cruel,” he retorts, without looking at Sam. “You keep my hanging. I don't even know if you could ever be - interested or if - you know.” Then he snorts.
"And by the way? You would totally be the girl. You'd rock that white dress, honey," he adds, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, okay, if that helps you sleep." He moves around the bed, checking the railings even though the nurses should already be doing that (being thorough). He cuts off the beginnings of Dean's retort (if there is one; Sam's trying to pretend he isn't paying attention to the way his eyes sparkle), "How do you feel today?"
Dean grabs his doctor's wrist, trying not to concentrate on the contrast between Sam's bronzed skin and his, which is so transparent his veins are showing. He chooses to smile softly at Sam, instead, his eyes going softer. "Much better now that you're here," he answers, honestly, dropping his shields all at once.
His fingers aren't long enough to close around Sam's wrist, so his thumb ends up rubbing circles in the center. "Sam, you know I mean it all, don't you? I mean - I'm not joking with you." Dean swallows nervously.
He's not sure why he says it, but they've been tiptoeing around it for days now, and he needs Sam to pick a side of the fence. He doesn't have much longer, so he can't give either Sam or himself the time they'd probably need in a normal situation to know each other and evaluate their actual chances. Dean chuckles bitterly at himself.
Sam is completely taken aback. He stands there for a moment, stops his fidgeting and concentrates on the feel of Dean's thumb rubbing weakly at his wrist; Sam could break the hold if he wanted to, and it's... kind of heartbreaking. He hasn't thought about it a lot, what Dean was like before his weak heart got the better of him, but now he can't stop thinking about what they could have had if he weren't a doctor and Dean wasn't his patient. "I..." he starts, unsure of what to say. He looks down at Dean, so pale and fragile laid out on the crisp sheets, the ghost of his past self put on full display in his eyes, daring to hope. "Dean..."
The door bangs open, and Sam jumps back, pulls his wrist out of Dean's grip and tries to look like he wasn't just contemplating what he was just contemplating. Jo's out of breath, clutching a piece of paper so tight it's crinkled in her hands.
"Doctor..." she pauses a moment, crosses the room and pushes the paper into his hands. "It's straight from New York Regional."
It takes Sam a moment to skim the contents of the fax, and then he draws a sharp breath. "They've... they've found a donor. They're waiting for the results from the National Donor List for this area - Dean, do you know what this means?"
Dean almost whines when Sam pulls back from his touch, but then Jo is storming inside and his brain goes in overdrive.
He freezes, and all he can process is New York and donor.
"Dean, do you know what this means?"
And just like that, his brain gets back on track.
Hell, yeah he thinks I know what this means.
He abruptly stands up on wobbly legs and slowly covers the short distance between his bed and the chair where his jacket is resting, batting away Jo and Sam's hands. He has to do this now, before the buzz disappears and he discovers he's too much of a coward to actually get through with this. True, Sam still hasn't given him a proper answer, but Dean's felt his pulse flutter under his fingertips and thinks fuck it.
He scrambles in both pockets until he squeaks triumphantly and turns towards the doctor again. Without another word he walks up to the bed and falls on his knees in front of Sam, before opening his hand and Sam can see a silver ring on Dean's open, sweaty, slightly trembling palm.
"I meant it," he states, his voice cracking a little. "Every word." Then his eyes shift away from Sam's face, too afraid of what he could read there.
There have been few moments in Sam's life that have rendered him completely speechless. Most of them were too small to remember, or else so horrible he didn't want to, but this... This is something altogether different.
Jo is standing right there (or maybe she's left; Sam's whole world has narrowed down to Dean's voice and the twinkle of the ring in the fluorescent lights) and this is grounds for canning. But after Dean gets his transplant, when he's well again, he won't be Sam's patient anymore.
"Dean," he says, voice shaking. "Dean, get up." He helps him back into the hospital bed, tries not to make his heart work too hard, and can't stand the look of resignation written all over Dean's face. "Hey," he says, and turns to look around the room; Jo is gone, and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief.
"Hey," he repeats, closes his fingers lightly around Dean's fragile wrist. He barely knows the man, only met him a few days ago, but it feels like he's known him a lot longer. And if Dean can spice up even his dreaded visits to this ward...
"I..." What does someone say to something like that? Sam never thought he'd be on the receiving end of anything remotely resembling a proposal; now he's stuck with nothing stored up to say. He settles for rubbing the blue vein on the underside of Dean's wrist, feels his pulse weakly, and tries to send a memo up that line for Dean's heart to just hang on a few more days. "... yeah, I. I think I'd like that."
Dean stares at where their skin touch. Then, he pinches himself, whimpers in pain and stares some more. Sam is still touching him and there's still that shy, incredibly beautiful smile on his face that Dean had never seen before, but now wants to keep staring at for the rest of his (suddenly long) life.
Seeing him grin like that makes Dean finally realize how old the young doctor really is. He blinks, uncertain, before he grabs Sam's arm and pulls the doctor towards him with all the strength he has left: Sam doesn't expect him to do anything like that, so he stumbles and falls on him, just as Dean hoped.
As soon as he's close enough, Dean closes the distance between them and covers Sam's lips with his own.
Sam is thrown off balance and doesn’t even have time to flail before he’s toppling over and Dean is kissing him. There’s a moment when he forgets why they shouldn’t do this, that Jo probably left the door open and his boss could be making rounds, that Dean’s heart is too weak to handle the strain.
And it’s perfect.
He’s had his fair share of kisses, but this completely transcends those. This is beyond anything, and it leaves him feeling light-headed; even though Dean is weak (and they should stop, god, they should before something bad happens) he gives Sam everything he has and Sam struggles to keep up and not get completely swept away.
Finally, Sam pulls away. He’s out of breath and knows that Dean has to be worse. He looks over at the machine monitoring his pulse and it’s not bad, isn’t speeding like Sam expected, so he leans down and kisses Dean again.
Dean welcomes Sam's weight against him and licks enthusiastically at Sam's lips to gain access to the wet warmth of his mouth; when Sam finally opens up, his taste explodes on Dean's tongue and it's intoxicating.
Dean is instantly addicted to it, and his fists clench and unclench spasmodically on the covers until, with a leap of courage, he pushes his fingertips under Sam's cotton shirt.
The contact with Sam's skin is electrifying.
Sam jumps at the contact, Dean’s cold fingers pressed against his belly, and he whines into Dean’s mouth. His stomach flutters, explosions of butterflies and Dean’s touch sends shivers running up and down his spine. Sam grips the rail on the hospital bed with one hand and cups Dean’s face with the other. Stubble grazes his fingertips as he tilts Dean’s face toward him, angles them so it’s more comfortable.
Dean’s fingers rove upwards, tracing a freezing path up the center of Sam’s chest and causing his breath to catch.
Dean can't help the hungry noise he makes as he pets one of Sam's nipples until it's hard and begging for attention. He can feel Sam's heart thumping fast under his palm and it would make him smile if he wasn't too concentrated on the way Sam swirls his tongue like he's trying to eat him.
Dean's cock swells inside his hospital pants, leaking profusely and almost soaking through. All he wants is Sam's hand, right there. With the trembling fingers of his free hand, he pulls at Sam's wrist towards his groin, with a low growl in the back of his throat.
Sam lets himself be led, drinking in the sounds Dean makes. And no, they can’t do this. Not here, but he wants, and Dean wants, and no one in the rooms around them are conscious enough to notice and Jo’s down the hall.
He can see all the ways this could go badly, but the encouraging noises Dean makes as Sam rucks up the uniform hospital shirt are enough to banish them completely from his thought-process.
The rail is in the way, but he’s worked enough hospital beds that all he has to do is fumble for the button on the underneath side and it collapses, taking his weight with it. He has to toss his hand out to stop from falling entirely on Dean, and at Dean’s petulant whine he returns it to its earlier position, pressing under the elastic of his hospital pants.
Sam's hands are on him and it's like the world has stopped turning, and time's stopped ticking away. It's like nothing else matters but them, there, together. It's like he can't breathe anything but Sam...
...wait a second. Dean can't breath at all. He breaks the kiss, gasping, as his face goes paler and his eyes snap open.
No, goddammit, not now! Fuck fuck fuck Dean thinks as the machine he's attached to starts beeping like crazy, which only serves to increase Dean's terror. He means to ask for help, but he can't. His lungs burn, his chest aches and Dean just wants the pain to stop.
It takes a minute for the sound to filter through, but once it does Sam pushes away and takes so many steps back he distantly feels himself hit the window. Dean is gasping, trying to breathe at all and the sight is enough to take Sam’s breath as well, and it makes him take action.
Quickly, he crosses back over to the hospital bed and calls as loudly as he can for a nurse. He talks, voice low, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he has to get Dean to calm down some way. To take slow breaths and to get his heart rate to slow.
Jo comes running with a new IV and they attach it to the line that’s already going into Dean’s arm.
Fuck, Sam should have been smarter than this.
He feels himself starting to panic, and that’s all Dean needs at this point; a doctor who doesn’t know what to do. Or is incapable of doing it.
He stops himself, takes a deep breath and in a matter of seconds everything is completely clear. Dean is a patient, not… not Dean, not right now. And Dean needs him to be the best he can be at what he does.
So he is.
Dean’s finally back to sinus rhythm a half an hour later; he’s resting, and the room that was once such a flurry of activity is quiet. Sam knows he should get back to his rounds or his other patients are going to be neglected, but he thinks that with how close Dean came to having a heart attack, he can beg off for observation.
He’s lost his coat somewhere; one of the nurses probably hauled it out without meaning to, so he sits on the edge of Dean’s bed in his scrubs. It’s cold, always cold in this ward and he shivers, but it has nothing to do with the cold.
Dean’s face is completely lax, peaceful, and the lights have been turned down so the purple circles around his eyes are less noticeable. If he’d had a heart attack, with his heart in the state it was in, he would have… no, Sam can’t think about it. What Sam can think about is that it would have been his fault. If there’s any more long-term damage, if they have to wait for the heart any longer than what they already have… if Dean dies, it’ll be Sam’s fault.
Fuck, he can’t let himself lose control like that again.
Even as he watches, Dean stirs, starting to wake up; Sam wants to slip out before he becomes completely conscious, but he knows, even thinking about it, that he’ll be unable to.
At least, until Jo comes in, quiet as a mouse (it’s got to be somewhere in the nurse’s training course about being absolutely quiet), holding out another sheet of paper. Her face is pale, either tired or scared or this is some very bad news.
She doesn’t linger after she gives him the fax, but retreats down the hall to the silent nurse’s station. Sam skims the words and he feels his heart stutter. Thick bands constrict his lungs and he can’t breath, has to take short, shallow breaths because this is too much to handle all at once.
No.
Dean's eyelids flutter as he slowly opens his eyes. "Water," he croaks, feeling his throat as rough as if he had swallowed sandpaper, or- He blushes furiously as the image of Sam on all fours feeding him his cock flashes in front of his eyes, and he has to use all of his willpower to push the thought to the back of his head.
He doesn't remember much of what has happened, but somehow he knows it must not have been very good for his health. Better not to worsen it, because who knows how much longer will he have to hold as they wait for his heart to get there?
Just then he hears harsh breathing coming from his side, so he turns his head towards the noise, the effort evident in the way he scrunches his nose. "Hey, Doc," he calls in a whisper, because he still hasn't been able to drink and he really doesn't like to sound as if-whatever.
Sam is sitting on the corner of his bed and looks like he's-trembling? "Sam?" he inquires, suddenly worried. "What's wrong? Talk to me." He seriously doesn't care about himself, he just wants to see Sam's smile again.
Sam doesn’t want to look up, because he knows he can’t hide the fact that he’s trying not to cry. But Dean’s voice pulls at him, incites him to answer and Sam knows he’s irrevocably lost. He does look up. Dean’s eyes are a startling, glass-like emerald against his pale skin, against the circles around his eyes. Sam doesn’t want to worry him more than necessary, but this… he has to say something.
“Dean…” he starts, looking back down at the fax he’s got crumpled in his hand. “There’s, uh. There’s a problem.” He can’t stop the way his voice shakes when he says it, not sure he wants to because this is huge and it’s not fair. As a doctor, he knows it is, knows the system doesn’t care that the patients are people, but. But this is Dean, and there should be some kind of…
Dean blinks, so very tired by all the painkillers and the low blood pressure, but he fights to stay awake. Somehow, Sam is in pain and he owes it to him to be by his side. This man has saved his fucking life, after all. "Sammy?" he croaks, wincing a little at how hoarse his voice comes out ."Please? I'm freaking out, here."
He leans towards Sam and pushes his forehead against his shoulder, trying to comfort him with the warmth of his body. He's so cold.
Sam can’t look away from the crumpled paper, so he settles for closing his eyes instead. He clears his throat, trying to find some way to push the words out even though it’s the absolute last thing he wants to do. Maybe if he doesn’t say it aloud it won’t be true. And he wants this to last, but they can’t… and Dean has to know, and it’s either he tells him or Jo does.
Sam would rather it be him.
“It’s the National Donor List,” he croaks, and his voice is just a whisper even if he didn’t intend it that way. “You’re… there’s a woman seventeen seconds ahead of you on the list.”
Dean can hear the distinct sound of his dreams breaking. Or maybe it's his heart? It's like looking at the scene from the outside, though, he doesn't really feel it. It probably hasn't sunk in yet, but he's going to die.
After the attack he had this morning, this was pretty much his only chance. He'll probably cry over the life he'll never have and the old man he'll never get to become later on, when he's be alone.
Now, though, Sam is his priority. Sam, who's breaking down on his behalf. Sam, who's his fiancé and a soon to be widow if he doesn't do something. "Look at me, Sam," he demands, his voice firm and resolute.
He doesn’t mean to disobey, but it takes Sam a few minutes to get himself under control. Even at that he can’t keep his breathing steady, because there’s nothing he can do. He can try, has tried, has kept Dean alive this long. Without a donation, Sam is completely helpless. And it isn’t fair; he became a doctor to help people, and of all the people he’s helped, why can’t he help Dean?
Sam opens his eyes and turns to look at Dean, and the level of obedience to this man he’s known for a matter of days would be frightening if he cared.
Dean sighs. "Listen, Sam, I'm okay, really. Before getting here, I had already dealt with the fact that I wasn't going to come back out, so this doesn't actually change anything." He grabs Sam's hand (the one that's wearing his ring) and squeezes it a little.
"However, this? This changes it all." Dean lowers his eyes and stares at the silver band, worrying his lip nervously. "I think-let's forget about this, okay? It was stupid. And irrational. And did I mention stupid?" He chuckles bitterly.
"Seriously, I don't know what the hell was I thinking. You're a doctor and I'm your patient, that's all. You have a savior-complex and I have a hero-complex, so. Let's just ignore this whole day and let's move on, shall we?" His voice breaks a little on the last sentence, but he sincerely hopes Sam hasn't noticed.
Sam stares down at where their hands are joined, at the silver band catching the low light, and no. That isn’t… this isn’t how this happens. Can’t be how it happens. And Dean thinks that Sam just said yes because Dean was getting the heart?
That wasn’t even part of the equation at the time, at least not to him. “No,” he says, low, and swallows. “No, that isn’t-I don’t want to forget today. I didn’t agree to do this because you were going to get better. I mean, yeah, it was part of the moment, but…” Sam trails off, sighing, and gently takes his hand out of Dean’s grasp. “But if you really think it was stupid…”
Dean cringes at how small Sam sounds, and he feels the worst scumbag on earth. He knows it. He knows it all. And still... he can't do this to Sam. Especially not if he cares like he does.
"Of course it was stupid!" he exclaims, ignoring the way the machine beeps in protest. "Look at me, Sam, dammit! What can I give you?! I found the courage to come out and confess because I thought we had a shot… and we don't. I'm going to die, you know that, and there's no way I'll have you go through this. You didn't sign up for it, I did."
His hands are trembling, tension running through his veins, and Dean lifts his frustrated eyes on Sam's face. ”I can't have sex with you, Sam. Hell, I can't even kiss you without risking it! What sort of life could this be?! Answer me." He's panting like he's run a thousand miles.
It’s only then that Sam realizes how selfish he’s being. Dean doesn’t need the stress right now; Sam should just leave him alone and give him his ring back. He should, but he can’t. And maybe he’s the stupid one, because Sam doesn’t know how this happened. This morning he left his apartment looking forward to a normal, boring day, and maybe a better visit than normal to the observation ward.
Tonight, he might walk back through the door a widower. Sam wipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath and raises his hands to hold Dean’s face between his hands.
“I did sign up. I’m not quite sure when it happened, but sometime in the last week or so I decided that I was going to go through this with you. I-“ Sam stops, breathes again, and figures if he doesn’t say it now (even if it is stupid), he isn’t ever going to get it out. “I love you, Dean. And it doesn’t have to be about the sex, or, hell, anything.”
Dean's eyes go wide. Is Sam seriously saying... "Do you mean it?" he asks, his voice back to a whisper. "Do you think-I'm willing to try. If you want to," he groans. "Fuck it, Sam, love you too. Never felt this way, and I know I shouldn't, but."
He offers Sam a small smile. "You bring out my selfish side, I guess. And I want you here, more than anything."
He shrugs, as a faint reddish color covered his cheeks. "If you ever said a word of this to anyone, I'll kill you," he mutters, his words betrayed by the soft light shining through his eyes as he looks at Sam like he's the most beautiful, precious thing in the world. Which, come to think of it, he probably is.
Sam snorts, and how doesn’t know how he manages to find the humor in a situation that is at once doomed and so damn hopeful it hurts. “Yeah, right after you catch me,” he teases, entwining his fingers with Dean’s. It occurs to him how bare Dean’s hand looks, and despite the fact that this probably isn’t going to end well, Sam can’t help grinning like an idiot.
Looks like he’s got a ring to buy.
Nurse Jo closes the door as quietly as she can, hoping the men inside the room won't notice, wrapped up in each other as they are. She smiles at herself as she slowly walks back to her desk, smoothing the corners of the page she's carrying.
It's the third and last fax from New York, the one providing them with all the details, but despite how urgent and important it is, the nurse is quite sure it can wait. Once the doctor will come out of Dean's room and get to her to check on the other patients' conditions, she will inform him of the small helicopter coming their way holding Dean's future (and his own) in a small cryogenic unit.
She will help him up as he sways under the weight of this life-altering news, and afterward she will probably accompany him to the closest jewelery store because yeah, you can't carry anything in an operating room, but Jo is somehow sure that for this sparkling new wedding ring they will make an exception.
Castiel crosses his arms on his chest and arches an eyebrow. "What are you going to say this time, Uriel? They didn't engage in intercourse here, and they still found each other and bonded."
Uriel nods grudgingly, wonders in the privacy of his mind how long these idylls would work anyway. It's just the novelty, is just the connection they share in their blood that calls to them and forces them together.
Yes, that must be it.
Castiel lifts a finger. "One more time, Uriel. Just one more. The apocalypse is approaching, and we've lost enough time already with this."
And Uriel knows Castiel thinks he's won, so he decides to take out the heavy artillery. There can't be no love without Winchesters, and no Winchesters mean no mud-monkeys to deal with.
His plan can't fail.
Next
Previous
Creedmoor Regional Medical Center's monitoring ward is sectioned off from the rest of the hospital, settled in a small building that's only attached by a long, pristine hallway. Most of the patients are either comatose or so unable to function that there's hardly any trouble; most of the nurses say that their jobs are boring and routine, and they'd give anything to work up at the main hospital. Here they hardly feel like they're making a difference. Most of the patients don't make it out anyway, and the almost certain death sentence makes for a bleak atmosphere.
Sam is glad he doesn't work there. His routine visits to the cardiac patients that stayed for constant observation are depressing enough; there are only four or five of them, but it's the worst part of his day. Or it had been, once upon a time.
A few days ago, they'd brought Dean Winchester in. He's a heart patient in need of a transplant, waiting for his name to come up on the National Donor List. Meanwhile, he has to be under constant observation lest his own heart completely give out on him. It'd speed the process along, because emergencies tend to prompt the paperwork to move faster. But Sam didn't realize he even needed the transplant until he looked at his chart; from the way he talks, flirts shamelessly, taunts death... Sam hadn't guessed he was a cardiac patient at all.
The discovery of something so rare in so desolate a place made Sam rethink his visits to the monitoring ward. They weren't so horrible. He'd actually started looking forward to them, which was honestly something he never thought he'd consider.
He feels a little guilty for glossing over the other patients in the ward with only the minimal level of care - usually he was very thorough, and if he didn't maintain his commitment to delivering that the head of the cardiac unit would be on his ass. For the past week or so, the only chart that's been even near as detailed as his usual work was Dean's, and Sam only hopes no one notices.
The nurses greet him as usual when he arrives that day, give him their daily reports and send him on his rounds. The first four patients never change, their condition remains constant; it's unpleasant to see the lack of progress, but they'd tried every treatment the hospital offered and still nothing. So it's this, until something changed for better or worse.
Sam drops their charts off at the nurse's station and heads to Dean's room on the far end of the ward. He knocks, standard procedure, and lets himself in.
Dean's face lights up when he sees Sam walk in the room.
"Hello, gorgeous," he greets, beaming at him.
His skin is so pale it's almost impossible to distinguish where he ends and the pristine sheets began; his green eyes look even bigger surrounded by deep purple circles, but the crinkles on the corners show he 's good, considering.
"You see, Jo, he's the man I've been telling you about," he explains to the small blonde nurse who's taking his blood. "He's the cruel owner of my heart."
Nurse Jo hides a giggle behind a hand, as Dean turns toward Sam and looks at him adoringly. "When will you put me out of my misery and accept to be my lawfully wedded wife, doctor W?" he asked for the umpteenth time.
Sam chuckles and pulls the door closed behind him so the rest of the ward won't be bothered. “I don't know whether to be more disturbed by you calling me cruel or implying that I'd be the girl.” And he's glad for the low light, because there's no way his cheeks aren't heating. Jo fits the vials of Dean's blood onto her tray and leaves the room, mumbling some sort of promise to be back to check on him later; Sam doesn't hear her, too busy browsing the daily report the nurses have assembled for him and notating the information onto the chart that goes back to the cardiac unit. He checks his watch, writes down the time and then the important information from the beeping machine at Dean's bedside.
As soon as Jo leaves, Dean sits straighter in the bed and starts pulling invisible threads from his shirt. “You are cruel,” he retorts, without looking at Sam. “You keep my hanging. I don't even know if you could ever be - interested or if - you know.” Then he snorts.
"And by the way? You would totally be the girl. You'd rock that white dress, honey," he adds, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Sam snorts. "Yeah, okay, if that helps you sleep." He moves around the bed, checking the railings even though the nurses should already be doing that (being thorough). He cuts off the beginnings of Dean's retort (if there is one; Sam's trying to pretend he isn't paying attention to the way his eyes sparkle), "How do you feel today?"
Dean grabs his doctor's wrist, trying not to concentrate on the contrast between Sam's bronzed skin and his, which is so transparent his veins are showing. He chooses to smile softly at Sam, instead, his eyes going softer. "Much better now that you're here," he answers, honestly, dropping his shields all at once.
His fingers aren't long enough to close around Sam's wrist, so his thumb ends up rubbing circles in the center. "Sam, you know I mean it all, don't you? I mean - I'm not joking with you." Dean swallows nervously.
He's not sure why he says it, but they've been tiptoeing around it for days now, and he needs Sam to pick a side of the fence. He doesn't have much longer, so he can't give either Sam or himself the time they'd probably need in a normal situation to know each other and evaluate their actual chances. Dean chuckles bitterly at himself.
Sam is completely taken aback. He stands there for a moment, stops his fidgeting and concentrates on the feel of Dean's thumb rubbing weakly at his wrist; Sam could break the hold if he wanted to, and it's... kind of heartbreaking. He hasn't thought about it a lot, what Dean was like before his weak heart got the better of him, but now he can't stop thinking about what they could have had if he weren't a doctor and Dean wasn't his patient. "I..." he starts, unsure of what to say. He looks down at Dean, so pale and fragile laid out on the crisp sheets, the ghost of his past self put on full display in his eyes, daring to hope. "Dean..."
The door bangs open, and Sam jumps back, pulls his wrist out of Dean's grip and tries to look like he wasn't just contemplating what he was just contemplating. Jo's out of breath, clutching a piece of paper so tight it's crinkled in her hands.
"Doctor..." she pauses a moment, crosses the room and pushes the paper into his hands. "It's straight from New York Regional."
It takes Sam a moment to skim the contents of the fax, and then he draws a sharp breath. "They've... they've found a donor. They're waiting for the results from the National Donor List for this area - Dean, do you know what this means?"
Dean almost whines when Sam pulls back from his touch, but then Jo is storming inside and his brain goes in overdrive.
He freezes, and all he can process is New York and donor.
"Dean, do you know what this means?"
And just like that, his brain gets back on track.
Hell, yeah he thinks I know what this means.
He abruptly stands up on wobbly legs and slowly covers the short distance between his bed and the chair where his jacket is resting, batting away Jo and Sam's hands. He has to do this now, before the buzz disappears and he discovers he's too much of a coward to actually get through with this. True, Sam still hasn't given him a proper answer, but Dean's felt his pulse flutter under his fingertips and thinks fuck it.
He scrambles in both pockets until he squeaks triumphantly and turns towards the doctor again. Without another word he walks up to the bed and falls on his knees in front of Sam, before opening his hand and Sam can see a silver ring on Dean's open, sweaty, slightly trembling palm.
"I meant it," he states, his voice cracking a little. "Every word." Then his eyes shift away from Sam's face, too afraid of what he could read there.
There have been few moments in Sam's life that have rendered him completely speechless. Most of them were too small to remember, or else so horrible he didn't want to, but this... This is something altogether different.
Jo is standing right there (or maybe she's left; Sam's whole world has narrowed down to Dean's voice and the twinkle of the ring in the fluorescent lights) and this is grounds for canning. But after Dean gets his transplant, when he's well again, he won't be Sam's patient anymore.
"Dean," he says, voice shaking. "Dean, get up." He helps him back into the hospital bed, tries not to make his heart work too hard, and can't stand the look of resignation written all over Dean's face. "Hey," he says, and turns to look around the room; Jo is gone, and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief.
"Hey," he repeats, closes his fingers lightly around Dean's fragile wrist. He barely knows the man, only met him a few days ago, but it feels like he's known him a lot longer. And if Dean can spice up even his dreaded visits to this ward...
"I..." What does someone say to something like that? Sam never thought he'd be on the receiving end of anything remotely resembling a proposal; now he's stuck with nothing stored up to say. He settles for rubbing the blue vein on the underside of Dean's wrist, feels his pulse weakly, and tries to send a memo up that line for Dean's heart to just hang on a few more days. "... yeah, I. I think I'd like that."
Dean stares at where their skin touch. Then, he pinches himself, whimpers in pain and stares some more. Sam is still touching him and there's still that shy, incredibly beautiful smile on his face that Dean had never seen before, but now wants to keep staring at for the rest of his (suddenly long) life.
Seeing him grin like that makes Dean finally realize how old the young doctor really is. He blinks, uncertain, before he grabs Sam's arm and pulls the doctor towards him with all the strength he has left: Sam doesn't expect him to do anything like that, so he stumbles and falls on him, just as Dean hoped.
As soon as he's close enough, Dean closes the distance between them and covers Sam's lips with his own.
Sam is thrown off balance and doesn’t even have time to flail before he’s toppling over and Dean is kissing him. There’s a moment when he forgets why they shouldn’t do this, that Jo probably left the door open and his boss could be making rounds, that Dean’s heart is too weak to handle the strain.
And it’s perfect.
He’s had his fair share of kisses, but this completely transcends those. This is beyond anything, and it leaves him feeling light-headed; even though Dean is weak (and they should stop, god, they should before something bad happens) he gives Sam everything he has and Sam struggles to keep up and not get completely swept away.
Finally, Sam pulls away. He’s out of breath and knows that Dean has to be worse. He looks over at the machine monitoring his pulse and it’s not bad, isn’t speeding like Sam expected, so he leans down and kisses Dean again.
Dean welcomes Sam's weight against him and licks enthusiastically at Sam's lips to gain access to the wet warmth of his mouth; when Sam finally opens up, his taste explodes on Dean's tongue and it's intoxicating.
Dean is instantly addicted to it, and his fists clench and unclench spasmodically on the covers until, with a leap of courage, he pushes his fingertips under Sam's cotton shirt.
The contact with Sam's skin is electrifying.
Sam jumps at the contact, Dean’s cold fingers pressed against his belly, and he whines into Dean’s mouth. His stomach flutters, explosions of butterflies and Dean’s touch sends shivers running up and down his spine. Sam grips the rail on the hospital bed with one hand and cups Dean’s face with the other. Stubble grazes his fingertips as he tilts Dean’s face toward him, angles them so it’s more comfortable.
Dean’s fingers rove upwards, tracing a freezing path up the center of Sam’s chest and causing his breath to catch.
Dean can't help the hungry noise he makes as he pets one of Sam's nipples until it's hard and begging for attention. He can feel Sam's heart thumping fast under his palm and it would make him smile if he wasn't too concentrated on the way Sam swirls his tongue like he's trying to eat him.
Dean's cock swells inside his hospital pants, leaking profusely and almost soaking through. All he wants is Sam's hand, right there. With the trembling fingers of his free hand, he pulls at Sam's wrist towards his groin, with a low growl in the back of his throat.
Sam lets himself be led, drinking in the sounds Dean makes. And no, they can’t do this. Not here, but he wants, and Dean wants, and no one in the rooms around them are conscious enough to notice and Jo’s down the hall.
He can see all the ways this could go badly, but the encouraging noises Dean makes as Sam rucks up the uniform hospital shirt are enough to banish them completely from his thought-process.
The rail is in the way, but he’s worked enough hospital beds that all he has to do is fumble for the button on the underneath side and it collapses, taking his weight with it. He has to toss his hand out to stop from falling entirely on Dean, and at Dean’s petulant whine he returns it to its earlier position, pressing under the elastic of his hospital pants.
Sam's hands are on him and it's like the world has stopped turning, and time's stopped ticking away. It's like nothing else matters but them, there, together. It's like he can't breathe anything but Sam...
...wait a second. Dean can't breath at all. He breaks the kiss, gasping, as his face goes paler and his eyes snap open.
No, goddammit, not now! Fuck fuck fuck Dean thinks as the machine he's attached to starts beeping like crazy, which only serves to increase Dean's terror. He means to ask for help, but he can't. His lungs burn, his chest aches and Dean just wants the pain to stop.
It takes a minute for the sound to filter through, but once it does Sam pushes away and takes so many steps back he distantly feels himself hit the window. Dean is gasping, trying to breathe at all and the sight is enough to take Sam’s breath as well, and it makes him take action.
Quickly, he crosses back over to the hospital bed and calls as loudly as he can for a nurse. He talks, voice low, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he has to get Dean to calm down some way. To take slow breaths and to get his heart rate to slow.
Jo comes running with a new IV and they attach it to the line that’s already going into Dean’s arm.
Fuck, Sam should have been smarter than this.
He feels himself starting to panic, and that’s all Dean needs at this point; a doctor who doesn’t know what to do. Or is incapable of doing it.
He stops himself, takes a deep breath and in a matter of seconds everything is completely clear. Dean is a patient, not… not Dean, not right now. And Dean needs him to be the best he can be at what he does.
So he is.
Dean’s finally back to sinus rhythm a half an hour later; he’s resting, and the room that was once such a flurry of activity is quiet. Sam knows he should get back to his rounds or his other patients are going to be neglected, but he thinks that with how close Dean came to having a heart attack, he can beg off for observation.
He’s lost his coat somewhere; one of the nurses probably hauled it out without meaning to, so he sits on the edge of Dean’s bed in his scrubs. It’s cold, always cold in this ward and he shivers, but it has nothing to do with the cold.
Dean’s face is completely lax, peaceful, and the lights have been turned down so the purple circles around his eyes are less noticeable. If he’d had a heart attack, with his heart in the state it was in, he would have… no, Sam can’t think about it. What Sam can think about is that it would have been his fault. If there’s any more long-term damage, if they have to wait for the heart any longer than what they already have… if Dean dies, it’ll be Sam’s fault.
Fuck, he can’t let himself lose control like that again.
Even as he watches, Dean stirs, starting to wake up; Sam wants to slip out before he becomes completely conscious, but he knows, even thinking about it, that he’ll be unable to.
At least, until Jo comes in, quiet as a mouse (it’s got to be somewhere in the nurse’s training course about being absolutely quiet), holding out another sheet of paper. Her face is pale, either tired or scared or this is some very bad news.
She doesn’t linger after she gives him the fax, but retreats down the hall to the silent nurse’s station. Sam skims the words and he feels his heart stutter. Thick bands constrict his lungs and he can’t breath, has to take short, shallow breaths because this is too much to handle all at once.
No.
Dean's eyelids flutter as he slowly opens his eyes. "Water," he croaks, feeling his throat as rough as if he had swallowed sandpaper, or- He blushes furiously as the image of Sam on all fours feeding him his cock flashes in front of his eyes, and he has to use all of his willpower to push the thought to the back of his head.
He doesn't remember much of what has happened, but somehow he knows it must not have been very good for his health. Better not to worsen it, because who knows how much longer will he have to hold as they wait for his heart to get there?
Just then he hears harsh breathing coming from his side, so he turns his head towards the noise, the effort evident in the way he scrunches his nose. "Hey, Doc," he calls in a whisper, because he still hasn't been able to drink and he really doesn't like to sound as if-whatever.
Sam is sitting on the corner of his bed and looks like he's-trembling? "Sam?" he inquires, suddenly worried. "What's wrong? Talk to me." He seriously doesn't care about himself, he just wants to see Sam's smile again.
Sam doesn’t want to look up, because he knows he can’t hide the fact that he’s trying not to cry. But Dean’s voice pulls at him, incites him to answer and Sam knows he’s irrevocably lost. He does look up. Dean’s eyes are a startling, glass-like emerald against his pale skin, against the circles around his eyes. Sam doesn’t want to worry him more than necessary, but this… he has to say something.
“Dean…” he starts, looking back down at the fax he’s got crumpled in his hand. “There’s, uh. There’s a problem.” He can’t stop the way his voice shakes when he says it, not sure he wants to because this is huge and it’s not fair. As a doctor, he knows it is, knows the system doesn’t care that the patients are people, but. But this is Dean, and there should be some kind of…
Dean blinks, so very tired by all the painkillers and the low blood pressure, but he fights to stay awake. Somehow, Sam is in pain and he owes it to him to be by his side. This man has saved his fucking life, after all. "Sammy?" he croaks, wincing a little at how hoarse his voice comes out ."Please? I'm freaking out, here."
He leans towards Sam and pushes his forehead against his shoulder, trying to comfort him with the warmth of his body. He's so cold.
Sam can’t look away from the crumpled paper, so he settles for closing his eyes instead. He clears his throat, trying to find some way to push the words out even though it’s the absolute last thing he wants to do. Maybe if he doesn’t say it aloud it won’t be true. And he wants this to last, but they can’t… and Dean has to know, and it’s either he tells him or Jo does.
Sam would rather it be him.
“It’s the National Donor List,” he croaks, and his voice is just a whisper even if he didn’t intend it that way. “You’re… there’s a woman seventeen seconds ahead of you on the list.”
Dean can hear the distinct sound of his dreams breaking. Or maybe it's his heart? It's like looking at the scene from the outside, though, he doesn't really feel it. It probably hasn't sunk in yet, but he's going to die.
After the attack he had this morning, this was pretty much his only chance. He'll probably cry over the life he'll never have and the old man he'll never get to become later on, when he's be alone.
Now, though, Sam is his priority. Sam, who's breaking down on his behalf. Sam, who's his fiancé and a soon to be widow if he doesn't do something. "Look at me, Sam," he demands, his voice firm and resolute.
He doesn’t mean to disobey, but it takes Sam a few minutes to get himself under control. Even at that he can’t keep his breathing steady, because there’s nothing he can do. He can try, has tried, has kept Dean alive this long. Without a donation, Sam is completely helpless. And it isn’t fair; he became a doctor to help people, and of all the people he’s helped, why can’t he help Dean?
Sam opens his eyes and turns to look at Dean, and the level of obedience to this man he’s known for a matter of days would be frightening if he cared.
Dean sighs. "Listen, Sam, I'm okay, really. Before getting here, I had already dealt with the fact that I wasn't going to come back out, so this doesn't actually change anything." He grabs Sam's hand (the one that's wearing his ring) and squeezes it a little.
"However, this? This changes it all." Dean lowers his eyes and stares at the silver band, worrying his lip nervously. "I think-let's forget about this, okay? It was stupid. And irrational. And did I mention stupid?" He chuckles bitterly.
"Seriously, I don't know what the hell was I thinking. You're a doctor and I'm your patient, that's all. You have a savior-complex and I have a hero-complex, so. Let's just ignore this whole day and let's move on, shall we?" His voice breaks a little on the last sentence, but he sincerely hopes Sam hasn't noticed.
Sam stares down at where their hands are joined, at the silver band catching the low light, and no. That isn’t… this isn’t how this happens. Can’t be how it happens. And Dean thinks that Sam just said yes because Dean was getting the heart?
That wasn’t even part of the equation at the time, at least not to him. “No,” he says, low, and swallows. “No, that isn’t-I don’t want to forget today. I didn’t agree to do this because you were going to get better. I mean, yeah, it was part of the moment, but…” Sam trails off, sighing, and gently takes his hand out of Dean’s grasp. “But if you really think it was stupid…”
Dean cringes at how small Sam sounds, and he feels the worst scumbag on earth. He knows it. He knows it all. And still... he can't do this to Sam. Especially not if he cares like he does.
"Of course it was stupid!" he exclaims, ignoring the way the machine beeps in protest. "Look at me, Sam, dammit! What can I give you?! I found the courage to come out and confess because I thought we had a shot… and we don't. I'm going to die, you know that, and there's no way I'll have you go through this. You didn't sign up for it, I did."
His hands are trembling, tension running through his veins, and Dean lifts his frustrated eyes on Sam's face. ”I can't have sex with you, Sam. Hell, I can't even kiss you without risking it! What sort of life could this be?! Answer me." He's panting like he's run a thousand miles.
It’s only then that Sam realizes how selfish he’s being. Dean doesn’t need the stress right now; Sam should just leave him alone and give him his ring back. He should, but he can’t. And maybe he’s the stupid one, because Sam doesn’t know how this happened. This morning he left his apartment looking forward to a normal, boring day, and maybe a better visit than normal to the observation ward.
Tonight, he might walk back through the door a widower. Sam wipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath and raises his hands to hold Dean’s face between his hands.
“I did sign up. I’m not quite sure when it happened, but sometime in the last week or so I decided that I was going to go through this with you. I-“ Sam stops, breathes again, and figures if he doesn’t say it now (even if it is stupid), he isn’t ever going to get it out. “I love you, Dean. And it doesn’t have to be about the sex, or, hell, anything.”
Dean's eyes go wide. Is Sam seriously saying... "Do you mean it?" he asks, his voice back to a whisper. "Do you think-I'm willing to try. If you want to," he groans. "Fuck it, Sam, love you too. Never felt this way, and I know I shouldn't, but."
He offers Sam a small smile. "You bring out my selfish side, I guess. And I want you here, more than anything."
He shrugs, as a faint reddish color covered his cheeks. "If you ever said a word of this to anyone, I'll kill you," he mutters, his words betrayed by the soft light shining through his eyes as he looks at Sam like he's the most beautiful, precious thing in the world. Which, come to think of it, he probably is.
Sam snorts, and how doesn’t know how he manages to find the humor in a situation that is at once doomed and so damn hopeful it hurts. “Yeah, right after you catch me,” he teases, entwining his fingers with Dean’s. It occurs to him how bare Dean’s hand looks, and despite the fact that this probably isn’t going to end well, Sam can’t help grinning like an idiot.
Looks like he’s got a ring to buy.
Nurse Jo closes the door as quietly as she can, hoping the men inside the room won't notice, wrapped up in each other as they are. She smiles at herself as she slowly walks back to her desk, smoothing the corners of the page she's carrying.
It's the third and last fax from New York, the one providing them with all the details, but despite how urgent and important it is, the nurse is quite sure it can wait. Once the doctor will come out of Dean's room and get to her to check on the other patients' conditions, she will inform him of the small helicopter coming their way holding Dean's future (and his own) in a small cryogenic unit.
She will help him up as he sways under the weight of this life-altering news, and afterward she will probably accompany him to the closest jewelery store because yeah, you can't carry anything in an operating room, but Jo is somehow sure that for this sparkling new wedding ring they will make an exception.
Castiel crosses his arms on his chest and arches an eyebrow. "What are you going to say this time, Uriel? They didn't engage in intercourse here, and they still found each other and bonded."
Uriel nods grudgingly, wonders in the privacy of his mind how long these idylls would work anyway. It's just the novelty, is just the connection they share in their blood that calls to them and forces them together.
Yes, that must be it.
Castiel lifts a finger. "One more time, Uriel. Just one more. The apocalypse is approaching, and we've lost enough time already with this."
And Uriel knows Castiel thinks he's won, so he decides to take out the heavy artillery. There can't be no love without Winchesters, and no Winchesters mean no mud-monkeys to deal with.
His plan can't fail.
Next