Hands and Feet epilogue
I present the conclusion! Yes, a bit sad :(. But alas, it must come to an end. Happy reading! P.S. Livejournal has really been raining on my parade with all this crashing lol
-Punkin
Epilogue:
It's been three days and I still can't get used to the sight of my immobile, pitiful looking body lying on that stupid hospital bed. I don't think Dean has been able to either. He keeps doing this thing where he stares practical holes into my face (well, my real face that is. Why is it these kinds of things are just all in a day for us? I think it's time to step back and do some serious evaluating, because honestly, I'm completely redefining out of body experience here) like if only he looks hard enough, I'll wake the hell up already.
There's really nothing Dean or Bobby can do though, at this point. Everything is riding on me and my ability (or inability, as it seems) to return to the land of the living, which is one hundred times harder than it sounds. But of course it is, because that's always the way it goes. And while I most certainly haven't been standing around with my thumb up my ass, my relentless attempts to return to my physical self (so weird) have all ended with me in some pretty embarrassing positions and feeling as equally as stupid.
Dean keeps asking the doctor when I'll wake up, hasn't once used the word if, and why it's taking so long. In fact, if he can't ask every damn hour (and trust me, I've nothing to do but keep track), than he promptly seeks out the poor woman so she can feed him the same reassurances she's been spouting the past few days. "His body suffered major trauma, Dean. This is just his way of recovering. He'll wake up soon, when he's ready; you've just got to be patient." Every so often, she throws in some serious medically inclined phrases, if only to appease the worry radiating off my brother.
Apparently, our friendly neighborhood hunter pals nicked my liver when they decided their knife would enjoy an impromptu tour of my insides. It caused a massive internal hemorrhage, resulting in dangerous levels of blood loss. Evidently, if Dean hadn't found me and called for help when he did, I wouldn't have made it. Nearly didn't, in fact. Those black outs I mentioned? Chunks of time I was losing? Well, that would be me crashing. Yep, full on heart stopping. Once, in the ambulance, and again on the operating table. I guess Dean may be right when he claims I really don't do anything half assed.
Speaking of Dean, when he'd been informed of all this, his already sickly color had worsened considerably. Bobby had laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, in which my brother had readily leaned back into, looking as if he were approaching the point of passing out. He hadn't been comforted in the least either, even when he'd been assured that my odds were rather good, and, assuming I didn't acquire an infection, I'd probably make a full recovery.
This notion seems a bit frustrating when it's now days later and I can't quite seem to take back the reins. I hate this. I hate watching Dean not eat, not sleep (unless downright forced by Bobby), and generally forgo all personal hygiene and comfort in favor of remaining stead fast by my bed side. It's enlightening, witnessing this kind of excessive devotion.
I find it ironic how I've been trying to get him to talk ever since Dad…well, you know, and in each and every one of those attempts I'd well and truly crashed and burned, yet now, while I'm virtually dead to the world, he's chatting my ears off. I get lost in his voice at times, unable to do anything except listen as he tells my comatose body things I've never known before. He talks about Mom, about when I was baby and how happy she'd been, how happy we'd all been. He talks about Dad too, much to my astonishment, and the pain in his voice is almost palpable. But I have a sneaking suspicion that Dean needs to voice all of these thoughts out loud as much as I need to hear them. It's like he thinks if he stops talking, I'll just drift away.
I'm almost scared that's true.
So…I listen. And I watch. And I try with all my might not to let go.
Bobby's left the room for a bit, mumbling and grumbling to himself after another botched mission of 'you're going to get some shut eye or I'm going to make you get some shut eye, boy'. It was amusing at first. I'd just assumed Dean would come to his senses, of course. But here it's day three, and it's not so funny anymore. I've tried myself to communicate with my brother. I tell him, over and over again, that I'll be all right, that I am coming back to him, that I'm not going to give up, that I know what happened wasn't his fault and that he needs to stop wearing himself down because soon, there won't be anything left for me to return to.
A fat lot of good my words do, since, surprise surprise, he can't hear me! I'm considering simply throwing myself onto my latent body. Perhaps I'd, I don't know, merge with it? God, this is ridiculous.
The sound of Dean abruptly clearing his throat penetrates my wild contemplations. When I look up, my eyes zero in on the sight of him awkwardly grasping my hand in his. My heart begins to pound, whatever he's about to say, it has to be important. After all, my brother doesn't just go crazy with the blatant, deliberate gestures of affection any given day for any given reason, and hand holding most definitely falls under this paradigm.
He's gazing distantly at the bed sheets, as if searching for the appropriate words. "You know I'm terrible at this kind of shit, Sammy."
I snort. That's the understatement of the god damn century.
Dean chuckles softly, probably thinking the same thing. "But, ah…Doc seems to think that you can hear every word I've been saying. Tells me that, uh, maybe…maybe you're just waiting to hear the right thing, you know?"
I draw nearer to his side, close enough to observe his fingers tighten around mine, close enough to perceive the confliction in his gaze. I know the feeling all too well. The constant battle between needing to say what you feel and not being able to properly articulate it. It's the same game I've been playing my entire life, and it's nice to realize I'm not alone.
"Dean…it's ok." I whisper. He doesn't have to put himself through this. I don't want for him to put himself through this.
Shocker he doesn't listen (no, really). Not like he would've heeded my words even if he could hear me. "You've been right about a lot of things, Sammy. I mean, you've sat here and listened to me ramble on about just how wrong I've been. How messed up I've been since Dad…" Dean clears his throat once more, chewing for a moment on his bottom lip. "God, I can't believe you're making me do this whole chick flick thing." He draws in a deep breath, his thumb circling on the back of my hand, "I just…I just need you to know…"
I'm riveted. A freaking Wendigo could tear down the hospital hallways and I still wouldn't be able to look away. "What, Dean?" I encourage gently.
My brother at last brings his eyes up from their fixed spot on the bed and looks instead at my lax, wan face. The immense amount of intensity emanating from him, the sheer sincerity of it all, completely staggers me. A lump forms inside my throat. But even before he finishes his sentence, I can vaguely feel a heated sensation pulling deep within me, tugging me forward toward even greater warmth.
"We've…we've lost Mom. We've lost Dad." Dean sniffs, eyes a bit watery, "I can't lose you too! I just…I want you to know how much I need you, Sam. I-," Dean shakes his head, "I can't do this without you, man…"
I swallow, looking down and away sorrowfully, "Yes you can." I mumble. Because it's true. Dean and Dad…they could've done without me. They would've been better that way.
"…and I don't want to." My head immediately snaps up then, nearly giving me whip lash. It's the same words that convinced me to leave Stanford that fateful night (was that only a year ago?), the same words that brought us back together and set us on this god forsaken journey. The same words that pierce me the deepest. Because Dean wants me. He wants me to be with him, he wants us to be brothers. Our entire lives, that's been the most important thing to me.
I think I must stop breathing all together when he leans closer to my physical ear, face hardening and voice darkening into Dad's 'drill sergeant' tone. "I god damn won't do this without you, you hear me? I won't. So you can either get your ass in gear, Sammy, and wake the hell up, or you can kiss us both good bye."
All at once, that distant warmth becomes overwhelmingly blistering, its intensity reaching all the way down to the tips of my toes. The room begins to dizzyingly spin, around and around, my skin fast becoming numb and tingly. I think I might be screaming, I've just got to be screaming, it hurts so bad! The acute ringing in my ears, however, prevents all else from being distinguished.
It's as if I'm being split in two. Right down the middle, pulled ruthlessly, brutally apart…
As rapidly as the agony starts, though, it ends just as quickly, and I'm suddenly being launched head first into a thick, viscous abyss.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't feel.
Until I'm gasping for air, on my back and springing into a sitting position, in the same hospital bed I've been glaring at for three days now. "Dean…" his name slides easily from between my lips, out before I've even attained a proper breath, out before my surroundings have even ceased to spin.
"Sam! Hey, whoa, Sammy, breathe! Hey, it's ok, it's ok Sammy. Shh, come here…" I dimly make out the desperate call for a doctor, and honestly? I could care less. The most important thing right now is my brother, who is here, who is now, and has been such all along, for all this time.
He's talking still, trying to calm me, trying to get me to breathe as he breathes. My face buries itself deep into his shoulder, my fingers clutching at his shirt. I don't mind if I can't breathe, I really don't. I just want to take this all in. And for a single moment, even as every damn thing is confusing, even as nothing makes sense, it's vividly clear at the same time. I smile against the fabric of his leather jacket.
"I know, Dean," I gasp out amidst his frantic ramblings, yet I know he hears me. God, he finally hears me…. "I know."
The End
Awwww :), boys you kill me! So Sam was able to return to his body when he hears how much he's needed. Happy ending! Yay! Yes, shamelessly unoriginal with the 'three days' thing, but why not? I've had such a wonderful time writing this story, and the reviews were even MORE wonderful lol Thank you, readers! I'll be posting again soon, though. I know Dean may have been out of character (I write the boys as chick flickier than in actuality) but I like Dean a little less manly sometimes lol. Sam's POV was a fun experiment too! Tough, but fun all the same. Thanks once again! I hope the ending was gratifying, I left it open enough for a possible sequel though *wink*
-Punkin
Epilogue:
It's been three days and I still can't get used to the sight of my immobile, pitiful looking body lying on that stupid hospital bed. I don't think Dean has been able to either. He keeps doing this thing where he stares practical holes into my face (well, my real face that is. Why is it these kinds of things are just all in a day for us? I think it's time to step back and do some serious evaluating, because honestly, I'm completely redefining out of body experience here) like if only he looks hard enough, I'll wake the hell up already.
There's really nothing Dean or Bobby can do though, at this point. Everything is riding on me and my ability (or inability, as it seems) to return to the land of the living, which is one hundred times harder than it sounds. But of course it is, because that's always the way it goes. And while I most certainly haven't been standing around with my thumb up my ass, my relentless attempts to return to my physical self (so weird) have all ended with me in some pretty embarrassing positions and feeling as equally as stupid.
Dean keeps asking the doctor when I'll wake up, hasn't once used the word if, and why it's taking so long. In fact, if he can't ask every damn hour (and trust me, I've nothing to do but keep track), than he promptly seeks out the poor woman so she can feed him the same reassurances she's been spouting the past few days. "His body suffered major trauma, Dean. This is just his way of recovering. He'll wake up soon, when he's ready; you've just got to be patient." Every so often, she throws in some serious medically inclined phrases, if only to appease the worry radiating off my brother.
Apparently, our friendly neighborhood hunter pals nicked my liver when they decided their knife would enjoy an impromptu tour of my insides. It caused a massive internal hemorrhage, resulting in dangerous levels of blood loss. Evidently, if Dean hadn't found me and called for help when he did, I wouldn't have made it. Nearly didn't, in fact. Those black outs I mentioned? Chunks of time I was losing? Well, that would be me crashing. Yep, full on heart stopping. Once, in the ambulance, and again on the operating table. I guess Dean may be right when he claims I really don't do anything half assed.
Speaking of Dean, when he'd been informed of all this, his already sickly color had worsened considerably. Bobby had laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, in which my brother had readily leaned back into, looking as if he were approaching the point of passing out. He hadn't been comforted in the least either, even when he'd been assured that my odds were rather good, and, assuming I didn't acquire an infection, I'd probably make a full recovery.
This notion seems a bit frustrating when it's now days later and I can't quite seem to take back the reins. I hate this. I hate watching Dean not eat, not sleep (unless downright forced by Bobby), and generally forgo all personal hygiene and comfort in favor of remaining stead fast by my bed side. It's enlightening, witnessing this kind of excessive devotion.
I find it ironic how I've been trying to get him to talk ever since Dad…well, you know, and in each and every one of those attempts I'd well and truly crashed and burned, yet now, while I'm virtually dead to the world, he's chatting my ears off. I get lost in his voice at times, unable to do anything except listen as he tells my comatose body things I've never known before. He talks about Mom, about when I was baby and how happy she'd been, how happy we'd all been. He talks about Dad too, much to my astonishment, and the pain in his voice is almost palpable. But I have a sneaking suspicion that Dean needs to voice all of these thoughts out loud as much as I need to hear them. It's like he thinks if he stops talking, I'll just drift away.
I'm almost scared that's true.
So…I listen. And I watch. And I try with all my might not to let go.
Bobby's left the room for a bit, mumbling and grumbling to himself after another botched mission of 'you're going to get some shut eye or I'm going to make you get some shut eye, boy'. It was amusing at first. I'd just assumed Dean would come to his senses, of course. But here it's day three, and it's not so funny anymore. I've tried myself to communicate with my brother. I tell him, over and over again, that I'll be all right, that I am coming back to him, that I'm not going to give up, that I know what happened wasn't his fault and that he needs to stop wearing himself down because soon, there won't be anything left for me to return to.
A fat lot of good my words do, since, surprise surprise, he can't hear me! I'm considering simply throwing myself onto my latent body. Perhaps I'd, I don't know, merge with it? God, this is ridiculous.
The sound of Dean abruptly clearing his throat penetrates my wild contemplations. When I look up, my eyes zero in on the sight of him awkwardly grasping my hand in his. My heart begins to pound, whatever he's about to say, it has to be important. After all, my brother doesn't just go crazy with the blatant, deliberate gestures of affection any given day for any given reason, and hand holding most definitely falls under this paradigm.
He's gazing distantly at the bed sheets, as if searching for the appropriate words. "You know I'm terrible at this kind of shit, Sammy."
I snort. That's the understatement of the god damn century.
Dean chuckles softly, probably thinking the same thing. "But, ah…Doc seems to think that you can hear every word I've been saying. Tells me that, uh, maybe…maybe you're just waiting to hear the right thing, you know?"
I draw nearer to his side, close enough to observe his fingers tighten around mine, close enough to perceive the confliction in his gaze. I know the feeling all too well. The constant battle between needing to say what you feel and not being able to properly articulate it. It's the same game I've been playing my entire life, and it's nice to realize I'm not alone.
"Dean…it's ok." I whisper. He doesn't have to put himself through this. I don't want for him to put himself through this.
Shocker he doesn't listen (no, really). Not like he would've heeded my words even if he could hear me. "You've been right about a lot of things, Sammy. I mean, you've sat here and listened to me ramble on about just how wrong I've been. How messed up I've been since Dad…" Dean clears his throat once more, chewing for a moment on his bottom lip. "God, I can't believe you're making me do this whole chick flick thing." He draws in a deep breath, his thumb circling on the back of my hand, "I just…I just need you to know…"
I'm riveted. A freaking Wendigo could tear down the hospital hallways and I still wouldn't be able to look away. "What, Dean?" I encourage gently.
My brother at last brings his eyes up from their fixed spot on the bed and looks instead at my lax, wan face. The immense amount of intensity emanating from him, the sheer sincerity of it all, completely staggers me. A lump forms inside my throat. But even before he finishes his sentence, I can vaguely feel a heated sensation pulling deep within me, tugging me forward toward even greater warmth.
"We've…we've lost Mom. We've lost Dad." Dean sniffs, eyes a bit watery, "I can't lose you too! I just…I want you to know how much I need you, Sam. I-," Dean shakes his head, "I can't do this without you, man…"
I swallow, looking down and away sorrowfully, "Yes you can." I mumble. Because it's true. Dean and Dad…they could've done without me. They would've been better that way.
"…and I don't want to." My head immediately snaps up then, nearly giving me whip lash. It's the same words that convinced me to leave Stanford that fateful night (was that only a year ago?), the same words that brought us back together and set us on this god forsaken journey. The same words that pierce me the deepest. Because Dean wants me. He wants me to be with him, he wants us to be brothers. Our entire lives, that's been the most important thing to me.
I think I must stop breathing all together when he leans closer to my physical ear, face hardening and voice darkening into Dad's 'drill sergeant' tone. "I god damn won't do this without you, you hear me? I won't. So you can either get your ass in gear, Sammy, and wake the hell up, or you can kiss us both good bye."
All at once, that distant warmth becomes overwhelmingly blistering, its intensity reaching all the way down to the tips of my toes. The room begins to dizzyingly spin, around and around, my skin fast becoming numb and tingly. I think I might be screaming, I've just got to be screaming, it hurts so bad! The acute ringing in my ears, however, prevents all else from being distinguished.
It's as if I'm being split in two. Right down the middle, pulled ruthlessly, brutally apart…
As rapidly as the agony starts, though, it ends just as quickly, and I'm suddenly being launched head first into a thick, viscous abyss.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't feel.
Until I'm gasping for air, on my back and springing into a sitting position, in the same hospital bed I've been glaring at for three days now. "Dean…" his name slides easily from between my lips, out before I've even attained a proper breath, out before my surroundings have even ceased to spin.
"Sam! Hey, whoa, Sammy, breathe! Hey, it's ok, it's ok Sammy. Shh, come here…" I dimly make out the desperate call for a doctor, and honestly? I could care less. The most important thing right now is my brother, who is here, who is now, and has been such all along, for all this time.
He's talking still, trying to calm me, trying to get me to breathe as he breathes. My face buries itself deep into his shoulder, my fingers clutching at his shirt. I don't mind if I can't breathe, I really don't. I just want to take this all in. And for a single moment, even as every damn thing is confusing, even as nothing makes sense, it's vividly clear at the same time. I smile against the fabric of his leather jacket.
"I know, Dean," I gasp out amidst his frantic ramblings, yet I know he hears me. God, he finally hears me…. "I know."
The End
Awwww :), boys you kill me! So Sam was able to return to his body when he hears how much he's needed. Happy ending! Yay! Yes, shamelessly unoriginal with the 'three days' thing, but why not? I've had such a wonderful time writing this story, and the reviews were even MORE wonderful lol Thank you, readers! I'll be posting again soon, though. I know Dean may have been out of character (I write the boys as chick flickier than in actuality) but I like Dean a little less manly sometimes lol. Sam's POV was a fun experiment too! Tough, but fun all the same. Thanks once again! I hope the ending was gratifying, I left it open enough for a possible sequel though *wink*