Tear Me Down: Part 4
Phew, school is D-U-N, DONE! Graduation, here I come! Except I am so going to procrastinate on the speech lol. Anywho, I had time to knock out a chapter and knew I was unfairly making you all wait two weeks. Thanks so much for all the kind reviews, the followers and the favorites! You guys inspire me! That being said, I am not a doctor nor am I educated in medicine, so just um…go with it? Ha ha, everything in the chapter only comes from what I learned in dual credit Bio II last year.
Sam once told me that the best things in life could seem like the worst. It was one of those rare moments where he was the one trying to look on the bright side, trying to keep our heads above water, because if one of us was drowning, the other couldn’t very well be too.
That’s how it works.
We take turns swimming so the other can rest, and we don’t ever let go.
Except I did let go.
I let him go and I let myself sink to the muddy pits of the earth and just watched as he splashed frantically around in search of me. I just sat there, amidst the sand and seaweed, and watched.
I didn’t budge.
Was I waiting for him to sink too? Was I hoping he’d be able to swim on his own?
No…no.
I know none of those things are true. I breathe in harshly and shudder all the way to my bones.
I’d been drowning myself…and I realized, I knew, that I would be drowning him too.
The doctor clears his throat, as if opting for a polite way to get my attention, and my eyes snap open to peer fearfully at his face. A part of me wants to lock myself in the Impala and smash my head against the steering wheel until my brain stops working. The other part of me is impatient for my brother’s condition, desperate for his name to be on someone else’s lips to prove that he exists at all.
“Your brother-” he begins, voice clipped and professional.
“Sam.” I cut in harshly.
The short man pauses, one gray eyebrow rising. The desk separating us seems too short a distance all of sudden; I chalk it up to the increasing smallness of the room itself. He licks his thin lips, “Yes, Sam, your brother.” I remain stoically silent, the pit of my stomach gnawing at the rest of my insides.
Can I cover my ears in public and still be respected?
Can I explain the difference between what should be and what is and stand back while he puts things in order because surely someone in the universe can fix this?
“As far as the bullet wound is concerned, he is an extremely lucky young man. Chest trauma has a lot of variability, so know that things could have been far worse.”
My fingers dig into my jeans, pinching the skin over my knees. I’m holding my breath, a million questions racing in front of my eyes and I can barely suppress the urge to grip the doctor’s shoulders and shake him until he speaks faster. “Two of Sam’s ribs were broken upon impact and caused a Type 3 pulmonary laceration to his left lung. This resulted in an abnormal amount of air to leak into the chest cavity.”
My mouth becomes increasingly dry and my tongue feels like sandpaper. I know there is a but coming, there always is. He’s building towards a crescendo. He’s basically holding my hand, telling me to close my eyes and wait for the good part.
I want to puke.
“The bullet itself caused severe bleeding, but since it was a straight through his risk was greatly decreased. The CT scan revealed the punctured lung and we were able to correct it in surgery, as well as get a handle on the hemorrhaging.”
He’s staring at me now. He’s staring, and he’s waiting. I want to scream very loudly to stop him from continuing, because I can handle this. Right here, right now, I can handle it. But in a few seconds I’m going to crack and the water is going to flow in and I only just realized that I don’t want to drown anymore.
I don’t want to drown anymore because it means Sam drowns too.
His head tilts sympathetically to the side, as if considering his words, and his face scrunches sadly. “Mr. Reynolds…has Sam been in some sort of accident recently? Something that would cause an extensive amount of blunt force trauma?”
And there it is.
The floor slides from beneath my chair and I’m staring up at him from a black pit. His voice sounds far away, like it’s muffled, and somewhere in the distance I can still perceive the cataclysmic reverberation of crunching metal, glaring lights, and shattering glass.
“Yeah…we,” I meet his gaze and I think he sees it in my eyes already but is just waiting to see what I say.
I haven’t talked about it until now.
In fact, I’ve spent most of my energy trying to avoid it at all costs since it happened.
“…we were in a car crash a couple weeks ago. Sidelined by a semi.” I’m looking at the floor again, at my dirty boots. They haven’t given me any answers yet. “Sammy was driving.”
He hears me even though I’m impossibly quiet. The doctor draws in a breath and speaks a bit louder than before, “The reason I ask is because we discovered quiet a few untreated injuries.”
My head snaps up at this, my heart stuttering.
“Several of his ribs are cracked and bruised, making him entirely more susceptible to what happened to his lung. The CT scan also revealed severe myocardial contusions. This can be very serious and problematic if not properly addressed and in some instances it can be fatal. Surely you boys went to a hospital after the collision?” His inflection screams of incredulity and accusations.
I can’t even think straight. The crash was bad…I’d been done for, ticket stub clipped and everything. But then Dad had died, I’d been miraculously saved, and Sam…Sam was stumbling along behind me trying keep up for two weeks.
Oh god.
What kind of person walks away unscathed from that?
The Impala was totaled.
Destroyed!
Why didn’t I think…why did I just assume…
“Our Dad was in the car too,” I whisper, staring at the stethoscope around his neck, “he…he didn’t make it. Sam must have…,” I have trouble forming the words, “Sam must have signed himself out AMA. I didn’t…I mean, there was just so much happening, and he looked fine, and he said he was fine-” I choke, because that isn’t right.
When did I ever ask if Sam was fine? When did I ever look his way long enough to even ask him anything?
Sam had said, in plain English and straight to my unforgiving face that he was NOT ok, that he was NOT dealing with things very well.
And I’d just stood there and waited for him to stop talking and walk away, because I was angry and couldn’t speak without yelling.
The doctor leans forward in his chair, his black dress shoes squeaking on the linoleum, “I am sorry about your father. Regardless, Sam should have been under strict medical supervision. Heart contusions are nothing to mess around with and he needed to be on bed rest and taking care of himself. He is malnourished so I don’t think he has been eating properly, or getting enough sleep. Do you know what an arrhythmia is, Mr. Reynolds?”
My mind is reeling. There’s too much and too little of me to process it. Of course Sam hasn’t been eating…of course Sam hasn’t been sleeping. I see him every day, I saw the bangs under his eyes, I witnessed him turning down breakfast, and then lunch, and then dinner. But I’ve been too wrapped up in my own grief to acknowledge it, to care about it
What the hell is wrong with me?
What made me forget…everything? Everything I’ve ever thought was important, or essential, or even wanted?
“Mr. Reynolds?”
I blink rapidly and realize I have been staring blankly at the man for several long, silent moments. He seems concerned, unsure, and a tad nervous. I shake my head, trying to swallow down the fist that has settled itself in my throat. It won’t go away though. “Arrhythmia? As in, irregular heart beat?”
A single, emphatic nod in return, “Yes. In some cases, heart contusions can lead to certain kinds of arrhythmias, especially if the trauma is from getting hit by a car or the steering wheel in a car crash. It appears Sam has developed one, what we call a PVC, or premature ventricular contraction.”
I wipe my right hand down my face, feeling the stubble on my chin, “I’m sorry, are you-are saying this is permanent, that Sam’s heart isn’t beating right? He’s twenty two freaking years old!”
Sam’s eats like a rabbit and exercises neurotically…he’s young, so young. He shouldn’t be here…this shouldn’t be happening, and the only reason it is is because I couldn’t be bothered enough to get my head out of my ass and see what was happening in front of my own to eyes, to button up my issues instead of letting them spill all over Sam and suffocate him.
The man rises from his seat and makes his way around the desk until he’s much closer to me. Too close; I want to bolt. I think he knows that because he’s putting a hand on my shoulder and his voice is different. It’s placating, reassuring, and soft.
He sounds like Sam.
He sounds like Sam and I would rather he tell me something awful in a cold, crass tone. Anything but this.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. His arrhythmia, with proper rest and nutrition, would have receded on its own as his body healed. However, he hasn’t done himself any favors, so it’s a bit more complicated now. If he were completely healthy, we’d restore his vitamin and mineral levels and monitor him closely until he recovered, but with his new injuries and the strain his body is going to be under while recuperating from surgery, it may be a lot longer before he regains a normal heart beat. The next twenty four to forty eight hours are crucial, Sam is vulnerable to infection and complications. I’d normally give him a good prognosis, but I’m going to be straight with you here Mr. Reynolds,” He somehow forces me to look at him, even though I’m perfectly at peace studying the Norman Rockwell on the wall, “Sam will only recover if he wants to.”
Sam will only recover if you give him something to come back to. I hear the words loud and clear. The doctor smiles awkwardly and I can’t bring myself to appreciate the effort, “He should wake up in a few hours if you’d like to see him now.”
God do I want to…I want to tear from the room and sprint to his side. But I can’t bring myself to move; I’m glued to the seat. My legs are cinder blocks. I nod, swallow, and then nod again, “Yeah,” my voice is raspy, cracked, pathetic, “yeah, ok. Thanks doc.”
Finally, my feet are beneath me and like a ghost I’m moving for the door. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know how I can even begin to fix the tattered remains of our relationship and the uncertainty is what is going to kill me.
Sam may not recover from this.
Sam could…
What do I do? What do I say? Sorry seems laughable. I’m standing in the hallway now. I’m standing and I’m thinking about everything in the world and how it’s all useless, really. Because what can any of that do for Sam?
“I’m sorry we have to leave again, Dean.” Sam looks at me from across the kitchen, long fingers pushing even longer bangs from his eyes.
I want to be irritable, I want to snap at him, or maybe slam the fridge shut and make him flinch. But the fleeting glimpse I get of his patent, puppy dog stare make all the urges to be nasty evaporate in less than a second.
I sigh, “It’s ok, Sammy. It’s not your fault.”
Silence falls over us, but it’s companionable. It’s comfortable, and normal, and right. Dad says he thinks we have entire conversations without saying anything. He’s joking of course, but for some reason he always sounds angry. Finally, Sam says, “You really liked her, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question, just an observation. It’s soft, sympathetic, and completely Sam Winchester. I stare back at him and half smile, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah…I really did.”
Sam makes his way over to me and settles against the counter by my side. I can hear the ancient grandfather clock in the living him ticking. The landlady gave us hell about the old thing, going on and on about how much in damages we’d have to pay if we so much as sneezed on the thing. I’d stood behind her and made funny faces at Sam while she’d talked, throwing my arms and mouthing everything she said. Sam had fought it off for an impressive amount of time, but he’d eventually been reduced to a massive heap of giggles on the carpet.
Dad had been pissed.
So worth it.
Sam knocks his elbow against mine, “Still have me, right?” And he’s grinning, all dimples and white teeth.
I genuinely laugh and shove him a few feet, “Gee, lucky me.”
He laughs in return and quickly rights himself. It’s quiet again and now we are both listening for the tell tale rumble of the Impala and Dad’s return. We’d packed up this morning and were told over the phone to be “on the god damn door step when I get there.”
“Dean,” Sam’s serious tone surprises me and I quickly glance over at him once more. “Sometimes…bad things can be good things.” I blink, and he shifts his weight to his other foot before adding, “Maybe…maybe this is one of those times.”
My heart warms a bit and my lips twitch. I reach over and ruffle his hair. “Whatever you say, Samantha.” Sam squawks indignantly and pulls away.
There’s a tug at my heart though because I know he’s wrong. Sam is still so young, so innocent, and so naïve. I want to preserve that, to protect that for as long as I can, but one day I know I won’t be able to stop him from comprehending the truth.
Sometimes bad things are just…bad things.
Sam once told me that the best things in life could seem like the worst. It was one of those rare moments where he was the one trying to look on the bright side, trying to keep our heads above water, because if one of us was drowning, the other couldn’t very well be too.
That’s how it works.
We take turns swimming so the other can rest, and we don’t ever let go.
Except I did let go.
I let him go and I let myself sink to the muddy pits of the earth and just watched as he splashed frantically around in search of me. I just sat there, amidst the sand and seaweed, and watched.
I didn’t budge.
Was I waiting for him to sink too? Was I hoping he’d be able to swim on his own?
No…no.
I know none of those things are true. I breathe in harshly and shudder all the way to my bones.
I’d been drowning myself…and I realized, I knew, that I would be drowning him too.
The doctor clears his throat, as if opting for a polite way to get my attention, and my eyes snap open to peer fearfully at his face. A part of me wants to lock myself in the Impala and smash my head against the steering wheel until my brain stops working. The other part of me is impatient for my brother’s condition, desperate for his name to be on someone else’s lips to prove that he exists at all.
“Your brother-” he begins, voice clipped and professional.
“Sam.” I cut in harshly.
The short man pauses, one gray eyebrow rising. The desk separating us seems too short a distance all of sudden; I chalk it up to the increasing smallness of the room itself. He licks his thin lips, “Yes, Sam, your brother.” I remain stoically silent, the pit of my stomach gnawing at the rest of my insides.
Can I cover my ears in public and still be respected?
Can I explain the difference between what should be and what is and stand back while he puts things in order because surely someone in the universe can fix this?
“As far as the bullet wound is concerned, he is an extremely lucky young man. Chest trauma has a lot of variability, so know that things could have been far worse.”
My fingers dig into my jeans, pinching the skin over my knees. I’m holding my breath, a million questions racing in front of my eyes and I can barely suppress the urge to grip the doctor’s shoulders and shake him until he speaks faster. “Two of Sam’s ribs were broken upon impact and caused a Type 3 pulmonary laceration to his left lung. This resulted in an abnormal amount of air to leak into the chest cavity.”
My mouth becomes increasingly dry and my tongue feels like sandpaper. I know there is a but coming, there always is. He’s building towards a crescendo. He’s basically holding my hand, telling me to close my eyes and wait for the good part.
I want to puke.
“The bullet itself caused severe bleeding, but since it was a straight through his risk was greatly decreased. The CT scan revealed the punctured lung and we were able to correct it in surgery, as well as get a handle on the hemorrhaging.”
He’s staring at me now. He’s staring, and he’s waiting. I want to scream very loudly to stop him from continuing, because I can handle this. Right here, right now, I can handle it. But in a few seconds I’m going to crack and the water is going to flow in and I only just realized that I don’t want to drown anymore.
I don’t want to drown anymore because it means Sam drowns too.
His head tilts sympathetically to the side, as if considering his words, and his face scrunches sadly. “Mr. Reynolds…has Sam been in some sort of accident recently? Something that would cause an extensive amount of blunt force trauma?”
And there it is.
The floor slides from beneath my chair and I’m staring up at him from a black pit. His voice sounds far away, like it’s muffled, and somewhere in the distance I can still perceive the cataclysmic reverberation of crunching metal, glaring lights, and shattering glass.
“Yeah…we,” I meet his gaze and I think he sees it in my eyes already but is just waiting to see what I say.
I haven’t talked about it until now.
In fact, I’ve spent most of my energy trying to avoid it at all costs since it happened.
“…we were in a car crash a couple weeks ago. Sidelined by a semi.” I’m looking at the floor again, at my dirty boots. They haven’t given me any answers yet. “Sammy was driving.”
He hears me even though I’m impossibly quiet. The doctor draws in a breath and speaks a bit louder than before, “The reason I ask is because we discovered quiet a few untreated injuries.”
My head snaps up at this, my heart stuttering.
“Several of his ribs are cracked and bruised, making him entirely more susceptible to what happened to his lung. The CT scan also revealed severe myocardial contusions. This can be very serious and problematic if not properly addressed and in some instances it can be fatal. Surely you boys went to a hospital after the collision?” His inflection screams of incredulity and accusations.
I can’t even think straight. The crash was bad…I’d been done for, ticket stub clipped and everything. But then Dad had died, I’d been miraculously saved, and Sam…Sam was stumbling along behind me trying keep up for two weeks.
Oh god.
What kind of person walks away unscathed from that?
The Impala was totaled.
Destroyed!
Why didn’t I think…why did I just assume…
“Our Dad was in the car too,” I whisper, staring at the stethoscope around his neck, “he…he didn’t make it. Sam must have…,” I have trouble forming the words, “Sam must have signed himself out AMA. I didn’t…I mean, there was just so much happening, and he looked fine, and he said he was fine-” I choke, because that isn’t right.
When did I ever ask if Sam was fine? When did I ever look his way long enough to even ask him anything?
Sam had said, in plain English and straight to my unforgiving face that he was NOT ok, that he was NOT dealing with things very well.
And I’d just stood there and waited for him to stop talking and walk away, because I was angry and couldn’t speak without yelling.
The doctor leans forward in his chair, his black dress shoes squeaking on the linoleum, “I am sorry about your father. Regardless, Sam should have been under strict medical supervision. Heart contusions are nothing to mess around with and he needed to be on bed rest and taking care of himself. He is malnourished so I don’t think he has been eating properly, or getting enough sleep. Do you know what an arrhythmia is, Mr. Reynolds?”
My mind is reeling. There’s too much and too little of me to process it. Of course Sam hasn’t been eating…of course Sam hasn’t been sleeping. I see him every day, I saw the bangs under his eyes, I witnessed him turning down breakfast, and then lunch, and then dinner. But I’ve been too wrapped up in my own grief to acknowledge it, to care about it
What the hell is wrong with me?
What made me forget…everything? Everything I’ve ever thought was important, or essential, or even wanted?
“Mr. Reynolds?”
I blink rapidly and realize I have been staring blankly at the man for several long, silent moments. He seems concerned, unsure, and a tad nervous. I shake my head, trying to swallow down the fist that has settled itself in my throat. It won’t go away though. “Arrhythmia? As in, irregular heart beat?”
A single, emphatic nod in return, “Yes. In some cases, heart contusions can lead to certain kinds of arrhythmias, especially if the trauma is from getting hit by a car or the steering wheel in a car crash. It appears Sam has developed one, what we call a PVC, or premature ventricular contraction.”
I wipe my right hand down my face, feeling the stubble on my chin, “I’m sorry, are you-are saying this is permanent, that Sam’s heart isn’t beating right? He’s twenty two freaking years old!”
Sam’s eats like a rabbit and exercises neurotically…he’s young, so young. He shouldn’t be here…this shouldn’t be happening, and the only reason it is is because I couldn’t be bothered enough to get my head out of my ass and see what was happening in front of my own to eyes, to button up my issues instead of letting them spill all over Sam and suffocate him.
The man rises from his seat and makes his way around the desk until he’s much closer to me. Too close; I want to bolt. I think he knows that because he’s putting a hand on my shoulder and his voice is different. It’s placating, reassuring, and soft.
He sounds like Sam.
He sounds like Sam and I would rather he tell me something awful in a cold, crass tone. Anything but this.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. His arrhythmia, with proper rest and nutrition, would have receded on its own as his body healed. However, he hasn’t done himself any favors, so it’s a bit more complicated now. If he were completely healthy, we’d restore his vitamin and mineral levels and monitor him closely until he recovered, but with his new injuries and the strain his body is going to be under while recuperating from surgery, it may be a lot longer before he regains a normal heart beat. The next twenty four to forty eight hours are crucial, Sam is vulnerable to infection and complications. I’d normally give him a good prognosis, but I’m going to be straight with you here Mr. Reynolds,” He somehow forces me to look at him, even though I’m perfectly at peace studying the Norman Rockwell on the wall, “Sam will only recover if he wants to.”
Sam will only recover if you give him something to come back to. I hear the words loud and clear. The doctor smiles awkwardly and I can’t bring myself to appreciate the effort, “He should wake up in a few hours if you’d like to see him now.”
God do I want to…I want to tear from the room and sprint to his side. But I can’t bring myself to move; I’m glued to the seat. My legs are cinder blocks. I nod, swallow, and then nod again, “Yeah,” my voice is raspy, cracked, pathetic, “yeah, ok. Thanks doc.”
Finally, my feet are beneath me and like a ghost I’m moving for the door. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know how I can even begin to fix the tattered remains of our relationship and the uncertainty is what is going to kill me.
Sam may not recover from this.
Sam could…
What do I do? What do I say? Sorry seems laughable. I’m standing in the hallway now. I’m standing and I’m thinking about everything in the world and how it’s all useless, really. Because what can any of that do for Sam?
“I’m sorry we have to leave again, Dean.” Sam looks at me from across the kitchen, long fingers pushing even longer bangs from his eyes.
I want to be irritable, I want to snap at him, or maybe slam the fridge shut and make him flinch. But the fleeting glimpse I get of his patent, puppy dog stare make all the urges to be nasty evaporate in less than a second.
I sigh, “It’s ok, Sammy. It’s not your fault.”
Silence falls over us, but it’s companionable. It’s comfortable, and normal, and right. Dad says he thinks we have entire conversations without saying anything. He’s joking of course, but for some reason he always sounds angry. Finally, Sam says, “You really liked her, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question, just an observation. It’s soft, sympathetic, and completely Sam Winchester. I stare back at him and half smile, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah…I really did.”
Sam makes his way over to me and settles against the counter by my side. I can hear the ancient grandfather clock in the living him ticking. The landlady gave us hell about the old thing, going on and on about how much in damages we’d have to pay if we so much as sneezed on the thing. I’d stood behind her and made funny faces at Sam while she’d talked, throwing my arms and mouthing everything she said. Sam had fought it off for an impressive amount of time, but he’d eventually been reduced to a massive heap of giggles on the carpet.
Dad had been pissed.
So worth it.
Sam knocks his elbow against mine, “Still have me, right?” And he’s grinning, all dimples and white teeth.
I genuinely laugh and shove him a few feet, “Gee, lucky me.”
He laughs in return and quickly rights himself. It’s quiet again and now we are both listening for the tell tale rumble of the Impala and Dad’s return. We’d packed up this morning and were told over the phone to be “on the god damn door step when I get there.”
“Dean,” Sam’s serious tone surprises me and I quickly glance over at him once more. “Sometimes…bad things can be good things.” I blink, and he shifts his weight to his other foot before adding, “Maybe…maybe this is one of those times.”
My heart warms a bit and my lips twitch. I reach over and ruffle his hair. “Whatever you say, Samantha.” Sam squawks indignantly and pulls away.
There’s a tug at my heart though because I know he’s wrong. Sam is still so young, so innocent, and so naïve. I want to preserve that, to protect that for as long as I can, but one day I know I won’t be able to stop him from comprehending the truth.
Sometimes bad things are just…bad things.