Only Human, part 2

[mamapranayama]

Part 2

Dean opened crusty eyes and felt a groan escape his lips as light hit his eyes. He turned to get his face away from the offensive brightness, or at least he tried to turn before the pain stopped him cold. He squeezed his eyes shut and hissed, noting to himself to not do that again.

“Dean?”

He opened his eyes to see his father hovering over him, “Dad? Wha …?”

For a few seconds, Dean couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him and why he felt like a piece of shit that had been squished beneath his boot, but all at once memories came crashing back on him and he remembered the hunt, the bajang, and the surprise of having that damn thing get the jump on him, nearly ripping him to shreds.

“How’re feeling?” Dad asked.

“Ungngggg.” He grumbled, then looking around the sunlit room and seeing that it was just him and his father at the moment and new question popped into his head, “Where’s Sam?”

“He should be coming back from school soon. In fact, if his ass doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, I’m going to kick it.”

Dean snorted a little, but that too was an action he vowed to not do again until he felt better. His father sensed his discomfort and reached for a bottle of painkillers, shaking out two and handing them to Dean along with a glass of water. Dean took them in one swallow then savored the water as it washed down his parched throat.

“How’s the head?” Dean asked, seeing the bandage that adorned his father’s forehead and the wrinkle in his brow that marked the pain he had to be in.

“It’s fine. I ended up sleeping most of the day and it’s much better than when I first woke up.”

Dean nodded and found that his head too was a body part he shouldn’t move much if he wanted to avoid pain, but the need to use the bathroom was making itself increasingly known and he knew he was going to have to move if he was to get any relief.

His first attempt at sitting up was rather pathetic and he whimpered like a little girl which caused his father to try and stop his upward movement, “What are you doing?”

“Gotta piss.” Dean explained, wincing as he made another feeble go at sitting. His father’s lip curled up into a slight grin as he reached out a hand and helped Dean get to his feet. Once he was vertical and he had his balance, he let his dad help him to the bathroom door, but waved him off once he was inside.

“You think you can handle it from here?” His dad asked.

“Yeah … “Dean tried to grin cheekily, “but if Pamela Anderson wanted to handle it, I don’t think I would say ‘no’.”

Dad shook his head with a silent snort as Dean shut the door and went about his business.

A few minutes later, Dean emerged from the bathroom to see his father searching the room for something.

“What are you looking for?” Dean asked.

“My cell phone. I can’t find it.”

“Maybe you left it in the car?”

“I already looked there.”

“Think it could have been dropped in the woods?” Dean asked as he slowly shuffled his way back to the bed and gingerly sat.

“Yeah … that’s probably where it’s at.” John sighed resignedly, “You got your phone? I’m gonna call Sam, he’s late getting back.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean winced a little as he dug into his back pocket and pulled it out only to frown immediately when the damn thing fell apart in his hands, “Crap.”

“Guess you’ll have to use the motel phone.” Dean pointed out a little sheepishly as the pieces of his phone fell onto the bed; he must have broken it when he fell on it the other night.

His father grunted in agreement and started to dial the phone sitting on the nightstand between the beds. After several moments, a familiar jingle filled the room. Dean and his father exchanged glances.

“Dammit! That’s Sam’s phone.” Dad grumbled angrily, “He knows he’s supposed to have it with him when he goes to school.”

“He probably just forgot it - it was a rough night for all of us.” Dean pointed out, trying to defend Sam a little even though he was just as pissed at his little brother for being out of touch and making Dean feel this queasy feeling of uneasiness growing in the pit of his stomach. The ring tone of the phone was coming from the opposite side of the room and curious to see where his brother had put the thing, he pushed himself up from the bed with a grunt and followed the noise.

The ringing led him to the trashcan. He peered inside, “What the hell?” Dean muttered as he stooped, ignoring the painful pull of the stiches in his skin as he bent and picked the balled-up jacket from the can. He easily found the phone inside the jacket’s pocket, but as soon as he unfurled the rest of the garment, he felt a wave of dread came over him.

“Dad … look.” Dean held up the jacket, or what was left of it, really. Large tears marred the back and the distinct, brownish hue of dried blood was crusted into the fabric.

Dean swallowed hard while his father froze, a mixed expression of worry and anger setting into his hard features, “Christ … Sam didn’t … he didn’t tell me he was hurt. Goddamn it!”

“Maybe it’s not that bad. I mean … he went to school, so he couldn’t have been too hurt, right?”

“I don’t know,” Dad looked away, but even with his head ducked, Dean could see the line of remorse etching into his brow, “I never asked.”

OoOoOoOoOo

Sam inhaled reflexively and awoke with a sudden jerk to a noxious smell under his nose. The acrid, burning odor caused his eyes to immediately fly open and with a start, he looked up into the fuzzy face of a round woman peering down at him with concern.

“You okay?” She asked, pulling back the packet of smelling salts the she must have used to revive him.

“Uhhhggnnn.” He groaned, “Wha … what happen’d?” He asked, trembling while the pain in his back threatened to drive him to tears. All he remembered was being woken up by the janitor and the next thing he knew, things went topsy-turvy. A pair of hands helped to bring him to a sitting position which made the room spin in a nauseating circle. He closed his eyes and held his aching head in his quivering hands, but somehow he managed to not lose what little there was in his stomach.

“You passed out, kid.” Sam lifted his head, and met the gaze of the janitor who had woken him before. He looked around, seeing that he was still in the cafeteria and on the floor with the janitor and the woman hovering over him. Now that some of the cotton had cleared from his head, he recognized the woman as Mrs. Garcia, the school nurse. He had never had occasion to see her before, but his little fainting spell had brought him to her immediate attention.

“I think I should take you down to my office,”  Mrs. Garcia spoke, “You took quite the spill and, “ she touched Sam’s forehead with the back of her hand, “You’ve got a fever going. We need to call your parents and have them come and pick you up.”

Sam shook his head “I’m okay … I just got a little dizzy.”

“I don’t think so,” She countered with hands coming to her hips, “You can’t stay here if you keep fainting all of the time. C’mon … Hector will help you get to the cot in the office, won’t you Hector?”

So, that was the janitor’s name, Sam thought idly.

“Of course.”  Hector agreed as he took hold of Sam’s elbow, “C’mon … let’s get you to your feet.”

The dizziness and nausea held Sam in their firm grip as the trio walked the halls slowly from the cafeteria and to the nurse’s office. Hector was gentle in laying Sam down on the cot and as soon as he was horizontal, he closed his eyes to the onslaught of pain in his back. He turned onto his side and shivered then felt a blanket cover his shoulders.

A glass of water was soon offered and placed into his hands, “Here … drink this while I call your parents. What was your name again?”

“Sam … uh …” For a moment, he couldn’t remember if he was using his real name in this school or not, but is slow moving brain finally caught up with his tongue, “Winchester.”

Shit … dad was going to kill him for having the school call him when he was already in a bad mood and trying to recover from last night’s disaster, but he really, really didn’t feel well and if facing his father meant he could curl up in a warm bed with a bottle of Motrin, then maybe it would all be worth the ass-chewing he was bound to get.

Mrs. Garcia moved towards the phone while Sam tucked the blanket up around his chin and fought to bring some kind of warmth to his aching muscles and joints. He let his head sink into the pillow and watched disconnectedly as Hector gave Mrs. Garcia a friendly wave before he left the office to return to his duties.

Looking around, Sam felt eyes on him - not human eyes - the eyes of no less than twenty colorful, wild-haired short, round, troll dolls that Mrs. Garcia had sitting on top of her desk and all over the office.

He shivered again.

Why would somebody who professed to want to make people feel better decorate their office with those creepy things? People were sick enough if they had to come see her, why make it worse for them?

She probably though they were cute, but if she only knew what a real troll looked like she’d change her tune pretty quick.

Even with the ugly dolls staring at him, Sam felt his eyelids gain weight and they became harder and harder to keep open and after several slowing blinks, he gave up trying to fight off his fatigue altogether.

“Sam?” He felt a hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he had been sleeping or not, but given how hard it was to peel open his eyes, he could only figure that he had and he was reluctant to leave that fluffy, painless place he had been floating in. Awareness only drove home how much everything hurt and when he felt something touch his ear, he was immediately awake with a jerk.

“Whoa … it’s okay. I’m just taking your temperature.” Mrs. Garcia explained, keeping a hand on his shoulder then tsking as she took the aural thermometer out of his ear and read the numbers on the readout, “103.7” She shook her head, “I tried to call your father, but there was no answer. Do you have a number for your mother I can call?”

Sam shook his head then screwed his eyes shut as even that small action drove a nail through his skull, “Just my dad … but … call my brother? He can pick me up.”

“Okay … what’s your brother’s name and number?”

“His name’s Dean … uh …” Again, Sam’s muddled brain had a hard time picturing the numbers he needed to give her, “uh … 732-416-3098” He hoped that was right … sounded close enough.

““Okay … I’ll call your brother, Hold on a minute.”

Dean had better answer and come get him. Childishly, all he wanted was for his big brother to make everything better like he was always so good at doing.

Mrs. Garcia left Sam on the cot again and went back to the phone. He wasn’t even aware that he had slipped into sleep until she came back and touched his shoulder, waking him up, “I tried that number you gave me, Sam. But no one answered. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take you to the hospital --that fever of your’s is pretty high and I can’t treat you here on my own; I’m not allowed to dispense medication, so I need bring you into the ER.”

Sam his head and felt all of the blood drain from his face. God … it was bad enough already that he had fainted in school, but going to the hospital would be even worse - how would he explain the claw marks on his back which they would no doubt find? He was lucky that Mrs. Garcia hadn’t done more than check his temperature - all he, his brother, and father needed was to have questions asked about how he got injured - especially ones that his fevered mind couldn’t answer with any sort of believability.

The only thing he could think of was escape.

He needed to get away from Mrs. Garcia’s good intentions and somehow make his way back to the motel under his own steam.

He looked up into her eyes and pulled one of his most pleading faces, “You think … uh … before you take me to the hospital that you could get my backpack?”

“I dunno, Sam … I really should take you straight to the ER.”

“Please?”

Her face softened and he knew he had won her over, “Oh … alright. What’s your locker number and combo?”

He gave her both and as soon as she turned her back and headed down the hallway, he dragged himself out of the cot, leaving the warmth of the blanket behind. He shivered uncontrollably, but managed to make his way to his feet without passing out yet again. At the door, he checked down the hallway and seeing no sign of the nurse, he headed the opposite direction of his locker and made his way to the nearest exit.

Once outside the building, Sam was truly missing the blanket back in the nurse’s office as a cold wind hit his face and seeped through the layers of his clothing. A bone-deep shiver coursed through his body, but he knew there was no turning back now - he had to get back to the motel.

One step in front of the other, he told himself as he walked away. The nurse would no doubt be searching for him soon, so he stepped up his pace, moving as quickly his sore, feverish body would allow. He made about two or three blocks from the campus, his head and back pounding in furious pain and his joints loudly complaining before he came across a bus stop with a bench. Figuring he was far enough from the school to be safe from the nurse’s clutches, he sank down heavily onto the seat, pulling his jacket as close to his chest as possible. He couldn’t lean back against the seat, but leaning forward and resting his head on his knees for a minute or two would be all he needed before he headed for the motel once again.

He wondered why Dad and Dean hadn’t answered their phones and his mind went over possible scenarios - what if they were both passed out in the room? What if they were in trouble?

Sam reached into his pocket where he always kept his phone and could have slapped himself for not thinking to call them in the first place, but his pocket was empty. He cursed himself mentally for forgetting that his phone was in the pocket of his other jacket - the one he had tossed into the garbage can back at the motel.

Stupid … he was sooooo stupid. No wonder his father was pissed at him all of the time. Why couldn’t he be more like Dean? Why did he always have to be the one to screw up?

As Sam mentally abused himself with his head between his knees, the sounds of a loud diesel engine filled his ears. He looked blearily and saw a city bus come to a stop in front of him. The door opened and the driver looked at him expectantly.

“You getting’ on, kid, or what?”

Sam stared at the driver blankly, trying to push his brain into gear again. Taking a bus would certainly be faster than walking and he just didn’t think he could walk much further. If the bus could get him close to the motel, then it might be worth the expense.

Sam wanted to ask the driver if he went by the motel they were staying at, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of the name of the motel. After so many years of hopping from one room to the next, it was hard to keep them all straight. He tried to think of the street name it was on then remembered that it was one the main drag of the city, “this bus go down Business 19?” he asked, putting all of his strength into speaking clearly and not appear as sick as he felt.

“Yeah.” The driver called back.

Sam nodded then pushed himself from the bench - the bus would be better than walking. He had to grab the rail tightly in order to keep from toppling over as he boarded and reaching into his pocket for the dollar he needed to pay for the ride was far harder than it should have been, but once he found a seat, he sank down into it gratefully. Again, he leaned forward so as not to let his sore back touch the seat and let his head rest in his hands. He turned his head so he could look out the window so he could watch for the stop where he would need to get off, but after five minutes of watching the scenery pass, his eyes grew minds of their own and closed on their own accord.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

John glanced at his son. Dean sat stiffly in the passenger seat of the Impala, clearly not used to occupying a place in the vehicle that wasn’t behind the wheel.

Clearly, John could see that his oldest boy was in pain, even if he would never admit it. But what worried John more was the tight set of Dean’s jaw and the way he stared stoically ahead -- he wouldn’t rest and take care of himself until he knew that Sam was okay and he’d drive himself into the grave if it meant he could help his little brother.

And that’s what worried John the most - Dean was a loyal son, but he was an even more protective brother and one day, if he wasn’t careful, Dean would end up doing something rash in order to save Sam. It was a trait of Dean’s that John both admired and feared both at the same time.

John had called the school already, but all he got was a woman saying that she had gone to get Sam his backpack and when she returned he had disappeared. She at least told him that Sam had been sick, that she had tried to call John and Dean, but hadn’t been able to reach them. She sounded worried and that was enough for the hairs on the back of John’s neck to stand on end.

So now Sam was out there somewhere in town, probably trying to make his way back to the motel under his own power, but even as John tried to trace the route Sam might have taken back to the room, he had yet to see any sign of him.

And all of this was John’s fault. Why did he not even ask Sam if he was okay? Why had he not checked him over himself? Sam had somehow dragged both his and Dean’s asses out of the woods and driven them back to the motel, patched them up and them kept watch over them. But when John had woken up all, he could see was the mistakes Sam had made and he had let his weariness, pain, and disappointment cloud what was right in front of his eyes. And now that he could look back in hindsight, Sam had appeared drawn, tired and pale, but he had pushed his son out the door without son much as a ‘how are you?’

Shit … how many times had he tried to drive home how important it was to pay attention to detail into his sons when he himself had missed out on something so blatantly obvious?

However, now wasn’t the time to beat himself up and dwelling on his mistake wasn’t going to help him find Sam any faster, so he shifted his focus from his own guilt to finding his youngest child. He drove up and down the streets that Sam might have walked, but Sam’s tall, lanky form was nowhere to be seen.

“We should go back to the motel,” John suggested, “Maybe he made his way back already.”

Dean seemed ready to agree until his attention snapped to the side road and he pointed to a bus parked along the sidewalk with an ambulance idling behind it. John felt his heart sink into his stomach as he saw a stretcher being brought around to the back of the ambulance.

He could just make out a shock of brown, shaggy hair peeking out and he knew immediately who it was.

“Christ …”

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Dean paced the length of the room; twenty strides forward -- about face --twenty strides back …

He glanced up at the clock. It had been two hours, 32 minutes since they followed after the ambulance carrying Sam to the hospital and he still had no answers.

His mind swam with possibilities, none of which he really wanted to entertain. The only outcome he could accept was his brother looking up at him with big, hazel eyes and asking for forgiveness for putting Dean through such uncertainty and worry. But even that, he couldn’t count on - it had been too long and that never meant anything good. Right now, he’d take just seeing Sam breathing as enough.

Dad sat in a nearby chair, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. Dean had seen his father in the heat of battle, seen his at his best and at his worst, but seeing him like this … ?

How was Den supposed to keep his shit together if his father was like this?

Twenty strides forward - about face - twenty strides back …

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean stopped cold in his tracks and abruptly ending his pacing routine. Dad seemed to snap out of whatever place he had been trapped and immediately came to his feet, crossing the expanse between him and the man in the white lab coat.

The man addressed himself as the doctor overseeing Sam’s care and Dean listened to the medical jargon being released from the doctor’s mouth, catching phrases here and there that set his teeth on edge. Things like ‘driver found him passed out in the bus, unresponsive’, ‘We found long scratches on his back that appear to be infected’, and ‘antibiotics don’t seem to be working yet’ hit him like a Mack truck.

“Can we see him?” he found himself asking. Bottom line - that’s all he wanted.

The doctor nodded, “I’ll take you to him, but I must warn you that he hasn’t been very coherent and he’s been in and out of lucidity since he arrived. His fever is dangerously high and we’re having a difficult time bringing it down, but hopefully, the antibiotics will start to do their job and we can get this infection under control soon.” The doctor looked at Dad with a sidelong glance,”By the way, do you have any idea how he could have gotten those wounds on his back?”

Dad glared at the doctor, “No.” was all he replied curtly, abruptly ending any further questions about how Sam got hurt.

“Well then … how about we go see Sam?” The doctor suggested, keeping a wary eye on Dad. Dean saw a look of suspicion flit across the doctor’s face and he got the feeling from the man that the questions about how Sam got hurt and so sick were only over for the time being.

Dean followed after his father and the doctor on numb legs. His own injuries from the previous night felt like a mere annoyance compared to the moment he saw his little brother lying in the hospital bed hooked up to IV’s, machines, and a variety of various medical equipment.  The doctor walked over to Sam’s bed and started to explain the machines and what they were doing for Sam.

Sam was down to just his boxers, lying on his side with a cooling pad under him and ice packs located around various points of his body in an effort to reduce his skyrocketing fever. Though his eyes were closed, one look told Dean that his little brother was far from sleeping as his feet restlessly slid up and down the mattress and he made low, keening noises in his throat that almost unmade Dean completely.

Sam muttered something that Dean couldn’t hear and the doctor turned, speaking back to his little brother with all of the warmth of a frozen Popsicle, “I’m afraid we need to get your fever down, Sam. You can have a blanket as soon as your temperature is lower.”

Suddenly, Dean snapped out of his fugue - Sammy was hurting and he was just gonna stand there while some dickhole doctor brushed him off?  Dean crossed the room just as the doctor was heading for the door to leave and on the way he did little to hold back the contempt on his face as they passed each other.

But all thoughts about what an ass the doctor was fled as soon as he was by Sam’s side, leaning over the railing of his bed and running a hand over his fiery, hot brow. He was shocked by the heat Sam was generating even with all of the cooling pad and ice packs and though he had seen his little brother though all kinds of fevers, illnesses and injuries, this was the first time that Dean truly felt so completely helpless and useless.

Sam rolled his head towards him as soon as he was touched and slid his eyes open, looking up at Dean with an unfocused gaze.

“Hey, kiddo …” Dean was surprised to hear his voice crack, but his attempt to swallow and clear his throat met with an impossible obstacle in his throat.

“D-d-Dean.” Sam stuttered, his teeth chattering, “D-dad?”

“I’m right here, Sammy.” Dad spoke up as he laid a hand on Sam’s shaking shoulder from the opposite side of the bed, “We’re not going anywhere.”

Dad’s eyes shifted their focus squarely on the wounds to Sam’s back and after a quick look around to make sure there were no medical personnel in sight that could question his actions he carefully peeled the bandage down half-way.

“Dammit, “Dad muttered, “Why didn’t he ask for help?”

Dean looked up towards his father and the two locked gazes and Dean knew without a doubt that what his father saw wasn’t good. With a quick, silent motion of his head, Dad beckoned Dean to join off to the side. He was reluctant to let Sam out of his grasp, but whatever his father had to tell him had to be important.

“Dean, I need you to go to the car and get some holy water. It looks like Sam might not have cleaned out those wounds on his back as well as he should have - it’s possible some of the poison from it is still in there and making him sicker than the infection alone.”

“Will it help after this long?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t afford not to try.”

OoOoOoOoOo

Cold.

He was so cold …

Where was he? Why is he so cold?

He opened eyes that refused to raise themselves completely or allow him to see clearly. All he got was a lot of white and some fuzzy images of people coming in and out of his field of view.

Hospital?

It looked like one and smelled like one and the people fussing and bustling around him looked like nurses or doctors, so ….

Dad was really going to be mad now.

He’d really screwed up this time and he’d never live down not even being able to escape and evade a rotund, fiftyish school nurse. Had she found him? Dragged him to the hospital against his will?

No … that didn’t make sense - he’d remember that, right?

But it was so hard to think and everything hurt.

How did he get there? He remembered leaving the school - it was cold outside and then …

God, Brain … c’mon … work!

He suddenly had flashes of being on bus, feeling worse - feeling so cold, flashing lights, more cold …

Oh … did he pass out on the bus?

Not that that was any better than being captured by the school nurse, but at it least explained how he got there.

Sam closed his eyes and shivered as a renewed round of chills wracked his body and no amount of huddling in on himself of moving around could warm him up.

Would it kill someone to give me  a blanket?

“I’m afraid we got to get your fever down, Sam. You can have a blanket as soon as your temperature is lower.”

Oh … did I say that out loud?

Wait - how does he know my name?

Oh crap … Dad and Dean must be here already. How did they know?

Thinking too deeply into gave Sam’s already massive headache a renewed jolt. Sleep … he just wanted to sleep and not think - just turn off the lights and go where the pain and the freezing air couldn’t reach him.

Can’t sleep. Too cold.

Exhausted, his eyes closed like they had a mind of their own, but rest was elusive and no matter how hard he tried to curl into himself and chase down sleep, he could not find enough comfort to catch it. It wasn’t until he felt something touch his brow that he finally felt some heat seep into his skin. He savored that warmth and turned his head into it, wishing there was more. He felt fingers and a familiarity that stirred feelings of safety and security within him and he opened his eyes, knowing who he would see.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“D-d-d-d-Dean?” He asked, his teeth chattering so fiercely that he could scarcely form the name of his brother. Dean grinned down on him, but his hand never left Sam’s brow.

Though he couldn’t see him, Sam could almost sense his father behind him, “D-dad?”

“I’m right here, Sammy.” Another warm hand landed on his shoulder, this one calloused and rough, but he greedily accepted its heat as well, “We’re not going anywhere.” Dad sounded worried, but steady and the calm reassuring squeeze he gave him, helped to smooth some of the tremors coursing through him. Sam couldn’t remember the last time his father had been this affectionate with him and he was confused. Dad wasn’t spitting mad at him? Why?

Shit … he must be really sick.

What if I’m dying?

Sam hardly had time to process that thought when he felt fingers grasp the edges of the tape holding the bandage on his back. He felt tears spring to his eyes from the pain even though the contact was gentle and he squeezed his eyes tight, biting his tongue to keep from whimpering like a little girl in front of his dad.

Jesusfuckshitdammitdammit …Hurtshurtshurts …stop!

“Dammit,” he heard his father swear, “why didn’t he ask for help?”

Sam responded in his head with a sarcasm he was surprised he could find giving how terrible he felt and forming one of the first clear thoughts he had managed in quite a while, Well … gee, Dad … maybe it had something to do with the fact you were unconscious.

Soon the bandage was taped back up once more. Sam mashed his face into his pillow as he felt the warmth of Dean’s hand leave his forehead and he instantly missed his brother’s touch. He wanted to beg and plead for its return, but he knew that would only make him sound more like a baby and the words would not come from his uncooperative mouth.

He could still hear his brother and father in the room - they were talking about something - what it was, he couldn’t make out; they were talking too low.

Sam lifted his eyes long enough to see Dean begin to leave the room, but not before he stopped by his bed and place a hand over Sam’s brow once again, as if he knew that was exactly what Sam wanted right then.

“I’ll be right back. ‘kay, Sammy?”

Sam nodded blearily, his eyes almost too heavy to keep open. He blinked and Dean was gone, the only other person left in the room besides him was his father.

Dad walked over to him and took up the position that Dean had abandoned moments before, his scruffy, bearded face filling Sam’s line of sight.

“Sam … Dean’s gone to get holy water. The bajang - its poison could still be in your wounds. I think its making you sicker than you should be.” Dad placed his hand back on Sam’s shoulder, “We’ll get you feeling better soon, okay?”

Sam’s eye met his father’s, even though the fever burning in his blood, Sam could see concern and well-hidden fear in those eyes, but not anger.

“N-not mad?” Sam asked, confused. After all he, he had screwed the pooch on the hunt and then messed up trying to patch up his own wounds only to pass out on a city bus and wind up in a hospital - his dad should be mad - spitting, hopping mad. But he wasn’t … Sam couldn’t wrap his sluggish mind around it.

“I’m not mad, Sammy.” Dad sighed and then rubbed a hand through his hair, “Sure … I guess I was at first, but … I shouldn’t have been. It was an accident that woke the bajang and you were the one that killed it and then got Dean and I out of the forest and patched us up … you did good, kid and I was wrong to brush you off this morning. I was stupid and I didn’t even think to check you out so you being here - that’s on me and … I’m sorry.”

Dad was apologizing? Sam theorized blearily that he must be delusional or maybe he had woken up in an alternate universe or on Bizzaro world where Superman was evil, the world was shaped like a cube and everything was the opposite of what it should be. There wasn’t much else to explain why his father was being so … understanding.

Then again, maybe Sam had been the one that hadn’t understood. His father was only human after all - born to make mistakes.

Oh God … now I’ve got that damned Human League song stuck in my head - as if I wasn’t sick enough.

Dad’s hand left his shoulder and in the next instant it was cupping Sam’s face comfortingly. He closed his eyes and felt some of the shivers racing through him ease up.

He wasn’t even aware that he had slipped into sleep until Dean’s voice woke him, “I got it.”

Sam opened his eye to see his brother hurrying over with one of the hip flasks that contained holy water.

“Good. Hand it to me.” Dad ordered and Dean dutifully obeyed. Dad unscrewed the flask then pointed to the door, “Keep an eye out for anyone coming near.”

Dean nodded and quickly sped to the door, his attention flicking back and forth between Sam and the hallway.

Dad clasped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and spoke softly, “Sam … I’m gonna clean out these wounds with the holy water. If there is still some poison in there, this is going to hurt. But I need you to try to keep quiet, we can’t have anyone come in and start asking questions, okay?”

Sam nodded, his father’s words washing over him, but not really making much of an impact until he felt the bandage on his back being removed once again. The slight touch of his father’s fingers on his skin renewed the fiery agony in his skin and he grunted, trying to remain quiet as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Finally, the bandage was removed, “Okay … got it.”

Sam sighed as the burning sensation lessened to a simmer. He opened his eyes again to see a rolled up washcloth being offered to him, “Here … bite down on this, it should help.”

Sam opened his mouth and allowed his father to place the rolled up towel between his teeth, “Hold on, Sammy,” was all the warning he was given before the icy, wet water touched the overheated and torn skin of his back.

At first, there was nothing but cool, soothing wetness, but all of that changed the instant the holy water touch the uppermost part of the gashes nearest to his neck. Suddenly he felt as though he had been ignited in flames as an explosion of pain impacted his nerves and travelled across his body. His teeth clamped automatically into the washcloth in his mouth as he grunted against the searing fire in his skin. It went on and on forever - an endless cascade of agonizing waves crashing him.

Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes even with them shut tightly and they spilled onto his pillow as he turned his face into it and moaned, trying to ride out the spasms of pain jolting his body.

“I’m done, Sammy.” He heard his father say and felt him rubbing his arm, “It’s over.”

Sam would have felt relief at that if the agonizing burning in his back hadn’t been the only think he could feel and understand with any clarity and it wasn’t long after that that darkness claimed him.