Frayed Ends Of Sanity, 3/?
Title: Frayed Ends Of Sanity
Author: mellaithwen
Chapters: 3/?
Rating: R (Gen)
Warnings: Spoilers for Devil's Trap. Only spec for season 2, no spoilers.
Summary: Post Devil's Trap. Everything has an aftermath...
So when you're ill you curl up in bed, moan, and generally get waited on hand and foot, right?
Pixel_0 beta'd this instead.
!!!
Part Two
Part Three
John hears hushed whispers when he leaves. Voices following him all the way to the door. He realises then that this is the first time he dare leave.
If he wasn’t under strict orders to stay in bed, he was by Dean’s side or comforting Sam. The last time he remembers being outside, he had a bullet in his leg and Sam’s voice in his ear.
Now he’s got his pack in his hand, the salvaged weapons within, including the gun-the wonderful, magical gun that will save them. Solve their problems and stop the hurting.
Yeah right.
He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to. It’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. He doesn’t want Sam to deal with this alone, but Missouri won’t answer her phone and John already knows that Bobby thinks he’s full of shit.
He doesn’t want Dean to be hurt. He doesn’t want his little boy’s last words to be a pleading whisper of, “Sam, no.”
He doesn’t want Dean to have last words for years and years...
He pays the last of their bills with one of the few credit cards he has with his own name. Just in case he’d thought at the time when he filled the form in for a Winchester and not a Smith, or a Jones.
Just in case.
Just in case you get possessed and shot, just in case you torture your own little boy. Just in case a truck slams into you while your youngest son is driving. Just in case you’re too scared to think up an alias because Mary’s boys are unconscious. Just in case.
He’d been more than worried. John Winchester had left Lawrence a long time ago, Dean Winchester was wanted for murder (though granted thought to be deceased) and Sam Winchester’s friends would have no doubt declared him missing after all of this time. A road-trip was one thing...but a year?
But that’s who they were.
The broken Winchesters. The fallen heroes. Waiting to get back up again.
No police officers had come their way searching for a murderer. They’d asked about the gun shot, and Sam had bullshitteded beautifully. They’d gotten a statement from the truck driver, and John almost felt sorry for him. The way things were going, he’d most likely be charged for falling asleep at the wheel.
The automatic doors swing open, and John nods at the security guard there.
He makes a note to leave an anonymous tip at the station with the implications that it wasn’t really anyone’s fault.
Even though he knows it won’t do a hell of a lot.
*-*-*
Sam is alone when it begins. He’s sitting as comfortable as possible in a seat that really wasn’t built with comfort in mind. He’s remembering the doctor’s words about his own health and Dean’s. He’s wondering about his father and whether he’s all right.
He’s alone when it begins.
He’s the only other person in the room when Dean’s fingers twitch. It’s sudden and small, but there. Followed quickly by another twitch, until the whole right hand jerks against the bed and the left then does the same. Sam sees Dean’s eyelids moving back and forth quickly beneath closed lids. Chest rising and falling faster and faster.
Sam hits the red call button before he can think, but he’s alone when it begins.
Dean’s eyes open as quickly as the twitch in his hand, but there’s no mistaking this. No mistaking the clouded, glazed green eyes, seemingly dull but then, too bright.
Sam’s about to lean closer, when the nurses finally arrive, doctors too.
It takes less than a second for Dean to reach for the tube down his throat, movements jerky and harsh, sudden and scared, but with one mission.
When the nurses hold him down, Dean’s eyes are wild and afraid. He bucks and arches his back up off of the bed; he’s strong despite his surroundings and condition. He’s focused only on getting the damn thing, and if he keeps on much longer, he’ll stop breathing all together.
His last memories, distorted as they are, have the stench of copper woven deep. Pain laced between the intricately striped walls of feelings and emotions inside of the tapestry, inside of Dean. Random thoughts spread sporadically between the strong patchworks of it found us, it’s here, and I know my dad better than anyone, and you ain’t him.
He hates hospitals. He hates tubes down his goddamn throat. He hates fighting when his energy’s spent, and he hates being reminded that he isn’t capable.
The medical staff are shouting now and so is Sam, but they’re barely heard over the whining machines as Dean’s heart rate increases rapidly. They’re telling him to calm down, but he can’t, he can’t, until...
Until Sam pushes his way back to his brother’s side. He grabs Dean’s forearms, holds them tight, and whispers, “Ready?”
Dean doesn’t nod. Sam already knows the answer, and as the doctor catches on, he too moves forward, holds the tube steady and lets Sam manoeuvre his brother into a better position.
One, two, exhale.
A great pull and a horrible gurgle, followed by harsh coughs that hack through Dean’s chest, sear his throat even more, and lead the way to trepidation when it comes to closing his eyes.
The world seems so bright, so new, and so different, until it all comes crashing down, and Dean lets Sam hold him in his arms, because his throat is burning, aching, screaming, and he’s so damn worried, so damn confused.
But Sam’s there, telling him to take it slow, calm down.
Black spots dance in front of Dean’s eyes as his breath hitches for less than a moment, and panic sets in for a lot longer. He takes great big gulps of air to overcompensate; the sensation makes his head swim before the black spots morph into great big blotches and there’s nothing left to see but the great big black hole he’s fallen into once more.
*-*-*
He hears the whistling as the fire crackles in the place. Rises up and falls back down. Reds and yellows and oranges, and black ash falling like snowflakes.
Like black, burning, snowflakes.
The whistling doesn’t stop. Not when he hears a slice and a scream, not when he hears the drip, drip, drip. The whistling never stops. He hears snarling, hissing, and another-another-another scream.
He sees red all over. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling and the windows. The bed sheets are sodden, the clothes are too. He feels the familiarity, the cold shiver that this could have been stopped, but the scream isn’t Dean’s and the blood isn’t either.
*-*-*
Sam’s heart is beating hard, and he swallows the bile quickly, wiping his forehead free of the beads of sweat forming there. He looks back to his brother, still out cold, monitored carefully, and sighs. He thinks back to Doctor Marks and his words of caution, and he wonders if visions so vague are any help at all.
When he closes his eyes, he can still hear that scream, but he doesn’t dare match it to a face, because he knows he’s already too late.
*-*-*
Pre-rounds. Goddamn pre-rounds. Dean knows because in almost every hospital he’s been to there are pre-rounds. In most cases-like now-the interns are kind and apologetic for waking patients up just after five.
His head aches, his chest more so, and when his eyes flutter open, everything’s just a blur with splotches of light scattered between. He hears a surprised, “Sir?” and another, “Sir?” before the young woman is standing above him, pen-light dangling in front of his eyes. She’s blinding him, but he does as he’s supposed to, and the light goes away with a click.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, when Dean focuses on her once more, and he grunts in reply; he’s surprised at the weak gurgle he hears. He swallows deeply and tries again.
“’m good.” His throat burns, and his mouth tastes like cotton.
“Do you know where you are?” she asks carefully, and Dean smiles weakly.
“Heaven?”
She grins as she checks the chart with her trained eyes.
“...Dad?” he asks, his voice rasping, barely audible. She hears him and promises to check.
“The young man with you, he’s in the waiting area.”
And when Dean’s forehead frowns, she continues.
“He refused to leave the hospital when visiting hours were over,” she explains-her eyes alight with amusement.
“He’s my brother,” Dean explains lying back against the pillow, wondering why their father wasn’t waiting with Sam.
*-*-*
He listens vaguely at the report the intern gives, flinches at some, assuming that he should probably give some kind of reaction considering what he’s hearing.
Complications, surgery, tachycardia, transfusion, ventilator.
He’s given a smile from an attending he hasn’t been introduced to, but who already knows more about Dean’s insides than Dean himself.
He’s left alone to his thoughts, wondering if now his nine lives are up.
*-*-*
Later in the morning, Sam’s back.
Long after the pretty intern has presented Dean’s case to the attending, just when he was wondering to himself how long he should wait before breaking out.
The doctors sigh, but understand when they see the tall, bushy haired man from yesterday striding down the hallways, and they say nothing but watch in his wake.
Dean sleeps for a little and pretends for the rest. There’s something to be said about ignorance being bliss; and he takes note of the first few letters being twinned with ignore keeps his eyes closed.
Sam sips on his coffee, adjusts the paper on his lap that he has no interest in.
He doesn’t know what he’s running on anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t sleep. The pain medication was weaned off a week or so ago, and he’s forgotten the feel of adrenaline.
He takes another sip, thinking how peaceful Dean is when he’s asleep.
Faking it or not.
*-*-*
When Dean finally decides to show that yes, he is awake, and yes, he is lucid-to anyone but his doctors-he wonders if he should put Sam out of his misery when the topic turns silent, and Sam knows he has to tell.
He doesn’t know that Dean’s already worked it out-or thinks he has- and he doesn’t think too much of the lack of questions being shot his way.
He just starts talking and can’t stop. Refuses to stop and Dean would never dare cut across him. Sam’s been waiting for this, for too long, and he needs it, Dean knows that. And he listens, and he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t pretend he’s not listening, or makes a crude joke at the end.
He listens, and he hurts, and he grieves, and Sam talks, just talks, more so than he’s done in a long time; it helps him, and Dean knows that, but he’s waited and now he needs to hear the words he’s waiting for.
“Dad?”
The question catches Sam off guard, and he looks down, and for a moment, Dean fears the worst.
“He booked.” And at Dean’s expression, Sam hastily continues, “Dean, you were out for a while, man, and he was here every day since he woke up, but the demon’s still out there...”
Dean nods, smiles, and keeps pretending.
*-*-*
Mary had a little lamb. That’s what he’s whistling when he breaks into their room after stealing their father’s body. He stops, faces Sam, and stares until the Winchester can hear the changed lyrics in his head.
“Her parents tried to shut me out, shut me out, shut me out, her parents tried to shut me out, but still I lingered near and waited patiently about, patiently about, patiently about, and waited patiently about till Mary did appear.”
He sneers.
“Then up in smoke, momma goes, Sammy.”
*-*-*
Sam walks down the corridors of the hospital with a mask upon his face. He’s haunted by the goddamn nursery rhyme. Once it gets in, it doesn’t get out, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he started whistling the thing himself. He’s heading for Dean’s room as always. Fear propelling his stride with the images of last night’s massacre replaying in his mind to the surprising melodic singing of his father’s voice.
The demon’s twisted song.
Sam walks in, he doesn’t need to knock, he never has before, and the door is already open. The new male intern assigned to Dean’s case left it that way. He’s still standing next to Dean, who sits on the edge of the bed, a look of fury hidden behind a tight smile-visible only to Sam-on his face.
“Sir, I strongly suggest you reconsider.” Sam hears an unfamiliar voice speak.
“Thanks, but no.” Dean replies curtly.
“Sir.” More frank, more annoyed, more official…
“Look, I’m good, and I’m taking up bed-space, so if you don’t mind.” And he gestures to the door, seeing Sam for the first time and letting his hand fall, and his eyes find the floor. The intern sighs once more, another patient to add to a long list of grievances, and leaves, giving Sam a look he has yet to decipher as he does so.
Dean’s hands shake when he reaches for his socks, and Sam hadn’t even noticed that Dean was dressed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, seeing Dean in his shirt. It’s loose, baggy as hell, and Sam wonders how much weight his brother’s lost after being fed through tubes for so long and having no appetite upon awakening.
But the shirt’s old, tatty, and it’s likely it always looked like that, and that it’s only being worn now to help with the bandages still wrapping his torso. There hasn’t been a spot of red there for weeks, but it’s precaution until the wounds are fully healed. He also knows the bandages will be torn away as soon as they reach the motel. With Dean spending over and hour or so in the bathroom arranging his prescription drugs and pretending he isn’t broken inside and out.
Sam’s palms are sweaty, and he’s at a loss of what to do. Dean wants to leave, and Sam can’t say he honestly wants to stay, but his vision wasn’t a hospital room. He didn’t hear the whistling in a cold white corridor. He heard it outside of a motel room door. He wasn’t flung against a blue wall. If they left now, are they safer or in more danger?
What if the Demon attacks tonight? What if this is the day everything stops?
What if it isn’t?
What if the Demon comes tomorrow or another day? What if Sam spends his entire life looking over his shoulder?
“Back on the road?” he asks casually, and Dean nods. They have to leave. They never stay in one place for this long...
When the doctor comes back, he has papers for Dean to sign, which he does in record time, in a hurry for a reason Sam doesn’t know.
He isn’t told until the doctor’s gone again, and Dean says so quietly and stern, “We have to find him.”
Ah.
Sam catches a glance at the window, sees the thundering black clouds, so close to letting rain fall, and knows it’s not the best time to have his brother leave. But Dean’s adamant, and he’s angry about so many things. The only thing Sam will push him about is who gets to drive the rental, but Dean never even suggests otherwise as he realises that this is their car for now.
That this too-clean, too-new, too-young... This thing, with no history, no ties, just...a car, was what he and Sam will be stuck in from now on?
Sam sees the look, starts promises that they can go get a car as soon as Dean wants. Another rental of course and that he doesn’t mind if it’s a Chevy, or if it’s even the exact same model, because it’s Dean’s choice more than his.
Dean only nods. He never smiles. It’s not the same, and Sam just doesn’t understand.
But Sam is keeping his cards held close to his chest, knowing it’ll be worth it when Dean sees the gleaming Impala once again restored to its former glory. He knows that every jibe the rental will have thrown its way will be just as soon as they drive up to Bobby’s place and drive back behind the wheel of the Impala.
They just have to wait, that’s all.
When the doctor returns, he stops in the doorway. His shoulders are squared, but he’s no taller than Dean and certainly not Sam. His face is calm, but he’s ready to verbally assault Dean back into bed by listing the damn near misses one after the other, should his patient disagree.
“One check up,” he says in a no-nonsense tone that isn’t fooling anyone.
Dean starts to groan, but the doctor continues, “One check up, and you leave here a free man.”
“Come on, Dean, just let him do the check up, then we can go,” Sam pleads.
There’s a moment then. It isn’t ground breaking, it isn’t new, but it’s there. Sam’s asking Dean, and Dean will comply because he always does. Sam is watching him carefully, hoping desperately to see the lull in the shoulders that means he’s won.
And there it is.
The shrug and grunt that tell him Dean has agreed.
Sam feels no relief. No happiness. Just guilt for knowing his brother so well when Dean tries so hard to be unreadable. Guilt for having perfected the tone in which he asks for things so much so that Dean has forgotten how to disagree.
Guilt, because all Dean’s wanted to do since he woke up, is leave, and now Sam is stalling out of fear. He knows that if he told Dean about his dream, his brother would tell him, “What are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”
So Sam doesn’t say a word. He feels a chill run down his spine when a nurse walks past, humming a certain nursery rhyme, and his heart constricts at the black, endless pit-like eyes that stare at him then.
But then they’re gone, and Sam wonders, hopes, dares to tell himself that it was just a trick of the light.
TBC
Also, does anyone know why I'm not appearing on ANYONE's flist??
Author: mellaithwen
Chapters: 3/?
Rating: R (Gen)
Warnings: Spoilers for Devil's Trap. Only spec for season 2, no spoilers.
Summary: Post Devil's Trap. Everything has an aftermath...
So when you're ill you curl up in bed, moan, and generally get waited on hand and foot, right?
Pixel_0 beta'd this instead.
!!!
Part Two
Part Three
John hears hushed whispers when he leaves. Voices following him all the way to the door. He realises then that this is the first time he dare leave.
If he wasn’t under strict orders to stay in bed, he was by Dean’s side or comforting Sam. The last time he remembers being outside, he had a bullet in his leg and Sam’s voice in his ear.
Now he’s got his pack in his hand, the salvaged weapons within, including the gun-the wonderful, magical gun that will save them. Solve their problems and stop the hurting.
Yeah right.
He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to. It’s no excuse, but it’s the truth. He doesn’t want Sam to deal with this alone, but Missouri won’t answer her phone and John already knows that Bobby thinks he’s full of shit.
He doesn’t want Dean to be hurt. He doesn’t want his little boy’s last words to be a pleading whisper of, “Sam, no.”
He doesn’t want Dean to have last words for years and years...
He pays the last of their bills with one of the few credit cards he has with his own name. Just in case he’d thought at the time when he filled the form in for a Winchester and not a Smith, or a Jones.
Just in case.
Just in case you get possessed and shot, just in case you torture your own little boy. Just in case a truck slams into you while your youngest son is driving. Just in case you’re too scared to think up an alias because Mary’s boys are unconscious. Just in case.
He’d been more than worried. John Winchester had left Lawrence a long time ago, Dean Winchester was wanted for murder (though granted thought to be deceased) and Sam Winchester’s friends would have no doubt declared him missing after all of this time. A road-trip was one thing...but a year?
But that’s who they were.
The broken Winchesters. The fallen heroes. Waiting to get back up again.
No police officers had come their way searching for a murderer. They’d asked about the gun shot, and Sam had bullshitteded beautifully. They’d gotten a statement from the truck driver, and John almost felt sorry for him. The way things were going, he’d most likely be charged for falling asleep at the wheel.
The automatic doors swing open, and John nods at the security guard there.
He makes a note to leave an anonymous tip at the station with the implications that it wasn’t really anyone’s fault.
Even though he knows it won’t do a hell of a lot.
*-*-*
Sam is alone when it begins. He’s sitting as comfortable as possible in a seat that really wasn’t built with comfort in mind. He’s remembering the doctor’s words about his own health and Dean’s. He’s wondering about his father and whether he’s all right.
He’s alone when it begins.
He’s the only other person in the room when Dean’s fingers twitch. It’s sudden and small, but there. Followed quickly by another twitch, until the whole right hand jerks against the bed and the left then does the same. Sam sees Dean’s eyelids moving back and forth quickly beneath closed lids. Chest rising and falling faster and faster.
Sam hits the red call button before he can think, but he’s alone when it begins.
Dean’s eyes open as quickly as the twitch in his hand, but there’s no mistaking this. No mistaking the clouded, glazed green eyes, seemingly dull but then, too bright.
Sam’s about to lean closer, when the nurses finally arrive, doctors too.
It takes less than a second for Dean to reach for the tube down his throat, movements jerky and harsh, sudden and scared, but with one mission.
When the nurses hold him down, Dean’s eyes are wild and afraid. He bucks and arches his back up off of the bed; he’s strong despite his surroundings and condition. He’s focused only on getting the damn thing, and if he keeps on much longer, he’ll stop breathing all together.
His last memories, distorted as they are, have the stench of copper woven deep. Pain laced between the intricately striped walls of feelings and emotions inside of the tapestry, inside of Dean. Random thoughts spread sporadically between the strong patchworks of it found us, it’s here, and I know my dad better than anyone, and you ain’t him.
He hates hospitals. He hates tubes down his goddamn throat. He hates fighting when his energy’s spent, and he hates being reminded that he isn’t capable.
The medical staff are shouting now and so is Sam, but they’re barely heard over the whining machines as Dean’s heart rate increases rapidly. They’re telling him to calm down, but he can’t, he can’t, until...
Until Sam pushes his way back to his brother’s side. He grabs Dean’s forearms, holds them tight, and whispers, “Ready?”
Dean doesn’t nod. Sam already knows the answer, and as the doctor catches on, he too moves forward, holds the tube steady and lets Sam manoeuvre his brother into a better position.
One, two, exhale.
A great pull and a horrible gurgle, followed by harsh coughs that hack through Dean’s chest, sear his throat even more, and lead the way to trepidation when it comes to closing his eyes.
The world seems so bright, so new, and so different, until it all comes crashing down, and Dean lets Sam hold him in his arms, because his throat is burning, aching, screaming, and he’s so damn worried, so damn confused.
But Sam’s there, telling him to take it slow, calm down.
Black spots dance in front of Dean’s eyes as his breath hitches for less than a moment, and panic sets in for a lot longer. He takes great big gulps of air to overcompensate; the sensation makes his head swim before the black spots morph into great big blotches and there’s nothing left to see but the great big black hole he’s fallen into once more.
*-*-*
He hears the whistling as the fire crackles in the place. Rises up and falls back down. Reds and yellows and oranges, and black ash falling like snowflakes.
Like black, burning, snowflakes.
The whistling doesn’t stop. Not when he hears a slice and a scream, not when he hears the drip, drip, drip. The whistling never stops. He hears snarling, hissing, and another-another-another scream.
He sees red all over. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling and the windows. The bed sheets are sodden, the clothes are too. He feels the familiarity, the cold shiver that this could have been stopped, but the scream isn’t Dean’s and the blood isn’t either.
*-*-*
Sam’s heart is beating hard, and he swallows the bile quickly, wiping his forehead free of the beads of sweat forming there. He looks back to his brother, still out cold, monitored carefully, and sighs. He thinks back to Doctor Marks and his words of caution, and he wonders if visions so vague are any help at all.
When he closes his eyes, he can still hear that scream, but he doesn’t dare match it to a face, because he knows he’s already too late.
*-*-*
Pre-rounds. Goddamn pre-rounds. Dean knows because in almost every hospital he’s been to there are pre-rounds. In most cases-like now-the interns are kind and apologetic for waking patients up just after five.
His head aches, his chest more so, and when his eyes flutter open, everything’s just a blur with splotches of light scattered between. He hears a surprised, “Sir?” and another, “Sir?” before the young woman is standing above him, pen-light dangling in front of his eyes. She’s blinding him, but he does as he’s supposed to, and the light goes away with a click.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, when Dean focuses on her once more, and he grunts in reply; he’s surprised at the weak gurgle he hears. He swallows deeply and tries again.
“’m good.” His throat burns, and his mouth tastes like cotton.
“Do you know where you are?” she asks carefully, and Dean smiles weakly.
“Heaven?”
She grins as she checks the chart with her trained eyes.
“...Dad?” he asks, his voice rasping, barely audible. She hears him and promises to check.
“The young man with you, he’s in the waiting area.”
And when Dean’s forehead frowns, she continues.
“He refused to leave the hospital when visiting hours were over,” she explains-her eyes alight with amusement.
“He’s my brother,” Dean explains lying back against the pillow, wondering why their father wasn’t waiting with Sam.
*-*-*
He listens vaguely at the report the intern gives, flinches at some, assuming that he should probably give some kind of reaction considering what he’s hearing.
Complications, surgery, tachycardia, transfusion, ventilator.
He’s given a smile from an attending he hasn’t been introduced to, but who already knows more about Dean’s insides than Dean himself.
He’s left alone to his thoughts, wondering if now his nine lives are up.
*-*-*
Later in the morning, Sam’s back.
Long after the pretty intern has presented Dean’s case to the attending, just when he was wondering to himself how long he should wait before breaking out.
The doctors sigh, but understand when they see the tall, bushy haired man from yesterday striding down the hallways, and they say nothing but watch in his wake.
Dean sleeps for a little and pretends for the rest. There’s something to be said about ignorance being bliss; and he takes note of the first few letters being twinned with ignore keeps his eyes closed.
Sam sips on his coffee, adjusts the paper on his lap that he has no interest in.
He doesn’t know what he’s running on anymore, but it sure as hell isn’t sleep. The pain medication was weaned off a week or so ago, and he’s forgotten the feel of adrenaline.
He takes another sip, thinking how peaceful Dean is when he’s asleep.
Faking it or not.
*-*-*
When Dean finally decides to show that yes, he is awake, and yes, he is lucid-to anyone but his doctors-he wonders if he should put Sam out of his misery when the topic turns silent, and Sam knows he has to tell.
He doesn’t know that Dean’s already worked it out-or thinks he has- and he doesn’t think too much of the lack of questions being shot his way.
He just starts talking and can’t stop. Refuses to stop and Dean would never dare cut across him. Sam’s been waiting for this, for too long, and he needs it, Dean knows that. And he listens, and he doesn’t look away, he doesn’t pretend he’s not listening, or makes a crude joke at the end.
He listens, and he hurts, and he grieves, and Sam talks, just talks, more so than he’s done in a long time; it helps him, and Dean knows that, but he’s waited and now he needs to hear the words he’s waiting for.
“Dad?”
The question catches Sam off guard, and he looks down, and for a moment, Dean fears the worst.
“He booked.” And at Dean’s expression, Sam hastily continues, “Dean, you were out for a while, man, and he was here every day since he woke up, but the demon’s still out there...”
Dean nods, smiles, and keeps pretending.
*-*-*
Mary had a little lamb. That’s what he’s whistling when he breaks into their room after stealing their father’s body. He stops, faces Sam, and stares until the Winchester can hear the changed lyrics in his head.
“Her parents tried to shut me out, shut me out, shut me out, her parents tried to shut me out, but still I lingered near and waited patiently about, patiently about, patiently about, and waited patiently about till Mary did appear.”
He sneers.
“Then up in smoke, momma goes, Sammy.”
*-*-*
Sam walks down the corridors of the hospital with a mask upon his face. He’s haunted by the goddamn nursery rhyme. Once it gets in, it doesn’t get out, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he started whistling the thing himself. He’s heading for Dean’s room as always. Fear propelling his stride with the images of last night’s massacre replaying in his mind to the surprising melodic singing of his father’s voice.
The demon’s twisted song.
Sam walks in, he doesn’t need to knock, he never has before, and the door is already open. The new male intern assigned to Dean’s case left it that way. He’s still standing next to Dean, who sits on the edge of the bed, a look of fury hidden behind a tight smile-visible only to Sam-on his face.
“Sir, I strongly suggest you reconsider.” Sam hears an unfamiliar voice speak.
“Thanks, but no.” Dean replies curtly.
“Sir.” More frank, more annoyed, more official…
“Look, I’m good, and I’m taking up bed-space, so if you don’t mind.” And he gestures to the door, seeing Sam for the first time and letting his hand fall, and his eyes find the floor. The intern sighs once more, another patient to add to a long list of grievances, and leaves, giving Sam a look he has yet to decipher as he does so.
Dean’s hands shake when he reaches for his socks, and Sam hadn’t even noticed that Dean was dressed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, seeing Dean in his shirt. It’s loose, baggy as hell, and Sam wonders how much weight his brother’s lost after being fed through tubes for so long and having no appetite upon awakening.
But the shirt’s old, tatty, and it’s likely it always looked like that, and that it’s only being worn now to help with the bandages still wrapping his torso. There hasn’t been a spot of red there for weeks, but it’s precaution until the wounds are fully healed. He also knows the bandages will be torn away as soon as they reach the motel. With Dean spending over and hour or so in the bathroom arranging his prescription drugs and pretending he isn’t broken inside and out.
Sam’s palms are sweaty, and he’s at a loss of what to do. Dean wants to leave, and Sam can’t say he honestly wants to stay, but his vision wasn’t a hospital room. He didn’t hear the whistling in a cold white corridor. He heard it outside of a motel room door. He wasn’t flung against a blue wall. If they left now, are they safer or in more danger?
What if the Demon attacks tonight? What if this is the day everything stops?
What if it isn’t?
What if the Demon comes tomorrow or another day? What if Sam spends his entire life looking over his shoulder?
“Back on the road?” he asks casually, and Dean nods. They have to leave. They never stay in one place for this long...
When the doctor comes back, he has papers for Dean to sign, which he does in record time, in a hurry for a reason Sam doesn’t know.
He isn’t told until the doctor’s gone again, and Dean says so quietly and stern, “We have to find him.”
Ah.
Sam catches a glance at the window, sees the thundering black clouds, so close to letting rain fall, and knows it’s not the best time to have his brother leave. But Dean’s adamant, and he’s angry about so many things. The only thing Sam will push him about is who gets to drive the rental, but Dean never even suggests otherwise as he realises that this is their car for now.
That this too-clean, too-new, too-young... This thing, with no history, no ties, just...a car, was what he and Sam will be stuck in from now on?
Sam sees the look, starts promises that they can go get a car as soon as Dean wants. Another rental of course and that he doesn’t mind if it’s a Chevy, or if it’s even the exact same model, because it’s Dean’s choice more than his.
Dean only nods. He never smiles. It’s not the same, and Sam just doesn’t understand.
But Sam is keeping his cards held close to his chest, knowing it’ll be worth it when Dean sees the gleaming Impala once again restored to its former glory. He knows that every jibe the rental will have thrown its way will be just as soon as they drive up to Bobby’s place and drive back behind the wheel of the Impala.
They just have to wait, that’s all.
When the doctor returns, he stops in the doorway. His shoulders are squared, but he’s no taller than Dean and certainly not Sam. His face is calm, but he’s ready to verbally assault Dean back into bed by listing the damn near misses one after the other, should his patient disagree.
“One check up,” he says in a no-nonsense tone that isn’t fooling anyone.
Dean starts to groan, but the doctor continues, “One check up, and you leave here a free man.”
“Come on, Dean, just let him do the check up, then we can go,” Sam pleads.
There’s a moment then. It isn’t ground breaking, it isn’t new, but it’s there. Sam’s asking Dean, and Dean will comply because he always does. Sam is watching him carefully, hoping desperately to see the lull in the shoulders that means he’s won.
And there it is.
The shrug and grunt that tell him Dean has agreed.
Sam feels no relief. No happiness. Just guilt for knowing his brother so well when Dean tries so hard to be unreadable. Guilt for having perfected the tone in which he asks for things so much so that Dean has forgotten how to disagree.
Guilt, because all Dean’s wanted to do since he woke up, is leave, and now Sam is stalling out of fear. He knows that if he told Dean about his dream, his brother would tell him, “What are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”
So Sam doesn’t say a word. He feels a chill run down his spine when a nurse walks past, humming a certain nursery rhyme, and his heart constricts at the black, endless pit-like eyes that stare at him then.
But then they’re gone, and Sam wonders, hopes, dares to tell himself that it was just a trick of the light.
TBC
Also, does anyone know why I'm not appearing on ANYONE's flist??