Schrodinger's Sam
Schrodinger's Sam
Summary: Dean still feels as though he's all that stands between Sammy and death. Warriors 'verse
A/N: As always, medical details are to be taken with a mountain of salt.
Also, my muse is all over the place right now. Finishing this story is some kind of miracle. I have what must be half a million unfinished things lying around and, just so you know, I always find reviews to be wonderful motivation. *hint hint*
Enjoy!
“Check it out, I got a fancy new tube.” Sam grins up at Dean tiredly. Lavender bags circle his eyes and Dean can see deep, dark bruises forming on his arms where they made contact with the hard bathroom floor. His lighthearted words are to let Dean know that he's okay, it looks worse than it is.
Dean appreciates the effort after the shitty night they've had. Finally seeing Sam, conscious and breathing, is enough to make him weak-kneed with relief. Smiling is more than he dared hope for during the hours he just spent sitting in the ER waiting room.
“Suits you, runt,” he says with forced humour, though the tube taped across Sam's cheek, piped through his nostril, looks nothing but uncomfortable. He tugs the curtain around Sam's cubical closed behind him and steps up to the bed.
“I've got quite a collection now.” Sam holds out his thin arms to show them all off. The Hickman catheter is, of course, still in his chest, a drip tucked into the crook of his arm, a pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and a bunch of wires keep track of whatever else it is that needs monitoring, which seems to be everything.
“Too bad you have to leave most of them here when we go home tomorrow.” Carrying on the joke is automatic. It's what they do. Of course, he doesn't feel anywhere near as calm or happy as he sounds, not with the strobe-light image of his desperately ill little brother seizing on the bathroom floor flashing non-stop through his head, the remnants of brutal, heart-stopping panic so deeply ingrained, he doesn't know if he'll ever stop feeling it.
“Woohoo, only one night in the hospital.” At least Sam's genuinely happy about that.
“Must be a new record for you. Apart from the chemo.”
Something in Dean's tone makes Sam stop. Careful of the new tube, he swipes a hand over his eyes wearily, his smile dropping. “I'm okay, you know. You don't need to look so worried.”
Ah, maybe it was something in his face then. “You didn't see it,” Dean says grimly, letting all pretenses of being jovial slip away. What's the point, when Sam sees right through him?
Sam sighs like he knew this was coming but he doesn't point out that he was the one who actually had the fit, which Dean is grateful for because he doesn't want to argue about whether it's worse to have a seizure or watch someone you love have a seizure, and damn it, it's the latter, okay? “I was just dehydrated.” He holds up the arm with the drip. “And that's fixed now. I feel better than I have in ages. Really.”
“That's because of all the fluids and anti-emetics and crap that they've pumped into you.” God, he's sick of things being pumped into his kid brother. Dean shakes his head, giving Sam a hard look that he hopes conveys all of his big brotherly power of admonishment. “You weren't 'just dehydrated', Sam, you were so dehydrated you went into fucking convulsions.”
Sam actually rolls his eyes, letting his head thud back against the pillow. For a moment, he's 12 and unimpressed by Dean's rude jokes, 13 and insolently obeying Dad's orders during training. “I know, okay? I was an idiot and didn't drink enough. Or maybe I did but I threw it all back up. Does it matter now? You got me to hospital and I'm fine.”
Dean shakes his head again, failing to see Sam's logic. Of course it matters. “You can't even eat anymore, Sam.” He doesn't know if it's the lack of sleep, the constant terror that hasn't gone away since the kid was diagnosed or seeing Sammy looking so freaking fragile in a hospital bed, acting like it's no big deal, but all of a sudden, he thinks he might cry. Sam, you're not fine.
Sam shrugs like he couldn't care less, his bony shoulders bobbing up and down. “That's why I've got this thing.” He gestures to the tube in his nose. “Seems a lot simpler than trying to force down food that tastes all funky because of the chemo.”
“Sammy...” Dean doesn't know what to say. It's not like he wants Sam to be upset or freaked out, except that he kind of came in here expecting that and he was totally ready to do the whole protective, comforting thing and now that he doesn't need to, it's like all that's left is fear and maybe shock or something. He doesn't know. All he knows is, a few hours ago, Sam was convulsing on the floor and he thought the kid was dying.
“I'm getting better, Dean,” Sam says quietly. He slides a finger inside his hospital wristband and twists it around on his wrist as he talks. “The doctor said so, remember? I know that what happened was freaky and it sucked but other than feeling kind of sore, it's not like it had any lasting effects. It doesn't mean I'm getting worse. Dean, there's finally a finish line to all this and I get to live once I cross it. We're not living in limbo anymore, waiting to find out if the chemo's working or not. Just one more cycle after this one and I should be in remission. I'm just... not scared anymore.”
“Scared the crap out of me,” Dean admits, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. It doesn't work. “I didn't know what the hell was happening to you. It was like, as soon as there was a light at the end of the tunnel, the electricity shut off and I was back in the dark, not knowing if you were gonna make it.”
His eyes are burning now, a lump forming in his throat that makes it hard to talk. He tries to swallow it down but instead a sob forces it's way out. Sam's face softens and no, this is wrong. Dean's supposed to be strong. He rubs at his eyes with his knuckles, hoping to transform the tears into exhaustion.
“Dean, it's okay,” Sam says, soft and understanding, sounding much older than he is. “You're allowed to cry.”
Dean shakes his head hopelessly. Now that it's started, he doesn't know if he can stop. “Supposed to be comforting you,” he mutters as embarrassment colours his cheeks.
“I'm not the only one who's been dealing with cancer for the last year,” Sam points out. “I think it's my turn to comfort you.”
Damn this kid for being so understanding. It just makes Dean want to cry more. Oh screw it, there's no point trying to deny it anymore. The stinging behind his eyes is too strong to ignore and a wave of inescapable emotion lurches in his chest.
“You are never, ever allowed to do that again,” he orders as the tears spill over.
“I'll try not to,” Sam promises, and holds out his stick-thin arms so Dean can carefully wrap himself around his brother and feel the warmth of Sam's skin, Sam's breath whispering over the shaved side of his head, and be reassured that Sam's alive and fighting and winning. He sobs anyway because Sammy's been so fucking sick, is still so fucking sick, and he loves this scrawny, bald kid more than anything in the world, and for a whole year he didn't know if Sam was going to live or die, still isn't totally convinced that he'll recover, and everything has just been so freaking messed up for so long.
There have been times when Dean felt so damn angry that it seemed like the rage would tear his skin apart and times when he was so damn scared that he sat up all night to make sure the kid didn't die in his sleep, and one horrible, terrible moment of despair, on a night when Sam could barely breathe without gagging, in tears because his head hurt and his stomach was cramping and his mouth was a mess of ulcers, and Dean had thought to himself that maybe it would be better for Sam to die now than suffer so much and then die anyway.
He didn't mean it, is far too selfish to mean it, but when you've been awake for almost thirty hours, watching your kid brother fall apart and trying not to fall apart yourself, everything is so fucking miserable that any alternative seems worth considering, if only for a moment before you shake some sense into yourself.
Sam has thought it too. Dean's seen it in his eyes at three am on long nights camped out on the bathroom floor, struggling to hold down water. Nights like last night, when nothing Dean says or does helps and all the ginger ale and dry crackers in the world do nothing but fuel the sickness, he has seen his brother wish for death.
Eventually, the tears run out, but not before his nose is clogged like drying cement and his head is pounding, eyes swollen and raw. He makes a halfhearted attempt to scrub the tear trails from his face but otherwise stays still, watching Sam's heartbeat on the monitor beside the bed. Sam's hand is rubbing light circles on his back and the motion is more soothing than he'd like to admit. Now that he's calmed down, shame is starting to flood his face.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Sam huffs out a fond, exasperated breath. “How pissed off would you be if I apologized every time I cried?”
Dean smiles self-deprecatingly. “Pretty damn pissed off.”
“Exactly. You don't have anything to apologize for.”
Well, okay then. Dean's not going to argue with the kid. “You tired, Sammy?” He suddenly feels bone-weary, every minute of lost sleep demanding to be reclaimed.
“Exhausted,” Sam says. “You should get some sleep too. I know this is, like, the only place you can completely let your guard down and actually rest so I expect you to take advantage of it.”
Sam's right. With all the equipment and trained medical professionals around, the hospital is the only place that Dean feels is safe enough to let Sammy out of his sight. At home, he finds himself constantly jerking awake, eyes automatically searching the darkness, dread sticking in his throat, until he makes out the rise and fall of his brother's chest. Here, there's no way for Sam to slip away unnoticed.
Sam shuffles a little and Dean starts to rise but he's halted by Sam's hand wrapping around his wrist before he's halfway up. He looks at the thin, blue veins visible through Sam's papery skin.
“Stay,” Sam says as he moves over to allow Dean room.
“Needy,” Dean teases as he settles back in, relieved by the request. No matter how safe the hospital is, he still feels, irrationally, as though Sam's safer with him nearby, as though he's the only thing that stands between Sammy and death. It's like, if he can't see Sam or feel Sam then how is he supposed to know if the kid's alive or not?
Sam kindly doesn't point out that Dean's the needy one right now and stays silent while Dean rearranges himself so he won't disturb any of the tubes or wires in his sleep, wrapping a protective arm around his brother.
Curling into Dean's chest in a way that reminds him of a much younger, smaller kid, Sam tucks his head under Dean's chin and closes his eyes, murmuring a goodnight. He's out almost immediately.
Dean hugs him closer and listens until the reassuring sound of Sammy's breathing lulls him into sleep.
End