Fic: Picking up the Pieces (SPN) Chapters Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Dean was sitting up on the edge of his bed, which was more than he’d done all day. It took the help of a nurse to get him in that position, but he was trying not to focus on the negative. Sam had stepped out while the psychiatrist came to speak to Dean. He was wound up so tight he was close to snapping. The knowledge that he’d soon be getting an MRI looming over his head. Besides that, his head felt like a cinder block, and his gut ached, and his chest ached, and his friggen back ached, and the only part that didn’t ache was his little toe.
"Hi, Dean. My name's Dr Whittaker, I'm a psychiatrist working here at the hospital. Dr Reid has asked me to come and speak to you because we're a bit concerned,” Whittaker sat across from him with his clipboard in one hand, and glasses on the end of his nose like a friggen grandpa teddy bear.
Dean held in a snort.
"I understand you spent some time overseas in some aspect of the military. Could you let me know what that was?"
Dean shook his head, "No, I can't talk about that."
"Okay, that's fair enough. Your brother said you were held captive for several months?"
"I'm gonna need to stop you there."
"I just want to make sure I have all the details correct."
"Consider them correct enough."
Dr Whittaker nodded, seemingly unfazed by Dean's abrasive attitude.
"How's your day going?"
"How do you think?" Dean realised after he'd said it that he needed to cooperate if he wanted this to end, "Sorry. I'm just a little on edge."
"That's quite alright. Is there anything particular you're on edge about?"
Dean cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, "I guess having the, uh, MRI... I'm not a fan of... that machine."
"And what do you think it is about the MRI machine that puts you on edge?"
Dean felt the dirt hit his face, could taste it on his tongue.
"I don't like... small spaces."
"Have you always been afraid of small spaces?"
"No."
"Can you think of an event that triggered this fear?"
Dean felt the air being sucked out of the room.
"Yes."
"Do you want to share it with me?"
"No."
"Okay. That's okay. Why don't we talk about something else. I understand you've been having nightmares. Could you tell me about that?"
"I'd rather not."
"I think we need to explore some of the things you're going through. So I would appreciate it if you'd share something with me."
Dean nodded.
"Are the nightmares related to the time you served?"
Dean cleared his throat, "Yes."
"And do they happen only when you're asleep or when your eyes are closed as well?"
"Sometimes when I close my eyes. Always when I'm asleep."
"Do you have any moments during the day, maybe when you're doing something normal, like watching tv or taking a shower, where you find you have these "waking" nightmares? Perhaps where you lose a sense of time or place?"
"Yes."
"How often would these occur?"
"A couple'a times a day. Sometimes I don't know I'm doing it. My brother sort of... snaps me back."
"Are there certain things that you find triggering this?"
Dean remembered the knife glide under the skin of the fish from the cooking program on tv.
He cleared his throat again, "Sometimes I'll see something on tv..." his chest tightened.
"Dean, what are you experiencing right now?"
Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It hurt.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"That's okay. Can you tell me what's bothering you?"
"It's nothing," he opened his eyes, tried for a smirk, "Just not feeling too well."
"Are you okay if we talk about this a bit more? I can come back another time..."
"No," Dean said, quickly. He didn't want this dragging out to another day, "Keep going."
Dean coughed into his fist, felt his chest spasming. The shrink waited for him to finish.
"So when you have the nightmares, what's the overall feeling you get from them?"
Terror. Pain. Guilt.
"I don't know what you mean."
"How do they make you feel? If you could use one word."
Dean breathed out, "There... there aren't words."
"Okay," he nodded, "Dean, do you ever hear voices in your head?"
"I'm not insane."
"I wasn't saying that at all. But it seems to me that you're going through a lot right now and I just want to make sure I'm able to help you the best that I can."
Dean coughed again, "No, I don't hear voices," he said, bluntly. Even though... did the screams count?
"Have you ever had negative thoughts? Like maybe you didn't want to be here anymore, that you might hurt yourself?"
Dean felt the anger creep up his neck.
"No," he said firmly, wanting to say so much more but biting his tongue.
"Do you feel safe here at the hospital?"
"I guess."
"Do you feel safe at home with your brother?"
"Sure."
"Well, that's good. And does your brother help you out?"
"Yeah... he's a good kid."
"Now, can you tell me why you left the hospital last week?"
"There was something I had to do..."
"Could you tell me what that was?"
"No."
"Okay...” Dr Whittaker scrawled on his paper as he spoke, he looked up once again, “Dean, is there anything you can tell me about the time you were away for? About what might have happened while you were held captive?"
Dean set his jaw, narrowed his eyes. Dr Whittaker folded his hands across his clipboard.
"I've dealt with a lot of soldiers, Dean. Some of them feel frightened, some of them feel guilty about things they may have done to survive. A lot of breakthroughs they have, is when they finally open up and talk about what they've been too afraid to say."
Dean leaned forward, unable to clamp down on the rage anymore, and in an urgent, angry whisper he said, "I've seen horrors that you couldn't even begin to imagine. I could tell you things that would make you never close your eyes again. I have been on the brink of death time and time again, only to be kept alive to endure more pain. And I've done things that would make you sick to hear, that would make your skin crawl, that you worst nightmares couldn't even conjure up. " The shrink sat back, swallowing slowly. "You might have seen soldiers before, but I guarantee you've never seen anyone like me. Because I'm not a soldier, I'm a hunter. So, enough with the psychobabble bullshit."
Dr Whittaker took a calming breath. "I want to help you."
"I don't need your help!"
"What brought you into hospital, Dean?"
"Excuse me?"
"It says here you had acute hepatitis brought on by prolonged excessive alcohol consumption." The doc stared at Dean. "Is drinking to that extent the actions of a man who doesn't need help?"
Dean was flawed for a moment.
"I don't need to know what happened to you. I'm not trying to make it all go away, and I'm not trying to change the past. I just want to help you deal with it."
Dean swallowed. His throat was raw.
"How?"
...
Dean was back in his bed after his head shrink session, sinking into the pillows gratefully after almost an hour being semi upright.
“So, what did you talk about?” Sam asked, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
“Nothing,” Dean grunted.
“Dean…” Sam started.
“Sammy,” Dean tilted his head to look at his brother, “Please.”
Dean’s desperation not to talk about it must have shown through, because Sam dropped it after that.
The doc had spoken to him for quite a while, and although Dean didn’t want to hear it, didn’t think anything like that would ever, could ever, help him, Whittaker had given him some good tips. Of course, he’d also wanted him to contact his doctor’s rooms and set up another appointment for when he was discharged but that was never going to happen.
He’d prescribed him more pills, but Dean didn’t plan on sticking around at the hospital much longer so he wasn’t sure what good they were going to do.
…
The MRI didn’t go too badly this time. Sam reflected on the last time Dean had gone into a machine like that and considered this a massive improvement. Well, this time Dean was whacked out on valium so that might have played a part.
“Issit over, Sammy?” he slurred, a cocktail of drugs in his system to get him to relax long enough to stay still for it.
“Yeah, Dean. Ya did good,” Sam smiled.
“Woah,” Dean moaned, clutching his head as he sat up.
“Let’s just take it slow,” the radiographer instructed, a hand on Dean’s back.
They kept Dean sitting for a few minutes, let him have a few sips of water before they got him back in his bed and wheeled him up to his room.
Dean pretty much slept after that, and it was honestly the most peaceful Sam had seen him all day.
…
The next few days were more of the same. Dean had people constantly talking to him, telling him things he didn’t fully understand, making rules and guidelines and programs he didn’t want to follow. Telling him what he was doing wrong, how he needed to change, measuring, and counting, and documenting, and observing, and jabbing him with needles, and poking at him every which way. He could barely take any more.
Friday morning Katie showed up again. Bobby quickly headed out to get coffee, or something, do anything that wasn’t sitting in the room with them. She was there pretty much every day. He knew it was her job, that she was at the hospital anyway, but he couldn’t help but wonder why she was hanging around, what she thought she was going to get out of it. It annoyed him that she'd come to visit. It made him angry. Because he didn't want to like her. He didn't want to appreciate her company and look forward to her coming to visit. He didn't want to care for anyone. And he hated it that she was nice, and trusting, and didn't make him talk if he didn't want to. He hated how good she was. She was too good for him.
"I'll come by tomorrow," she said, pushing his table close to his side.
"You don't have to," Dean said, shaking his head, because why would anyone volunteer to be there.
"I want to," she smiled.
As she was leaving Riley appeared at the door. They crossed paths, looked at each other but didn't say anything.
“Who was that?” Riley purred, stepping into the room.
Dean cleared his throat, “Nice of you to visit. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”
"Is that your honey?" Riley smiled at Dean, flicking her eyebrows up.
"Riley," Dean moaned, wanting desperately for her not to go there.
"She's cute," she shrugged.
"Would you stop?"
"Alright," she folded her arms, "I just wanted to see how you were doing but I guess you're being well looked after."
"Oh, come on."
She held her hands up, "Okay, this is me backing off."
"Would you sit down or something? You're making me uncomfortable."
As if he wasn't already.
"Should I stay... or?" She trailed off.
"She's just a friend, okay? Relax. And what are you getting all riled up for anyway? You and me just have a bit of fun."
"Yeah we do," she winked.
Dean looked down, a smile tugging at his lips.
"So, you've been feeling pretty bad, huh?"
He could sense her padding across the room, hear the sexual tension in her voice.
Dean just coughed into his fist, cleared his throat loudly, "Yeah, you could say that."
"Anything... I could do?" she trailed a finger up and down his arm.
Dean smirked. God, yes. Anything. Everything.
She leaned over and kissed his neck, a hand on his chest.
Dean laughed, cast his eyes towards the ceiling, relaxing back.
"Alright, shut the door and make it quick," he drawled.
...
Dean was sleeping when Sam came in. He was completely out to it. So still. So much so that Sam thought something had to have been wrong.
"Hey, man," he said, putting a hand on his arm.
Dean's eyes came open slowly, "Oh, hey, Sammy," he croaked, "When did you get here?"
"Just got here. Sorry to wake you... you looked really... dead."
Dean chuckled low in his throat, "Riley visited."
Sam wrinkled his nose, "Seriously, dude? Here?"
"That girl doesn't mess around."
"You okay?"
"I feel better than I have all week," Dean rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.
"I bet you do," Sam laughed.
"Tired, though."
"Sorry," Sam apologised again.
Dean waved a hand, "I got plenty of time to sleep."
"So… what about Katie?" Sam said, eyebrow raised.
"What about her?" Dean asked, on the defensive.
"Don't you guys have a thing?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"She's here every day, dude."
"She works here."
Sam cocked his head curiously, "You like her, don't you?"
"Would you shut up?"
"I'm fairly certain she likes you."
"Sam, I swear to God..."
"Alright," Sam raised his hands in surrender.
"Don't you have somewhere to be? Work or something?"
"Not until later," Sam said, looking at his watch.
“Are you working tomorrow morning?”
“No,” Sam said, curiously.
“Good, we’re getting outta here.”
“Ah, really? Are you sure you’re -“
“You told me to wait till the end of the week. It’s the end of the week. I’m leaving. So, you can either come and pick me up or I’ll get a friggen cab.”
“Dean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Sam stared at him, stunned, looking like he was trying to think of what to say. Dean beat him to it.
“Look, man. You’re worried about me, I get it. But I’m fine. My liver is fine. My back is fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Sam muttered.
“Well, I’m certainly not any worse. My last antibiotic is tonight and then they’re gonna unplug me. If all I’m gonna do is lie in a bed, then I can lie in a bed at home.”
“Dean…”
“End of story, Sam.”
Sam cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat, “Alright, well, we need to talk to your doctor then.”
…
Sam had asked the nurses to call Dr Reid so they could chat about discharge. Dean had fallen back asleep while they waited and Sam just sat beside him reading a book. Dean must have been buggered because he wasn’t stirring at all. It didn’t mean he wasn’t having a nightmare, it just meant his body was too wrecked to respond to it.
He wasn’t exactly surprised that Dean had wanted to check out tomorrow. He was impressed he’d even made it this long. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. At the hospital Dean had, nutritionists, dieticians, physiotherapists, psychiatrists, occupational therapists, nurses, doctors, and everything else at his disposal. Sure, it was costing an arm and a leg, and Sam was months behind on the rent as it was, but it was nothing less than what Dean needed.
Dr Reid took over an hour to get there. He didn’t work at the hospital, but it was a tight community and he seemed to really care about his patients. He’d made the trip to see Dean countless times.
Dean stirred as he knocked on the wall, making his presence known.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, coming in.
Dean woke with a rattling cough, sitting his bed up higher. Sam handed him a glass of water, and patted him on the shoulder.
“Hey, doc,” Sam smiled.
“Hey,” Dean rasped, his voice low and gravely.
“I’m told you want to go home,” Dr Reid stood at the end of Dean’s bed, chart under his arm.
“That’s right,” Dean punctuated the sentence with a thick sniff, that pesky head cold still hanging around.
“You know I’m going to advise against that?”
“I know.”
Dr Reid chewed on the inside of his lip, staring at Dean for a moment. Then he opened the chart and read a few notes.
“If I send you home I’m going to need you to follow strict instructions. You’re going to need to attend rehab every week. There’re exercises you need to do every day, supervised. I’ll need you to keep up with the medications. And most importantly, no booze.”
Dean nodded, looking unfazed.
“I can organize a community nurse to come out everyday and help you in the mornings getting you up and showered and doing your meds. But it is quite expensive per day.”
“That’s okay, Doctor,” Sam said, “I can do all of that.”
Dr Reid raised his eyebrow.
“We don’t have the biggest budget…”
The doc nodded, “I’ll get the nurses go through a few things with you and get the paperwork ready. Do you have a shower chair?”
“Yeah, we bought one after Dean’s surgery.”
“It’s probably a good idea to use that for a few more days until you’re steadier on your feet, okay?”
Dean looked shattered. His nose and eyes were red, but at least his skin had got its pinkish hue back. He nodded.
Dr Reid gave him another once over with his eyes, “Okay, I’m going to write some instructions up and order your discharge medications. Get plenty of rest, Dean, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Dean said, with a sideways smile.
“Alright, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Sam and Dean didn’t say anything for a while after Dr Reid left and Sam thought that Dean had fallen asleep again until his heard him clear his throat.
“Hey, Sam.”
“What?”
Dean eyes were closed and he looked close to passing out.
“You are not helping me shower.”
…
Dean was sitting up on the edge of his bed, which was more than he’d done all day. It took the help of a nurse to get him in that position, but he was trying not to focus on the negative. Sam had stepped out while the psychiatrist came to speak to Dean. He was wound up so tight he was close to snapping. The knowledge that he’d soon be getting an MRI looming over his head. Besides that, his head felt like a cinder block, and his gut ached, and his chest ached, and his friggen back ached, and the only part that didn’t ache was his little toe.
"Hi, Dean. My name's Dr Whittaker, I'm a psychiatrist working here at the hospital. Dr Reid has asked me to come and speak to you because we're a bit concerned,” Whittaker sat across from him with his clipboard in one hand, and glasses on the end of his nose like a friggen grandpa teddy bear.
Dean held in a snort.
"I understand you spent some time overseas in some aspect of the military. Could you let me know what that was?"
Dean shook his head, "No, I can't talk about that."
"Okay, that's fair enough. Your brother said you were held captive for several months?"
"I'm gonna need to stop you there."
"I just want to make sure I have all the details correct."
"Consider them correct enough."
Dr Whittaker nodded, seemingly unfazed by Dean's abrasive attitude.
"How's your day going?"
"How do you think?" Dean realised after he'd said it that he needed to cooperate if he wanted this to end, "Sorry. I'm just a little on edge."
"That's quite alright. Is there anything particular you're on edge about?"
Dean cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, "I guess having the, uh, MRI... I'm not a fan of... that machine."
"And what do you think it is about the MRI machine that puts you on edge?"
Dean felt the dirt hit his face, could taste it on his tongue.
"I don't like... small spaces."
"Have you always been afraid of small spaces?"
"No."
"Can you think of an event that triggered this fear?"
Dean felt the air being sucked out of the room.
"Yes."
"Do you want to share it with me?"
"No."
"Okay. That's okay. Why don't we talk about something else. I understand you've been having nightmares. Could you tell me about that?"
"I'd rather not."
"I think we need to explore some of the things you're going through. So I would appreciate it if you'd share something with me."
Dean nodded.
"Are the nightmares related to the time you served?"
Dean cleared his throat, "Yes."
"And do they happen only when you're asleep or when your eyes are closed as well?"
"Sometimes when I close my eyes. Always when I'm asleep."
"Do you have any moments during the day, maybe when you're doing something normal, like watching tv or taking a shower, where you find you have these "waking" nightmares? Perhaps where you lose a sense of time or place?"
"Yes."
"How often would these occur?"
"A couple'a times a day. Sometimes I don't know I'm doing it. My brother sort of... snaps me back."
"Are there certain things that you find triggering this?"
Dean remembered the knife glide under the skin of the fish from the cooking program on tv.
He cleared his throat again, "Sometimes I'll see something on tv..." his chest tightened.
"Dean, what are you experiencing right now?"
Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It hurt.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"That's okay. Can you tell me what's bothering you?"
"It's nothing," he opened his eyes, tried for a smirk, "Just not feeling too well."
"Are you okay if we talk about this a bit more? I can come back another time..."
"No," Dean said, quickly. He didn't want this dragging out to another day, "Keep going."
Dean coughed into his fist, felt his chest spasming. The shrink waited for him to finish.
"So when you have the nightmares, what's the overall feeling you get from them?"
Terror. Pain. Guilt.
"I don't know what you mean."
"How do they make you feel? If you could use one word."
Dean breathed out, "There... there aren't words."
"Okay," he nodded, "Dean, do you ever hear voices in your head?"
"I'm not insane."
"I wasn't saying that at all. But it seems to me that you're going through a lot right now and I just want to make sure I'm able to help you the best that I can."
Dean coughed again, "No, I don't hear voices," he said, bluntly. Even though... did the screams count?
"Have you ever had negative thoughts? Like maybe you didn't want to be here anymore, that you might hurt yourself?"
Dean felt the anger creep up his neck.
"No," he said firmly, wanting to say so much more but biting his tongue.
"Do you feel safe here at the hospital?"
"I guess."
"Do you feel safe at home with your brother?"
"Sure."
"Well, that's good. And does your brother help you out?"
"Yeah... he's a good kid."
"Now, can you tell me why you left the hospital last week?"
"There was something I had to do..."
"Could you tell me what that was?"
"No."
"Okay...” Dr Whittaker scrawled on his paper as he spoke, he looked up once again, “Dean, is there anything you can tell me about the time you were away for? About what might have happened while you were held captive?"
Dean set his jaw, narrowed his eyes. Dr Whittaker folded his hands across his clipboard.
"I've dealt with a lot of soldiers, Dean. Some of them feel frightened, some of them feel guilty about things they may have done to survive. A lot of breakthroughs they have, is when they finally open up and talk about what they've been too afraid to say."
Dean leaned forward, unable to clamp down on the rage anymore, and in an urgent, angry whisper he said, "I've seen horrors that you couldn't even begin to imagine. I could tell you things that would make you never close your eyes again. I have been on the brink of death time and time again, only to be kept alive to endure more pain. And I've done things that would make you sick to hear, that would make your skin crawl, that you worst nightmares couldn't even conjure up. " The shrink sat back, swallowing slowly. "You might have seen soldiers before, but I guarantee you've never seen anyone like me. Because I'm not a soldier, I'm a hunter. So, enough with the psychobabble bullshit."
Dr Whittaker took a calming breath. "I want to help you."
"I don't need your help!"
"What brought you into hospital, Dean?"
"Excuse me?"
"It says here you had acute hepatitis brought on by prolonged excessive alcohol consumption." The doc stared at Dean. "Is drinking to that extent the actions of a man who doesn't need help?"
Dean was flawed for a moment.
"I don't need to know what happened to you. I'm not trying to make it all go away, and I'm not trying to change the past. I just want to help you deal with it."
Dean swallowed. His throat was raw.
"How?"
...
Dean was back in his bed after his head shrink session, sinking into the pillows gratefully after almost an hour being semi upright.
“So, what did you talk about?” Sam asked, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
“Nothing,” Dean grunted.
“Dean…” Sam started.
“Sammy,” Dean tilted his head to look at his brother, “Please.”
Dean’s desperation not to talk about it must have shown through, because Sam dropped it after that.
The doc had spoken to him for quite a while, and although Dean didn’t want to hear it, didn’t think anything like that would ever, could ever, help him, Whittaker had given him some good tips. Of course, he’d also wanted him to contact his doctor’s rooms and set up another appointment for when he was discharged but that was never going to happen.
He’d prescribed him more pills, but Dean didn’t plan on sticking around at the hospital much longer so he wasn’t sure what good they were going to do.
…
The MRI didn’t go too badly this time. Sam reflected on the last time Dean had gone into a machine like that and considered this a massive improvement. Well, this time Dean was whacked out on valium so that might have played a part.
“Issit over, Sammy?” he slurred, a cocktail of drugs in his system to get him to relax long enough to stay still for it.
“Yeah, Dean. Ya did good,” Sam smiled.
“Woah,” Dean moaned, clutching his head as he sat up.
“Let’s just take it slow,” the radiographer instructed, a hand on Dean’s back.
They kept Dean sitting for a few minutes, let him have a few sips of water before they got him back in his bed and wheeled him up to his room.
Dean pretty much slept after that, and it was honestly the most peaceful Sam had seen him all day.
…
The next few days were more of the same. Dean had people constantly talking to him, telling him things he didn’t fully understand, making rules and guidelines and programs he didn’t want to follow. Telling him what he was doing wrong, how he needed to change, measuring, and counting, and documenting, and observing, and jabbing him with needles, and poking at him every which way. He could barely take any more.
Friday morning Katie showed up again. Bobby quickly headed out to get coffee, or something, do anything that wasn’t sitting in the room with them. She was there pretty much every day. He knew it was her job, that she was at the hospital anyway, but he couldn’t help but wonder why she was hanging around, what she thought she was going to get out of it. It annoyed him that she'd come to visit. It made him angry. Because he didn't want to like her. He didn't want to appreciate her company and look forward to her coming to visit. He didn't want to care for anyone. And he hated it that she was nice, and trusting, and didn't make him talk if he didn't want to. He hated how good she was. She was too good for him.
"I'll come by tomorrow," she said, pushing his table close to his side.
"You don't have to," Dean said, shaking his head, because why would anyone volunteer to be there.
"I want to," she smiled.
As she was leaving Riley appeared at the door. They crossed paths, looked at each other but didn't say anything.
“Who was that?” Riley purred, stepping into the room.
Dean cleared his throat, “Nice of you to visit. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”
"Is that your honey?" Riley smiled at Dean, flicking her eyebrows up.
"Riley," Dean moaned, wanting desperately for her not to go there.
"She's cute," she shrugged.
"Would you stop?"
"Alright," she folded her arms, "I just wanted to see how you were doing but I guess you're being well looked after."
"Oh, come on."
She held her hands up, "Okay, this is me backing off."
"Would you sit down or something? You're making me uncomfortable."
As if he wasn't already.
"Should I stay... or?" She trailed off.
"She's just a friend, okay? Relax. And what are you getting all riled up for anyway? You and me just have a bit of fun."
"Yeah we do," she winked.
Dean looked down, a smile tugging at his lips.
"So, you've been feeling pretty bad, huh?"
He could sense her padding across the room, hear the sexual tension in her voice.
Dean just coughed into his fist, cleared his throat loudly, "Yeah, you could say that."
"Anything... I could do?" she trailed a finger up and down his arm.
Dean smirked. God, yes. Anything. Everything.
She leaned over and kissed his neck, a hand on his chest.
Dean laughed, cast his eyes towards the ceiling, relaxing back.
"Alright, shut the door and make it quick," he drawled.
...
Dean was sleeping when Sam came in. He was completely out to it. So still. So much so that Sam thought something had to have been wrong.
"Hey, man," he said, putting a hand on his arm.
Dean's eyes came open slowly, "Oh, hey, Sammy," he croaked, "When did you get here?"
"Just got here. Sorry to wake you... you looked really... dead."
Dean chuckled low in his throat, "Riley visited."
Sam wrinkled his nose, "Seriously, dude? Here?"
"That girl doesn't mess around."
"You okay?"
"I feel better than I have all week," Dean rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.
"I bet you do," Sam laughed.
"Tired, though."
"Sorry," Sam apologised again.
Dean waved a hand, "I got plenty of time to sleep."
"So… what about Katie?" Sam said, eyebrow raised.
"What about her?" Dean asked, on the defensive.
"Don't you guys have a thing?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"She's here every day, dude."
"She works here."
Sam cocked his head curiously, "You like her, don't you?"
"Would you shut up?"
"I'm fairly certain she likes you."
"Sam, I swear to God..."
"Alright," Sam raised his hands in surrender.
"Don't you have somewhere to be? Work or something?"
"Not until later," Sam said, looking at his watch.
“Are you working tomorrow morning?”
“No,” Sam said, curiously.
“Good, we’re getting outta here.”
“Ah, really? Are you sure you’re -“
“You told me to wait till the end of the week. It’s the end of the week. I’m leaving. So, you can either come and pick me up or I’ll get a friggen cab.”
“Dean, shouldn’t we talk about this?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
Sam stared at him, stunned, looking like he was trying to think of what to say. Dean beat him to it.
“Look, man. You’re worried about me, I get it. But I’m fine. My liver is fine. My back is fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Sam muttered.
“Well, I’m certainly not any worse. My last antibiotic is tonight and then they’re gonna unplug me. If all I’m gonna do is lie in a bed, then I can lie in a bed at home.”
“Dean…”
“End of story, Sam.”
Sam cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat, “Alright, well, we need to talk to your doctor then.”
…
Sam had asked the nurses to call Dr Reid so they could chat about discharge. Dean had fallen back asleep while they waited and Sam just sat beside him reading a book. Dean must have been buggered because he wasn’t stirring at all. It didn’t mean he wasn’t having a nightmare, it just meant his body was too wrecked to respond to it.
He wasn’t exactly surprised that Dean had wanted to check out tomorrow. He was impressed he’d even made it this long. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. At the hospital Dean had, nutritionists, dieticians, physiotherapists, psychiatrists, occupational therapists, nurses, doctors, and everything else at his disposal. Sure, it was costing an arm and a leg, and Sam was months behind on the rent as it was, but it was nothing less than what Dean needed.
Dr Reid took over an hour to get there. He didn’t work at the hospital, but it was a tight community and he seemed to really care about his patients. He’d made the trip to see Dean countless times.
Dean stirred as he knocked on the wall, making his presence known.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, coming in.
Dean woke with a rattling cough, sitting his bed up higher. Sam handed him a glass of water, and patted him on the shoulder.
“Hey, doc,” Sam smiled.
“Hey,” Dean rasped, his voice low and gravely.
“I’m told you want to go home,” Dr Reid stood at the end of Dean’s bed, chart under his arm.
“That’s right,” Dean punctuated the sentence with a thick sniff, that pesky head cold still hanging around.
“You know I’m going to advise against that?”
“I know.”
Dr Reid chewed on the inside of his lip, staring at Dean for a moment. Then he opened the chart and read a few notes.
“If I send you home I’m going to need you to follow strict instructions. You’re going to need to attend rehab every week. There’re exercises you need to do every day, supervised. I’ll need you to keep up with the medications. And most importantly, no booze.”
Dean nodded, looking unfazed.
“I can organize a community nurse to come out everyday and help you in the mornings getting you up and showered and doing your meds. But it is quite expensive per day.”
“That’s okay, Doctor,” Sam said, “I can do all of that.”
Dr Reid raised his eyebrow.
“We don’t have the biggest budget…”
The doc nodded, “I’ll get the nurses go through a few things with you and get the paperwork ready. Do you have a shower chair?”
“Yeah, we bought one after Dean’s surgery.”
“It’s probably a good idea to use that for a few more days until you’re steadier on your feet, okay?”
Dean looked shattered. His nose and eyes were red, but at least his skin had got its pinkish hue back. He nodded.
Dr Reid gave him another once over with his eyes, “Okay, I’m going to write some instructions up and order your discharge medications. Get plenty of rest, Dean, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Dean said, with a sideways smile.
“Alright, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Sam and Dean didn’t say anything for a while after Dr Reid left and Sam thought that Dean had fallen asleep again until his heard him clear his throat.
“Hey, Sam.”
“What?”
Dean eyes were closed and he looked close to passing out.
“You are not helping me shower.”
…