For The Cause (2/3)
part two
The room was still and silent for a long time, save for the occasional rustling of scrubs on hard plastic chairs and the soft sound of Sam breathing deeply. He’d twisted somewhat awkwardly, his attempts to curl up on his side hindered by the cast on his leg, and Dean couldn’t help but grin a little bit at the sight.
Their father was sipping from Dean’s abandoned cup of coffee, and the young man’s nose wrinkled at the memory of the thick sludge on his tongue. He’d never admit it, but he would’ve killed for a Starbucks.
A nurse broke the silence, smiling at the two of them as she wandered in.
“Just here to take his readings,” She offered quietly, nodding to the tangle of wires coming from the young man. John inclined his head in acceptance and Dean leant forwards in his seat, hand subconsciously tangling with his brother’s as he watched the nurse’s face for reaction. His stomach dropped as he watched the woman’s fingers slip to his brother’s wrist, pressing gently there as she studied the screen intently.
“What is it?” He demanded, ignoring the sharp look his father shot in his direction.
The nurse jumped slightly, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “His temperature’s up to 102.4, and his blood pressure still pretty low considering how much blood we’ve been pumping into him. Could be nothing, but I’d like to get the doctor back in here to check him over as a precautionary measure… At this stage, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Dean had enough experience with hospitals to know that ‘precautionary measures’ were usually nurse speak for, ‘this is really bad but I don’t really want to tell you that.’ His dad’s back stiffened, the man dropping the empty coffee cup distractedly into the trash can as he watched the nurse turn and leave in a decidedly more hurried fashion that she’d arrived.
“Fever means infection.” Dean breathed, eyes locked on his father’s face for some kind of indication that his father was as cool and calm as ever. If John wasn’t worried, there was no reason for Dean to be. One look at his father’s eyes, however, was proof enough that John was more than worried.
“I know, son,” The older man admitted. He seemed to realise, then, that Dean was relying on him for assurance rather than confirmation, and hastily backtracked. “But Sam’s a tough kid. Hell, I’m not sure even I could have done what he did tonight… If anyone can fight this off, he will.”
Dean nodded his head, tried not to hear the words ‘if anyone can survive this, Sam can’ even though he knew they were true.
In the bed, Sam lay still and silent and pale.
**The doctor’s prognosis wasn’t good.
Dean had been right when he’d guessed that Sam had an infection - an infection of the blood to be exact, and the doctor had left little to the imagination about what might happen if Sam didn’t kick it and fast. He’d swapped the antibiotics that Sam had been receiving for ones that he’d assured were a lot stronger, but Dean couldn’t help but feel a little dubious that such a simple solution would be affective. If they couldn’t get a handle on it, the Sepsis would eventually lead to Sam’s entire body shutting down, his blood pressure dropping until his organs were oxygen-starved and unable to maintain their functions.
Even with the medication, the doctor regretfully admitted that he could make no promises on whether or not Sam’s body would be able to fight off the infection. Shock and blood loss had made him weak, and though Dean reasoned that Sam was a Winchester and therefore a fighter in every sense of the word, he couldn’t help but recall the sensation of blood soaking through a third layer of towel and wondering whether Sam’s body had the resources to win this fight.
Strong though Sam’s will might be, even that wouldn’t be enough if his body failed him.
In the meantime, there was little more than Dean and his father could do but sit and wait, positioned at either side of Sam’s bed like bodyguards. One of the nurses - Mindy or Mandy or some other ‘M’ name that Dean didn’t remember - had taken it upon herself to occasionally drop off two cups of coffee that she’d snuck from the staff lounge.
It still couldn’t hold a candle to some of the coffee Dean had drank in his time, but it was a damn sight better than the vile stuff from the waiting room, and the fear of his eyes slipping shut had him sipping from it gratefully. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Dean would be sleeping before he knew his brother was going to be alright - before he could do so without worrying that Sam’s bed might be cold and empty by the time he opened his eyes again.
In the bed, Sam had gone from worryingly still to restless and back again.
Dean had hated the way that his brother had tossed and turned, scrunching his nose and moaning softly at the no doubt unpleasant sensation of his body doing its best to fight off the threat, and Dean had never thought that he’d miss seeing his brother in such obvious discomfort until he’d fallen silent again.
Distressing though it had been to watch his brother feebly writhe around in his sleep, at least it had been proof that he was still fighting. That he still had some will to live. With his face pale and the machines surrounding him, not so much as the occasional finger twitch to prove that he was still working to overcome the infection, it was that much easier to forget that Sam hadn’t already lost this fight.
**It wasn’t until a hand on Dean’s shoulder shook him awake that he realised he’d fallen asleep.
It seemed that even the tar-black coffee from the dispenser in the hallway hadn’t been enough to fight off the exhaustion of two sleepless nights, and from the crink in his neck, the hunter figured he’d been sleeping for quite some time.
The shift from sleep to consciousness came as quick as it always had; one touch of an unfamiliar hand just a little too close to his throat and Dean was jerking awake with a start, his body automatically twisting away from the firm grip.
His eyes flew up to take in the smiling face of Sam’s doctor, hands held up in the universal sign for surrender.
“Didn’t mean to startle you there, son,” He said pleasantly, inclining his head towards the bed. “But according to the nurses, you’ve been out of it since the early hours of this morning, and your father figured you’d want to know that Sam’s responding well to the antibiotics.”
Dean blinked dazedly, head still reeling from the unexpected wake-up call and the sudden rush of information. His head swung automatically to his father’s chair, and the man’s wide grin said more for Sam’s condition than anything the doctor had said. For the first time since he’d found the article for the hunt, John looked relaxed. Slouched down in an uncomfortable hospital chair, and wearing a pair of sweatpants that he must have dug out of the duffel now lying at his feet.
“He’s getting better?” He finally found himself asking, eyes dropping to the still-sleeping form of his brother. In the dim, mid-afternoon rays of light drifting into the room between the drawn blinds, Sam looked undoubtedly healthier than he had the night before. He was still too pale for Dean’s liking, the thin skin over his eyelids almost translucent, but the way his nose occasionally twitched was proof that he was sleeping.
“It certainly looks that way,” The doctor confirmed with a wide grin. “His fever’s sitting at just above 100 now, and his heart rate’s a lot more consistent than it has been. His blood pressure’s still pretty low, but we’ve decided against trying another transfusion. His body’s been through a lot, and the last thing we want to do is pump it so full of a stranger’s blood that he goes into shock again. It just means that he’ll have to take it easy when we release him - he’s probably going to be feeling pretty rough for a while, and I’d expect for him to sleep a lot more than normal, but I think I can safely say that we’re out of the danger zone.”
Dean blinked dumbly, a wide grin slowly spreading across his face. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” The doctor nodded. “Your brother’s definitely a fighter.”
The young hunter didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved in his life, and he reached out to gently grip his brother’s hand. The skin there was warm and soft to the touch, a testament to the fact that the treatment was working, and Dean squeezed it lightly.
“There’s my boy,” He muttered to himself, ignoring the sting of tears in his eyes at the realisation that Sam was going to be okay. It was early days and the teenager was far from a hundred-percent, but there was the promise of a full recovery, and that was all that mattered. “You did good, kiddo.”
The doctor continued with a warm smile, “We’ll keep him until this evening, make sure everything’s holding steady and then - barring any complications - he’ll be released and allowed to go back home. Though he will have to come back regularly for his physical therapy.”
Dean nodded eagerly. “Of course. Is there stuff we can help him with at home, too? I know sometimes there’s exercises you can try.”
“All in good time,” The doctor grinned. “He’ll be off his feet for a while yet. Let’s worry about physical therapy when the kid can balance in his crutches, shall we?”
Across the room, John laughed loudly. Dean wondered if it was just him that could hear the relief in the sound; the slightly manic edge to it that spoke of fear and desperation.
**It was late evening by the time that Sam woke a second time, still as visibly exhausted as he had been the first time, and with tight lines of pain around his eyes.
“Hey,” Dean breathed, face breaking into a wide grin. On the other side of Sam’s bed, their father jerked awake from a reluctant doze, brown eyes instantly seeking out those of his youngest son.
“How you feeling, Sammy?”
Sam frowned a little, head turning on his pillow as he raised one eyebrow.
“F’ntastic,” He croaked, and Dean winced as his voice cracked. “Water?”
John leant forwards, a cup of water with a straw sticking out of the top in his hand. Sam raised an arm to grasp it, wincing as the bruises decorating his arm made themselves known, and settled for wrapping his lips around his straw when John gently nudged it against them.
“Must be feeling better if you’re capable of sarcasm,” The oldest Winchester teased lightly, patiently waiting until Sam had drank his fill before shifting the cup back to the small nightstand. He hesitated for a long moment, finally reaching out to rest a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder and offering him a small smile. “That was quite the scare you gave us there, son.”
Sam ducked his head in apparent embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I must’ve lost my footing when I hit the black dog - I didn’t realise the ravine was so close.”
“Sorry?” Dean demanded incredulously. “Dude, you were a hero out there! You saved Dad’s life!”
Sam shook his head stubbornly. “It was a rookie error.”
“Sam,” John interrupted sternly, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder in a silent order to look at him as he spoke. “You’ve got no reason to apologise - I’d be dead if you hadn’t thrown yourself at the black dog the way that you did. Quite honestly, I’m amazed that you managed to hit the thing straight through the heart. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d have made that shot.”
“You’re not mad?” The honest surprise in his son’s voice made John’s heart clench painfully.
What did it say about his ability to raise his sons that one of them was currently lying in a hospital bed paying for John’s mistakes, and his main concern was whether or not John was mad at him?
He was reminded suddenly of himself as a teenager; stubborn and wilful and promising himself that he’d never be the father his dad had been to him, cold and calculating and demanding respect like he’d done something to earn it. Was that what he’d become? The drill-sergeant that had demanded he run laps before breakfast… the man that he’d sworn he hated?
“No, Sam,” He forced out past the lump in his throat. “I’m not mad at you - hell, that couldn’t be further from what I’m feeling right now. I’m proud of you, and more than that… I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t good enough - neither of you.”
Sam’s eyelids were drooping again, exhaustion warring with his obvious determination to keep his eyes open. He looked younger than John remembered, traces of the childhood he’d never been given the opportunity to live in the spark in those hazel eyes and the slight curve of his cheeks. It seemed like just yesterday that Sam had been a toddler with a wide, toothless grin, and it was hard to reconcile that child with the teenager before him.
Somehow, John had blinked and missed the moment that his son had become a man with the scars of a soldier and the determination of someone with something to prove.
At sixteen, John had been angry and hurt and naïve beyond his own comprehension - he hadn’t truly understood the world until two years later, when a stern-faced man in camouflage had placed a gun in his hands and put him on a plane. There was no trace of that innocence in Sam. He was a child of war; a boy who’d been raised with paranoia and precaution his only constants, a handgun tucked into the back of his jeans and dozens of exorcisms on the tip of his tongue.
In many ways, Sam had never been a child.
John wished he knew how to change that.
**For the next few hours, Sam drifted between consciousness and slumber, Dean keeping a watchful eye over him and feeling a little more of the left-over panic ebb from his veins every time that wide, hazel eyes hazily blinked open once more.
The doctor explained that it was a mixture of factors that left the teenager drifting between coherent and somewhat dazed: his weakened body, the pain meds coursing through his system and the fever. It was, he assured, perfectly normal.
Sam seemed content enough, for his part. There were enough meds in him that Dean doubted the kid even knew that his legs were attached, much less felt the pain from the broken one, and he drifted between light-hearted (and mostly nonsensical, but the effort was there) conversation about TV shows and books, and sleeping peacefully, curled as far onto his side as his outstretched leg would allow.
John had nipped out to the car for long enough to grab them all a change of clothes and another cup of coffee each for himself and Dean, and they’d taken turns to step out and quickly change out of the hospital-issue scrubs. The young hunter had to admit that there was a certain relief into slipping back into well-worn jeans and a soft t-shirt, boots laced up tight because even sitting around in a hospital whilst his brother slept, every instinct in Dean screamed that he had to be alert and ready to defend at a moment’s notice.
He wasn’t going to let anything happen to Sam again.
John, on the other hand, was looking blissfully relaxed. Having obviously forced himself to stay awake so that his eldest son could catch a few hours of sleep earlier, he’d finally dozed off - Dean had to admit that his father made quite the comical picture, slumped back against the hard backed chair with his mouth hanging open and his hand still gripping onto a mostly-empty cup of coffee. He was more than a little tempted to take a picture to show Sam later, but he figured it probably wouldn’t be worth the amount of shit he’d be in if he got caught.
The eldest hunter slept long and hard, silent save for an occasional deep sigh as he shifted somewhat in the uncomfortable chair. Dean’s own ass ached in sympathy, thought at least he’d had the forethought to fold up his leather jacket and settle it underneath him, cushioning the hard plastic at least a little.
By the time he was blinking his eyes open, the glimpses of light peeking through the blinds had faded and a glance at Dean’s watch proved that it was after six in the evening.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. Sam still sleeping?” He asked gruffly, wiping irritably at one of his eyes. Dean nodded patiently.
“In and out, same as before. Conversation makes a bit more sense now, though.”
John grinned despite himself. “Nothing more about horses with goat legs, or frogs eating cheese?”
“Sadly not,” Dean replied without hesitation. “Although he had quite a lot to say on the topic of cats wearing slippers.”
John schooled his features into the most serious expression he could muster, nodding as if it was a serious discussion topic that required a lot of thought.
“That’s a new one,” He mused, and then, more seriously, “He seem to be in any pain?”
The younger man. “Nah. High as a kite, but he ain’t hurting.”
As if on cue, the youngest Winchester chose that moment to shift slightly on the bed, forehead scrunching up in apparent distaste as he blinked groggy hazel eyes open. They slipped shut again for a few seconds, giving a good indication of just how groggy the young man still was, before he forced them to stay open. Dean smiled at him, heart lightening a little at the way Sam’s lips automatically curved into a smile of their own in response, as if he was instinctively happy just because Dean was.
“Evening, kiddo,” He winked, watching as Sam’s eyes wandered away from his face and landed on the glass of water on the nightstand. Dean offered it to him without hesitation, angling the straw to make it easy for the kid to drink from it and waited patiently as Sam took slow, measured sips. It was a testament to how often the kid had to battle injury and sickness that he had the art of drinking without throwing up down to a fine art. “Sleep well?”
“Hmm,” Sam agreed quietly, seeming at least a little more awake than he had before. “When can I go home?”
Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Probably not long, now. They said it’d be sometime this evening.”
“How are you feeling?” John queried, dragging his chair closer and leaning over the edge of the bed to get a better look at his youngest son’s face.
“Okay,” Sam smiled, and then wrinkled his nose a little. “Although, from the fuzzy feeling in my head I get the impression that I’ve probably embarrassed myself quite a bit. What did they give me?”
Dean grinned conspiratorially. “The good stuff. As for embarrassing yourself, well… I promise not to hold it over you for all eternity. Maybe.”
Sam rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to reply only to cut off by the sound of the room’s door swinging open. Dean glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the doctor’s face visibly light up when he took in the sight of Sam awake and talking, and couldn’t stop his own grin from growing wider.
“Nice to see you awake, Sam,” The man greeted happily. “Any pain in your leg?”
Sam shook his head. “Can’t even feel it.”
“Well, that sounds good to me. I was just swinging by to tell your brother and father, here, that I’ve signed the release papers and you’re good to go as soon as you’re comfortably awake… it seems you’ve beaten me to the punch.”
“I can go home?”
The doctor nodded. “Certainly can. I’ll run through some basic PT stuff with you before you leave, but most of its pretty straight forward - at this point, I’m suggesting that there’s no weight-bearing at all on the injured leg for at least six weeks, at which point we’ll re-evaluate. That means that crutches are necessary for even the shortest trips across the room… factoring in the bruises on your arm, I’m almost tempted to recommend a wheelchair for practicality.”
Dean blinked a little, because he’d broken his leg before. He’d had the warnings about not using it excessively and doing his best to use the crutches, and whilst he’d known that Sam’s break was a lot worse, he hadn’t figured it was this bad.
Sam shook his head stubbornly. “No wheelchair. I’ll manage with the crutches, I promise.”
The doctor (Sullivan, his nametag read, and Dean really needed to start paying more attention when people introduced themselves) frowned a little, nodding almost reluctantly. Dean was more than a little glad that he’d given in so easily - the high, tight set of Sam’s shoulders was proof that the kid wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.
“Hospital policy says you’ll have to let them escort you out in a chair,” He reasoned. “But after that, you’re welcome to stick to the crutches. As long as I can trust you to stay off the leg.”
“Believe me,” Sam snorted, casting a wry glance towards his father. “I’m not gonna do anything to mess up the healing with my leg. I kind of like it in full working order.”
Doctor Sullivan laughed. “In that case, let’s run through a few things so we can see about getting you released, shall we?”
<-- part one | part three -->