writers_muses | 125.2.G. Albert Schweitzer quote
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit. " - Albert Schweitzer
[Follows THIS, THIS and THIS]
Most days, Sam actually didn't feel too bad now. The days passed in the hospital, and all seemed to blur together now, but in general, he felt a lot better than when he first woke up. Back then, he was in more pain than not, and he barely even knew who he was. The only constant awareness he had was the nurses helping him. He started to rely on them to know he was even alive. If the nurse's face kept changing, they really must be nurses and not part of the messed up jumble his mind felt like it was. Flashes of images, some good, but most bad. He didn't know what was real. He just knew he was in hospital, with nurses, and Dean wasn't there.
Now he was on the mend, and mostly felt better. Some days, though, it got worse again. The pain in his head was excruciating, causing him to just curl up in a ball in the narrow hospital bed with his head clutched in his hands. They tried to give him pain relief for it, but it didn't always work. He felt like there was something in his head trying to burst out, only it never quite made it. Sometimes, the pain was so bad that he vomited. But the nurses helped him. One even sat with him, rubbing his back and telling him it would be okay soon. And it was. It got better. The pained eased enough for him to pass out in a deep sleep, and when he woke up again, he felt that hazy, lost feeling all over again. It was a vicious cycle, but one he couldn't quite tell was real or not.
Dean wasn't there, and Dean was supposed to be there. Why wasn't Dean there? On his good days, Sam just felt normal and didn't let himself wonder too much where his brother was. Everyone kept calling him Jimmy, though. He went along with it. It was better they didn't know who he really was, anyway, because maybe he wasn't Sam Winchester, anyway? This Jimmy person seemed to have it more together than Sam. Jimmy didn't have a brother, but Sam did, right?
These days, though, things were just a little more clearer. He knew he was Sam. Of course he was friggen Sam. But he must be here as Jimmy because Dean wanted him to be. Maybe Dean was out hunting down whatever it was that hurt Sam? That train of thought brought an easing sense of comfort for the younger Winchester brother. He could almost cope with being stuck in the hospital if he clutched onto the notion that Dean would come back for him soon. It was those days, outwardly, he was completely normal. Laughing with the nurses, making jokes, enjoying his days. He never once let onto them how haunted he really was. If he let anything slip when he was in so much pain to know what he was saying, they would never really know what he was talking about. They couldn't. The mind of an amnesiac, post-coma patient couldn't be trusted. It was still healing, and he could be talking about anything. Which was fortunate, because when it did get too much, Sam spoke about Dean... in his sleep, in the waves of unbearable pain. He missed his brother. Recollections of past Hunts and horrors they had faced together fell from Sam's lips in an unintelligible haze.
Today was a bad day. His head feeling like it was going to explode and bringing tears to his eyes as he tried to fight it off. He was sick, knelt in front of the pristine sterile toilet that smelt like the lemon antiseptic the hospital cleaners loved to throw around the place. The loneliness engulfed him as he clutched the edge of the porcelain bowl with shaky hands, trying to catch his breath. He felt the tears drip down his cheeks to his throat and then even further still to his chest. It would pass. She kept telling him it would pass. Shadowy images of flames and guns and the Impala had plague his dreams, only to wake with another headache from hell. Why couldn't he just switch it all off? He didn't want to know any of it! They couldn't be memories. He would remember his own memories!
He vaguely heard a soft murmur of sympathy behind him and then next thing he felt something gloriously cold and wet pressed against his forehead. With a small groan, he leaned his head in against it and closed his eyes, wetting his lips and trying to swallow away the horrible sour taste in his mouth. "It's okay there, Agent. Just relax, we'll get you feeling better. I promise..." the soothing voice continued in that soft Irish lilt Sam had come to find so familiar.
He felt some of that tension uncoil inside and he managed a slight nod to let her know he had at least heard her. Resting his head down on his arm, he worked to try and relax, a mumbled and hoarse, "Thank you," all he could draw on at that moment.
"Shhh," the voice admonished gently. "No thank yous, remember? I'm just... doing my job."
Sam didn't miss the hesitation, but he was too weak to pause and analyse it. Ailbe had been his nurse from day one, and even though he had been raised to not easily trust anything, he trusted her. With his life. And now he was coming to rely on her comfort and kindness, something he felt like he hadn't indulged in for a very long time. He opened his eyes just slightly and after a moment of hesitation, rested a hand on her arm as his eyes slipped closed again. He might not even remember it come morning, but in those few moments, he just needed to know he wasn't alone.
makeoutalright used with permission
Word Count | 987
[Follows THIS, THIS and THIS]
Most days, Sam actually didn't feel too bad now. The days passed in the hospital, and all seemed to blur together now, but in general, he felt a lot better than when he first woke up. Back then, he was in more pain than not, and he barely even knew who he was. The only constant awareness he had was the nurses helping him. He started to rely on them to know he was even alive. If the nurse's face kept changing, they really must be nurses and not part of the messed up jumble his mind felt like it was. Flashes of images, some good, but most bad. He didn't know what was real. He just knew he was in hospital, with nurses, and Dean wasn't there.
Now he was on the mend, and mostly felt better. Some days, though, it got worse again. The pain in his head was excruciating, causing him to just curl up in a ball in the narrow hospital bed with his head clutched in his hands. They tried to give him pain relief for it, but it didn't always work. He felt like there was something in his head trying to burst out, only it never quite made it. Sometimes, the pain was so bad that he vomited. But the nurses helped him. One even sat with him, rubbing his back and telling him it would be okay soon. And it was. It got better. The pained eased enough for him to pass out in a deep sleep, and when he woke up again, he felt that hazy, lost feeling all over again. It was a vicious cycle, but one he couldn't quite tell was real or not.
Dean wasn't there, and Dean was supposed to be there. Why wasn't Dean there? On his good days, Sam just felt normal and didn't let himself wonder too much where his brother was. Everyone kept calling him Jimmy, though. He went along with it. It was better they didn't know who he really was, anyway, because maybe he wasn't Sam Winchester, anyway? This Jimmy person seemed to have it more together than Sam. Jimmy didn't have a brother, but Sam did, right?
These days, though, things were just a little more clearer. He knew he was Sam. Of course he was friggen Sam. But he must be here as Jimmy because Dean wanted him to be. Maybe Dean was out hunting down whatever it was that hurt Sam? That train of thought brought an easing sense of comfort for the younger Winchester brother. He could almost cope with being stuck in the hospital if he clutched onto the notion that Dean would come back for him soon. It was those days, outwardly, he was completely normal. Laughing with the nurses, making jokes, enjoying his days. He never once let onto them how haunted he really was. If he let anything slip when he was in so much pain to know what he was saying, they would never really know what he was talking about. They couldn't. The mind of an amnesiac, post-coma patient couldn't be trusted. It was still healing, and he could be talking about anything. Which was fortunate, because when it did get too much, Sam spoke about Dean... in his sleep, in the waves of unbearable pain. He missed his brother. Recollections of past Hunts and horrors they had faced together fell from Sam's lips in an unintelligible haze.
Today was a bad day. His head feeling like it was going to explode and bringing tears to his eyes as he tried to fight it off. He was sick, knelt in front of the pristine sterile toilet that smelt like the lemon antiseptic the hospital cleaners loved to throw around the place. The loneliness engulfed him as he clutched the edge of the porcelain bowl with shaky hands, trying to catch his breath. He felt the tears drip down his cheeks to his throat and then even further still to his chest. It would pass. She kept telling him it would pass. Shadowy images of flames and guns and the Impala had plague his dreams, only to wake with another headache from hell. Why couldn't he just switch it all off? He didn't want to know any of it! They couldn't be memories. He would remember his own memories!
He vaguely heard a soft murmur of sympathy behind him and then next thing he felt something gloriously cold and wet pressed against his forehead. With a small groan, he leaned his head in against it and closed his eyes, wetting his lips and trying to swallow away the horrible sour taste in his mouth. "It's okay there, Agent. Just relax, we'll get you feeling better. I promise..." the soothing voice continued in that soft Irish lilt Sam had come to find so familiar.
He felt some of that tension uncoil inside and he managed a slight nod to let her know he had at least heard her. Resting his head down on his arm, he worked to try and relax, a mumbled and hoarse, "Thank you," all he could draw on at that moment.
"Shhh," the voice admonished gently. "No thank yous, remember? I'm just... doing my job."
Sam didn't miss the hesitation, but he was too weak to pause and analyse it. Ailbe had been his nurse from day one, and even though he had been raised to not easily trust anything, he trusted her. With his life. And now he was coming to rely on her comfort and kindness, something he felt like he hadn't indulged in for a very long time. He opened his eyes just slightly and after a moment of hesitation, rested a hand on her arm as his eyes slipped closed again. He might not even remember it come morning, but in those few moments, he just needed to know he wasn't alone.
makeoutalright used with permission
Word Count | 987