Chapters 17-18: The Wake-Up Call: An SPN Fic

Oct 04, 2006 22:58

Title:  The Wake-Up Call, Chapters 17-18
Author: November'sGuest
Summary:  How will the Winchester's pick up the pieces after "Devil's Trap".
Rating: T
Characters: Dean/Sam/John/Missouri Mosley
Catagory: Gen/Angst/AU/hurt!Dean/hurt & comfort
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or the show, just the story.
Spoilers: Season 1 is fair game.

Chapters 1-3/Chapters 4-5/Chapters 6-7/Chapters 8-9/Chapters 10-11/Chapter 12/Chapters 13-14/Chapter15/Chapter 16

Chapter 17: Hopes and Fears

Dean Winchester once again found himself drifting somewhere in the familiar void of dreams and the waking world. Unlike before, this time he was unafraid of what lay before him. He was vaguely aware of his little brother’s presence next to him and he was comforted. As long as Sam was safe, all was right in his world. Why couldn’t he get Sam to see that? Nothing else really mattered to Dean but his family.

But Sam came above and beyond all others, even their dad. From the very first day Mom had placed red-faced, wiggly Sammy into big brother Dean’s small arms, he’d known that he’d been given special charge of that tiny life staring wide-eyed up at him. Dean became the physical embodiment of the idea ‘my brother’s keeper’.

Not only would he have a friend to play with 24/7, but he also had someone he could take care of, someone who would look up to him. Sam had made him feel needed and important, something the adults were unable to do. And, when his four year old world had fallen in on itself that horrible day his mother was killed, he knew then that the only thing he had left of his mom was Sam. Sam would always be his connection to that time of loving and being loved back unabashedly.

Later, when life had made it abundantly clear that there was no room for his own dreams and goals, all his hopes and fears became tied up in one person. His little brother, Sam. That’s why it had hurt so badly when Sam chose college over family, at least that’s what it had felt like at the time. But eventually the pain had subsided and Dean had been secretly proud of his brother. Proud and hopeful that the kid might actually pull it off, might actually reach for his dreams and get them. Dean would’ve been content to live vicariously through his little brother, like sacrificing parents often do with their kids.

Dean still wasn’t sure what had made him go to Stanford that day and drag his one and only chance at normal back into their crazy life. Yeah, he was lonely, but he was used to being lonely. Yeah, he missed the kid, missed him desperately, but none of that was justification for dragging Sam away from his new life and the woman he obviously loved. No, Dean had been motivated by something more, something extrinsic.

Dean’d had a bad feeling about Sam. He couldn’t explain it and he couldn’t describe it, he just knew that it was there and he couldn’t - wouldn’t - ignore it. That had been his number one reason for seeking his little brother out. He not only needed and wanted him by his side to help search for their missing father, but he’d wanted Sam close, close enough to keep an eye on - to protect.

All those fears had been rightly confirmed when Jessica had been murdered. And when the fire demon had used their dad’s skin to share that Sam had been his target all along, Dean had nearly gone out of his mind with gut wrenching terror and blinding panic. His worst nightmares realized. At that very moment, he knew he’d have done anything to keep that SOB away from his brother. So, he’d done what Dean did best. Diverted attention with smugness and sarcasm. Simple, easy and no fail. Worked like a charm every time.

Dean would always put himself between his kid brother and danger without a second thought, which is why when Sam had used these very fears to guilt him into fighting for his own life, it had worked. He knew he had to try harder, to be willing to do whatever it took to fight this thing. His duty was unfulfilled - he wasn’t ready to go. Sam still needed him.

Yet, as much as he knew all these things, and as hard as he fought against what was happening to him, his body had other ideas. He had absolutely no control over the growing evil that was suffocating the life literally from his body, snuffing out the light of his soul. No doubt Dean would give it one heck of a good fight, but he wasn’t sure that it would be enough, that there was enough left of him to fight with. In the end, all he had was hope to cling to and fear to run from. Even as all these things ran through Dean’s dazed mind, he could feel his body growing weaker, making it difficult to breathe and remain just on this side of consciousness.

As he pushed his way closer toward awareness, it became clear what exactly had grabbed his attention and refused to be ignored, forcing his weary eyes to open. Sam had forgotten the ice packs and they were now melting against Dean’s fevered skin. His armpits and thighs were damp from where they were seeping through the protective barrier of the towels wrapped around them.

As the wetness grew and soaked through the linens around him, his teeth began chattering even more uncontrollably than before, the frigid dampness chilling his skin further. But Dean didn’t dare wake Sam, who was resting peacefully beside him. The big brother in Dean knew his current condition was taking a toll on his little brother and he hated it, loathed being the reason behind the dark circles and weary yawns, but he was still too out of it to do anything about it.

He’d done his best to try to appear normal - to stop the shivers, to halt the coughing, to avoid sleeping because he knew the nightmares and crying out would soon follow. But in the end, Dean couldn’t control any of those things. Still, even as he lay there worrying about Sam’s fatigue, the way his little brother had begun limping more pronouncedly, Dean also felt immeasurably relieved to have his brother beside him, safe from the demon hunting him, safe within his big brother’s watchful eye - far away from harm.

If Dean’s illness kept Sam from pursuing their old enemy, even for a little while, then it was worth every hardship, every pain and every shred of Dean’s pride. Normally, he’d be all for hunting it down and exacting revenge - Winchester style. But instead, Dean just wanted to be as far away from the demon as possible. It had wanted Sam, wanted to use Sam and, above all else, that scared Dean more than anything else ever could. What if he couldn’t stop it? What if he couldn’t protect his brother from the evil that was coming for him? He couldn’t lose Sam like that. Not like that. Please, God, he thought, I’d do anything - give anything - to keep that from happening.

Pushing away his terrifying thoughts, Dean chose to focus on the ice packs soaking the area around him instead. Willing his leaden arms to move, he maneuvered all four ice packs over the side of the bed with a slushy plop onto the carpet below. He wondered how long he’d been lying there like that and idly recalled that someone, a doctor, had been there earlier and had already evaluated his condition - part of which had included the use of ice packs to reduce his fever.

Dean still couldn’t remember the details of everything that had been said or done, but he knew that this was the first time he had been able to think clearly since he’d awoke earlier that morning. His temperature had eased enough to allow cohesive thoughts to string together in an understandable fashion.

As his chest labored to fill with air, Dean was grateful that Sam was asleep and peacefully unaware of the painful winces and watery eyes that each of his breaths were causing. He could feel the stringent burning in his lungs morphing into lancing shards with every intake that his oxygen starved body drew. When he coughed, he felt like his body was being ripped apart by explosions of agony that started in his head and chest and radiated outward to his heavy, aching limbs.

He thought surely his head should’ve burst into a thousand jagged bits with that last bout of coughing and was now wishing it had because maybe no head would be better than a throbbing volcano full of molten lava singeing the back of his eye sockets.

Gingerly, Dean attempted to push himself upright, hoping to seek out relief in the form of Vicodin - without an audience to witness his bare need. His feeble arms shook with the effort and the room swam drunkenly before his eyes, but Dean was determined. Holding his breath, he braced himself for the ensuing battle upward, pushing past the pain and weakness, past what his body told him he could endure, pressing forward until he managed to get upright on the side of the bed, legs hanging over the sides.

He eased off the bed, not wanting to cause any unnecessary motion that might wake his brother. On rubbery, unsteady legs, Dean took a hesitant step toward the dresser diagonal to his right, just past the doorway. Weak knees forced him to lunge forward, frantically clawing at the dresser for support. Gasping and leaning heavily against the cherry veneered furniture, he glanced quickly over his shoulder at his brother, hoping the small crash of his collapse on top of the wooden structure went unnoticed.

Sam was still sleeping, but gone was the languid, relaxed look of before. Now a troubled scowl haunted the younger man’s features - it was as if he sensed his older brother’s distress, knew the agony each movement toward the medicine bottle caused. Dean continued to watch his kid brother’s face for moment, trying to determine whether it was just his imagination or not. Unexpectedly, he doubled over with jarring, convulsing coughs, barely managing to stay on his feet, gripping the edge of the dresser with white fingertips.

As the coughing attack passed, he became acutely aware of footsteps moving in his direction from the hallway. Stumbling awkwardly back the way he’d come, Dean was halfway to the bed when the swaying room pitched steeply and his vision went black around the edges, causing him to veer blindly toward the floor.

Coming into the room, Jay caught the teetering man as he fell forward. Arms full of Dean, Jay shifted the younger man’s weight onto his chest, wrapping his arms around Dean’s upper body while John rushed in and, letting go of his crutches, scooped up his elder son’s legs. Together, they lifted Dean’s limp body into the air and lay him back onto the bed - the commotion causing Sam to rouse from his sleep with an immediate start.

The young man ran a hand over his face and groggily asked, “What’s goin’ on? And why’re the sheets wet?”

Jay answered, “Apparently, Dean tried to take a little walk and passed out as I was coming through the door.” Toeing the ice packs on the carpet, he went on, “I think the wetness is from the melting ice packs. We need to get these sheets changed.”

He looked to Sam, hoping he knew where to find some.

Wide-eyed and fully awake, Sam went to the dresser and rummaged around for the fresh linens. Finding some in the bottom drawer, he turned back to where Dean was currently holding his body rigid, fingers entwined in the twisted covers in an effort to stop the spinning, a sick grimace on his sweat-soaked face.

Seeing Dean’s eyes fluttering open, John’s voice rose slightly as he demanded, “What were you trying to do, Dean? Don’t you have enough going on without giving yourself another concussion?”

Clenching his rattling teeth, Dean took a halting breath and said, “I’m fine…just...” He paused, his pale face turning sallow and slightly green before he labored to sit up, saying, “Gonna be sick.”

Instantly Jay and Sam were on either side of him, bearing Dean’s weight into the bathroom as fast as possible. Immediately he fell to his knees and grasped the cold, porcelain edges - oblivious of Sam’s attempt to get the lid up before the heaving began. Having nothing in his stomach to bring up but some bile, Dean shuddered with violent dry heaves. Several minutes later, his wasted body broke free from the spasms and he sank back bonelessly onto his haunches, sagging against a nearby cabinet.

Handing him a cool, wetted washcloth, Sam asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah, just perfect.” Dean croaked, his breath coming in shallow huffs.

“Are you ready to go back or do you need more time,” Jay asked, his concerned eyes sympathetic to his patient.

Giving a shake of his head, Dean answered, “Nah, I’m good.”

Grasping Dean’s upper arms, Sam and Jay hauled him to his feet and guided him woozily back to bed. Meanwhile, John had managed to strip the wet linens off the bed and was just getting the fitted sheet in place when the others came back in. He was doing his best to stay out of the way, knowing that the crutches and plaster cast made him clumsy. After Jay and Sam got Dean safely put to bed, they covered him up with a quilt from the other bed.

John seated himself beside Dean, looked briefly across at Sam, who gave him an encouraging nod, and then lay a tentative hand on Dean’s forearm. John studied the pattern on the quilt momentarily, thumbing unconscious circles against his son’s heated skin as he carefully considered his words. In the silence, he could hear the faint clatter of dishes being banged around in the kitchen and Dean’s struggle to breath.

Finally, John brought his sad, apologetic gaze up to Dean’s and said, “Son, I’m…sorry. Just…please, Dean, stay in bed. You’re not steady enough to be on your feet?”

John’s words were gentle, yet they bore the underlying seriousness of the situation and clearly spoke of his intention that Dean obey. A tremor rippled through Dean’s body, visibly betraying his attempts to appear strong and steady under his father’s scrutiny.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, and then swallowed hard against the rising tide of mixed emotions that confused him and left him wondering if maybe he was losing his mind. Where was all this apprehension coming from?

His dad’s presence stirred up so many emotions, many of them at cross-purposes with each other, pitting his great love and admiration for the man before him against a newfound, paralyzing fear of that same man. Overbearing, strangling terror coursed through him, leaving him shaken. Inside, he felt twisted by the need to be close to his father, but his mind screamed at him to get away, to get Sammy away. His head thrummed and his heart turned cold, so strong was this relentless impulse.

Before the panic could tear through his tentative hold, he felt a reassuring hand come to rest on his shoulder, imbuing steadfast support and consolation.

“Dean, it’s okay. We’re safe.”

Sam’s voice broke through the tangle of thoughts and Dean relaxed, his heartbeat slowing down. Even though Sam had saved him from losing face by halting the impending panic attack, this weird sense that his brother could read his thoughts and know how he was feeling at any given moment was a little disconcerting to a man like Dean Winchester. He was used to keeping such things under strict lock and key, ferreted away somewhere deep and private. It was hard to get used to.

Intently watching from the end of the bed, Jay Penagashea mentally noted each interaction and reaction between the family members, trying to decipher what was needed to aid in this young man’s healing and how each family member could be used to hasten his recovery. The distress and anxiety that lived inside the soul of each man was very clear to someone practiced enough to see it, to look for it. Dean’s fear of John, Sam’s wariness on Dean’s behalf, and John’s hurt and confusion over his son’s reaction to him.

Knowing the boys for only a very brief period of time, and their father for only a few years at best, Jay was surprised at how personally he took the responsibility to make things right for these men he hardly knew - but somehow had known forever. His feelings for each of them seemed surprisingly strong given the brevity of his relationship with them.

Wanting to impart some kind of solace to these men, his spirit brothers, he said, “There are valid reasons for Dean’s fear of you, John.”

“Dean knows he has nothing to fear from me,” John tried to argue, maybe to convince himself more than anyone.

“While that would normally be the case, I think there are extenuating circumstances at play here.” Jay looked to his friend, hoping he’d listen to reason. “It’s obvious that Dean has been experiencing an unexplainable, unreasonable fear of you and I think it is a result of a combination of things. First, the demon’s contamination that I spoke of earlier is keeping him trapped in the past. It is clouding his mind with nightmares and mental images that poison his heart against you.”

“Second, traumatic events such as Dean’s been through would be enough to cause post traumatic stress disorder. It is normal for anyone in his position to have residual fears and reoccurring bad dreams, even seasoned men of war.”

“If that’s the case, then why aren’t we all having the same problems?” John asked, his disbelief evident.

Softening his tone, Jay said, “Look, John. You all are being affected by this in subtle ways that you may not be aware of. All of you have been through more than your share, but just look at what Dean has suffered. He was forced to kill an innocent man to save Sam, it was his decision to exorcise the demon from Meg, he learned that the demon has plans for his brother - specifically - and he was viciously attacked by the demon who murdered his mother and brother’s girlfriend, all while wearing the face of his father who he loves and admires. I think that’s pretty grim for anyone.”

Looking at his first born son, John’s mind worked to process Jay’s words. Dean looked like he wanted to refute it all, but stayed silent - his jaw tensing up. Sam sat silently, too, but for different reasons. He knew that the doctor’s words were true, every single one. John could see that his youngest agreed with Jay, Sam’s mournful eyes seeking his, begging him to listen with his heart and not his head. Searching Dean’s face once again, and taking in the young man’s broken, failing body, John seemed to reach some kind of decision, resolution fixing his face in a firm mask of finality.

Addressing Jay, John asked, “What do you want us to do?”

Stunned, a slow grin began to sneak across Sam’s face, proud that the old man still had a few surprises left in him and knowing that this would keep Dean on board with whatever plan Jay had concocted. Between them, they’d be a hard team to beat.

“Well,” Jay began, “first things first. I want to perform a smudging ritual before we go any further. I believe this will slow down the illness ravaging your son’s body. Also, I believe this will help prepare Dean for the next step, which will be what the white men call the ‘sweat lodge’. This is the purification ritual I spoke of earlier. This should remove the demon’s taint from your son. To do this, I want to transport him to the reservation for treatment.”

He waited for their consensual nods, which came slowly from each man, questions in their eyes, but they stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“Keep in mind that Dean’s recovery will be a process, so don’t expect this to be an instant cure. No one comes out of a battle without scars, and you need to accept this for his sake and help him to accept it, too. And, Dean, you need to give yourself a break from the guilt trips; you’ve been through a lot and have kept yourself together better than any soldier could’ve, but your body will need time to heal completely.”

At Jay’s words, a fleeting look of surprise flitted across Dean’s face. How could he have possibly known what he was feeling? Jay’s ability to read him was uncanny. But then, Dean remembered how easily it had been to trust this man, how he had felt a kinship with him almost immediately. He nodded his head, but didn’t dare speak.

Questions running through his mind, Sam broke in, saying, “So, you want to take him to the reservation?”

“Yes, I do. There we’ll have easy access to the sweat lodge and any herbs or medicines we might need. Plus, my father has agreed to assist me.”

Sam nodded understandingly and asked, “When do we leave?”

“First thing in the morning. I brought the medical van we use to transport patients.”

Looking frustrated, John asked, “Why wait? Why not go now?”

“Well, for a couple of reasons. First, Missouri has been laboring in the kitchen all afternoon fixing us a delicious meal, and I don’t want to disappoint her. Secondly, Dean needs a little more time for the antibiotics to kick in and it wouldn’t hurt him to have a good night’s rest.”

“But,” Sam began, “what about the nightmares? He can’t rest if he can’t sleep.”

“I plan on giving him a mild sedative at bedtime that will ensure a peaceful night’s rest, Sam. Don’t worry, guys, I’ve put a lot of thought into this; I think I’m prepared for most anything. Now, why don’t we put tomorrow out of our minds for the moment and see what Missouri has cooked up for us?”

Seeing Dean’s repugnant look and the way his skin tinged green, Jay said, “Right. First let’s get you some medicine to ease your nausea so you can eat something…your body needs fuel to strengthen it.”

Jay went over to his medical bag and rummaged through it, then came back with a small vial and a syringe. After drawing out some of the liquid with the needle, he flicked the tube of the syringe and depressed the plunger slightly to let out the air bubbles. Sam stood and allowed the doctor to sit by Dean who was now eyeing the syringe with skepticism and maybe just a pinch of dread.

The doctor pulled back the covers and hiked the leg of Dean’s boxer shorts up has high as it would go before deftly plunging the needle into Dean’s thigh, depressing the plunger and releasing the medicine into Dean’s bloodstream. The action elicited a stifled grunt from the patient, but nothing more.

As Jay was finishing up, Sam and John began discussing sleeping arrangements, with both offering their own beds to the doctor. By the time the two men agreed that John should take Sam’s bed since Sam would be sleeping next to Dean again - Jay had placed everything back in his bag and had come back to his patient’s side.

“Rest now, Dean,” Jay said, “and try to eat and drink as much as you think you can. I don’t want you to make yourself sick, but do your best, okay?”

Dean gave a short nod, still silent, still uncomfortable with all the attention he was getting from everyone in the room - it was crowding in on him. He just wanted to be alone. He needed to be out from under the microscope he was under. He didn’t feel like eating, he didn’t want to keep up pretenses anymore - he just wanted to take two pain pills and be left alone for a while. Inside his head, voices taunted and tortured him, making it difficult to keep track of what was internal and what was external.

Listening to his family tripping over themselves to make sacrifices for him, and knowing they would be monitoring his every move and sound, left his nerves raw and taut, feeding the internal war. The effort it took to keep pretending, to keep it together - even this much - was wearing and exhausting. The buzzing in Dean’s head grew deafening; the voices accusing him of being a burden on his family relentless.

Sam noticed the panicked look in his brother’s eyes and immediately began ushering the others out of the room, saying, “Uh, hey, guys, I’ll stay here for a while if you want to go ahead and eat?”

“No, Sam. You go ahead with Jay, you haven’t had a break yet and I can stay with him until you’re done,” John said.

“No, please. Go ahead. I can wait.”

“You haven’t eaten since this morning, Sam. You need to keep your strength up.”

“Dad, really, I-” Sam’s began to protest.

“Stop! All of you, now! I don’t need a baby-sitter. Just leave-”

Unable to finish the sentence, Dean was doubled over by intense, uncontrollable coughing that threatened to turn him inside out. The forcefulness of it exacerbated the pounding of his head and introduced new searing pains that ripped into his sides. Minutes later, he was breathless, in agony and completely spent. Clawing at his exploding head with one hand while wrapping the other around his ribs, Dean whimpered with pain in between gasps and curled up on his side as wetness squeezed out from his tightly shut eyelids.

Sam cradled his brother’s head in his lap as Jay tried to examine Dean. The young man’s body language was causing a heightened sense of alarm in everyone, not knowing the cause of his reaction.

“Dean,” Jay commanded, “Tell me where it hurts. Dean, listen to me, I need you to focus on my voice. Just focus on the words and take gentle breaths, in…out, in…out.”

Jay’s voice cut through the haze of pain and slowly Dean began to respond, tried to breathe with Jay, but the sharp pains in his sides made it nearly impossible. Finally, he resorted to short, light pants and allowed the older man to ease him onto his back, his head still in Sam’s lap.

Examining Dean’s eyes, Jay detected slight flecks of red in the whites that indicated small ruptures from the force of the coughing. Moving his hands to Dean’s ribs, he quickly assessed that Dean had bruised, or possibly cracked, some ribs as well. Watching the younger man swallow against his pain, eyes hidden behind tightly clenched eyelids, Jay felt for his pulse and noted its racing, erratic pattern.

Sighing in frustration, Jay asked, “When’s the last time he had the Vicodin?”

Glancing at the clock, Sam quickly calculated the time and replied, “About four hours ago.”

“I want you to go ahead and give him his next dose now. Hopefully we can get some of this pain to ease. The coughing has caused some bruising to his ribs, maybe even cracked a few, and he’s got tiny ruptures in the whites of his eyes from the force of the coughs. But, I’m more concerned with pain management right now. I’m gonna go and see if we have any cough suppressants in the van and I’ll be right back.” Pausing a second at the doorway, Jay said, “John, come and give me a hand.”

Hearing the implied ‘let’s give him some space,’ John immediately gathered his crutches to him and said, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Hastily, Sam slid out from under Dean, quickly bunching pillows up under him, making his brother as comfortable as possible. The movement evoked a sharp cry from Dean who immediately clamped down on the sound by biting his lip. Sam rushed from the room, trying not to notice, and came back with the water for taking the medicine. Once the pills were swallowed, Dean lay back on his side, still hunched over, and tried to steady the rise and fall of his chest, aware of Sam’s worried stare.

“Dean, I’m sorry. You okay?”

“Don’t, Sam…just...don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” Dean clipped, managing to keep the stutters from his speech.

“You know, Dean, I don’t see this as a burden - you are not a burden.”

“I don’t need someone to watch over me 24/7, Sam. Dad’s right, making yourself sick won’t help anybody.”

“Fine, I’ll bring a plate in here and I’ll…not watch you,” Sam answered, reaching for a compromise.

“C’mon, Sa-,” Dean began, but the words came out too forcefully and he ended on a wince before he could finish. “Just go eat. It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” Dean grunted, being more careful this time. Fixing his green gaze on Sam’s, he tried to communicate confidence to his brother despite his sweat covered, ashen face.

“We could move you to the recliner in the living room and that way Sam will feel better having you nearby and he can eat at the table with us,” came a voice from the door. “Is that reasonable?”

The boys turned their heads toward Missouri, a little startled to find she’d snuck up on them. Tired of making the effort to talk, Dean nodded his head, indicating he was agreeable.

“Great,” Missouri said, “I made some homemade chicken broth soup for you. I’ll put it in a mug and you can just sip at it.”

Standing aside for Jay, Missouri watched as the doctor proudly displayed his find in the van. “This should help quiet that cough,” Jay exclaimed, pleased with himself.

“What is it?” Dean mumbled, not bothering to mask his distaste as he glowered at the unlabeled bottle of mysterious red liquid.

“Actually, it’s Vicks 44. We keep it without the label so no one knows it’s just an over the counter drug. I don’t want to give you anything stronger because you need to be able to cough up the phlegm.”

Missouri relayed their plan for moving Dean as Jay administered the nasty red potion to his patient. All agreed, she moved past John in search of a vaporizer she knew was stuffed somewhere in the bathroom closet, as well as some extra blankets.

Moving Dean proved to be no easy task, however. Jay had to have Sam help him since John couldn’t walk very far without the support of his crutches, even though the doctor didn’t like the younger Winchester putting all his weight plus some on his bum knee. It was especially troublesome since they had to move slowly, careful not to jostle Dean anymore than necessary.

Once settled in - covered with blankets to the neck - Dean warningly waved Sam away, insisting he would be just fine without his conjoined twin firmly attached to his side. Once that was accomplished, Missouri came in with a big mug and a straw and helped the young man sip the better part of the cup down. Miserably, Dean accepted her help knowing his chilled insides would welcome the hot liquid and resigned to the fact that it was either that or more mother-henning by Sam.

By the time they had all finished the now late evening meal, Dean was sleeping fitfully - drugged by the Vicodin and warm chicken broth combination. Taking the opportunity to catch up on some e-mail and do a little research, Sam grabbed his laptop and plopped down on the couch. Looking up intermittently from the blaring screen at his brother, he willingly acknowledged to himself that he was feeling nervous about tomorrow. He was terrified that it might not work - that something might go wrong or Dean might be too weak already. He hoped his research would provide some kind of back up plan…just in case.

Watching Dean’s expression, his brow permanently wrinkled in pain, Sam wondered again how he had ever allowed so much time to be wasted between his brother and him. He realized that Dean had been worthy of his childhood worship after all. Through all their family’s up and downs, his brother had been the rock in the midst of a whirlwind storm of life-changing events. Always there, always strong and steady - never taking from anyone, only giving of himself.

Not that Dean was some kind of saint or anything, but the more time Sam spent with his brother, the more proud he became to be his brother and appreciated him. Dean wasn’t the most well-mannered person, he didn’t have lauded degrees to back up his intelligence, and he wasn’t known or befriended by people easily…and, admittedly, most people found him to be brash, cocky and sometimes rude, but that was just the outer covering. The back story was a whole other issue.

When it mattered, Dean was someone you could count on, who would always come when called on. He was resourceful, smart and loyal to a fault. Though he’d never admit it, Dean had a heart of gold and a soft spot for children - all admirable qualities of a man who had a lot to offer to a family. And Sam wanted his brother to have a chance at something normal like that, felt he deserved at least that much for all that he had given of himself over the years.

Sam had enough faith for the both of them and he’d dream big dreams for his brother as well as for himself. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow his brother to die this way. His fear was conquered by his unbounded, ever-resourceful hope and faith that he could save Dean - he simply refused to accept any other outcome. No matter what.

Chapter 18: Sharing Regrets

Sitting on the couch opposite Sam, John Winchester leaned into the comforting softness with a sigh and propped his heavy cast onto the coffee table, throwing a glance at Missouri, hoping she didn’t see. From the dour look she shot him, she hadn’t missed a thing. Sheepishly, he added a pillow under his cast and mumbled a quick apology.

Across from him, his elder son was sleeping in the recliner, soft moans slipping from his lips when the nightmares became too dark and too frightful. Dean's pinched face was beginning to flush with fever once again, but no one dared wake him - agreeing by silent omission that any sleep was better than no sleep at all - at least for now.

Jay and Missouri were engaged in discussions of herbs and their practical applications while Sam continued to scour the internet for possible alternative methods of healing. Every so often, the youngest Winchester’s eyes would flick between the soft glow of the computer screen and the restlessly tossing figure whenever the moans or whimpers grew loud enough to break his concentration.

John watched both men interacting in silent communication - vaguely, but constantly aware of each other in their own minds. He had noticed the marked change in the brothers the moment Dean had come out of his coma. They seemed to be intimately connected in a way that transcended traditional human bonds or understanding. While John could admit to feeling a little jealous, mostly he just felt relieved, relieved that at least they had each other through all this.

As he began to relax, he reflected on their lives together. He couldn’t deny an acute sense of loss and anger at the precious memories that had been stolen from his family. Whether cheated by fate or entirely born of his own blind, heedless quest for justice, John was angry that he’d lost the chance to see his boys grow up in the traditional sense - complete with fishing trips, ball games and picnics in the park. Nothing would ever be able to replace those stolen moments. How different things might have been, if only.

Startled from his reverie by Dean's increased agitation, John worriedly watched as the younger man's restless movements turned into pronounced jerks and loud whimpers. He was dreaming again. Whatever lay behind those tightly clamped eyelids must surely have intensified past the point of tolerability because now Dean's head swiveled back and forth as he mumbled achingly soft pleas. Before John could locate his crutches and rise, Sam had discarded the laptop and was moving to quiet his tortured brother.

Sam leaned over Dean, gingerly resting a hand on his brother’s chest, and whispered gently, "Hey, shh. Its okay, Dean. Rest, now…that’s it, just rest."

Sam lingered beside Dean for a few seconds more, feeling his heated brow and gripping his forearm in a consoling squeeze. Once his brother had stilled, he resumed his place on the couch, meeting his dad's gaze with a melancholy look of helplessness.

Running a weary hand through his tousled hair, Sam blew out a long, gusty sigh and said, "I don't know how much more of this I can take." Chuckling wryly, he reiterated, "I guess I should say, I don't know how much more of this he can take, ya know?"

Blinking away the ghostly remnants of unshed tears, John replied, "Yeah. I'm sorry. I'd do anything if I could change things or make it better for you.”

Taken aback, Sam said, "Dad, I know I've blamed you for just about everything, but I was wrong. Growing up, I had a lot of anger and I didn't know how to handle it. Picking fights was just my way of dealing. Since Jess, I've done a lot of thinking…and I'm not sure I could’ve done things any better. I know making the decisions you've made must’ve been tough."

"It was,” John answered, “but that's no excuse for staying gone and leaving you boys alone. I should’ve made a home for you, kept you in the same school year after year. I could’ve left you with Pastor Jim instead of hauling you cross-country from one rundown motel to the next.”

Head bowed, Sam listened to his dad say the words he’d been waiting years to hear, but, somehow, they didn’t make him feel any better. Now he only felt sadness and even a little pity for the regrets that his dad carried around. He’d expected to feel justified, victorious and maybe even a little smug - but all he felt was an abiding sense of longing for what could never be. Making his dad admit his wrongs didn’t make Sam feel any of those things he had expected to feel and it didn’t change the way things were.

Extending the long overdue olive branch, Sam said, “The funny thing is, even if you had, I’d still have been angry. I don’t think I realized until recently that all the things I really wanted were never in your power to give. I wanted “normal”, you know? I wanted a picture-perfect family that wasn’t broken, when the truth is the night Mom was killed, so was my dream of what a family should be like.”

Sam smiled sadly at his dad, hands gesturing his helplessness as he continued, “I know now that having that kind of life was never possible for any of us after that. I don’t blame you anymore, Dad. It’s what we were dealt, so I guess it’s time to stop wishing for all those things that will never be no matter how much I might want it. At least, not like that. But, we still have each other.”

Sam paused, face full of wistful regrets of his own.

“I think that’s what he’s been trying to tell us all these years,” he finished, his eyebrows raised high and head nodded in Dean’s direction.

Smirking lightly, John asked, “When did you get so wise, Sam?”

Laughing mostly to himself, Sam answered, “I guess I’ve done a lot of growing up in this last year. They say that life sometimes makes the best classroom.”

Father and son allowed the moment to linger between them - treasuring it as one of the few pleasant interactions shared as mutual adults. But minutes later, the terrible dream playing inside Dean’s head spilled over into reality, breaking the spell that bound Sam and John together and making the more than adequate living space seem constricted and claustrophobic with his panic. Gasping in great heaving lungfuls of oxygen, Dean’s arms clawed at blankets and air in his desperate attempt to be free of the demons nipping his heels.

Infused with his brother’s alarm, Sam swore under his breath and, in two long strides, covered the distance between him and Dean. As their father clamored toward them, Dean continued to struggle for breath that seemed to get caught in his throat and would go no further. With each unsuccessful attempt to do what normally came so naturally to him, the young man became more frantic and wide-eyed - his mind unable to reason and his ears unable to hear.

Sam did his best to get his brother’s attention, to soothe his fear, but he could feel the loss of control that was burning under the surface of his own forced calm. Grabbing Dean by the face, he forced his brother’s green eyes to meet the deep-sea blue of his own as he forcefully called Dean’s name - part prayer, part command.

“Dean. Dean, calm down. Just stop and focus.” Sam could feel the panic radiating off his brother in waves that threatened to smother and overwhelm. He had never seen Dean gripped by an anxiety attack before and it was as disturbing as it was scary.

Dean’s eyes began to roll wildly as his chest continued to strain against invisible bonds. His hands clamped down on Sam’s wrists where his fingernails dug into Sam’s flesh, biting and stinging in their wake. Dean knew that Sam was trying to tell him something, but the blood pounding in his ears and the urgent need to breathe drowned out the words. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t swallow - he didn’t know whether to throw up or pass out or both. He could feel his lungs crushing inward as the ringing in his ears grew louder. Sweat soaked his face, chest and palms, the latter of which made it difficult to maintain a hold on Sam’s forearms.

Sitting up a little straighter, he focused again on his little brother’s scared, but compelling, face. Sam’s eyes begged him to see, and he did. His brother’s lips were moving and sound was coming out, but it was difficult to decipher the words. Dean - that was it - Sam was saying his name. Dean what? He focused harder, strained to move past the physical and hear his brother’s words. Gradually, his brother’s voice began to crowd out the deafening roar of his own fear and he could make sense of what was being said.

“Dean, please, man. You have to calm down. Take it easy, just slow down. Slow down, big brother. C’mon, man, you can do it. That’s it, Dean, just ease up,” Sam was saying.

The rushing sound in his ears faded little by little and small puffs of air were now filling his bursting lungs. He continued to stare into Sammy’s eyes; forcing himself to hear the instructions his brother was monotoning in a low, carefully controlled voice.

As the fear drained away, Dean gradually became aware of his dad standing nearby and the worried gaze of the others - embarrassment burned his ears and stung at the backs of his eyes in the form of unseen frustrated tears. Why was this happening to him? Demon’s taint, yeah, he remembered - but it didn’t make the bitter taste of humiliation easier to swallow. Snatching his hands away from Sam’s arms, Dean slumped backwards into the chair, waving a hand in the air to motion that all was fine and the freakish side-show was now over.

He closed his eyes against the parade of unwanted faces as he said, cringing at the hoarseness in his voice, “Pictures, people.”

Catching on quickly, Sam turned to the concerned onlookers and said, “I got it, thanks.” And then he nodded, indicating that they should go back to whatever task they had been doing before.

Amazingly, no one said a word - not even John - and they quietly went back to whatever they’d been doing, feigning casualness. Dean was conscious of the fact that Sam lingered by his side, but still couldn’t summon the courage to open his eyes and confront his spooked kid brother. It was too much to swallow. Too much for him to see what might be held in Sam’s eyes just then.

Sam hesitated, not knowing what to do next. He was afraid that anything he might say would upset his brother and endanger their newly formed closeness. What could he possibly say to someone like Dean that wouldn’t be contrived as an affront to his pride? He didn’t want to pretend this didn’t happen, but he also didn’t want to push Dean further into his protective shell. Shaking his head and drawing in a bolstering breath, he opened his mouth to speak and prayed that the right words would form somewhere between his brain and his lips.

“Look, Dean. Don’t open your eyes, don’t say a word. Just listen, okay?” Sam waited for the nearly imperceptible nod before continuing. “It’s all right. I know you and I know how hard this is, but you need to know that I understand more than you think.”

“Once, in college, just after I left, I had an anxiety attack of cosmic proportions right in the middle of History 101. We were taking our first test and it just came on from out of nowhere. The single most embarrassing moment of my life - panting, sweating, nearly vomiting - the whole nine yards - right there in the middle of a bunch of strangers.”

Sam stopped to chuckle at himself before saying, “That’s how Jessica and I first met. Me sitting there looking like dufus of the year and her sitting right behind me, planning my rescue. Next thing I know, she’s apologizing for spilling ice down my back and taking the brunt of the commotion onto herself. I’d never felt more grateful for another person’s presence since that time you saved me from that lonely-heart’s witches’ coven in Tennessee.”

Faintly, the corners of Dean’s mouth lifted, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. In that small gesture, Sam knew he’d done the right thing, said the right things to smooth out the awkwardness between them.

Peering up from under heavy lids, Dean murmured, “Dufus of the year, huh?”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to remember that part, ya know,” Sam said.

“Yeah, I know, but I will anyway. That’s just too good to forget, Sammy.” Dean paused a beat and then said, low and whispery, for Sam’s ears only, “Thanks, little brother.”

“You’re welcome. Dean…are you gonna be okay?”

Dean nodded, but the smile was gone and Sam was sorry that he’d broken the magic of the moment. Too late now, he thought to himself.

“Wanna talk about it?”

This time Dean answered, his gravelly voice growing husky, “Now why would I wanna do that?”

Shrugging, Sam said, “I don’t know, just because it might help.” Seeing this was going nowhere, Sam asked, “So, you’re all right?”

“Sammy, you know me…I’m always all right.” And with that, the conversation was effectively ended.

“Yeah, right,” Sam answered back, giving Dean’s knee a final pat as he walked by.

Thankful for his brother’s retreat, but at the same time aching from the emptiness left in Sam’s absence, Dean sighed and despondently wondered how much worse this would get before it got any better. He knew his renewed hold on his raw, naked emotions was temporary and tentative at best and with each minute that passed, the growing fever threatened to strip him bare for a repeat performance like that morning’s kitchen fiasco.

Watching Sam through veiled vision, Dean noticed his brother moved past the couch directly into the kitchen, only to emerge minutes later with a large tumbler of ice water and a flexible straw. He then headed for Dean, his intentions clear. Helping his weakened older brother hold onto the glass’s slick surface, Sam helped Dean sip the cooling, refreshing contents without a word.

Behind them, John sat stone-walled on the divan. Taking in every move and not missing the undercurrents that rippled between the two brothers, John longed to be included, to be of use. He wasn’t used to being helpless and unneeded. Shut out, that’s how he felt, shut out and unnecessary. When had that happened? he found himself wondering. Burying his face in his hands, rubbing them roughly up and down, John stifled the urge to force his way into the mix. It was killing him to sit idly by like some kind of outsider. Dean was his son, he needed to be involved.

Silently, Dean was watching his dad’s battle of instincts. Guilt panged sharply in his gut. He didn’t want to be the source of his dad’s anguish.

Clearing his voice and waving Sam and the glass away, Dean said, “Dad, you okay?”

Surprised, John’s head jerked up, a quizzical expression on his face as he replied, “Uh, yeah.”

Was he really that transparent? Rising from his seat, he walked closer to his son and cringed inwardly when Dean visibly shied away from him. Bracing himself, he pressed forward until he was standing within touching distance of his now shivering son. A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped in the effort to keep his wits about him. Tension blanketed the atmosphere as everyone discreetly watched the scene play itself out.

Unexpectedly, Dean said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m slowing you down from finding the demon. You should be concentrating on that and not this.”

Dean looked away, ashamed to find that he’d spoken the words aloud. The discomfort sharpened and the stunned man towering over Dean suddenly looked annoyed. Frown lines creasing his brow, John’s eyes sparked with ire and he alternately clenched his hands into balled fists and released them again.

“Why would you say that, Dean? You’re more important to me than the demon. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Right now we just need to get you well. Is that clear?” John said, forcing his voice to remain even and low.

“Yes, sir,” Dean answered, quickly batting his eyelashes to fan away any wetness that might have collected there.

Concerned by the flush that had colored Dean’s too pale face, John reached out and laid a hand on his son’s forehead. The contact with Dean’s heated skin resulted in a sudden jolt that had him yelping with pain and rearing backward, head gouging into the fabric of the recliner. Straining muscles, accompanied by more cries of pain, forced Dean’s body to bow away from the chair, unable to stop or find relief.

Horrified, John immediately tried to pull away only to find that he couldn’t. As Dean’s screams penetrated the air around him, John continued to yank at his hand - a wave of dizziness sweeping through his body, causing him to waver on his feet. John could hear Sam on the other side of Dean screeching at him to stop, terror making his son’s voice loud.

Missouri and Jay jumped up from their places and stood paralyzed - their minds unable to comprehend what was happening. Tears streaked down Dean’s face and the veins popped out in his neck as he continued to labor against the agony flooding his body, holding him prisoner. Desperately, Sam reached out and grabbed John’s arm and wrenched, instantly breaking the bond with a loud crack that singed the air with an acrid smell and sent Sam flying back into Jay, who had come up behind him.

John fell backwards in a heap and Dean collapsed unconsciously against the chair, his arms falling over the sides, head drooping onto his chest. A thick trail of blood streamed from his nose and left a crimson stain on his white t-shirt, his lifeless body falling utterly still. Disentangling himself from Jay, Sam leapt toward Dean as the doctor regained his own balance and moved toward John.

Pressing his fingers onto Dean’s carotid artery, Sam nervously felt for a pulse. Finding one, he let his head fall to his brother’s shoulder, relief leaving him trembling with weakness. Still alive, thank you, God, still alive.

Letting out a pent up breath, Sam lifted his head and touched Dean’s face as he called, “Dean, wake up. Dean. Hey, man, wake up. Please, you’ve gotta wake up now. Dean?”

Not getting a response, Sam sought out Jay who was busy helping an unsteady, confused John to a sitting position on the floor. The doctor’s eyes had never left his patient, Sam noticed. Jay’s face held caution, but as he felt the younger man’s attention, he forced reassuring calm to replace it. Sam watched as the doctor came to them and checked Dean’s pupil response and vitals for what seemed like the twentieth time that day.

The clouded look on the older man’s face sent Sam’s head spinning again as he asked, heart in his throat, “Doc? What is it?”

Meeting Sam’s intense stare, Jay said, “We’re leaving…tonight. Help me get him in the van. Sam, now!”

Sam jumped at the sharp order, but his senses had dulled with dread and time seemed to slow to a standstill, leaving him to wonder at the empty places in his memory later on. He would soon find out just how much more they could, indeed, take as the night folded into his worst nightmare once again.
TBC
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a/n: I know this wasn’t my best work as promised, but a tangle with a kidney stone took up most of my week, so sorry for that - I ended up cranking this one out in about two days time, which is much for me. I also, didn’t get around to replying to everyone, once again, but I’ll do my best to get it done this time. Thank you all for reading and I look forward to reading your comments.

P.S. You might find that a couple of lines from this chapter mimic some Alec lines from Dark Angel. If you find them, see if you can name the episode!

Thanks to Mady Bay and
sojourner84 for giving this a good once over for me. I appreciate your comments and helpful advice.

Next....

the wake-up call

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