A couple of hours later, they had their diagnosis. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, cutely nicknamed MRSA, and not, as Sam had earlier insisted, just a cut. This was an infection that could weaken him for a significant period of time, turn into some other necrotizing something-or-other that could eat away his skin, or enter his bloodstream and kill him at sixteen. The urgent care physician had an ambulance come get them and take Sam to the local hospital.
How the hell did this happen? It was a fucking scrape. The hospital doctors helped them understand a little better, though. Most people had staph bacteria on and in their bodies, but sometimes an open wound would create an infection. This particular brand was ugly and didn't respond well to most antibiotics. Sam would have to be admitted and hooked up to IV medications, special antibiotics that seemed to work against this particular strain of staph.
It wasn't common among boys Sam's age. Unless they were on a sports team, or lived in close quarters, sharing sheets and towels (and sometimes toothbrushes) with other people.
John, obviously, first blamed himself. He knew his sons were in danger because of their lifestyle, but he figured it was because of monsters, not because he was crowded into motel rooms with two other men who used the same washcloths and traded off clothing whenever they were low on clean laundry. Mary, he thought, like he always did, Mary would never have let this happen.
Plus, the shit was contagious, so Dean and John both had to be tested for it, though neither of them showed any signs of being affected by the bacteria. Both of them were negative. Of course. If there was something this uncommon and fucked-up, Sam was the one who was going to end up with it.
After six days in the hospital, Sam was finally cleared for release. There were, thankfully, no signs of sepsis and the wound was healing faster and faster as the days passed. The doctors let them go with a prescription for Vancomycin.
Of course, it was the most expensive medication any of them had ever needed. Dean burgled a Rite-Aid to get it, though. Not that he was going to share that little tidbit with Sam.
They holed up in a motel for another week, dealing with the decidedly unpleasant digestive side-effects of the medication and waiting for Sam to get his strength back.
Ready to make a jail-break to get the fuck back on the road for once, Sam asked how long they were going to ignore the intel Pastor Jim had sent them about strange deaths and weather patterns the next state over.
So they started moving again. That's what they always did.
Loved the description of how Sam reacted to the cut and how Dean reacted--so very in character for both of them--and glad Dean made a big ass deal about it. And stole meds for him. That's a good big brother. *pets Dean*
A couple of hours later, they had their diagnosis. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, cutely nicknamed MRSA, and not, as Sam had earlier insisted, just a cut. This was an infection that could weaken him for a significant period of time, turn into some other necrotizing something-or-other that could eat away his skin, or enter his bloodstream and kill him at sixteen. The urgent care physician had an ambulance come get them and take Sam to the local hospital.
How the hell did this happen? It was a fucking scrape. The hospital doctors helped them understand a little better, though. Most people had staph bacteria on and in their bodies, but sometimes an open wound would create an infection. This particular brand was ugly and didn't respond well to most antibiotics. Sam would have to be admitted and hooked up to IV medications, special antibiotics that seemed to work against this particular strain of staph.
It wasn't common among boys Sam's age. Unless they were on a sports team, or lived in close quarters, sharing sheets and towels (and sometimes toothbrushes) with other people.
John, obviously, first blamed himself. He knew his sons were in danger because of their lifestyle, but he figured it was because of monsters, not because he was crowded into motel rooms with two other men who used the same washcloths and traded off clothing whenever they were low on clean laundry. Mary, he thought, like he always did, Mary would never have let this happen.
Plus, the shit was contagious, so Dean and John both had to be tested for it, though neither of them showed any signs of being affected by the bacteria. Both of them were negative. Of course. If there was something this uncommon and fucked-up, Sam was the one who was going to end up with it.
After six days in the hospital, Sam was finally cleared for release. There were, thankfully, no signs of sepsis and the wound was healing faster and faster as the days passed. The doctors let them go with a prescription for Vancomycin.
Of course, it was the most expensive medication any of them had ever needed. Dean burgled a Rite-Aid to get it, though. Not that he was going to share that little tidbit with Sam.
They holed up in a motel for another week, dealing with the decidedly unpleasant digestive side-effects of the medication and waiting for Sam to get his strength back.
Ready to make a jail-break to get the fuck back on the road for once, Sam asked how long they were going to ignore the intel Pastor Jim had sent them about strange deaths and weather patterns the next state over.
So they started moving again. That's what they always did.
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