Triage (5/?, PG13, Dean, Sam, John)
Title: Triage
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural nor its characters.
Rating: PG13 so far. Might be R later, but I doubt it.
Pairings: None.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Pastor Jim, OCs.
Wordcount: 3350.
Warning: Grammar (unbetaed!). I'm really really sorry about the tenses, guys...
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sometimes you think you made the right call, only to realize you've made a really big mistake...
eeeeeeffffff
Chapter Five
John must have pushed the elevator button nine or ten times before the doors finally opened with a 'ding'.
He glared at the people getting out and pushed his way in, pressing the button to the fifth floor and the one to close the doors, and not at all caring that someone called for him to hold the elevator for them.
He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers drumming as he glared at the glowing floor numbers changing.
Did he miss something? Was Dean really hurt that badly and he missed it? How could he have missed it? They must have made a mistake somewhere, Dean wasn’t… Couldn’t be…
John went over the events from the previous night in his head. Hearing the gunshots, racing to get to his boys, finding himself staring at the business-end of Dean's gun, seeing Sammy on the ground with all that blood… John shook his head.
If he was completely honest with himself, he'd admit he sort of blocked everything else out after that. After seeing Sam on the ground. He had to, he told himself. He had to block everything else or he was going to freak out, to panic, and what good would that have done? Sam was bleeding so much there was no time to panic, only time for action. Blocking out everything else, blocking out the fact he was trying to keep his own son's insides from spilling and just keep him alive long enough for Dean to…
God, did he miss something?
The doors opened on the third floor, allowing several people in, but John ignored them. He went over the previous night once again in his head, this time doing his best to focus on his eldest.
And okay, yes, it took Dean a little too long to recognize him and lower his weapon, but it was dark and the boy probably didn’t want to take any chances. He was protecting his brother - just like John had taught him.
And then there was the slipping and the puking, but it was raining and the mud was slippery as hell - John's own wrist was a testament to that. And as for the puking; seeing Sammy like that certainly did a number on John's own stomach.
On the other hand, if John was willing to admit Dean might have been suffering from a head injury, things started to get a whole new meaning. A concussion could make Dean slower, make him dizzy. Certainly make him puke all over.
John had no idea if Dean had lost consciousness. He'd never asked. There was no time to ask.
John was willing to admit that when Dean missed the keys he tossed his way, when Dean fumbled for them for longer than seemed necessary, John did think something was up. He just thought it was shock. Fear, maybe. He'd asked Dean if he was okay to drive and Dean didn’t say no.
Didn't say yes, either - John's mind supplied and John just glared harder at the elevator doors.
eeeeeeffffff
When at last the doors opened on the fifth floor, John rushed out of the elevator. He walked briskly down the corridor, his heart pounding a mile a minute. The further down the corridor John went, the higher his blood pressure got.
There was a different feel to this floor, a foreboding sensation that washed all over him. There was none of the chaos that characterized the ER. No nervous chatter and TV channel surfing that characterized the waiting rooms in the surgical floors. This place was… quiet. Almost ominous.
He stopped at the nurses' station but before he had the chance to speak, the woman at the desk picked up the phone, lifted a finger in the air to stop him from talking, and turned her back at him.
John swallowed hard and ran a hand over his face. He looked around at the sterile white walls, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Cold sweat was beading on John's brow by the time the woman turned back to face him. "Yes, sir, how can I help you?" She asked.
John opened his mouth and froze, the words dying on his lips. He couldn’t say it, he just couldn’t. Instead, he just stared at the woman, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
"Sir?"
John cleared his throat and tried again. "I was told… My kid…" He had to clear his throat again before he managed to get some more words out. "They told me my kid was…" And it was the best he could do. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it.
The woman nodded businesslike at him and started clicking on her keyboard. "What's your kid's name?" She asked him.
"Dean Win-" John caught himself just in time. Cleared his throat again. "Duffy. Dean Duffy," he said instead.
The woman clicked on a few keys, staring at her computer screen.
And then John saw it. Saw the bored look on her face change. Saw the look she gave him when she looked up from the screen, and he knew. He recognized that look. Had seen it on a lot of people's faces right after Mary…
John's knees threatened to buckle.
It was no mistake then. His son was here, in the ICU, fighting for his life - or worse. John opened his mouth again, but nothing came out.
"Says here he's just out of surgery," the woman told John, and he closed his eyes, running his hand over his mouth.
"He okay?" John croaked.
"You'll have to talk to his doctor," the woman replied.
"I need to see him."
"He just came out of surgery," the woman repeated. "You won't be able to see him for at least an hour."
"But he's okay?" John asked, almost begged.
"I really don’t know, sir," she said with sympathy in her voice, and that was just it. John couldn’t take it anymore. He reached the first seat he could find and collapsed into it, burying his face in his hands.
So many thoughts were running around in his head, but at the same time, his mind went blank. All the thoughts slipping away like sand through open fingers.
"Here, I thought you could use this," someone said, and John looked up. It was the nurse from the ER, holding a Styrofoam cup in her hand.
"Thank you," John said and reached a shaky hand for the drink. He didn’t drink from it though, couldn’t stomach the thought of drinking, let alone the actual act.
"You should let someone take a look at that wrist," the nurse noted.
John stared at his swollen wrist. His son's stomach was slashed open. His other son was hurt so badly he was now in the ICU, and they were worried about his wrist? "I'm fine," John said gruffly, "I want to see my son."
The nurse, Valerie, nodded at him and went over to talk to the other woman. She came back a couple of minutes later and sat back down next to him. "I'm sorry," she said, "But your son just came out of a very complicated surgery. They need to monitor him to make sure nothing went wrong," she explained. "You can see him after that."
John put the cup aside and buried his hands in his hair. "Can't there be a mistake?" He asked. "I mean, how sure are you that that's my son in there?"
"I was here last night when your sons arrived, Mr. Duffy," Valerie answered calmly. "Dean started filling out his brother's paperwork. Come to think of it, he never did finish. Maybe you should fill out the paperwork for both your sons," she suggested. "It may help pass the time while you wait."
John shook his head. "What about Sam?"
Valerie nodded. "You can see him, if you want. Third floor."
John gave a curt nod and got to his feet, heading for the third floor.
eeeeeeffffff
Being able to see Sam, to touch his pale face, even to hold his hand, was a relief.
Sam was out for the count. Asleep, his doctor had told John. He had woken up after the anesthesia wore off, and just fell asleep.
John wanted nothing more than to wake his son up, to talk to him and make sure he was alright. He wanted to pick his boy up and hold him in his arms and make sure nothing could harm him, the way he used to over a decade ago, when Sam had been a baby. But he didn’t.
Instead, John sat by his boy's bed and watched him sleep, trying not to think too much of what could have happened had the boys gotten to the hospital even an hour later.
Sam's doctor told John that Sam had gotten there just in time. They had to take out a part of his colon and a small part of his liver, but other then that, there were no complications. They told John that Sam would probably be in pain for the next few days, but that with time and proper nutrition, he was going make a full recovery.
At least that was good news. Sort of. Sam would probably bitch and lecture and pout, but at least he was alive to bitch and lecture and pout, and that was all that mattered.
"Mr. Duffy, sir, we really do need you to fill up these forms…"
John bit off a sigh. Insurance forms. He had to stall them until he had more information.
Sam's case was simple. His surgery went well, his doctors thought he was going to make a full recovery - which meant John could sign him out AMA in a day or two, let him crash in a motel until he got his strength back. Proper nutrition would probably set them back a little money-wise, but it was about time the boys ate proper food anyway.
Dean though… ICU meant longer hospital stay, which meant sooner or later, the hospital was going to find out about their insurance. Or lack thereof. There was a chance Dean would still require professional medical care by the time they figured out the insurance fraud, and that complicated things. John had to stall for as long as he could.
"I need to see my son," John said, his eyes never leaving Sam.
The nurse frowned, looking from John to the sleeping Sam and back. "Mr. Duffy…"
"My other son. They told me I had to wait." John explained, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was feeling the beginning of a killer headache.
"Oh. Um. I'll see what I can do," the nurse said, though she made it sound more like a question. John waited until she left the room before he got up from the torture device they called a chair, stretched his aching back, gave Sam's hand a squeeze, and returned to the fifth floor.
eeeeeeffffff
They tried to have him fill out the insurance forms again, but by then, John's headache was more than a mere nuisance, his wrist was throbbing, and he had very little patience left.
He almost felt sorry about nearly bringing the young nurse to tears. Almost. At least someone finally gave him some aspirin for the headache.
A doctor came by to see him next. A man in his late forties, with more salt then pepper in his hair. He introduced himself as one of Dean's doctors, and John knew the news wouldn’t be very good if Dean needed more than one doctor.
They wouldn’t let him see Dean right away. Instead, the doctor - McCaffy - sat John down for a talk. And apparently, that was a good move.
Dean had a low grade fever, McCaffy said, which usually he wouldn’t have even brought up, except that in Dean's weakened state, it was just one more thing to worry about.
"But on the other hand," McCaffy went on, "We put him on a wide-range antibiotic that we hope will help. We'll just have to wait and see how he reacts to it."
"Doc, no offense, but would someone please tell me what the hell's going on?" John snapped. "My kid was fine, and then I get here, and they tell me he's in the ICU? For what? A fever?"
McCaffy gave John a good, long stare. "You don’t know?" he asked at last.
John glared at him.
McCaffy took a deep breath and let it out. "Your son was brought here last night with serious head injuries and several punctures to his lower abdomen," the doctor started. John swallowed hard and nodded for him to go on.
"He lost a lot of blood by the time they started working on him, and his body temperature was low. His heart rate fell under fifty, which is a very serious condition," the doctor went on, "Your son became hypotensive in the ER, which means his blood pressure was very low due to all the blood loss. They gave him several blood infusions, but unfortunately, he went into hypovolemic shock."
John clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his flesh. His wrist was sending pulses of liquid fire through his arm, and all the way to his ear, but John could barely feel it. He felt his heart race, could hear it so loud it almost drowned out the doctor's words. "What…" John croaked, his mouth suddenly dry. He cleared his throat, meaning to start again, but McCaffy took over.
"Hypovolemic shock?" he asked, and John gave a slight nod. "Your son had lost so much blood, it made his heart weak. It couldn’t pump enough blood to the body," McCaffy explained.
John paled. "Oh, God," he breathed, running his hand over his mouth.
"Your son's heart stopped, and they had to resuscitate him," the doctor continued slowly. "Unfortunately, during the process, a couple of your son's ribs broke and pierced his lung."
John closed his eyes, looking away. This was all too much. It just couldn’t be right. Sammy was the one the creature had hurt, not Dean. Dean wasn’t… Dean couldn’t have been hurt this badly without John noticing it. He just… There was no way. Surely, Dean would have said something. He would have told John if the thing got to him, John was sure of that. "God, Mary…" The words slipped his mouth without John ever intending them to.
The doctor gave him a couple more seconds to get a hold of himself. He put a hand on John's shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and then went on. "They re-inflated his lung in the ER," McCaffy said, "But the real concern was the shock. He was in real danger of organ shutdown." The doctor stopped, gouging John's reaction, waiting for John to signal that it was alright to keep on going.
It took John a few seconds to process. "But he's okay now?" John asked. "Whatever it was, you fixed him, right?"
"Well, we had to put a catheter in his heart," the doctor said tentatively. "We still need to monitor his heart's function and blood flow. We're monitoring him constantly."
"And he's going to be okay?" John pressed.
McCaffy let out a breath. "Mr. Duffy, your son's condition is very serious. We've been fighting for his life all night long, but he's not quite out of the woods yet," he said. "His body simply couldn’t take much more, so we did what we could."
"Wait, what the hell does that mean?" John snapped, blood pressure going even higher.
"It means there's more that needs to be fixed," the doctor answered calmly, "But we feel that your son's chances would be much better if we gave his body some time to rest."
John shook his head. "I don’t… I don’t understand…"
"We didn’t have time to deal with your son's head injuries. He's scheduled for an MRI later to see the severity of the injuries."
"But other than that, he's okay, right?" John pushed.
"Mr. Duffy, your son's in a very bad shape right now. He still needs more surgery, but at the moment, I don’t believe he'll survive it."
It was possible the doctor went on talking after that, but John didn’t hear another word. All he heard was 'don’t believe he'll survive', and then static. It was very possible he'd had a minor stroke. John had almost wished it were so.
"Mr. Duffy? You with me?"
John blinked. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I said that for the moment, all we can do is wait and see," McCaffy repeated.
"So Dean can do without that other surgery?" John asked.
"No," McCaffy said somberly. "He has to have another operation."
"But you think he'll die if goes back to surgery," John said slowly, making sure he got it right.
"If his body doesn’t have the time to recover, it is a possibility," the doctor confirmed.
"And if he doesn’t have the surgery?"
"Sir, our main focus last night was putting out fires, so to speak. There's still work to be done. If Dean doesn’t have another surgery, if we don’t fix what's wrong with him, he will die."
John blinked again. "So you're saying my son will die without this surgery, but he could die even if he has it?"
"We're not quite there yet, Mr. Duffy," the doctor said quickly. "Right now, your son is weak, but he's holding on. We are worried about the fever, but he's a strong boy. We're just gonna give it time, and hopefully he'll gain enough strength so we could operate on him safely."
"I need to see my son," John said, barely letting McCaffy finish.
The doctor nodded. "All right," he said, "You'll need to put on a gown and a mask," McCaffy said, motioning a nurse closer as he got to his feet. "Nurse Harper here will show you what to do."
eeeeeeffffff
This wasn’t Dean.
This boy, lying in the bed John was standing next to, this wasn't Dean.
Couldn’t be.
John's hands were shaking as he took another step closer to the bed. The room smelt of disinfectant. A nurse brought a chair over for John to sit in, but he didn’t. Not yet.
It was too hard to take. John's mind simply refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.
Dean was so pale his skin was practically translucent. There were dark circles under his eyes. A tube was placed down his throat, another down his nose. A machine was breathing for him.
His son wasn’t breathing on his own.
The doctor had explained that it was a good thing, having a machine breathe for him, that it allowed his body to concentrate on getting stronger.
He'd explained why they needed to induce a coma. It had made sense when the doctor explained it to him. It didn’t so much now that John was looking at his child.
There were three or four stitches to Dean's cheek, and John couldn’t even remember seeing a cut there before.
No IV was stuck into Dean's hand when John took it in his. Dean's hand was cold, his skin far too pale for the father's liking. But there was an IV stand at the head of Dean's bed, loaded with three different bags.
A myriad of wires from the IVs, as well as from the machines, disappeared under the collar of Dean's hospital gown. A central line. They didn’t even bother putting an IV in his arm because he had a central line inserted.
Dean was lying perfectly still while machines all around him beeped and hissed, monitored and recorded his heartbeat, temperature and blood pressure.
This wasn’t John's little boy. It couldn’t be. Dean was never this still, not even in his sleep. It must have been a mistake.
John prayed for it to have been a mistake. But there was no mistaking Mary's features, her gentle hands. Dean was his mother's son, just like Sam's resemblance to John was irrefutable.
"Oh, God," John breathed, and collapsed into the chair at his son's bedside.
TBC
Previouslies: 1 >> 2 >> 3 >> 4 >> 5
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural nor its characters.
Rating: PG13 so far. Might be R later, but I doubt it.
Pairings: None.
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Pastor Jim, OCs.
Wordcount: 3350.
Warning: Grammar (unbetaed!). I'm really really sorry about the tenses, guys...
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sometimes you think you made the right call, only to realize you've made a really big mistake...
eeeeeeffffff
Chapter Five
John must have pushed the elevator button nine or ten times before the doors finally opened with a 'ding'.
He glared at the people getting out and pushed his way in, pressing the button to the fifth floor and the one to close the doors, and not at all caring that someone called for him to hold the elevator for them.
He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers drumming as he glared at the glowing floor numbers changing.
Did he miss something? Was Dean really hurt that badly and he missed it? How could he have missed it? They must have made a mistake somewhere, Dean wasn’t… Couldn’t be…
John went over the events from the previous night in his head. Hearing the gunshots, racing to get to his boys, finding himself staring at the business-end of Dean's gun, seeing Sammy on the ground with all that blood… John shook his head.
If he was completely honest with himself, he'd admit he sort of blocked everything else out after that. After seeing Sam on the ground. He had to, he told himself. He had to block everything else or he was going to freak out, to panic, and what good would that have done? Sam was bleeding so much there was no time to panic, only time for action. Blocking out everything else, blocking out the fact he was trying to keep his own son's insides from spilling and just keep him alive long enough for Dean to…
God, did he miss something?
The doors opened on the third floor, allowing several people in, but John ignored them. He went over the previous night once again in his head, this time doing his best to focus on his eldest.
And okay, yes, it took Dean a little too long to recognize him and lower his weapon, but it was dark and the boy probably didn’t want to take any chances. He was protecting his brother - just like John had taught him.
And then there was the slipping and the puking, but it was raining and the mud was slippery as hell - John's own wrist was a testament to that. And as for the puking; seeing Sammy like that certainly did a number on John's own stomach.
On the other hand, if John was willing to admit Dean might have been suffering from a head injury, things started to get a whole new meaning. A concussion could make Dean slower, make him dizzy. Certainly make him puke all over.
John had no idea if Dean had lost consciousness. He'd never asked. There was no time to ask.
John was willing to admit that when Dean missed the keys he tossed his way, when Dean fumbled for them for longer than seemed necessary, John did think something was up. He just thought it was shock. Fear, maybe. He'd asked Dean if he was okay to drive and Dean didn’t say no.
Didn't say yes, either - John's mind supplied and John just glared harder at the elevator doors.
eeeeeeffffff
When at last the doors opened on the fifth floor, John rushed out of the elevator. He walked briskly down the corridor, his heart pounding a mile a minute. The further down the corridor John went, the higher his blood pressure got.
There was a different feel to this floor, a foreboding sensation that washed all over him. There was none of the chaos that characterized the ER. No nervous chatter and TV channel surfing that characterized the waiting rooms in the surgical floors. This place was… quiet. Almost ominous.
He stopped at the nurses' station but before he had the chance to speak, the woman at the desk picked up the phone, lifted a finger in the air to stop him from talking, and turned her back at him.
John swallowed hard and ran a hand over his face. He looked around at the sterile white walls, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Cold sweat was beading on John's brow by the time the woman turned back to face him. "Yes, sir, how can I help you?" She asked.
John opened his mouth and froze, the words dying on his lips. He couldn’t say it, he just couldn’t. Instead, he just stared at the woman, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
"Sir?"
John cleared his throat and tried again. "I was told… My kid…" He had to clear his throat again before he managed to get some more words out. "They told me my kid was…" And it was the best he could do. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it.
The woman nodded businesslike at him and started clicking on her keyboard. "What's your kid's name?" She asked him.
"Dean Win-" John caught himself just in time. Cleared his throat again. "Duffy. Dean Duffy," he said instead.
The woman clicked on a few keys, staring at her computer screen.
And then John saw it. Saw the bored look on her face change. Saw the look she gave him when she looked up from the screen, and he knew. He recognized that look. Had seen it on a lot of people's faces right after Mary…
John's knees threatened to buckle.
It was no mistake then. His son was here, in the ICU, fighting for his life - or worse. John opened his mouth again, but nothing came out.
"Says here he's just out of surgery," the woman told John, and he closed his eyes, running his hand over his mouth.
"He okay?" John croaked.
"You'll have to talk to his doctor," the woman replied.
"I need to see him."
"He just came out of surgery," the woman repeated. "You won't be able to see him for at least an hour."
"But he's okay?" John asked, almost begged.
"I really don’t know, sir," she said with sympathy in her voice, and that was just it. John couldn’t take it anymore. He reached the first seat he could find and collapsed into it, burying his face in his hands.
So many thoughts were running around in his head, but at the same time, his mind went blank. All the thoughts slipping away like sand through open fingers.
"Here, I thought you could use this," someone said, and John looked up. It was the nurse from the ER, holding a Styrofoam cup in her hand.
"Thank you," John said and reached a shaky hand for the drink. He didn’t drink from it though, couldn’t stomach the thought of drinking, let alone the actual act.
"You should let someone take a look at that wrist," the nurse noted.
John stared at his swollen wrist. His son's stomach was slashed open. His other son was hurt so badly he was now in the ICU, and they were worried about his wrist? "I'm fine," John said gruffly, "I want to see my son."
The nurse, Valerie, nodded at him and went over to talk to the other woman. She came back a couple of minutes later and sat back down next to him. "I'm sorry," she said, "But your son just came out of a very complicated surgery. They need to monitor him to make sure nothing went wrong," she explained. "You can see him after that."
John put the cup aside and buried his hands in his hair. "Can't there be a mistake?" He asked. "I mean, how sure are you that that's my son in there?"
"I was here last night when your sons arrived, Mr. Duffy," Valerie answered calmly. "Dean started filling out his brother's paperwork. Come to think of it, he never did finish. Maybe you should fill out the paperwork for both your sons," she suggested. "It may help pass the time while you wait."
John shook his head. "What about Sam?"
Valerie nodded. "You can see him, if you want. Third floor."
John gave a curt nod and got to his feet, heading for the third floor.
eeeeeeffffff
Being able to see Sam, to touch his pale face, even to hold his hand, was a relief.
Sam was out for the count. Asleep, his doctor had told John. He had woken up after the anesthesia wore off, and just fell asleep.
John wanted nothing more than to wake his son up, to talk to him and make sure he was alright. He wanted to pick his boy up and hold him in his arms and make sure nothing could harm him, the way he used to over a decade ago, when Sam had been a baby. But he didn’t.
Instead, John sat by his boy's bed and watched him sleep, trying not to think too much of what could have happened had the boys gotten to the hospital even an hour later.
Sam's doctor told John that Sam had gotten there just in time. They had to take out a part of his colon and a small part of his liver, but other then that, there were no complications. They told John that Sam would probably be in pain for the next few days, but that with time and proper nutrition, he was going make a full recovery.
At least that was good news. Sort of. Sam would probably bitch and lecture and pout, but at least he was alive to bitch and lecture and pout, and that was all that mattered.
"Mr. Duffy, sir, we really do need you to fill up these forms…"
John bit off a sigh. Insurance forms. He had to stall them until he had more information.
Sam's case was simple. His surgery went well, his doctors thought he was going to make a full recovery - which meant John could sign him out AMA in a day or two, let him crash in a motel until he got his strength back. Proper nutrition would probably set them back a little money-wise, but it was about time the boys ate proper food anyway.
Dean though… ICU meant longer hospital stay, which meant sooner or later, the hospital was going to find out about their insurance. Or lack thereof. There was a chance Dean would still require professional medical care by the time they figured out the insurance fraud, and that complicated things. John had to stall for as long as he could.
"I need to see my son," John said, his eyes never leaving Sam.
The nurse frowned, looking from John to the sleeping Sam and back. "Mr. Duffy…"
"My other son. They told me I had to wait." John explained, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was feeling the beginning of a killer headache.
"Oh. Um. I'll see what I can do," the nurse said, though she made it sound more like a question. John waited until she left the room before he got up from the torture device they called a chair, stretched his aching back, gave Sam's hand a squeeze, and returned to the fifth floor.
eeeeeeffffff
They tried to have him fill out the insurance forms again, but by then, John's headache was more than a mere nuisance, his wrist was throbbing, and he had very little patience left.
He almost felt sorry about nearly bringing the young nurse to tears. Almost. At least someone finally gave him some aspirin for the headache.
A doctor came by to see him next. A man in his late forties, with more salt then pepper in his hair. He introduced himself as one of Dean's doctors, and John knew the news wouldn’t be very good if Dean needed more than one doctor.
They wouldn’t let him see Dean right away. Instead, the doctor - McCaffy - sat John down for a talk. And apparently, that was a good move.
Dean had a low grade fever, McCaffy said, which usually he wouldn’t have even brought up, except that in Dean's weakened state, it was just one more thing to worry about.
"But on the other hand," McCaffy went on, "We put him on a wide-range antibiotic that we hope will help. We'll just have to wait and see how he reacts to it."
"Doc, no offense, but would someone please tell me what the hell's going on?" John snapped. "My kid was fine, and then I get here, and they tell me he's in the ICU? For what? A fever?"
McCaffy gave John a good, long stare. "You don’t know?" he asked at last.
John glared at him.
McCaffy took a deep breath and let it out. "Your son was brought here last night with serious head injuries and several punctures to his lower abdomen," the doctor started. John swallowed hard and nodded for him to go on.
"He lost a lot of blood by the time they started working on him, and his body temperature was low. His heart rate fell under fifty, which is a very serious condition," the doctor went on, "Your son became hypotensive in the ER, which means his blood pressure was very low due to all the blood loss. They gave him several blood infusions, but unfortunately, he went into hypovolemic shock."
John clenched his hands into fists, nails digging into his flesh. His wrist was sending pulses of liquid fire through his arm, and all the way to his ear, but John could barely feel it. He felt his heart race, could hear it so loud it almost drowned out the doctor's words. "What…" John croaked, his mouth suddenly dry. He cleared his throat, meaning to start again, but McCaffy took over.
"Hypovolemic shock?" he asked, and John gave a slight nod. "Your son had lost so much blood, it made his heart weak. It couldn’t pump enough blood to the body," McCaffy explained.
John paled. "Oh, God," he breathed, running his hand over his mouth.
"Your son's heart stopped, and they had to resuscitate him," the doctor continued slowly. "Unfortunately, during the process, a couple of your son's ribs broke and pierced his lung."
John closed his eyes, looking away. This was all too much. It just couldn’t be right. Sammy was the one the creature had hurt, not Dean. Dean wasn’t… Dean couldn’t have been hurt this badly without John noticing it. He just… There was no way. Surely, Dean would have said something. He would have told John if the thing got to him, John was sure of that. "God, Mary…" The words slipped his mouth without John ever intending them to.
The doctor gave him a couple more seconds to get a hold of himself. He put a hand on John's shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and then went on. "They re-inflated his lung in the ER," McCaffy said, "But the real concern was the shock. He was in real danger of organ shutdown." The doctor stopped, gouging John's reaction, waiting for John to signal that it was alright to keep on going.
It took John a few seconds to process. "But he's okay now?" John asked. "Whatever it was, you fixed him, right?"
"Well, we had to put a catheter in his heart," the doctor said tentatively. "We still need to monitor his heart's function and blood flow. We're monitoring him constantly."
"And he's going to be okay?" John pressed.
McCaffy let out a breath. "Mr. Duffy, your son's condition is very serious. We've been fighting for his life all night long, but he's not quite out of the woods yet," he said. "His body simply couldn’t take much more, so we did what we could."
"Wait, what the hell does that mean?" John snapped, blood pressure going even higher.
"It means there's more that needs to be fixed," the doctor answered calmly, "But we feel that your son's chances would be much better if we gave his body some time to rest."
John shook his head. "I don’t… I don’t understand…"
"We didn’t have time to deal with your son's head injuries. He's scheduled for an MRI later to see the severity of the injuries."
"But other than that, he's okay, right?" John pushed.
"Mr. Duffy, your son's in a very bad shape right now. He still needs more surgery, but at the moment, I don’t believe he'll survive it."
It was possible the doctor went on talking after that, but John didn’t hear another word. All he heard was 'don’t believe he'll survive', and then static. It was very possible he'd had a minor stroke. John had almost wished it were so.
"Mr. Duffy? You with me?"
John blinked. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I said that for the moment, all we can do is wait and see," McCaffy repeated.
"So Dean can do without that other surgery?" John asked.
"No," McCaffy said somberly. "He has to have another operation."
"But you think he'll die if goes back to surgery," John said slowly, making sure he got it right.
"If his body doesn’t have the time to recover, it is a possibility," the doctor confirmed.
"And if he doesn’t have the surgery?"
"Sir, our main focus last night was putting out fires, so to speak. There's still work to be done. If Dean doesn’t have another surgery, if we don’t fix what's wrong with him, he will die."
John blinked again. "So you're saying my son will die without this surgery, but he could die even if he has it?"
"We're not quite there yet, Mr. Duffy," the doctor said quickly. "Right now, your son is weak, but he's holding on. We are worried about the fever, but he's a strong boy. We're just gonna give it time, and hopefully he'll gain enough strength so we could operate on him safely."
"I need to see my son," John said, barely letting McCaffy finish.
The doctor nodded. "All right," he said, "You'll need to put on a gown and a mask," McCaffy said, motioning a nurse closer as he got to his feet. "Nurse Harper here will show you what to do."
eeeeeeffffff
This wasn’t Dean.
This boy, lying in the bed John was standing next to, this wasn't Dean.
Couldn’t be.
John's hands were shaking as he took another step closer to the bed. The room smelt of disinfectant. A nurse brought a chair over for John to sit in, but he didn’t. Not yet.
It was too hard to take. John's mind simply refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.
Dean was so pale his skin was practically translucent. There were dark circles under his eyes. A tube was placed down his throat, another down his nose. A machine was breathing for him.
His son wasn’t breathing on his own.
The doctor had explained that it was a good thing, having a machine breathe for him, that it allowed his body to concentrate on getting stronger.
He'd explained why they needed to induce a coma. It had made sense when the doctor explained it to him. It didn’t so much now that John was looking at his child.
There were three or four stitches to Dean's cheek, and John couldn’t even remember seeing a cut there before.
No IV was stuck into Dean's hand when John took it in his. Dean's hand was cold, his skin far too pale for the father's liking. But there was an IV stand at the head of Dean's bed, loaded with three different bags.
A myriad of wires from the IVs, as well as from the machines, disappeared under the collar of Dean's hospital gown. A central line. They didn’t even bother putting an IV in his arm because he had a central line inserted.
Dean was lying perfectly still while machines all around him beeped and hissed, monitored and recorded his heartbeat, temperature and blood pressure.
This wasn’t John's little boy. It couldn’t be. Dean was never this still, not even in his sleep. It must have been a mistake.
John prayed for it to have been a mistake. But there was no mistaking Mary's features, her gentle hands. Dean was his mother's son, just like Sam's resemblance to John was irrefutable.
"Oh, God," John breathed, and collapsed into the chair at his son's bedside.
TBC
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