Triage (6/?, 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: 2860.
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 Six
"Dad?"
John straightened in his chair. He forced himself to stop thinking about his oldest bleeding to death while still trying to fill out those damn insurance papers, and concentrated on his youngest. He smiled at his son, even though it was the hardest thing for him to do at the moment.
"Hey there, Sammy. How are you doing there, kiddo?"
Sam frowned, squinting, and looked around the room. "Where's Dean?"
John did the best he could to keep that smile on his face, to stay calm. "Your stomach okay?" He tried to change the subject, "Doc said you'd be sore for a few days. You need anything?"
Sam tried shifting around in bed and stopped immediately, wincing. He tried to scratch his arm and spent nearly a minute staring confusedly at his IV.
It wasn’t too difficult keeping a smile on looking at that. "It's for your pain meds. I think they're making you a little loopy," John explained, and brushed his fingers on Sam's cheek.
Sam blinked at him, then back at the IV, and then back at his father again. "They do?" he asked, and John nodded. "Oh," Sam said, "Where's Dean? How come he's not here?"
John bit his lower lip and looked away.
Sam frowned when his father took too long to answer. "You're mad at him, aren’t you?" Sam asked, though it sounded more like an accusation.
"What?" John asked hoarsely.
"Wasn’t his fault," Sam said, "You can't be mad at him when it wasn’t his fault."
John shook his head. "Sam, what are talking about?"
"Was my fault," Sam muttered, fighting to keep his eyes open. "You shouldn’t be mad at him."
"What makes you think I'm mad at your brother?" John asked.
"Why else isn’t he here?" Sam shot back, like that was the only explanation in the world for Dean not being there in the room with them.
"We were out late last night, Sam. And it's nearly afternoon now," John said. "Your brother was falling asleep on his feet watching over you," he lied, "so I sent him to a motel to get a shower and some Z's."
Sam frowned, studying John's face, as if trying to decide whether to believe his father or not. It kind of hurt a little. On the other hand, it was totally called for, so John couldn’t really blame the kid.
"You wanna tell me what happened last night?" John asked, though his tone made it pretty clear it wasn’t a question.
Sam looked a little suspicious at that. "Didn’t Dean tell you?" He asked.
Damn, the boy was sharp. "I want to hear your side, too," John explained.
"So you are mad at him," Sam accused.
"Just want to get the whole picture," John said, shifting in his seat.
He sure wanted to get the whole picture, because the one he had in his head? That one didn’t quite add up to what he saw in the ICU. Didn’t add up with the stitches on Dean's cheek, or the head injuries, or the bleeding. He'd missed something, blocked something out, and he needed to know.
He screwed up, bad, and he needed to know.
Sam let out soft moan and squeezed his eyes shut, and John remembered where they were. "You want something to drink?" he asked, "I think I can get you some water," John offered.
Sam nodded and John brought over a plastic cup with a straw, helping his son to a few sips of water.
"Feeling better?" John asked, putting the cup away. Sam let out a tired little sound as an answer. "Any chance you feel like talking?" John asked a couple of seconds later.
Sam opened his eyes and looked at his father. "You're really not mad?" he asked.
John smiled at him, brushed the hairs away from his face. "I'm really not mad, Sammy," he promised.
"And you won't get mad?" Sam pushed.
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Dad?" Sam prompted.
"Tell you what," John said, "You tell me what happened, and I'll go see if Dean's awake, see if I can drag him back here. How does that sound?" He asked.
Sam thought it over for a moment, and John felt his mouth dry as his heart raced in his chest. He felt torn; needing to be here with Sam, but at the same time, needing to be up in the ICU with Dean. Not knowing though, that was the worst, because what if there was something the doctors didn’t know? What if that thing did something…
"Dad?"
John shook his head and plastered a smile on his lips for his son's sake.
"What's wrong?" Sam asked.
"You tell me," John said, "You were the one spilling his guts all over the place when I got there."
"Wasn’t Dean's fault," Sam insisted.
"Okay," John conceded, his leg bouncing uncontrollably as he forced himself to appear calm, "Then what happened?"
"We were talking," Sam let out a breath, closing his eyes.
"Yeah?" John said when Sam didn’t go on, "About anything in particular?"
Sam shrugged. "It was dark and it was raining, and we were talking, and then the… the… whatcha'ma' call it showed up," he said.
John nodded for him to go on.
"It came from behind us. Behind Dean," Sam said, "It had some… I dunno. Branch or something. Hit Dean over the head with it real hard when he turned around to shoot it." Sam went on, "Knocked him out," Sam said, and then tried to sit up straight again. He let out a small cry of pain and John leaped from his chair to help his son.
"Hey, don’t do that, okay? You need to take it easy, kiddo. No belly dancing for a while, okay?"
Sam glared at him. "Not funny," he muttered.
"It was a little bit funny," John joked. Sam kept glaring at him. "No?" John made a face and shrugged. "What can I say, I'm not a pro at teasing you like your brother is," he said with a sad smile.
"Hurts," Sam mumbled.
"I know it does," John said, stroking Sam's head, "but I'm right here, okay? I'm right here."
Sam closed his eyes for a few minutes, and John couldn’t take his eyes off of him. His baby boy, lying in a hospital bed. God, what would Mary think if she knew?
John cleared his throat. "You still with me?" he asked softly.
"Mmmhmm," Sam mumbled by way of reply.
"So, your brother passed out?" John asked tentatively, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"I shot at it. A couple times," Sam said with his eyes still closed, "But it was too fast. I didn’t even feel it at first. I just… I dunno," John kept running his fingers through his boy's mop of hair.
"It's okay," he said.
"Wasn’t Dean's fault," Sam repeated yet again, "It came from behind and it was so fast…"
"It's okay, Sam," John said thickly.
"Dean was out cold for ages," Sam said, "and I shot it. I did. It was just so fast…"
"I know," John murmured.
"So don’t get mad."
"I'm not mad, Sam," John promised.
"At Dean, too?" Sam pushed.
"I'm not mad at you or your brother," John clarified.
"So why wasn’t he here when I came out of surgery?" Sam asked.
John ran a hand over his mouth. "Sammy," he let out a deep breath and swallowed hard. "He was there," John lied, "You were probably still high from the anesthesia so you don’t remember."
Sam frowned. "He was here?"
"Yep," John said, "Waited for me to get here. He even filled out the paperwork," John added, because the best lies had a bit of truth in them.
"Oh," Sam said and scratched his head.
"Yeah. And if I'm not mistaken, he mentioned something about looking for a prince to kiss you and wake you up," John added, because it sounded like something Dean would say, and the expression on Sam's face was priceless. "Your brother's getting some shut eye. And I think you should, too," John finished.
"Okay," Sam said, sounding more like a four-year-old than a fourteen-year-old.
John smiled at him. "Okay."
John stayed with Sam, stroking his arm gently, until Sam's breathing slowed and he fell asleep. John kept watching him, just for a little bit longer.
It wasn’t too difficult to pretend this was just another crappy apartment. That he was just tucking Sam in, that Dean was outside or doing his homework or whatever. Pretend that Sam wasn’t hurt, hadn’t just undergone surgery. Pretend that Dean wasn’t upstairs, fighting for his life.
Sitting in that room, watching Sam sleep, made pretending easy.
Getting up from that uncomfortable plastic chair and feeling his back scream at him, smelling the antiseptic in the air, seeing the nurses and orderlies and the doctors in their white coats, though. John just couldn’t keep pretending.
Two floors above them, his eldest was fighting for his life, and there was a chance he wasn’t going to make it.
There was no room left for pretending anymore.
eeeeeeffffff
Time is a funny thing.
You're running around in the rain, and the air's so cold you're freezing your nuts off. And you know there's something out there. Something that's dangerous. Something that might jump you at any moment and take your head off, use you as a new chew toy.
But you keep running around, getting soaked to the bone and wishing you were back home. You keep fantasizing about a hot shower and a scalding cup of coffee, and then berate yourself for losing focus.
You feel like it's been hours since you've been warm and dry, hours since you got into these woods trying to kill some monster, but when you look at your watch you realize it's only been minutes.
Time plays tricks on you. It makes you forget.
You sit there, watching machines breathing for your kid because he's not strong enough to breathe on his own. You've been sitting here for mere minutes, just trying to wrap your head around the fact your firstborn is in a medically induced coma. Trying to wrap your head around the fact that your strong, lively child is lying so still. Trying to understand how in the hell that had happened.
And then someone puts a plate in your hand, and you realize it's dinnertime. You're not hungry, at least you don’t think so - until you take that first bite, and realize it's been nearly twenty four hours since you've last eaten.
Time is a funny thing. It stretches and shrinks. It's a constant, but it keeps changing all the time. It can screw with your mind just as well as any monster.
One minute, you want it to speed up so your son will finally open his eyes and everything will be alright again, but at the same breath, you just want it to stop. Just stop.
So that you'll never lose them.
Neither of them.
eeeeeeffffff
John put his empty plate on the tray by Dean's bed and his stomach grumbled. He ran his hand over his stubbled face and looked at his son. "You hang in there, okay?" John asked as he got to his feet, "Don’t you go anywhere, you hear me?"
Dean didn’t answer.
John kissed his son's forehead, just below the bandages. He shook his head, closing his eyes just for a moment, because weren’t those news just the cherry on top?
The tests showed some bleeding and swelling in Dean's brain, and wasn’t that just awesome? Because things weren’t crappy enough.
The doctor told John not to worry about it for the moment, and didn’t that just take the cake? His son's brain was bleeding, for crying out loud, but hey, with everything going on, what's the point of worrying about that, right?
"You never do anything halfway, do you?" John asked, running his fingers gently down Dean's cheek, but the only reply he got was the beeping of the monitors and the hissing of the machine that breathed for his son.
"Look, I'm just gonna step out for something to eat, okay? I'm going to be right back, so don’t you go anywhere," John said. Dean didn’t protest.
John stared at him a few seconds longer, and then left the room.
He found an orderly down the hall and stopped him. "Excuse me, um," John let out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Where can I find the cafeteria?" He asked.
"Oh, first floor," the man said. John nodded his thanks and turned to leave, but the man stopped him. "But it's closed," he added.
"Oh," John said. "Any good vending machines around?"
The man smiled at him. "There's a place, a couple of blocks down the street. Food ain't all that great, but the coffee's good, and it's open twenty four, seven," he said.
"Thanks," John said. He looked over his shoulder at Dean's room.
"It's not likely anything'll happen just 'cause you went out and got yourself a burger," the orderly said knowingly.
"No, I know, it's just…" John shook his head.
"Can't help your kid if you're too exhausted, can you?" the orderly said, flashed John a smile, and then left on his way.
John rubbed the back of his head, looking over his shoulder again, and then heaved a sigh. "You do anything while I'm not here, I'm gonna tear you a new one, you got it?" He muttered under his breath, and then headed for the elevators.
eeeeeeffffff
John ordered himself a cheeseburger with fries and a cup of coffee. The fries were greasy, and the burger was overcooked, but the coffee was strong.
John watched some TV as he was eating; it was tuned to the weather channel, with the volume on low, but it didn’t matter. It was a distraction, and John welcomed it.
He got himself another coffee to go, and on second thought, ordered a banana milkshake for Sam. He stopped at a news stand on his way back to the hospital and got Sam some magazines to pass the time, figuring it was the least he could do.
Sam was asleep when John checked in on him. He set the magazines on the small table by the bed, and put the milkshake next to them, within Sam's reach.
John brushed the hair away from his son's face and Sam gave a little shake of his head, but didn’t wake up.
Some twenty minutes later, John got out of Sam's room on his way up to the ICU. He ran into Sam's doctor on his way to the elevators. "Oh hey, doc," John said, "Listen, I know Sam can't eat anything, but I brought him a milkshake. I hope that's okay."
The doctor made a face. "It's a little too soon for that. Maybe tomorrow night, if things stay the way they are," he said.
"Oh," John said, a little disappointed.
"Mr. Duffy, I heard about your other son, up in the ICU," the doctor said tentatively, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Have you told Sam about his brother yet?"
John frowned. "No," he said, "And I'm not going to. Not before Dean gets better."
"Well, sir…" the doctor made another face, and he was really starting to get on John's nerves, "Sam's been asking about his brother."
"I can handle that," John said gruffly.
"I'm sure you can, it's just… Kids are a lot smarter than people tend to give them credit for," the doctor said.
"What exactly are you trying to say, doc?" John demanded.
"I'm just saying maybe you should tell Sam about his brother," the doctor replied. "He might just surprise you," he went on.
"Yeah, well, I don’t want Sam worrying about his brother when he should be concentrating on getting better himself," John snapped and turned to leave.
"Mr. Duffy," the doctor called out after him. John stopped and turned back to look at him. "In my experience, kids have some sort of… sixth sense, if you will," the doctor said. "There's a chance he already knows, at least intuitively. Don’t you think you owe it to your son? Don’t you think he has the right to know, to at least say goodbye to his brother?"
"His brother's not going to die!" John snapped.
"I sure hope not," the doctor said quickly, "But if things turn south, and Sam doesn’t get the chance to see his brother, how do you think it'd make him feel?"
John gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. In two steps he was right up in the doctor's face. "You keep your nose out of my business, you hear me?" John demanded. "They are my sons. I know what’s best for them. Do I make myself clear?" he asked threateningly.
"Yes, sir," the doctor replied.
John huffed at him, and then turned back and briskly made his way towards the elevator. He was pretty sure he heard the guy calling him a prick just as the elevator doors opened.
TBC
Previouslies: 1 >> 2 >> 3 >> 4 >> 5 >> 6 >> 7 >> 8 >> 9 >> 10 >> 11 >> 12
'k, I'mma gonna go to sleep now...
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: 2860.
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 Six
"Dad?"
John straightened in his chair. He forced himself to stop thinking about his oldest bleeding to death while still trying to fill out those damn insurance papers, and concentrated on his youngest. He smiled at his son, even though it was the hardest thing for him to do at the moment.
"Hey there, Sammy. How are you doing there, kiddo?"
Sam frowned, squinting, and looked around the room. "Where's Dean?"
John did the best he could to keep that smile on his face, to stay calm. "Your stomach okay?" He tried to change the subject, "Doc said you'd be sore for a few days. You need anything?"
Sam tried shifting around in bed and stopped immediately, wincing. He tried to scratch his arm and spent nearly a minute staring confusedly at his IV.
It wasn’t too difficult keeping a smile on looking at that. "It's for your pain meds. I think they're making you a little loopy," John explained, and brushed his fingers on Sam's cheek.
Sam blinked at him, then back at the IV, and then back at his father again. "They do?" he asked, and John nodded. "Oh," Sam said, "Where's Dean? How come he's not here?"
John bit his lower lip and looked away.
Sam frowned when his father took too long to answer. "You're mad at him, aren’t you?" Sam asked, though it sounded more like an accusation.
"What?" John asked hoarsely.
"Wasn’t his fault," Sam said, "You can't be mad at him when it wasn’t his fault."
John shook his head. "Sam, what are talking about?"
"Was my fault," Sam muttered, fighting to keep his eyes open. "You shouldn’t be mad at him."
"What makes you think I'm mad at your brother?" John asked.
"Why else isn’t he here?" Sam shot back, like that was the only explanation in the world for Dean not being there in the room with them.
"We were out late last night, Sam. And it's nearly afternoon now," John said. "Your brother was falling asleep on his feet watching over you," he lied, "so I sent him to a motel to get a shower and some Z's."
Sam frowned, studying John's face, as if trying to decide whether to believe his father or not. It kind of hurt a little. On the other hand, it was totally called for, so John couldn’t really blame the kid.
"You wanna tell me what happened last night?" John asked, though his tone made it pretty clear it wasn’t a question.
Sam looked a little suspicious at that. "Didn’t Dean tell you?" He asked.
Damn, the boy was sharp. "I want to hear your side, too," John explained.
"So you are mad at him," Sam accused.
"Just want to get the whole picture," John said, shifting in his seat.
He sure wanted to get the whole picture, because the one he had in his head? That one didn’t quite add up to what he saw in the ICU. Didn’t add up with the stitches on Dean's cheek, or the head injuries, or the bleeding. He'd missed something, blocked something out, and he needed to know.
He screwed up, bad, and he needed to know.
Sam let out soft moan and squeezed his eyes shut, and John remembered where they were. "You want something to drink?" he asked, "I think I can get you some water," John offered.
Sam nodded and John brought over a plastic cup with a straw, helping his son to a few sips of water.
"Feeling better?" John asked, putting the cup away. Sam let out a tired little sound as an answer. "Any chance you feel like talking?" John asked a couple of seconds later.
Sam opened his eyes and looked at his father. "You're really not mad?" he asked.
John smiled at him, brushed the hairs away from his face. "I'm really not mad, Sammy," he promised.
"And you won't get mad?" Sam pushed.
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Dad?" Sam prompted.
"Tell you what," John said, "You tell me what happened, and I'll go see if Dean's awake, see if I can drag him back here. How does that sound?" He asked.
Sam thought it over for a moment, and John felt his mouth dry as his heart raced in his chest. He felt torn; needing to be here with Sam, but at the same time, needing to be up in the ICU with Dean. Not knowing though, that was the worst, because what if there was something the doctors didn’t know? What if that thing did something…
"Dad?"
John shook his head and plastered a smile on his lips for his son's sake.
"What's wrong?" Sam asked.
"You tell me," John said, "You were the one spilling his guts all over the place when I got there."
"Wasn’t Dean's fault," Sam insisted.
"Okay," John conceded, his leg bouncing uncontrollably as he forced himself to appear calm, "Then what happened?"
"We were talking," Sam let out a breath, closing his eyes.
"Yeah?" John said when Sam didn’t go on, "About anything in particular?"
Sam shrugged. "It was dark and it was raining, and we were talking, and then the… the… whatcha'ma' call it showed up," he said.
John nodded for him to go on.
"It came from behind us. Behind Dean," Sam said, "It had some… I dunno. Branch or something. Hit Dean over the head with it real hard when he turned around to shoot it." Sam went on, "Knocked him out," Sam said, and then tried to sit up straight again. He let out a small cry of pain and John leaped from his chair to help his son.
"Hey, don’t do that, okay? You need to take it easy, kiddo. No belly dancing for a while, okay?"
Sam glared at him. "Not funny," he muttered.
"It was a little bit funny," John joked. Sam kept glaring at him. "No?" John made a face and shrugged. "What can I say, I'm not a pro at teasing you like your brother is," he said with a sad smile.
"Hurts," Sam mumbled.
"I know it does," John said, stroking Sam's head, "but I'm right here, okay? I'm right here."
Sam closed his eyes for a few minutes, and John couldn’t take his eyes off of him. His baby boy, lying in a hospital bed. God, what would Mary think if she knew?
John cleared his throat. "You still with me?" he asked softly.
"Mmmhmm," Sam mumbled by way of reply.
"So, your brother passed out?" John asked tentatively, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"I shot at it. A couple times," Sam said with his eyes still closed, "But it was too fast. I didn’t even feel it at first. I just… I dunno," John kept running his fingers through his boy's mop of hair.
"It's okay," he said.
"Wasn’t Dean's fault," Sam repeated yet again, "It came from behind and it was so fast…"
"It's okay, Sam," John said thickly.
"Dean was out cold for ages," Sam said, "and I shot it. I did. It was just so fast…"
"I know," John murmured.
"So don’t get mad."
"I'm not mad, Sam," John promised.
"At Dean, too?" Sam pushed.
"I'm not mad at you or your brother," John clarified.
"So why wasn’t he here when I came out of surgery?" Sam asked.
John ran a hand over his mouth. "Sammy," he let out a deep breath and swallowed hard. "He was there," John lied, "You were probably still high from the anesthesia so you don’t remember."
Sam frowned. "He was here?"
"Yep," John said, "Waited for me to get here. He even filled out the paperwork," John added, because the best lies had a bit of truth in them.
"Oh," Sam said and scratched his head.
"Yeah. And if I'm not mistaken, he mentioned something about looking for a prince to kiss you and wake you up," John added, because it sounded like something Dean would say, and the expression on Sam's face was priceless. "Your brother's getting some shut eye. And I think you should, too," John finished.
"Okay," Sam said, sounding more like a four-year-old than a fourteen-year-old.
John smiled at him. "Okay."
John stayed with Sam, stroking his arm gently, until Sam's breathing slowed and he fell asleep. John kept watching him, just for a little bit longer.
It wasn’t too difficult to pretend this was just another crappy apartment. That he was just tucking Sam in, that Dean was outside or doing his homework or whatever. Pretend that Sam wasn’t hurt, hadn’t just undergone surgery. Pretend that Dean wasn’t upstairs, fighting for his life.
Sitting in that room, watching Sam sleep, made pretending easy.
Getting up from that uncomfortable plastic chair and feeling his back scream at him, smelling the antiseptic in the air, seeing the nurses and orderlies and the doctors in their white coats, though. John just couldn’t keep pretending.
Two floors above them, his eldest was fighting for his life, and there was a chance he wasn’t going to make it.
There was no room left for pretending anymore.
eeeeeeffffff
Time is a funny thing.
You're running around in the rain, and the air's so cold you're freezing your nuts off. And you know there's something out there. Something that's dangerous. Something that might jump you at any moment and take your head off, use you as a new chew toy.
But you keep running around, getting soaked to the bone and wishing you were back home. You keep fantasizing about a hot shower and a scalding cup of coffee, and then berate yourself for losing focus.
You feel like it's been hours since you've been warm and dry, hours since you got into these woods trying to kill some monster, but when you look at your watch you realize it's only been minutes.
Time plays tricks on you. It makes you forget.
You sit there, watching machines breathing for your kid because he's not strong enough to breathe on his own. You've been sitting here for mere minutes, just trying to wrap your head around the fact your firstborn is in a medically induced coma. Trying to wrap your head around the fact that your strong, lively child is lying so still. Trying to understand how in the hell that had happened.
And then someone puts a plate in your hand, and you realize it's dinnertime. You're not hungry, at least you don’t think so - until you take that first bite, and realize it's been nearly twenty four hours since you've last eaten.
Time is a funny thing. It stretches and shrinks. It's a constant, but it keeps changing all the time. It can screw with your mind just as well as any monster.
One minute, you want it to speed up so your son will finally open his eyes and everything will be alright again, but at the same breath, you just want it to stop. Just stop.
So that you'll never lose them.
Neither of them.
eeeeeeffffff
John put his empty plate on the tray by Dean's bed and his stomach grumbled. He ran his hand over his stubbled face and looked at his son. "You hang in there, okay?" John asked as he got to his feet, "Don’t you go anywhere, you hear me?"
Dean didn’t answer.
John kissed his son's forehead, just below the bandages. He shook his head, closing his eyes just for a moment, because weren’t those news just the cherry on top?
The tests showed some bleeding and swelling in Dean's brain, and wasn’t that just awesome? Because things weren’t crappy enough.
The doctor told John not to worry about it for the moment, and didn’t that just take the cake? His son's brain was bleeding, for crying out loud, but hey, with everything going on, what's the point of worrying about that, right?
"You never do anything halfway, do you?" John asked, running his fingers gently down Dean's cheek, but the only reply he got was the beeping of the monitors and the hissing of the machine that breathed for his son.
"Look, I'm just gonna step out for something to eat, okay? I'm going to be right back, so don’t you go anywhere," John said. Dean didn’t protest.
John stared at him a few seconds longer, and then left the room.
He found an orderly down the hall and stopped him. "Excuse me, um," John let out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Where can I find the cafeteria?" He asked.
"Oh, first floor," the man said. John nodded his thanks and turned to leave, but the man stopped him. "But it's closed," he added.
"Oh," John said. "Any good vending machines around?"
The man smiled at him. "There's a place, a couple of blocks down the street. Food ain't all that great, but the coffee's good, and it's open twenty four, seven," he said.
"Thanks," John said. He looked over his shoulder at Dean's room.
"It's not likely anything'll happen just 'cause you went out and got yourself a burger," the orderly said knowingly.
"No, I know, it's just…" John shook his head.
"Can't help your kid if you're too exhausted, can you?" the orderly said, flashed John a smile, and then left on his way.
John rubbed the back of his head, looking over his shoulder again, and then heaved a sigh. "You do anything while I'm not here, I'm gonna tear you a new one, you got it?" He muttered under his breath, and then headed for the elevators.
eeeeeeffffff
John ordered himself a cheeseburger with fries and a cup of coffee. The fries were greasy, and the burger was overcooked, but the coffee was strong.
John watched some TV as he was eating; it was tuned to the weather channel, with the volume on low, but it didn’t matter. It was a distraction, and John welcomed it.
He got himself another coffee to go, and on second thought, ordered a banana milkshake for Sam. He stopped at a news stand on his way back to the hospital and got Sam some magazines to pass the time, figuring it was the least he could do.
Sam was asleep when John checked in on him. He set the magazines on the small table by the bed, and put the milkshake next to them, within Sam's reach.
John brushed the hair away from his son's face and Sam gave a little shake of his head, but didn’t wake up.
Some twenty minutes later, John got out of Sam's room on his way up to the ICU. He ran into Sam's doctor on his way to the elevators. "Oh hey, doc," John said, "Listen, I know Sam can't eat anything, but I brought him a milkshake. I hope that's okay."
The doctor made a face. "It's a little too soon for that. Maybe tomorrow night, if things stay the way they are," he said.
"Oh," John said, a little disappointed.
"Mr. Duffy, I heard about your other son, up in the ICU," the doctor said tentatively, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Have you told Sam about his brother yet?"
John frowned. "No," he said, "And I'm not going to. Not before Dean gets better."
"Well, sir…" the doctor made another face, and he was really starting to get on John's nerves, "Sam's been asking about his brother."
"I can handle that," John said gruffly.
"I'm sure you can, it's just… Kids are a lot smarter than people tend to give them credit for," the doctor said.
"What exactly are you trying to say, doc?" John demanded.
"I'm just saying maybe you should tell Sam about his brother," the doctor replied. "He might just surprise you," he went on.
"Yeah, well, I don’t want Sam worrying about his brother when he should be concentrating on getting better himself," John snapped and turned to leave.
"Mr. Duffy," the doctor called out after him. John stopped and turned back to look at him. "In my experience, kids have some sort of… sixth sense, if you will," the doctor said. "There's a chance he already knows, at least intuitively. Don’t you think you owe it to your son? Don’t you think he has the right to know, to at least say goodbye to his brother?"
"His brother's not going to die!" John snapped.
"I sure hope not," the doctor said quickly, "But if things turn south, and Sam doesn’t get the chance to see his brother, how do you think it'd make him feel?"
John gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. In two steps he was right up in the doctor's face. "You keep your nose out of my business, you hear me?" John demanded. "They are my sons. I know what’s best for them. Do I make myself clear?" he asked threateningly.
"Yes, sir," the doctor replied.
John huffed at him, and then turned back and briskly made his way towards the elevator. He was pretty sure he heard the guy calling him a prick just as the elevator doors opened.
TBC
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'k, I'mma gonna go to sleep now...