Triage (8/12, PG13, Dean, Sam, John, Jim)

[sams1ra]

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: 3860.
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 Eight


"Dad?"

"Hey, Sammy," John said tiredly as he made his way towards his son's bed. "That breakfast any good?"

Sam looked at the tray in front of him and made a face. He pushed it aside. "Go ahead," he said, "Tastes like wet cardboard."

John smiled and brought a chair over. "I bought you a smoothie, but apparently it's contraband," he said, "I'd sneak you something better as soon as they get you off the liquid diet," John promised.

Sam sighed.

"I brought you these," John added and tossed a couple of science magazines he bought in the hospital gift shop at Sam's feet.

Sam tried to reach for the magazines and made a face, pressing his hand to his stomach.

"Here you go," John said and pushed the magazines closer to his son.

"Thanks Dad," Sam said.

"Still hurts that much, huh?" John asked.

"Only when I move," Sam answered.

"Mmmhmm," John said tiredly. "Anything I can get you?" He offered.

Sam looked over his father's shoulder at the door, and then back at the older man. "Where's Dean?" He asked.

John sighed. "Would you believe me if I told you he's at school?" He asked.

Sam snorted, and then hissed when the laughing hurt his stomach.

"Yeah, didn’t figure you would," the older Winchester said.

"So where is he?" Sam inquired.

John studied his hands for a moment, and then sat up straight in the chair and looked at his son. He took a deep breath, held it for a couple of seconds, and let it out slowly. "Sam, we need to talk."

Sam frowned. "About what?"

"About your brother," John answered somberly.

Sam pushed himself up in bed. "What about him?" He asked.

John ran a hand over his mouth, absentmindedly playing with his wedding ring. A moment later he finally met his worried son's stare. "You remember what you told me? About Dean hitting his head?" John asked.

Sam gave a little nod. "He got a concussion?" Sam asked, and his father nodded. "How bad?"

"The doctors don’t know yet," John admitted. After all, they were doing their best just to keep Dean alive. A concussion wasn’t really a priority when his heart was in a risk to give way.

"So… he's back at the motel, sleeping it off?" Sam guessed.

John hesitated. It was an out. Sam had given him an out, and he could take it. He could tell his son that his brother was just resting, and end the questions. Sam wouldn’t expect Dean to come visit if Dean was sick too.

But after the night he'd just had, after pacing back and forth for hours, not knowing if Dean was going to make it, John wasn’t sure he wanted to go that way. He wasn’t sure he wanted to keep it from Sam any longer.

"How are you feeling, sport? How's that stomach of yours?" John changed the subject.

"Better, I guess. But it still hurts," Sam answered, hesitating a little. "You want to sign me out AMA?" He asked.

"No, not yet. I want you to rest up, get your strength back," John said, and brushed Sam's hair with his fingers.

"I can rest back home," Sam suggested, "I don’t mind. It's boring here, and the kid in the bed next to me snores worse than you do."

John smiled at that.

"Listen, I called Pastor Jim last night. He's coming over to stay with you," John said.

Sam frowned. "Why?" He asked.

"Because I need to stay with your brother for now," John answered.

"To wake him up every couple of hours, right? Because of the concussion?"

"No, kiddo," John said heavily.

"Then why?" Sam demanded.

John slowly ran his hands through his hair, stalling for time.

"Dad?" Sam pushed.

"Your brother's hurt, Sammy," John said at last. "He's really hurt, and I need to stay with him, okay?"

Sam's frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that, Sam. Dean's hurt. It's pretty bad."

"But… but he was here earlier. He was here when I came out of surgery, remember? He couldn’t have been hurt that bad if…"

"He wasn’t there when you came out of surgery, Sam," John cut his youngest off.

"What do you mean?" Sam demanded, "You said -"

"I lied," John said simply.

"What? Why?" Sam demanded.

"Because I didn’t want you to get upset," John said as calmly as he could.

"Why should I believe you?"

"Sammy."

"No! You said Dean was here!" Sam accused.

"Technically, he was," John said tiredly.

"What the hell does that mean?" Sam snapped.

"Language!" John snapped.

"Dad!" Sam cried, making the word sound as if it had two syllables.

"Your brother's up on the fifth floor, okay?" John said. He wasn’t going to tell Sam everything, not yet. Not until he knew for sure that Dean's out of the woods, that there won't be a repeat of the previous night.

"I don’t believe you," Sam said petulantly and crossed his hands over his chest.

"Why would I lie to you, Sam?" John all but rolled his eyes.

"Because! Because you're mad at him for getting me hurt, even though he didn’t!" Sam cried, "And you're punishing us or something, even though you promised you wouldn’t!" He accused.

"Damn it, Sam!" John hit his fist on Sam's bed. "I hadn’t slept in two days; I don’t need you to start that up again!"

"Then tell him he could come see me," Sam insisted.

"Sure, no problem," John said irritably, "Just as soon as he wakes up from that coma, I'll be sure to tell him that!"

John realized his mistake the minutes the words came out of his mouth. Sam's face lost all color.

John took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Sam, I didn’t mean that," he said gently, reaching for his son's hand, but Sam snatched it away.

"Dean's dying?" he asked, sounding like he did when he was four years old and lost his favorite teddy bear.

"No."

"But you just said…"

"Dean's not dying, Sam," John said quickly. "I don’t know why I said that. I'm just tired, I guess."

"Dad…"

John took another deep breath and got up from his chair. "Pastor Jim should be here later today, alright?"

"I want to see him," Sam said, blinking his tears away.

"Not now, kiddo," John said.

"Why not?"

"Sam, you can't even sit up," John pointed up the obvious.

"I don’t care," Sam insisted.

"Sammy," John shook his head. "Jim will be here later," he repeated, "And I'll come by too, when I can. But for now, I gotta stay with your brother, okay?"

Sam looked so small in that bed, wearing hospital pajamas with cars on them.

"I love you, kid," John added and turned to leave.

"Dad!" And damn if he didn’t make it into two syllables again.

John stopped, looking back over his shoulder. Sam was trying to sit up, face contorted in pain. "Sammy," John said softly, and the younger boy looked up at him. "I'll come get you, okay? If something happens, I'll come get you," John said.

"Promise?"

"I do," John promised, and then left.

eeeeeeffffff

"Look who's that! Look! Can you say 'Daddy'? Can you say 'Daddy', Dean?"

John was staring. He was looking at Dean, but he wasn’t really seeing him, not anymore.

He wasn’t seeing the broken, pale child lying in bed not five feet from him - he was seeing another child, a different child.

One that was very much healthy and happy. One that welcomed his arrival with gleeful squeals and shrieks. One that hated taking baths and loved playing with his toys. One who's smiles could outshine the sun.

"John."

John jumped, startled, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest.

"Jesus, Jim! You scared the crap outta me!" John yelped, and ran a hand over his face.

"It's good to see you too, John. I just wish it was under better circumstances," said the pastor. He handed John a large paper cup. "I got you some coffee," Jim said a moment later, "It's the good kind. I figured you needed it."

John flashed the pastor a tired smile. "Bless you, Jim," he said, taking the proffered cup of coffee. He took a tentative sip, to test the temperature, and when it didn’t scald his tongue, took a larger gulp.

Jim brought over a chair and both men sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds made by the numerous machines monitoring Dean's vitals.

"How is he?" Jim asked at last, his tone implying he wasn’t expecting good news.

John scratched his bearded cheek absentmindedly. "Docs say it was a tough surgery," he said, "But they hope they got everything they needed to get, so that's… good. I guess. They hope he won't be needing another one, and that's…" John sighed. "I'm not sure either of us will survive another one."

"But his doctors say chances are he won't need another, right? So that's good news, John. We have to focus on that," Jim tried for optimism.

"Yeah," John replied in a tired voice.

"But?" the pastor prompted.

John sighed. "I dunno, Jim," he said and sipped his coffee. "He's running a fever. They switched his antibiotics and stuff. They think maybe it's something from before. Maybe he caught the flu or something."

"That shouldn’t be a problem though, right? Not with the right medication," Jim said.

John shook his head. "Can't be helping things. Him being this weak, and a flu to top it all off? Can't be good," he said.

Jim sipped from his own cup of coffee and the two men sat in silence for a moment longer. Jim was the once to break it again. "How's Sam doing?" He asked.

"Better," John said with a nod. "He still can't sit up, hell, he can't even have solid foods yet, but he's gonna live."

"Thank God for that," the pastor said.

"Mmmhmm," John replied halfheartedly.

"What happened, John?" Jim asked at last. John turned to look at him.

"You know what we were after," he said.

"I do," Jim agreed. "I also remember telling you to get backup for this hunt, John," he added, "This thing… it's a handful, even to someone as skilled as you are."

"I had backup," John snapped, "I had the boys."

"John," Murphy shook his head, "You seem to forget sometimes that they're just that. Boys. This isn't a life for them. And if you insist on including them in this life, the least you could do is keep them from what you're hunting."

"We shouldn’t have split up, is all," John said stubbornly. "They're good boys. Dean's a damn fine hunter, Jim," he added. "It scares me sometimes just how good he is."

A few more minutes passed in silence before the pastor spoke up again. "How are you doing, John?" He asked.

John snorted. "Me? I let my concussed, bleeding son drive my other bleeding son to the hospital while I went after the monster that hurt them, slipped on some mud and sprained my wrist. I'm freakin' awesome," he muttered, only he didn’t quite use the word freakin'.

Jim raised a brow, a serious look on his face, and John sighed, his shoulders sagging. "I just… I could lose my kid, how the hell do you think I'm doing?" He asked bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I think you're tired," the pastor observed, "And in definite need of a shower and a change of clothes. A shave could probably help, too," he added.

John glared at him, but not having slept for nearly three days, his glare didn’t quite pack the punch it was supposed to. "Jim," John started, but Jim raised his hand to stop him from continuing.

"I'll stay with Dean," he offered, "Give me your number if you want, I'll call if there's any change…"

"No," John said a little bit harsher than he intended to. "Thanks, but no," he added a moment later, his tone a little softer this time.

Jim got up from his seat. "John, you need a rest," he said gently, "You look like crap. You're no use for your boys like that."

"I need you to stay with Sammy," John said instead.

Jim nodded. "I can do that," he agreed. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"I already told him," John said tiredly and slumped a little in his seat.

"About Dean?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," John replied, and then shrugged. "Sorta," he corrected, "I told him Dean's here at the hospital. I told him about the concussion and the coma. Didn’t tell him about the rest of it though."

"Dean has a concussion, too?" Jim asked, looking at the boy lying still on the bed a few feet away. For some reason, John found the question funny. Jim turned to look at the older Winchester.

John looked haggard. There was blood on his clothes and a splint on his left hand. His eyes had dark circles around them, and his hair had definitely seen better days.

"John," the pastor started, but John cut him off.

"They don’t even seem to care about that," John said, still laughing. "Dean's so screwed up they don’t even care his brain's bleeding," he said.

Jim clenched his jaw and gave a nod, looking back at Dean and sending out a quick prayer for his recovery.

"Kid hates me," John muttered.

Jim frowned and turned his head to look at John in askance.

"Sam," John clarified. "I told him his brother was hurt, and he thought I was lying to him," he said, "Thought I was doin' it 'cause I was mad at 'em or something." John took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm telling you, Jim, that boy hates me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Jim said, and John shrugged.

"Yeah, well."

"John," the pastor tried again, but John didn’t let him speak.

"He's freaking out," John said, "Sam. He's freaking out. Not that I blame him," he added. "But he needs to get better first. I can't let him do something stupid, and I can't be there to watch him, so I need you to do it for me."

"Of course," Jim quickly agreed. "Anything else?"

John shook his head and then buried it between his hands. Jim nodded. "I'll pray for you, John. All of you," the pastor promised. John said nothing to that. "Where is Sam?" Jim asked.

"Third floor," John replied, "Room 3058."

eeeeeeffffff

Jim would have knocked, but there was no door to knock on. Sam's bed was the first of three, separated from the others by thin curtains.

John's warning that Sam was freaking out seemed a little redundant when Jim finally met the boy face to face. Sam seemed nearly desperate to just do something. It spoke of the pain the boy was in, if he wanted so much to get out of bed but didn’t.

Jim plastered a smile on his face and walked into Sam's line of sight. "Hello, Sam," he said.

"He's in the ICU," Sam said in lieu of a greeting, his voice urgent and frantic. He pushed himself up on his elbows as far as his wounded stomach allowed and then some, face twisting in pain.

"It's good to see you too, young man," Jim said, trying to keep up a nonchalant façade. "How are you feeling?"

"Dean's in the ICU," Sam ignored the question, "I asked. Fifth floor is the ICU."

Jim nodded. "Yes, I believe it is," he confirmed.

"I want to see him," Sam asked, "They won't let me leave here alone, and they won't take me," he said, "Will you take me, Pastor Jim?" Sam implored.

Jim braced himself. "Sam -"

"Please?" Sam begged, giving Jim his best puppy-eyes look.

"Sam."

"I have to see him," Sam insisted, "He can't die, Pastor Jim! He can't! I need him," Sam's voice broke at that, and his eyes filled with tears. He sniffled a little, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "He can't die! I need to tell him that," he said, fighting his tears as best he could, "I need to tell him so he'll know. Please? Please Pastor Jim?"

Jim let out a heavy sigh and pulled a chair closer to Sam's bed. He sat down with a heavy heart. Sam was obviously still in pain, and John was right, the boy needed to get some rest. He needed to concentrate on getting better. Jim was certain that John would snap if something had happened to Sam, too.

Getting Sam distracted wasn’t going to be easy. On the other hand, getting him to see his brother at the state Dean was in was a bad idea. Jim's own stomach lurched at the sight of the older boy connected to all those tubes and machines, he didn’t even dare to imagine how Sam might feel seeing his brother like that.

"You still haven’t answered my question, Samuel," Jim reminded him, "How are you feeling?"

Sam seemed to have lost the fight as his lower lip trembled and fat tears fell down his cheeks. "He's gonna die, isn't he?" Sam said in a tiny voice. "That's why you and Dad won't let me see him."

"Oh, Sam," Jim shook his head and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let's take this one step at a time, shall we?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"

Sam sniffled and looked away from the pastor. Jim let out a breath and reached into his pocket, pulling a handkerchief out and handing it to the youngest Winchester. When Sam ignored his offer, Jim got up and brought over a glass of lukewarm water. He was more than relieved when Sam accepted the drink and even took a few sips.

"That any better?" the pastor asked.

Sam hiccupped a little. "No," he said, sounding like a two year old, and Jim couldn’t help but smile.

"How's your stomach, Samuel?" Jim repeated the question.

"It's okay. It doesn’t hurt at all. Not even one bit," Sam lied, and Jim raised a brow.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Sam said quickly. "So you can just check me outta here and we can…"

"What? Go see your brother?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "That's a good idea, Pastor Jim," he said excitedly.

Jim smiled, giving Sam a look that told the boy he knew exactly what Sam was doing.

"What?" Sam asked, feigning innocence.

"Are you really going to make me ask again?" the older man crossed his hands over his chest.

Sam let out a frustrated cry and pouted, crossing his arms over his chest too, but unlike the pastor, he was much more careful of his stomach.

"I'm guessing that means it's not better," Jim said and Sam huffed, clenching his jaw. "You gonna give me the silent treatment now, son?" Jim asked.

"I just want to see my brother!" Sam snapped, irritated, and his eyes started to tear up again.

"I know you do, but now is not the best time for that," Jim replied gently. Sam glared at him. "We each got our part to play, Sam. And right now, your part is to get better. Understand?"

Sam muttered something under his breath and Jim raised a brow again.

"I'll tell you what, I'll be honest with you if you're honest with me," the pastor suggested. "How does that sound?"

Sam looked at Jim, and Jim could tell the boy was looking for any tells of a lie.

"Why don’t I start?" Jim volunteered. Sam gave him a small nod, his body tensing. "Your brother is doing better," Jim said.

"But he's still in the ICU?" Sam asked in a timid voice.

"Yes," Jim said.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don’t know," the pastor replied truthfully, but Sam glared at him none the same.

"I thought you were going to be honest with me," Sam accused.

"I am, son," Jim promised, "I wasn’t up there long enough."

That got Sam's attention. He pushed himself up straighter. "You saw him?"

"Yes."

"How is he? How does he look?" Sam pushed.

Jim studied him for a moment. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "How's your stomach, Sam?" he asked.

"Pastor Jim!" Sam whined.

"I've answered your questions, Samuel. It's time to answer mine," the older man reminded him, "And truthfully, please."

Sam huffed and pouted, but still answered the question. "They have good drugs here," he said.

"Sam."

"Everything's… fuzzy. Kinda," Sam said, "It hurts, but it's kinda… I don’t know, dull."

"That's… good," Jim said carefully, and Sam snorted.

"So how is he? How's Dean?" Sam asked.

"Your father tells me he was operated on last night," Jim relented. "There's not much to do now but wait for him to wake up."

"But he's going to, right?" Sam asked, and the fear behind that question was as clear as day.

Jim nodded. "God willing, the both of you will walk out of here soon enough," he said.

Sam rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"Your father's worried about you," Jim said a moment later, and Sam turned to look the other way. Jim raised a brow. "That's not very Catholic of you, Sam," he noted.

"I'm not Catholic, Pastor Jim," Sam said, "And neither are you."

Jim shrugged and offered the younger boy a smile. "Your father loves you, Sam. You and your brother both," he said after a moment of silence. "You two are the most important thing in his life."

"No, we're not," Sam said quickly, "Hunting's the most important thing."

"Sam."

"You know I'm right," Sam said pointedly.

"I know it might feel that way sometimes, but it's not true," Jim said softly. "Your father loves you very much. He'll do anything for you boys."

"Right," Sam drawled. "Anything but letting us stay in one place and go to school and be normal."

"It's not my place to criticize your father's choices," Jim replied.

"Meaning I'm right," Sam pointed out.

"Meaning I'm not wearing his shoes," Jim corrected, "And neither are you, for that matter."

"But he…"

"Is your father, and that should mean something," Jim cut the boy off.

Sam sighed. "Why can't he at least let me see Dean?" he asked petulantly.

"Sam, Dean's in the ICU," Jim said patiently, "The only reason they let me in there was because of the collar."

"But I'm his brother," Sam insisted.

"That you are," Jim agreed, and before Sam had the chance to reply to that, he went on. "How's school?"

Momentarily stunned by the unexpected question, Sam just blinked at him. "Huh?" he said at last.

"School," Jim repeated. "How's the one you're in right now? Do you like it?" he asked.

"I… Yes?" Sam said, confused.

"That a question or an answer?"

"Yeah, I like it," Sam said, defrosting a little. "I mean, the kids are mostly jerks but they have this really great English teacher."

"Oh yeah?" Jim asked, getting a little more comfortable in his chair. "What is it you like about him?"

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