SPN: Passing Time, by topaz119
Title: Passing Time
Author: topaz119
Rating: PG? barely
Pairing: None, gen
Length: ~1400 words
Spoilers: pre-series
Hospitals were hospitals, no matter where they were, and John hated them all, even the one where the boys had been born. He never went, not if he could help it, but Dean was as white as a sheet, the freckles scattered across his nose standing out in sharp relief. He sat hunched over in the passenger seat, cradling his swollen left wrist and not crying by sheer force of will, as far as John could tell.
Sammy was quiet for once, belted into the back seat, his eyes big and dark and staring anxiously at John every time he glanced in the rearview mirror.
"Almost there, Dean," John said, following the signs for the emergency room and turning as carefully and smoothly as he could into a parking spot. He still caught Dean wincing out of the corner of his eye, and heard his breath hiss in.
Sam stayed close while John got the passenger door open and let Dean slide out. John kept a watchful eye, not at all sure that Dean wasn't going to pass out, but let him walk on his own. By the time they reached the admissions desk inside, he was even paler, if that was possible, but he made it under his own steam and John thought he caught a flash of pride in the wide green eyes.
The problem was, John could tell it was going to be a long night. The waiting room was packed, and to John's eye, a nine-year-old's broken arm wasn't going to be even close to the top of the triage list. The admitting nurse looked at them sympathetically but all she could offer was a makeshift splint to help hold Dean's arm steady. John liberated a corner by shoving a spare, sickly potted palm out of the way and pulled a chair forward so Dean could sit down. Sammy was fine, sitting on John's coat on the floor and John had a wall to lean against while he filled out paperwork for one Dean Martinson.
It wasn't much, but since there wasn't much more to the waiting room anyway, it didn't matter. The floor was scuffed and scarred linoleum, faded from what once might have been a bright green and white diamonds to an almost uniform gray, and there rows of mismatched plastic chairs and an old TV mounted on the wall across from their corner, with a snowy picture and no sound. Sammy watched it, his lips moving silently as he made up his own story to go with the picture, looking back to check on Dean at every commercial break.
The splint helped a little, John thought. Dean was breathing easier and he'd gotten some color back in his face. He was sitting very still, which was understandable, but definitely not normal behavior. Dean was constant motion; even asleep, he threw elbows and kicked and, more often than not, woke up with his head at the foot of the bed.
"Shoulda brought some cards," Dean muttered after the second round of talk shows. "Even Go Fish would be better than this."
John smothered a laugh at the outraged boredom in Dean's voice and sent Sammy to go find a magazine. He'd known Dean was a tough kid, but if having to stay still was that much worse than the broken arm, John was going to have to keep a pretty close eye on him, until he got a little of the daredevil out of his thinking.
Sammy took his time, checking all the empty chairs and edging around the ones occupied, but finally wound his way back to their corner and held out a battered, creased copy of Ladies Home Journal.
"Dude," Dean said, in disgust. "I'd rather sit here and scratch my butt than read that."
John tapped Dean on the top of his head with an index finger, just hard enough to remind him of that talk they'd had a few weeks back, the one where it was clearly stated that little brothers were included in the requirement to keep a civil tongue in his head.
"Nobody said it was for you," John said, taking the magazine and thanking Sammy. "And if I were a certain smart-aleck, I'd be more worried about explaining exactly how and why I thought it was a good idea to be up on that roof when I was supposed to be taking care of my little brother."
Dean nodded, his eyes on the floor. "Yes, sir," he whispered.
"This isn't a game, Dean," John said, for what felt like the millionth time. Dean nodded again, and John sighed, the adrenaline of coming home and finding Dean white-faced and shaking on the front stoop suddenly draining out of him.
John looked at the magazine in his hand and almost tossed it back toward the other chairs, but they still weren't even close to being seen and if nothing else, it would keep his mind off the thousand worst-case scenarios he could so clearly see. He dragged another chair over and settled himself next to Dean.
He started with the cover; it was slightly heavier stock than the pages and it had been a long time since he'd done anything with paper more elaborate than making notes. He tore it in half, then in half again and roughly squared it off. His fingers moved deliberately, almost feeling their way through the folds his brain dredged up from some long forgotten corner.
Sammy edged closer to Dean, leaning carefully against one of his legs. "I'm sorry," John heard him whisper. "I couldn't find anything else."
"'Sokay, Sammy," Dean murmured back. "I didn't mean to be a jerk."
John felt their eyes on him; the paper was taking shape under his hands, the body and wings emerging slowly, until he got to the final bit, the tail and beak and the fold on the wings, and Sammy laughed.
"Dean, look! Dad made a bird."
John held it cupped in the palm of his hand and set it on Dean's lap. It was a little lopsided and the creases weren't as sharp as they could have been, but it wasn't bad for the first try in more than fifteen years, especially since he'd learned only by watching the girls waiting for their next "date" on his one R&R in Tokyo.
"Pretty cool," Dean said, touching the beak and then the tail before he picked it up.
"Nice," said a woman's voice. John looked up to see one of the nurses, a stethoscope looped around her neck and a clipboard in hand. "They're called cranes," she told Sammy. "And they show honor and loyalty. I fold them myself sometimes. When it's not crazy-busy around here."
"Not all that often then," John said, getting to his feet.
"You got that right," she answered, then crouched down in front of Dean. "So, how're you doing there?"
"Hurts like hel-heck," Dean answered, slanting his eyes up at John at the near miss in language. John decided to let it slide.
"Well, let's go get you up to radiology and take some pictures and see what we need to do about it."
She stood up and motioned for an orderly with a wheelchair. Dean followed her too quickly and swayed a bit.
"I'm okay," Dean said, with that look that said he was gritting it out, no matter what. "I can walk."
"Dean," John started, but was interrupted by the nurse.
"I'm sure you can," she said, brisk and firm, stepping back and pointing Dean to the seat. "But it's hospital policy. We can't do anything unless you're riding."
Dean set his jaw until John said, in an undertone, "Speaking man-to-man here, son, never argue with the nurses. They're who get you through."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, letting himself relax a bit at John's nod. He stumbled on his second step and bit back a sharp cry. The nurse tsked and efficiently settled him into the chair and his arm in the sling while John forced himself not to hover. As the little group moved off down the hall, though, John heard Dean ask what kind of painkillers were best, and how much did he have to be hurting to get the really good stuff, so he was clearly okay enough to work all the angles.
"Daddy," Sammy said. "Dean took the crane with him. Can you make me one, too?"
The orderly pushed Dean around the corner and out of John's sight. He looked down at Sammy's worried eyes and found a smile. "How about I show you how to do it yourself," he said, sitting down and pulling Sammy onto his lap.
Author: topaz119
Rating: PG? barely
Pairing: None, gen
Length: ~1400 words
Spoilers: pre-series
Hospitals were hospitals, no matter where they were, and John hated them all, even the one where the boys had been born. He never went, not if he could help it, but Dean was as white as a sheet, the freckles scattered across his nose standing out in sharp relief. He sat hunched over in the passenger seat, cradling his swollen left wrist and not crying by sheer force of will, as far as John could tell.
Sammy was quiet for once, belted into the back seat, his eyes big and dark and staring anxiously at John every time he glanced in the rearview mirror.
"Almost there, Dean," John said, following the signs for the emergency room and turning as carefully and smoothly as he could into a parking spot. He still caught Dean wincing out of the corner of his eye, and heard his breath hiss in.
Sam stayed close while John got the passenger door open and let Dean slide out. John kept a watchful eye, not at all sure that Dean wasn't going to pass out, but let him walk on his own. By the time they reached the admissions desk inside, he was even paler, if that was possible, but he made it under his own steam and John thought he caught a flash of pride in the wide green eyes.
The problem was, John could tell it was going to be a long night. The waiting room was packed, and to John's eye, a nine-year-old's broken arm wasn't going to be even close to the top of the triage list. The admitting nurse looked at them sympathetically but all she could offer was a makeshift splint to help hold Dean's arm steady. John liberated a corner by shoving a spare, sickly potted palm out of the way and pulled a chair forward so Dean could sit down. Sammy was fine, sitting on John's coat on the floor and John had a wall to lean against while he filled out paperwork for one Dean Martinson.
It wasn't much, but since there wasn't much more to the waiting room anyway, it didn't matter. The floor was scuffed and scarred linoleum, faded from what once might have been a bright green and white diamonds to an almost uniform gray, and there rows of mismatched plastic chairs and an old TV mounted on the wall across from their corner, with a snowy picture and no sound. Sammy watched it, his lips moving silently as he made up his own story to go with the picture, looking back to check on Dean at every commercial break.
The splint helped a little, John thought. Dean was breathing easier and he'd gotten some color back in his face. He was sitting very still, which was understandable, but definitely not normal behavior. Dean was constant motion; even asleep, he threw elbows and kicked and, more often than not, woke up with his head at the foot of the bed.
"Shoulda brought some cards," Dean muttered after the second round of talk shows. "Even Go Fish would be better than this."
John smothered a laugh at the outraged boredom in Dean's voice and sent Sammy to go find a magazine. He'd known Dean was a tough kid, but if having to stay still was that much worse than the broken arm, John was going to have to keep a pretty close eye on him, until he got a little of the daredevil out of his thinking.
Sammy took his time, checking all the empty chairs and edging around the ones occupied, but finally wound his way back to their corner and held out a battered, creased copy of Ladies Home Journal.
"Dude," Dean said, in disgust. "I'd rather sit here and scratch my butt than read that."
John tapped Dean on the top of his head with an index finger, just hard enough to remind him of that talk they'd had a few weeks back, the one where it was clearly stated that little brothers were included in the requirement to keep a civil tongue in his head.
"Nobody said it was for you," John said, taking the magazine and thanking Sammy. "And if I were a certain smart-aleck, I'd be more worried about explaining exactly how and why I thought it was a good idea to be up on that roof when I was supposed to be taking care of my little brother."
Dean nodded, his eyes on the floor. "Yes, sir," he whispered.
"This isn't a game, Dean," John said, for what felt like the millionth time. Dean nodded again, and John sighed, the adrenaline of coming home and finding Dean white-faced and shaking on the front stoop suddenly draining out of him.
John looked at the magazine in his hand and almost tossed it back toward the other chairs, but they still weren't even close to being seen and if nothing else, it would keep his mind off the thousand worst-case scenarios he could so clearly see. He dragged another chair over and settled himself next to Dean.
He started with the cover; it was slightly heavier stock than the pages and it had been a long time since he'd done anything with paper more elaborate than making notes. He tore it in half, then in half again and roughly squared it off. His fingers moved deliberately, almost feeling their way through the folds his brain dredged up from some long forgotten corner.
Sammy edged closer to Dean, leaning carefully against one of his legs. "I'm sorry," John heard him whisper. "I couldn't find anything else."
"'Sokay, Sammy," Dean murmured back. "I didn't mean to be a jerk."
John felt their eyes on him; the paper was taking shape under his hands, the body and wings emerging slowly, until he got to the final bit, the tail and beak and the fold on the wings, and Sammy laughed.
"Dean, look! Dad made a bird."
John held it cupped in the palm of his hand and set it on Dean's lap. It was a little lopsided and the creases weren't as sharp as they could have been, but it wasn't bad for the first try in more than fifteen years, especially since he'd learned only by watching the girls waiting for their next "date" on his one R&R in Tokyo.
"Pretty cool," Dean said, touching the beak and then the tail before he picked it up.
"Nice," said a woman's voice. John looked up to see one of the nurses, a stethoscope looped around her neck and a clipboard in hand. "They're called cranes," she told Sammy. "And they show honor and loyalty. I fold them myself sometimes. When it's not crazy-busy around here."
"Not all that often then," John said, getting to his feet.
"You got that right," she answered, then crouched down in front of Dean. "So, how're you doing there?"
"Hurts like hel-heck," Dean answered, slanting his eyes up at John at the near miss in language. John decided to let it slide.
"Well, let's go get you up to radiology and take some pictures and see what we need to do about it."
She stood up and motioned for an orderly with a wheelchair. Dean followed her too quickly and swayed a bit.
"I'm okay," Dean said, with that look that said he was gritting it out, no matter what. "I can walk."
"Dean," John started, but was interrupted by the nurse.
"I'm sure you can," she said, brisk and firm, stepping back and pointing Dean to the seat. "But it's hospital policy. We can't do anything unless you're riding."
Dean set his jaw until John said, in an undertone, "Speaking man-to-man here, son, never argue with the nurses. They're who get you through."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, letting himself relax a bit at John's nod. He stumbled on his second step and bit back a sharp cry. The nurse tsked and efficiently settled him into the chair and his arm in the sling while John forced himself not to hover. As the little group moved off down the hall, though, John heard Dean ask what kind of painkillers were best, and how much did he have to be hurting to get the really good stuff, so he was clearly okay enough to work all the angles.
"Daddy," Sammy said. "Dean took the crane with him. Can you make me one, too?"
The orderly pushed Dean around the corner and out of John's sight. He looked down at Sammy's worried eyes and found a smile. "How about I show you how to do it yourself," he said, sitting down and pulling Sammy onto his lap.