Supernatural: Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n Roll (epilogue)
All disclaimers, notes, warnings and summary are in the Master post: Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n Roll
Epilogue
Sam spent twenty-four hours in the hospital bed next to Dean's. He spent the first eight of those unconscious. He spent the next two days sitting in the chair between those beds.
He'd listened to every word the doctors had said when they'd told him about the Egyptian cobra venom in both his and Dean's blood, about how it was concentrated around the deep gashes the lion's claws had left in them. He'd listened to the real wildlife agents, who had been called to collect what was left of the lion's body, when they talked about how rare a black lion was and how there had never been one seen anywhere in the United States. He'd listened to the police, the ones who kept stopping by to hear him tell his version of the story again, when they told him that Dean's bloodwork showed traces of both blue lotus nectar and GHB and wondered if it was possible that someone had drugged him intentionally, weakened him, and then sent the lion to finish him off.
The doctors had asked if he knew how lucky they were to have survived. The wildlife agents wanted to know if he'd seen anyone else at the house that night, someone who might have been the lion's handler. The police questioned him about any enemies his brother might have made in the few short hours they'd been in Memphis: had Dean said anything about someone being jealous that he was going home with Miranda?
He'd listened to them all, answered what few questions he could, and didn't even have to fake confusion over what had actually happened. There were huge chunks of the evening missing from his memory, and he seriously doubted that he'd ever get them back. The doctors told him that was a side effect of the cobra venom, and he let them believe that was all it was.
He'd also listened to Ede, when she told him how sorry she was that he and his brother had been hurt trying to protect her and Miranda, when she told him she didn't remember anything that had happened after she'd gotten out of the car in the front yard but she was sure he'd done everything he could, and when she couldn't stop talking about how brave he was and how wonderful it was that he'd managed to get three of them out of that house alive. And he'd held her while she cried out her pain and loss after the police told her that there was no sign of Miranda's body, that the lion had likely dragged her off to a cave somewhere, and that chances were that they'd never find her remains.
The one thing he remembered most vividly, the one thing he would never be able to forget, was the sight of Dean's pale skin contrasted against the dark red blood that had covered the majority of it. He saw it every time he closed his eyes - the deep gashes that Sekhmet's claws had left in his brother's chest, leg and back, the same ones that had taken two hours of surgery and almost three hundred stitches to sew closed. And he'd awakened more than once in the middle of the night, with his heart pounding in his chest and the weight of Dean's blood-soaked body in his arms so real he could still feel it, because it lived in his nightmares, too.
Three days had passed since that night in Miranda's basement. Three days of doctors and wildlife agents and police and distraught young women. Three days of concern and worry and fear. Three days of heart monitors and oxygen masks and IV antibiotics.
It had been three days, and Dean hadn't opened his eyes.
Sam was looking out the window, watching the sunrise with his head pressed against the glass, when he heard the first out-of-sync beat from Dean's heart monitor. The second one had him turning his head. By the time the third one sounded, he was already back at Dean's side, squeezing his arm.
"Come on, Dean," he encourage softly. "You can do this. Just open your eyes and let me see that you're still in there."
It started with slowly fluttering eyelids. Then it moved to his fingers, which fisted in the blankets, and the muscles in his arms, which twitched and jumped under Sam's hand. He moved his hand down, wrapped his fingers around Dean's, and grasped them lightly.
"It's all right," he said. "It's over. You're gonna be okay."
By that point, Dean's breathing had quickened, the puffs of condensation his exhales left against the inside of the mask over his face growing larger as the seconds between them shortened. Sam put his other hand on Dean' chest, directly over his heart, and leaned down.
"Calm down," he ordered gently. "You've got a lot of stitches. Believe me when I say that you don't want to pull them out."
A few more seconds passed, seconds filled with Dean's attempts to pull himself back to waking and Sam's quiet reassurances that he could do it, before Sam finally got what he'd been wanting and needing for the past three days.
"Sammy."
His voice was weak, and broken, and so soft that Sam barely heard it, but it was real. The green eyes were hazy, clouded and confused, but they were open. There was pain etched in the face, and worry, but there was understanding, too. It was Dean.
It was over, and it was going to be okay.
Sam let out a breath that he felt like he'd been holding for the better part of a week, and smiled.
"You ever argue with me again about splitting up being a bad idea, and I'm going to shoot you."
Sam thought he saw the hint of a smile at the corners of Dean's mouth, and he felt the muscles in Dean's arm tense up again. He imagined that there were a thousand questions swirling in Dean's mind, things he wanted to ask and needed to say, but the pain and exhaustion that he saw in his brother's eyes were more important. Sam squeezed Dean's hand once more.
"I gotcha, Dean," he whispered. "It's okay."
Dean gave Sam another tired smile and a slight nod of his head, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
~ fin ~
Epilogue
Sam spent twenty-four hours in the hospital bed next to Dean's. He spent the first eight of those unconscious. He spent the next two days sitting in the chair between those beds.
He'd listened to every word the doctors had said when they'd told him about the Egyptian cobra venom in both his and Dean's blood, about how it was concentrated around the deep gashes the lion's claws had left in them. He'd listened to the real wildlife agents, who had been called to collect what was left of the lion's body, when they talked about how rare a black lion was and how there had never been one seen anywhere in the United States. He'd listened to the police, the ones who kept stopping by to hear him tell his version of the story again, when they told him that Dean's bloodwork showed traces of both blue lotus nectar and GHB and wondered if it was possible that someone had drugged him intentionally, weakened him, and then sent the lion to finish him off.
The doctors had asked if he knew how lucky they were to have survived. The wildlife agents wanted to know if he'd seen anyone else at the house that night, someone who might have been the lion's handler. The police questioned him about any enemies his brother might have made in the few short hours they'd been in Memphis: had Dean said anything about someone being jealous that he was going home with Miranda?
He'd listened to them all, answered what few questions he could, and didn't even have to fake confusion over what had actually happened. There were huge chunks of the evening missing from his memory, and he seriously doubted that he'd ever get them back. The doctors told him that was a side effect of the cobra venom, and he let them believe that was all it was.
He'd also listened to Ede, when she told him how sorry she was that he and his brother had been hurt trying to protect her and Miranda, when she told him she didn't remember anything that had happened after she'd gotten out of the car in the front yard but she was sure he'd done everything he could, and when she couldn't stop talking about how brave he was and how wonderful it was that he'd managed to get three of them out of that house alive. And he'd held her while she cried out her pain and loss after the police told her that there was no sign of Miranda's body, that the lion had likely dragged her off to a cave somewhere, and that chances were that they'd never find her remains.
The one thing he remembered most vividly, the one thing he would never be able to forget, was the sight of Dean's pale skin contrasted against the dark red blood that had covered the majority of it. He saw it every time he closed his eyes - the deep gashes that Sekhmet's claws had left in his brother's chest, leg and back, the same ones that had taken two hours of surgery and almost three hundred stitches to sew closed. And he'd awakened more than once in the middle of the night, with his heart pounding in his chest and the weight of Dean's blood-soaked body in his arms so real he could still feel it, because it lived in his nightmares, too.
Three days had passed since that night in Miranda's basement. Three days of doctors and wildlife agents and police and distraught young women. Three days of concern and worry and fear. Three days of heart monitors and oxygen masks and IV antibiotics.
It had been three days, and Dean hadn't opened his eyes.
Sam was looking out the window, watching the sunrise with his head pressed against the glass, when he heard the first out-of-sync beat from Dean's heart monitor. The second one had him turning his head. By the time the third one sounded, he was already back at Dean's side, squeezing his arm.
"Come on, Dean," he encourage softly. "You can do this. Just open your eyes and let me see that you're still in there."
It started with slowly fluttering eyelids. Then it moved to his fingers, which fisted in the blankets, and the muscles in his arms, which twitched and jumped under Sam's hand. He moved his hand down, wrapped his fingers around Dean's, and grasped them lightly.
"It's all right," he said. "It's over. You're gonna be okay."
By that point, Dean's breathing had quickened, the puffs of condensation his exhales left against the inside of the mask over his face growing larger as the seconds between them shortened. Sam put his other hand on Dean' chest, directly over his heart, and leaned down.
"Calm down," he ordered gently. "You've got a lot of stitches. Believe me when I say that you don't want to pull them out."
A few more seconds passed, seconds filled with Dean's attempts to pull himself back to waking and Sam's quiet reassurances that he could do it, before Sam finally got what he'd been wanting and needing for the past three days.
"Sammy."
His voice was weak, and broken, and so soft that Sam barely heard it, but it was real. The green eyes were hazy, clouded and confused, but they were open. There was pain etched in the face, and worry, but there was understanding, too. It was Dean.
It was over, and it was going to be okay.
Sam let out a breath that he felt like he'd been holding for the better part of a week, and smiled.
"You ever argue with me again about splitting up being a bad idea, and I'm going to shoot you."
Sam thought he saw the hint of a smile at the corners of Dean's mouth, and he felt the muscles in Dean's arm tense up again. He imagined that there were a thousand questions swirling in Dean's mind, things he wanted to ask and needed to say, but the pain and exhaustion that he saw in his brother's eyes were more important. Sam squeezed Dean's hand once more.
"I gotcha, Dean," he whispered. "It's okay."
Dean gave Sam another tired smile and a slight nod of his head, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
~ fin ~