Fic: Vengeance (7/9)

[jedisapphire]

Chapter VI: Rescue

Chapter VII: Hope

Dean called the doctor as soon as he'd pulled into the street. If Sam had been coherent, Dean would have been getting a lecture about how it wasn't safe to drive, stroke his brother's head and talk on his cell phone all at the same time. But Sam wasn't aware of much. And there was no alternative anyway. Sam sure as hell couldn't drive. Someone had to let the doctor know they were coming. And if anyone tried to tell Dean that he should stop running his hand through Sam's hair when it was making Sam relax, Dean would have a couple of things to say to them.

Dr. Brandon remembered Dean - he ought to; Sam and Dean had done him a couple of favours over the years. He'd told Dean to bring Sam to his house, which would be more private than the clinic.

The house was a little further than the clinic, though, so it took ten minutes to get there. On the plus side, Brandon was waiting outside with a grey-haired woman in a nurse's uniform. Dean vaguely remembered her. He had a feeling her name was Betty. She'd been with Brandon for years, and she was the one who helped him when he took on alternative cases.

Brandon had hopped off the porch and was opening Sam's door before Dean had even taken his foot off the brake.

"He awake?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean responded. "Sam. Hey. Say hi to the doctor."

Sam blinked and turned to face Brandon without lifting his head from Dean's shoulder. The doctor patted his cheek. "Hi, Sam. When I said you and Dean should drop by sometime, this wasn't what I meant." Sam didn't respond. Brandon glanced at Dean. "I didn't realize it was this bad. Wait here. I'll bring a stretcher out."

The doctor vanished, returning a moment later with a foldable stretcher. He set it up next to the car. Between them, he and Dean managed to get Sam onto it. They had to work quickly, with Sam as weak as he was. It meant that despite all Dean's efforts to be gentle, his little brother's face was scrunched in pain and exhaustion by the time they'd managed to get him flat on his back.

Dean felt his heart clench.

"OK, Sammy?" he asked, kneeling by the stretcher. Sam tried to smile, but he was too tired to manage more than the merest upward quirk of his lips. Dean swallowed and squeezed his shoulder. "It's OK, Sammy. I'm taking care of you."

He and Brandon got Sam inside, Nurse Betty following with Jacob.

Once Dean had helped the doctor get Sam situated on the table, Betty indicated that he should leave. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Brandon shook his head. "You need rest, Dean."

"I'm plenty rested. Last night while Sam was being tortured by evil sons of bitches, I was making whoopee with a hot girl called Jasmine and then sleeping it off. I don't need -"

"I don't just mean sleep, although I'm sure you need that too. You've spent the last few hours watching Sam in pain. Unless you're very different from the Dean Winchester I used to know, that would've been just as hard on you as it was on Sam."

Dean ignored the implied question - he didn't know if he qualified for awesome big brother anymore. He didn't know if he qualified for anything; what award did you get for getting it on with a random girl while the baby who'd been given into your care was suffering horrifically at the hands of some guy who had a grudge against you?

"Sam needs me," he said.

Brandon shook his head. "I'm going to put Sam under now. He's not going to know a thing for the next few hours. But he will need you when he's awake and you need to be ready then." Dean stubbornly stood his ground. After a moment, the doctor shrugged. "Fine. I'll make a deal with you. You can sit with Sam while Betty's prepping things. I'm starting the IV now, but I'll take it slow and he's a big kid - it'll take him a couple of minutes to go under. You sit with him until then, then you go to the kitchen and get yourself something to eat. Maybe take a shower, too."

"I don't need a shower."

"You're covered in blood. Sam's blood. You can borrow a clean shirt from my dresser."

Sam's blood.

Suddenly Dean couldn't wait to get under water. Hot water.

"He'll be OK, right?" he asked, needing reassurance. "You can fix him." The doctor hesitated, and Dean stammered, "N-no. No, you don't get to - you can't - don't look like that. You can fix him, right?"

"Dean." Brandon put a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know. I don't even know the full extent of his injuries yet, or how big a problem blood loss is going to be."

"We're the same blood group -"

"It's not about supplies, Dean. I have everything I need. That doesn't mean - look, I'm not saying Sam's going to die. I'm just saying I need to see what we're dealing with. And you need to calm down. Give us some time. And trust Sam. From everything I know of him, he's a strong kid."

Dean nodded.

Then he went and sat by Sam. Sam squinted up at him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, speaking with difficulty around the tightness in his throat. "Got you out, just like I promised. Now Doc Brandon's going to patch you up. Just like I promised. Be as good as new, Sam."

"Dnnn."

Other than when he'd intervened to stop Dean killing Steve, it was Sam's first attempt at speaking since Owen's little fun-and-games hour (twenty minutes, yeah right, Dean would give themtwenty minutes). Dean smiled at him encouragingly. "See, you're better already. That's my boy. Going to be back hunting before you know it."

Sam smiled back. Dean found his fears melting away; he was remarkably content just to sit on the edge of the bed, letting Sam draw as much comfort from his presence as he could, while the drugs did their work.

An hour later, Dean was sitting in Brandon's living room with Jacob. Dean had showered, the water as hot as he could take, scrubbing himself until every inch of his skin was raw and tender. He still felt like he wasn't clean.

His stained clothes were in a trash bag. He was going to burn them at the next opportunity. It had been one of his favourite shirts but there was no way he was ever going to wear it again, not something that had been soaked in Sam's blood.

Sam's blood.

Dean swallowed bile.

He was alone now - Jacob was there, and Betty had checked in a couple of times, but Sam wasn't there so as far as Dean was concerned he was alone - and his guilt had coalesced into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach.

He didn't even remember everything he'd yelled at Sam. That he didn't want Sam's help. That Sam was crazy. That Sam was a liability.

Dean choked back a sob.

Sure, it had been easy to yell at Sam. Sam hardly ever yelled back - well, he did at other people, but not at Dean. Sam let Dean work off his temper and understood and responded with a smile of absolution when Dean brought him his apology-latte.

But that wasn't surprising. Sam knew he was Dean's world and Dean's flashes of temper were just that, temper.

Sam had to know that.

Dean was beginning to feel a cold, horribly familiar dread.

He'd spent the last few weeks angsting over what he was fighting for, but he'd never stopped to think about what Sam was fighting for. He'd assumed that Sam fought because - well, because that was what Sam did. Other people gave up and backed down and decided it was too much to take, but not Sam Winchester. Not Sammy. Sammy could take anything.

Deep down, Dean knew he had always believed that.

Sammy was strong. That had been most of the reason he'd rebelled against the hunting life so much. Dean and their father had called it Sam's weakness, but that might have been only to hide their own fear. It was so much easier not to ask questions.

Sam asked questions. He asked questions and he waited for the answers. And Sam could handle the truth. He was one of the few people Dean knew who could handle any truth. Sure, something might beat him down a little. He might be temporarily shocked, or broody, or reckless. But in the end, Sam overcame everything. Sam dealt. Sam fought.

Sam was Sam.

Dean hadn't been giving Sam much reason to fight lately.

He hadn't even asked Sam if he needed help. You know, with the horrors that two hundred years of hell had to be unleashing in his brain. No, he'd been whining so much that Sam had tried to helphim, and had gotten yelled at for his pains. And had everything he'd suffered to save the world thrown in his face. Again.

What if Sam didn't think life with Dean was worth fighting for anymore?

After the wall had fallen, Sam had come back for him - he'd told Dean that much. What if he didn't want to this time?

What if -

What if Dean had to face tomorrow, a whole lot of tomorrows, without his brother, his best friend?

Two hours, and Brandon had finally emerged. His surgical gloves were still bloody.

God, Sammy.

"Doc?" Dean didn't even bother to try to keep the tremor from his voice. "Please tell me it's good news."

Brandon's expression was unreadable. "He's alive," he said. "He came through surgery without any major complications. Not - I won't lie to you, Dean. He's going to need a lot of care. But he's alive."

"He's alive," Dean breathed gratefully. "That's a good sign. So you'll help him, right, doc? You'll save him for me?"

"He's alive, Dean. He's conscious. Groggy, but awake. He's a pretty determined kid. I think he'll eventually be OK." Dean felt dizzy with thankfulness. "He's asking for you - no, wait. We need to talk before you see him." Dean waited. "You boys been arguing lately?"

Dean flushed a guilty scarlet. "I - yeah, more than usual. Is he upset?"

Brandon sighed. "I understand, Dean. Really. You're brothers. It would be strange if you didn't have the occasional fight. Or fights." He shrugged. "I'm not trying to overstep my bounds, Dean, but right now Sam's in my care and I need to think of what's best for him."

"What did he say?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"He asked me if he could stay here so you wouldn't have the trouble of taking care of him while he recovers."

Dean's world was falling out from under him.

How could Sam even think -

Oh, but he knew the answer to that. Sam could think because Dean freaking made him think by throwing cruel words at him when Sam, Sammy who was dealing with freaking Lucifer all by himself, had only been trying to help.

"Let me talk to him," Dean said.

"Dean -"

"Please."

Brandon sighed. "Fine. Just don't upset him, OK? Whatever's going on between you two, the kid needs to rest."

Dean would have felt better if Brandon had shot him.

Sam looked up when Dean entered the room. Brandon followed.

"I'll leave you alone in a minute," the doctor said, indicating that Dean should sit. Dean perched himself on the edge of the bed, resting one hand on Sam's bandaged chest, and faced the doctor. "I need to explain a few things, though, and it's easiest to tell both of you together."

Dean nodded. "We're listening."

"Uh-huh. Sam, whoever did that to you was clearly trying not to kill you."

"Yeah," Dean said. "They just wanted him to suffer. Sons of bitches."

The doctor smiled. "Just as well, because without that kind of caution, the kind of abuse you suffered could well have resulted in a fatal injury. I'm not going to sugar-coat things, Sam. It's serious, but it could've been far worse." Brandon glanced at his notes. "Details first. Right arm broken in two places, fingers of left hand dislocated, clean break in two ribs and hairline fracture in one - you're lucky they didn't shatter the bones, Sam - severe lacerations and numerous minor injuries, some infected. Minor burns. Massive blood loss. Beginning symptoms of dehydration. Some blunt-force trauma to your head."

Dean slid closer to Sam.

"The good news," Brandon said, "is that none of that should be fatal. I'm putting you on antibiotics to take care of the infections." He crossed his arms. "The bad news is that whoever did this to you did intend to cause damage. This isn't going to get better overnight. It'll take a few weeks, you'll be in some pain, and you'll need to follow orders."

"I understand," Sam said raspily. "Thanks, doc."

"Sam." Brandon warned Dean with a glance to stay quiet. "I want to keep you here until tomorrow morning. Then you can decide what you want to do. You can leave with Dean, in which case Dean and I are going to have a long talk about your recovery process. Or you can go to the clinic as an inpatient. I'll have a word with them; I've sent hunters to them before. They won't ask any uncomfortable questions." Brandon patted Sam's shoulder. "You think about it and let me know what you decide, OK?"

The doctor left.

For a moment, Dean just sat there, watching the rise and fall of Sam's chest under his fingers. Then he said softly, "How're you feeling, Sammy?"

"Dean, I -"

"Sammy."

"I'm OK."

"Uh-huh." Dean settled himself more comfortably on the bed. "How about we go again, and this time you tell me the truth. How are you?" Nothing. "Sam?"

"Hurts," Sam admitted finally.

Dean let out a breath. At least Sam was talking to him. "Sorry to hear that, kiddo. Doc give you anything for the pain?"

"Yeah. Just took the edge off."

"OK." Dean surveyed Sam. His brother had a nice, clean white cast on his right arm. His left hand rested on the bed at his side. It looked like Brandon had popped the bones back in place, but Sam wasn't moving it. Probably hurt like a bitch. The covers were pulled up to Sam's waist. Above them, the kid's chest was swathed in bandages. There were butterfly bandages over the gash down his face. The bruising on his face and arms was stark against the white bedclothes. "You're a mess." He rubbed Sam's chest. "But we'll take care of it."

"Mm-hmm."

Dean's heart filled as he looked down at the kid who was gazing at him with a mixture of trepidation and faith.

There were issues to be dealt with. But that was for later. Right now, he just had one point to make.

"Sam?"

"Hmmm?"

"You're mine."

Chapter VIII: Truth