SPN FIC - AMA
Missing tidbit from the end of On the Head of a Pin. A post-surgical patient, roused late in the evening by the arrival of a new roommate, a guy who's clearly seen better days -- and is accompanied by a strange, somber man in a wrinkled trenchcoat.
CHARACTERS: Castiel, Dean, OMC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1066 words
AMA
By Carol Davis
"What happened to him?" Darby asked.
They'd just finished installing somebody in the other bed: IV, oxygen cannula, maybe a Foley. He was tucked in under the covers, propped up a little, his head and shoulders resting on one of the hospital's slab-like pillows.
Unconscious, it looked like.
Face purple with bruises, swollen to the point where he might be unrecognizable to someone who knew him. Badly cut up.
Car accident? Darby wondered.
Instead of answering his question, the nurse dragged the privacy curtain along the rod, cutting off most of Darby's view of the poor bastard in the other bed.
Oh, like you didn't ask about him, he thought.
She left Darby and his new roommate alone once she'd finished her chores - at least, as alone as it was possible to be in a place like this, with a couple dozen people nearby at any given moment. Nurses, doctors, aides, other patients. Strangers strolling by, peeking into each room as if the people in it were zoo animals on display. Ostriches. Pandas. Albino hippos. Once, some three surgeries ago, Darby had asked that they close his door.
"Why?" was the first response he got. The second was a sigh, followed by, "I'm sorry."
Car accident, Darby figured, wondering what kind of condition the car was in. And if anyone had died.
The guy lay there unmoving, his breathing labored and wet. He grimaced once, a little after ten o'clock, and groaned something that sounded like "Dad." Just that one word, if it really was a word.
Darby dozed off after a while. When he opened his eyes, still muzzy with sleep, he had company: a solemn, dark-haired guy in a wrinkled trenchcoat.
Friggin' zoo, he thought.
"You have an unusual name," the stranger observed.
And it was plastered all over the place. On Darby's wristband, the pink plastic water pitcher, the locker that held his street clothes, the wall above his bed. Darby John Mitchell had not been so thoroughly well-identified since his first day of kindergarten, when his mother had seen fit to label his jacket, both shoes, and the lunchbox containing his juice, a clean pair of socks, and two graham crackers.
"Darby," the stranger mused. "For the musician?"
Darby shook his head.
No, his mother had never been fond of R&B, of the dreadlocked Terence Trent D'Arby. That Rosalie Mitchell had never even heard of Terence Trent D'Arby, let alone had the slightest inclination to name her only child after him, might have been a very safe bet. "Disney movie," Darby sighed. "Darby O'Gill and the Little People. Sean Connery. Janet Munro. 1959. Not one of your more popular Disney features. Like, say, The Absent-Minded Professor, or Son of Flubber."
"You would have preferred to be named 'Flubber'?" the stranger asked, one eyebrow quirked high.
"Jesus," Darby said. "No."
"I see."
The stranger fell back into a pensive silence, turning his back to Darby in favor of studying the guy in the other bed.
"What happened to him?" Darby asked after a minute.
"He was beaten by a demon named Alastair."
A return volley? A "try this on for size" in response to the name thing? That was Darby's first thought. His second came courtesy of Shakespeare.
"'More things in heaven and earth…'" he murmured.
"Hamlet?" the stranger said without turning.
"'Than are dreamt of -'"
"It was an apt observation."
Roleplaying, Darby thought. Fight Club. God knew what that guy, that still, silent guy, his face the color of an eggplant, was into.
A demon named Alastair?
Maybe he'd just provoked the shit out of somebody. For a reason. For no reason.
"How's the other guy look?" Darby asked.
Because he had to ask. The three assholes who'd backed him into the alley behind a little neighborhood bar called The Upper End, two years and eight months ago - they'd walked away looking just fine. Laughing. Planning the rest of their night, most of which seemed to involve more drinking, some weed, someone named Janet.
One of them came back for a minute. Long enough to piss on Darby's ruined jeans, then stomp on his knee. Heavy, steel-toed work boot. It might as well have been a sledgehammer. Four surgeries later, that knee was still a mess.
"Their time will come," the stranger murmured. "Their time of reckoning."
"You believe that?" Darby asked him.
He'd found it hard to believe there was any retribution for anything, back in the summer and fall of 2006. The court case had come to nothing. There'd been no apology, no offer to cover Darby's expenses for surgery, rehab, time lost from work.
"Freak," they'd said into their wake as they walked out of the alley, laughing.
"You should sleep," the stranger told him. "The body heals more efficiently at rest."
"I was sleeping. You woke me up."
"Unlikely," the stranger said.
The man stood for a good long time watching the battered guy in the other bed. At one point - around two in the morning - he reached out as if he intended to touch the guy's forehead, but his fingers never reached their target. It would have been a gentle touch, Darby thought, and it occurred to him then that visiting hours had been over for a good six hours.
The guy in the other bed stirred.
Moaned.
"Dean," the man in the trenchcoat said.
There was more grief in it than Darby had ever heard directed at someone who was not dead.
The guy's fluttered open, then closed again.
The man in the trenchcoat glanced over his shoulder. Locked eyes with Darby. "You should sleep," he repeated.
And somehow, time folded.
There was a nurse at Darby's bedside when he opened his eyes, holding his wrist between plump, cool, pale fingers. When she noticed him looking at her, she smiled, but it was rote, artificial.
Behind her, the other bed was empty.
"Where -?" Darby said.
She looked. Shook her head. "Checked out," she said. "AMA. Stupid. He was a mess." Then: "Do you need the bathroom?"
He did. The funny thing was, as she levered him carefully up to a sit, legs dangling over the side of the bed, then slid her shoulder under his arm so he could stand… there was no pain. For the first time in almost three years, his knee didn't hurt.
"Huh," was all he could think to say.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Castiel, Dean, OMC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1066 words
AMA
By Carol Davis
"What happened to him?" Darby asked.
They'd just finished installing somebody in the other bed: IV, oxygen cannula, maybe a Foley. He was tucked in under the covers, propped up a little, his head and shoulders resting on one of the hospital's slab-like pillows.
Unconscious, it looked like.
Face purple with bruises, swollen to the point where he might be unrecognizable to someone who knew him. Badly cut up.
Car accident? Darby wondered.
Instead of answering his question, the nurse dragged the privacy curtain along the rod, cutting off most of Darby's view of the poor bastard in the other bed.
Oh, like you didn't ask about him, he thought.
She left Darby and his new roommate alone once she'd finished her chores - at least, as alone as it was possible to be in a place like this, with a couple dozen people nearby at any given moment. Nurses, doctors, aides, other patients. Strangers strolling by, peeking into each room as if the people in it were zoo animals on display. Ostriches. Pandas. Albino hippos. Once, some three surgeries ago, Darby had asked that they close his door.
"Why?" was the first response he got. The second was a sigh, followed by, "I'm sorry."
Car accident, Darby figured, wondering what kind of condition the car was in. And if anyone had died.
The guy lay there unmoving, his breathing labored and wet. He grimaced once, a little after ten o'clock, and groaned something that sounded like "Dad." Just that one word, if it really was a word.
Darby dozed off after a while. When he opened his eyes, still muzzy with sleep, he had company: a solemn, dark-haired guy in a wrinkled trenchcoat.
Friggin' zoo, he thought.
"You have an unusual name," the stranger observed.
And it was plastered all over the place. On Darby's wristband, the pink plastic water pitcher, the locker that held his street clothes, the wall above his bed. Darby John Mitchell had not been so thoroughly well-identified since his first day of kindergarten, when his mother had seen fit to label his jacket, both shoes, and the lunchbox containing his juice, a clean pair of socks, and two graham crackers.
"Darby," the stranger mused. "For the musician?"
Darby shook his head.
No, his mother had never been fond of R&B, of the dreadlocked Terence Trent D'Arby. That Rosalie Mitchell had never even heard of Terence Trent D'Arby, let alone had the slightest inclination to name her only child after him, might have been a very safe bet. "Disney movie," Darby sighed. "Darby O'Gill and the Little People. Sean Connery. Janet Munro. 1959. Not one of your more popular Disney features. Like, say, The Absent-Minded Professor, or Son of Flubber."
"You would have preferred to be named 'Flubber'?" the stranger asked, one eyebrow quirked high.
"Jesus," Darby said. "No."
"I see."
The stranger fell back into a pensive silence, turning his back to Darby in favor of studying the guy in the other bed.
"What happened to him?" Darby asked after a minute.
"He was beaten by a demon named Alastair."
A return volley? A "try this on for size" in response to the name thing? That was Darby's first thought. His second came courtesy of Shakespeare.
"'More things in heaven and earth…'" he murmured.
"Hamlet?" the stranger said without turning.
"'Than are dreamt of -'"
"It was an apt observation."
Roleplaying, Darby thought. Fight Club. God knew what that guy, that still, silent guy, his face the color of an eggplant, was into.
A demon named Alastair?
Maybe he'd just provoked the shit out of somebody. For a reason. For no reason.
"How's the other guy look?" Darby asked.
Because he had to ask. The three assholes who'd backed him into the alley behind a little neighborhood bar called The Upper End, two years and eight months ago - they'd walked away looking just fine. Laughing. Planning the rest of their night, most of which seemed to involve more drinking, some weed, someone named Janet.
One of them came back for a minute. Long enough to piss on Darby's ruined jeans, then stomp on his knee. Heavy, steel-toed work boot. It might as well have been a sledgehammer. Four surgeries later, that knee was still a mess.
"Their time will come," the stranger murmured. "Their time of reckoning."
"You believe that?" Darby asked him.
He'd found it hard to believe there was any retribution for anything, back in the summer and fall of 2006. The court case had come to nothing. There'd been no apology, no offer to cover Darby's expenses for surgery, rehab, time lost from work.
"Freak," they'd said into their wake as they walked out of the alley, laughing.
"You should sleep," the stranger told him. "The body heals more efficiently at rest."
"I was sleeping. You woke me up."
"Unlikely," the stranger said.
The man stood for a good long time watching the battered guy in the other bed. At one point - around two in the morning - he reached out as if he intended to touch the guy's forehead, but his fingers never reached their target. It would have been a gentle touch, Darby thought, and it occurred to him then that visiting hours had been over for a good six hours.
The guy in the other bed stirred.
Moaned.
"Dean," the man in the trenchcoat said.
There was more grief in it than Darby had ever heard directed at someone who was not dead.
The guy's fluttered open, then closed again.
The man in the trenchcoat glanced over his shoulder. Locked eyes with Darby. "You should sleep," he repeated.
And somehow, time folded.
There was a nurse at Darby's bedside when he opened his eyes, holding his wrist between plump, cool, pale fingers. When she noticed him looking at her, she smiled, but it was rote, artificial.
Behind her, the other bed was empty.
"Where -?" Darby said.
She looked. Shook her head. "Checked out," she said. "AMA. Stupid. He was a mess." Then: "Do you need the bathroom?"
He did. The funny thing was, as she levered him carefully up to a sit, legs dangling over the side of the bed, then slid her shoulder under his arm so he could stand… there was no pain. For the first time in almost three years, his knee didn't hurt.
"Huh," was all he could think to say.
* * * * *