Not the Demons You're Looking For (23/24)
Part 22
Part 23
“Dean!” Sam fought to keep his balance under his brother's dead weight, braced himself against the wall.
Dr. Nichols pushed past the orderlies to crouch down next to them, but Dean's eyes were already fluttering, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.
“Dean, you with me?”
A brief nod, and his brother forced open his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Gimme a hand up?”
“Way ahead of you, dude. Up you get,” Sam hoisted him bodily onto the gurney. “You going to cooperate with the nice doctor this time?”
“Don't patronize me,” Dean let his head fall back onto the thin padding, sweat beading on his face.
“Hey, I'm not the one who was threatening to gut the orderlies with a scalpel.”
Dean coughed. “Totally had it coming,” he mumbled. “Askin' for it, Sammy.”
Sam huffed a laugh. “Sure, they were. You're lucky we're not getting sued.”
“Lucky, yeah. That's me.”
Dr. Nichols got up, smoothing her rumpled lab coat. “If you two are quite done?” She tried to pull the oxygen mask over Dean's face, only to be repelled again by a firmly-placed hand, and Sam sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Dean, come on.”
“Hate that shit, Sam,” he complained weakly. “Smothering.”
“Dean,” Dr. Nichols said gently, “I need you to keep the mask on for a few minutes at least, okay? You breathed in a lot of smoke, and I don't like the sound of that cough. I want to make sure you're getting enough oxygen, okay? You,” she said sternly to Sam, “sit. Now.” Sam sank obediently into his wheelchair.
“It's not the smoke. I just have a cold. I'm feeling better, anyway,” Dean protested.
“Dude, just do what she says, okay? For once, would you not be difficult?”
Grumbling, Dean did as he was told, submitted to the mask, barely flinched when the doctor came at him with a stethoscope and a thermometer. “You said you weren't feeling well?”
“Just a cold,” he said, muffled by the mask. As if to illustrate his point he sat up, breath hitching, pulled the mask to the side, and cupped his hands over his nose and mouth. “HAPKSCHH!” he winced, pulled the mask back into place, lay back on the gurney. “See? I'm being good. Promise.”
“Uh-huh,” she hooked the stethoscope around her neck again. “Sounds like it might be more than that to me. How long have you been running that high a fever?” Dean muttered something, but his voice had all but given out, and the mask made his reply unintelligible.
“He's been sick for a few days, got caught in the rain earlier today. Uh, make that yesterday,” Sam said quietly, glancing at his watch. “The fever started in the afternoon, and I think it spiked in the late evening, right before the fire. I can't be sure how long, I wasn't with him, then.”
“Okay. I'm going to admit you overnight,” she said, addressing them both. “I want to keep an eye on that concussion, and it sounds to me as though you,” she looked sharply at Dean, “have a couple of pretty nasty infections incubating in there. We'll get you hooked up with some of the good stuff, clear that up in no time.”
“He's prone to sinus infections,” Sam supplied, and she nodded, as though she wasn't surprised.
Dean shifted, glared at him, twisted aside and pulled off his mask to sneeze into his cupped hands again. “Hih... HHEISHH! HEISTCHUH! Huh... HUISHH!”
“So much for feeling better, huh?” Sam patted his shoulder sympathetically.
“Shud up.”
“And the congestion's making a comeback, I see. Dude, I gotta say, it sucks to be you,” Sam gently tried to pull the mask back into place, but Dean pulled away, hands still over his nose and mouth.
“Uh... cad I ged a dissue?”
Sam grinned, grabbed a box that was sitting next to the tiny sink, plucked a handful of tissues so his brother could blow his nose.
“Aww, bad... id's full of soot. Dasty...” Dean complained. Sam liberated the used tissues, dropped them into the trash can, motioned to the mask, and with a roll of his eyes Dean put it back on. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Sam looked up at the doctor. “Uh... about getting admitted... we, uh, we don't exactly have insurance. In fact, I'm pretty sure we can't even afford the couple of hours we've been here already.”
She looked honestly surprised. “What? Oh, no. Don't worry about that, honey. That's all been taken care of. Everything's fine.”
“What?”
Dean swept his right hand in a small arc, his left holding onto the oxygen mask. “I'b guessig, 'dot the droids they're lookig for,' Sabby.”
“Huh. Okay. Remind me to thank Andy later. Is he still here?” he asked, turning back to Dr. Nichols.
“Your friend? Yes, I think he's in the waiting room. We'll let him in as soon as we have the two of you settled in a room.”
“Together?”
“Well, sure. We happened to have a free room, so it was easy enough to arrange. Your friend Andy said it was the best way to keep the two of you out of trouble, and after your little display,” she said, looking at Dean, “I'm beginning to think he might be right. Why don't you go join him, catch him up, while I finish up here with Dean?” she gave Sam a look that dared him to argue with her. Dean stiffened on the bed, his eyes betraying his anxiety, and Sam squeezed his hand.
“I'll be right outside, okay? Dr. Nichols is cool, you'll be fine.” There was an answering squeeze, barely a twitch of Dean's fingers, and he gave an imperceptible nod. “Don't worry. I won't be far.”
Dr. Nichols gave him another don't-mess-with-me look. “I don't want you out of that wheelchair again, you hear me?”
“No ma'am. I mean, yes ma'am, I hear you.” Sam gave her a nervous smile, backed out of the room. What was it with them and scary maternal figures, anyway? Once he was clear of the examination room, though, he quitted the chair, which wasn't exactly designed for a six-foot-four frame. His head was throbbing mercilessly after all the excitement, and he briefly regretted his decision to stand up. He made his way slowly into the waiting room, where he found Andy pacing in circles near a low table piled with out-of-date magazines.
“Sam, hey!” Andy darted forward to greet him. “You okay? What are you doing up? Sit down,” he pulled him over to one of the waiting room chairs. “You shouldn't even be out here.”
“Relax, Andy,” Sam let himself be pushed into a chair, figuring it wasn't worth putting up a fight over this, and besides, his head was ringing like a kettledrum. “I just got kicked out of Dean's room so the doctor can check him out.”
“I heard a hell of a ruckus before. Was that him?”
Sam grinned and shrugged. “How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess. Are you sure you're okay? Honestly, I thought you were dead. You were in the fire for a really long time before Dean pulled you out.”
“Really, I'm okay. Surprisingly okay, considering. My head is killing me, but I think I got off lightly. What about Lesley and the kids?”
“They're fine. Lesley's got a couple of scrapes, the kids don't have a mark on them. They've already been discharged.”
“That was fast.”
Andy grinned and shrugged. “Small town. And, you know, I'm pretty persuasive when I want to be. Got them priority treatment.”
“Speaking of which... thank you.”
“What for?”
“You know, squaring away this whole hospital thing.” Sam gestured vaguely to their surroundings.
“Oh, yeah. You know. Not a big stretch for me. Uh,” Andy lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that gun? The antique one? I put it back in the trunk of your car. Just so you know. Almost had to break Dean's fingers to get him to let go, he was out cold and had a death-grip on it. I thought you should know, in case he remembers he had it and freaks out when he finds it gone.”
“He brought the Colt?” Sam started, winced as the movement sent pain lancing through his skull, pressed a hand to the side of his head. “Ow,” he breathed, then pulled himself together. “Okay, well, as long as it's safe...”
“You want me to get someone?”
“No, it's okay. I just need a second...” He leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes against the harsh glare of hospital lighting. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew someone was saying his name.
“Sam?” Dr. Nichols was standing, arms folded, clipboard in hand, looking disapprovingly at him, and he felt incongruously like a school kid getting detention from a teacher. “I seem to recall saying something about staying in the wheelchair.”
He ducked his head sheepishly, grinned, looking up at her from under his bangs. “Sorry. It's just... really uncomfortable. I'm sitting down, though, right? That has to count for something?”
She snorted. “Damn, and I thought your brother was exaggerating about the puppy dog eyes.” Sam felt a flush creep up his neck. “Come with me, I'll fill you in on your brother's condition.”
Andy tapped him on the arm. “They're not letting me stay. I mean, they told me visiting hours aren't until tomorrow anyway, and there's not much point in my hanging around the waiting room. I'll come back tomorrow, bring you some stuff, okay?”
“Thanks, Andy.” Sam patted his shoulder, bit back a groan as he pushed himself upright, followed the doctor back to his wheelchair and meekly sat down in it again. “How's Dean?”
“Better than he has any right to be. You were right about the sinus infection, and he's got a wicked case of bronchitis on top of the smoke inhalation. He's bruised, singed around the edges, but apart from that, he's fine. I'm definitely admitting the both of you overnight, just for observation, and so we can work on getting your brother's fever down to manageable levels. You can go in,” she motioned to the door. “Sit tight, I'll be back once I've dealt with the paperwork.”
She turned on her heel, leaving them by themselves for the first time in hours, and Sam wheeled himself back to Dean's side. He was lying perfectly still for the first time that evening, looking small and pale and bruised, and Sam swallowed hard, trying not to betray his sudden anxiety. “How you doing?” Sam rubbed his arm. “Jesus, it's like patting a radiator. Did they give you anything?”
“Beed bedder,” Dean rasped, barely audible under the oxygen mask. “Doctor's goig to gibe be the good sduff. Thigk I'b bostly ogkay. Hey, did you kdow adredalide's a decodgestadt?” He rolled his eyes. “I was fide for, ligke, ad leasdt two hours.” His voice cracked, and he held the mask firmly in place with his left hand, coughing. “Feel ligke shit, Sab,” he finally admitted.
Sam smoothed his hand over his brother's forehead, saw his eyelids start to droop. “Yeah, well, they'll pump you full of antibiotics, and you'll be good to go. Try to get some sleep, okay? I figure it'll be a while before we get to our room.”
“Yeah. 'kay.”
Sam settled himself as comfortably as he could in his wheelchair as Dean's breathing evened out into sleep, prepared himself for what promised to be a long night of waiting.
Part 24
Part 23
“Dean!” Sam fought to keep his balance under his brother's dead weight, braced himself against the wall.
Dr. Nichols pushed past the orderlies to crouch down next to them, but Dean's eyes were already fluttering, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.
“Dean, you with me?”
A brief nod, and his brother forced open his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Gimme a hand up?”
“Way ahead of you, dude. Up you get,” Sam hoisted him bodily onto the gurney. “You going to cooperate with the nice doctor this time?”
“Don't patronize me,” Dean let his head fall back onto the thin padding, sweat beading on his face.
“Hey, I'm not the one who was threatening to gut the orderlies with a scalpel.”
Dean coughed. “Totally had it coming,” he mumbled. “Askin' for it, Sammy.”
Sam huffed a laugh. “Sure, they were. You're lucky we're not getting sued.”
“Lucky, yeah. That's me.”
Dr. Nichols got up, smoothing her rumpled lab coat. “If you two are quite done?” She tried to pull the oxygen mask over Dean's face, only to be repelled again by a firmly-placed hand, and Sam sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Dean, come on.”
“Hate that shit, Sam,” he complained weakly. “Smothering.”
“Dean,” Dr. Nichols said gently, “I need you to keep the mask on for a few minutes at least, okay? You breathed in a lot of smoke, and I don't like the sound of that cough. I want to make sure you're getting enough oxygen, okay? You,” she said sternly to Sam, “sit. Now.” Sam sank obediently into his wheelchair.
“It's not the smoke. I just have a cold. I'm feeling better, anyway,” Dean protested.
“Dude, just do what she says, okay? For once, would you not be difficult?”
Grumbling, Dean did as he was told, submitted to the mask, barely flinched when the doctor came at him with a stethoscope and a thermometer. “You said you weren't feeling well?”
“Just a cold,” he said, muffled by the mask. As if to illustrate his point he sat up, breath hitching, pulled the mask to the side, and cupped his hands over his nose and mouth. “HAPKSCHH!” he winced, pulled the mask back into place, lay back on the gurney. “See? I'm being good. Promise.”
“Uh-huh,” she hooked the stethoscope around her neck again. “Sounds like it might be more than that to me. How long have you been running that high a fever?” Dean muttered something, but his voice had all but given out, and the mask made his reply unintelligible.
“He's been sick for a few days, got caught in the rain earlier today. Uh, make that yesterday,” Sam said quietly, glancing at his watch. “The fever started in the afternoon, and I think it spiked in the late evening, right before the fire. I can't be sure how long, I wasn't with him, then.”
“Okay. I'm going to admit you overnight,” she said, addressing them both. “I want to keep an eye on that concussion, and it sounds to me as though you,” she looked sharply at Dean, “have a couple of pretty nasty infections incubating in there. We'll get you hooked up with some of the good stuff, clear that up in no time.”
“He's prone to sinus infections,” Sam supplied, and she nodded, as though she wasn't surprised.
Dean shifted, glared at him, twisted aside and pulled off his mask to sneeze into his cupped hands again. “Hih... HHEISHH! HEISTCHUH! Huh... HUISHH!”
“So much for feeling better, huh?” Sam patted his shoulder sympathetically.
“Shud up.”
“And the congestion's making a comeback, I see. Dude, I gotta say, it sucks to be you,” Sam gently tried to pull the mask back into place, but Dean pulled away, hands still over his nose and mouth.
“Uh... cad I ged a dissue?”
Sam grinned, grabbed a box that was sitting next to the tiny sink, plucked a handful of tissues so his brother could blow his nose.
“Aww, bad... id's full of soot. Dasty...” Dean complained. Sam liberated the used tissues, dropped them into the trash can, motioned to the mask, and with a roll of his eyes Dean put it back on. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Sam looked up at the doctor. “Uh... about getting admitted... we, uh, we don't exactly have insurance. In fact, I'm pretty sure we can't even afford the couple of hours we've been here already.”
She looked honestly surprised. “What? Oh, no. Don't worry about that, honey. That's all been taken care of. Everything's fine.”
“What?”
Dean swept his right hand in a small arc, his left holding onto the oxygen mask. “I'b guessig, 'dot the droids they're lookig for,' Sabby.”
“Huh. Okay. Remind me to thank Andy later. Is he still here?” he asked, turning back to Dr. Nichols.
“Your friend? Yes, I think he's in the waiting room. We'll let him in as soon as we have the two of you settled in a room.”
“Together?”
“Well, sure. We happened to have a free room, so it was easy enough to arrange. Your friend Andy said it was the best way to keep the two of you out of trouble, and after your little display,” she said, looking at Dean, “I'm beginning to think he might be right. Why don't you go join him, catch him up, while I finish up here with Dean?” she gave Sam a look that dared him to argue with her. Dean stiffened on the bed, his eyes betraying his anxiety, and Sam squeezed his hand.
“I'll be right outside, okay? Dr. Nichols is cool, you'll be fine.” There was an answering squeeze, barely a twitch of Dean's fingers, and he gave an imperceptible nod. “Don't worry. I won't be far.”
Dr. Nichols gave him another don't-mess-with-me look. “I don't want you out of that wheelchair again, you hear me?”
“No ma'am. I mean, yes ma'am, I hear you.” Sam gave her a nervous smile, backed out of the room. What was it with them and scary maternal figures, anyway? Once he was clear of the examination room, though, he quitted the chair, which wasn't exactly designed for a six-foot-four frame. His head was throbbing mercilessly after all the excitement, and he briefly regretted his decision to stand up. He made his way slowly into the waiting room, where he found Andy pacing in circles near a low table piled with out-of-date magazines.
“Sam, hey!” Andy darted forward to greet him. “You okay? What are you doing up? Sit down,” he pulled him over to one of the waiting room chairs. “You shouldn't even be out here.”
“Relax, Andy,” Sam let himself be pushed into a chair, figuring it wasn't worth putting up a fight over this, and besides, his head was ringing like a kettledrum. “I just got kicked out of Dean's room so the doctor can check him out.”
“I heard a hell of a ruckus before. Was that him?”
Sam grinned and shrugged. “How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess. Are you sure you're okay? Honestly, I thought you were dead. You were in the fire for a really long time before Dean pulled you out.”
“Really, I'm okay. Surprisingly okay, considering. My head is killing me, but I think I got off lightly. What about Lesley and the kids?”
“They're fine. Lesley's got a couple of scrapes, the kids don't have a mark on them. They've already been discharged.”
“That was fast.”
Andy grinned and shrugged. “Small town. And, you know, I'm pretty persuasive when I want to be. Got them priority treatment.”
“Speaking of which... thank you.”
“What for?”
“You know, squaring away this whole hospital thing.” Sam gestured vaguely to their surroundings.
“Oh, yeah. You know. Not a big stretch for me. Uh,” Andy lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that gun? The antique one? I put it back in the trunk of your car. Just so you know. Almost had to break Dean's fingers to get him to let go, he was out cold and had a death-grip on it. I thought you should know, in case he remembers he had it and freaks out when he finds it gone.”
“He brought the Colt?” Sam started, winced as the movement sent pain lancing through his skull, pressed a hand to the side of his head. “Ow,” he breathed, then pulled himself together. “Okay, well, as long as it's safe...”
“You want me to get someone?”
“No, it's okay. I just need a second...” He leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes against the harsh glare of hospital lighting. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew someone was saying his name.
“Sam?” Dr. Nichols was standing, arms folded, clipboard in hand, looking disapprovingly at him, and he felt incongruously like a school kid getting detention from a teacher. “I seem to recall saying something about staying in the wheelchair.”
He ducked his head sheepishly, grinned, looking up at her from under his bangs. “Sorry. It's just... really uncomfortable. I'm sitting down, though, right? That has to count for something?”
She snorted. “Damn, and I thought your brother was exaggerating about the puppy dog eyes.” Sam felt a flush creep up his neck. “Come with me, I'll fill you in on your brother's condition.”
Andy tapped him on the arm. “They're not letting me stay. I mean, they told me visiting hours aren't until tomorrow anyway, and there's not much point in my hanging around the waiting room. I'll come back tomorrow, bring you some stuff, okay?”
“Thanks, Andy.” Sam patted his shoulder, bit back a groan as he pushed himself upright, followed the doctor back to his wheelchair and meekly sat down in it again. “How's Dean?”
“Better than he has any right to be. You were right about the sinus infection, and he's got a wicked case of bronchitis on top of the smoke inhalation. He's bruised, singed around the edges, but apart from that, he's fine. I'm definitely admitting the both of you overnight, just for observation, and so we can work on getting your brother's fever down to manageable levels. You can go in,” she motioned to the door. “Sit tight, I'll be back once I've dealt with the paperwork.”
She turned on her heel, leaving them by themselves for the first time in hours, and Sam wheeled himself back to Dean's side. He was lying perfectly still for the first time that evening, looking small and pale and bruised, and Sam swallowed hard, trying not to betray his sudden anxiety. “How you doing?” Sam rubbed his arm. “Jesus, it's like patting a radiator. Did they give you anything?”
“Beed bedder,” Dean rasped, barely audible under the oxygen mask. “Doctor's goig to gibe be the good sduff. Thigk I'b bostly ogkay. Hey, did you kdow adredalide's a decodgestadt?” He rolled his eyes. “I was fide for, ligke, ad leasdt two hours.” His voice cracked, and he held the mask firmly in place with his left hand, coughing. “Feel ligke shit, Sab,” he finally admitted.
Sam smoothed his hand over his brother's forehead, saw his eyelids start to droop. “Yeah, well, they'll pump you full of antibiotics, and you'll be good to go. Try to get some sleep, okay? I figure it'll be a while before we get to our room.”
“Yeah. 'kay.”
Sam settled himself as comfortably as he could in his wheelchair as Dean's breathing evened out into sleep, prepared himself for what promised to be a long night of waiting.
Part 24