10
There have been emergency trips to the hospital before, because that’s the nature of their lives. Sometimes, Dean knows, they’ve been for him. But the ones that stand out in his memory are all Sam’s. Six year old Sammy, leg broken in two places, sweating and sobbing into Dean’s neck all the way to the emergency room. The time he ran a fever in the middle of the night and Dean and John couldn’t get it to break - on that trip, Dean dug his nails into his palms while Sam lay in the backseat, barely conscious. There’ve been stabbings and gunshot wounds, which they struggled to explain to ER techs, and on one memorable occasion, a burn that had Sam signing his name left-handed for weeks.
This time, though, they just don’t know what’s going on. Sam grips his chest and Dean grips the wheel and can’t keep his eyes on the road, keeps cutting them sideways toward Sammy. He’s doubled over in the passenger seat, gasping, one hand grabbing at Dean’s knee, and Dean wants to catch his brother’s fingers and hold them but letting go of the wheel is really, really not a good idea right now.
“Sammy?”
Sam grunts a little. It’s too high pitched.
“We’re almost there, kid, you stay with me.”
“Can’t…”
“Yes you fucking can, Sam, don’t do this right now.” Don’t die on me his brain spits out, and he didn’t fucking want to think it. Thinking it makes it real.
It turns out being a guy in your thirties with chest pains gets you through triage pretty quick, and it also turns out thirty year old guys don’t get their hands held during their chest x-rays. A nurse shuffles Dean off to a waiting room and brings him cups of coffee, which he drinks black and fast (like my car, old and tasteless?, shut the fuck up, Sammy) and stares at infomercials on TV. They’re all for cleaning products. Maybe that’s on purpose. There’s something reassuring about the imagery of it, sitting in a hospital waiting room while doctors do things to his brother. These messes can be wiped away. Everything’s fine.
Everything’s fine because this is Sam we’re talking about, and he dies and goes to hell and heaven and back, he loses his mind and is shot and stabbed and taken out for a drive by the devil himself, and he’s fine. Sam equals fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Sammy’s fine.
“Mr. Winchester?”
He looks up. It’s a young doctor. Probably Sam’s age. Why does that matter? (Because he’s a healthy young doctor and he never saved the world, shut up Dean, he does what he can.)
The healthy young doctor takes Dean into a private room and sits behind a big desk and is very far away and uses what are probably the simplest available words to describe the situation, but Dean wouldn’t know, because after “there’s something wrong with your brother’s lungs” the world turns upside down and he isn’t listening anymore.
This time, though, they just don’t know what’s going on. Sam grips his chest and Dean grips the wheel and can’t keep his eyes on the road, keeps cutting them sideways toward Sammy. He’s doubled over in the passenger seat, gasping, one hand grabbing at Dean’s knee, and Dean wants to catch his brother’s fingers and hold them but letting go of the wheel is really, really not a good idea right now.
“Sammy?”
Sam grunts a little. It’s too high pitched.
“We’re almost there, kid, you stay with me.”
“Can’t…”
“Yes you fucking can, Sam, don’t do this right now.” Don’t die on me his brain spits out, and he didn’t fucking want to think it. Thinking it makes it real.
It turns out being a guy in your thirties with chest pains gets you through triage pretty quick, and it also turns out thirty year old guys don’t get their hands held during their chest x-rays. A nurse shuffles Dean off to a waiting room and brings him cups of coffee, which he drinks black and fast (like my car, old and tasteless?, shut the fuck up, Sammy) and stares at infomercials on TV. They’re all for cleaning products. Maybe that’s on purpose. There’s something reassuring about the imagery of it, sitting in a hospital waiting room while doctors do things to his brother. These messes can be wiped away. Everything’s fine.
Everything’s fine because this is Sam we’re talking about, and he dies and goes to hell and heaven and back, he loses his mind and is shot and stabbed and taken out for a drive by the devil himself, and he’s fine. Sam equals fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Sammy’s fine.
“Mr. Winchester?”
He looks up. It’s a young doctor. Probably Sam’s age. Why does that matter? (Because he’s a healthy young doctor and he never saved the world, shut up Dean, he does what he can.)
The healthy young doctor takes Dean into a private room and sits behind a big desk and is very far away and uses what are probably the simplest available words to describe the situation, but Dean wouldn’t know, because after “there’s something wrong with your brother’s lungs” the world turns upside down and he isn’t listening anymore.