SPN FIC - Special Kid
Okay, we've drifted back up from "dark" to "angsty." You wanted John? Sam? Here ya go. Last summer, in For Molly, You Do, I talked about Sam having his appendix out when he was 11. This springs off of that.
He'd made a couple of phone calls, to people a little more knowledgeable than he. Asked them, what was the earliest he could take Sam out of here AMA without risking bleeding, infection, fever, anything that would cause Sam to be anything worse than grouchy. He'd leave Sam in here that long, and no longer.
Characters: John, Sammy, OMCs
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Length: 1290 words
SPECIAL KID
By Carol Davis
"Your boy gonna be all right?" the other man asked, and offered John a smile that was meant to be supportive, understanding, a God help us, we're in the same boat kind of a thing. But John had heard him a while ago - heard the muffled cry he let out. The smile came from the same place the cry had, although the man didn't seem to recognize that. It was pure anguish. He and John might be in the same boat, yeah, but the poor guy thought that fucker was going down by the bow and he didn't have anything to bail with except his hands.
John nodded and said quietly, "Yeah."
That other boy, the one sleeping the black and dreamless sleep of the heavily doped-up in the bed next to Sam's, had bone cancer. A few hours back, a surgeon had taken off his left leg just below the knee.
Sam? Sam was only minus his appendix.
"Get you some coffee?" John offered.
"I -"
The poor bastard didn't seem to remember what coffee was. Without waiting for any more of an answer, John walked down the hall to the vending machine in the alcove near the elevators, fed in some coins, and carried two cups of dark, warmish liquid back to the room Sam was sharing with that other boy. He held one of the cups out to the boy's father and got a rerun of that grimace of a smile for his trouble.
"We just have the one," the man said.
It was a question. A request for more information. Something to hang a little sanity on.
"Two," John told him. "Got an older boy."
"We wanted more."
John nodded again and peered down into the shadowed sludge in his cup. No need to stay here, part of his mind told him. He could sleep in the car, or stretch out on the couch in the waiting room - that would be close enough. Sam would be fine; the nurses would look in on him like they did for all the other kids on the ward. They seemed good about that here - didn't seem pissed at the world, overtired, willing to settle for "good enough." The nurse who'd popped in a little while ago was sweet-faced, attentive, sympathetic. Had a boy of her own the age of these two, she said.
Yeah, they'd watch over Sam.
If he'd been willing to let them.
He'd made a couple of phone calls, to people a little more knowledgeable than he. Asked them, what was the earliest he could take Sam out of here AMA without risking bleeding, infection, fever, anything that would cause Sam to be anything worse than grouchy. He'd leave Sam in here that long, and no longer.
Leave "Paul Asherman" in here that long.
Asherman was the name on the insurance card, the one he kept for emergencies. He hadn't had any insurance in his own name for eleven years, not since Sam was a baby. Couldn't pay the premiums for even the most basic of coverage.
Could, yes, he thought, if he found himself a paying job, one that'd last more than a week or two. But there was no room for that any more, no room at all.
"Randy," the other man said.
He almost said it. Almost said John. "Steve. Asherman."
"He's a good-looking boy."
"Yours too."
"Appendix?"
"Yeah."
"That's a cinch, these days. They do a lot of those," Randy said in a voice that wobbled like a cup sitting on a running washing machine. "I remember when I had mine out. Eight years old. Got so scared."
Sam hadn't been scared. In pain, yes. He'd cried from the pain, kept his eyes on Dean even though Dean still had his own appendix and wasn't anybody's idea of a good source of information. He proved it by saying, "It's okay, Sammy. When you wake up, they want you to eat big bowls of ice cream." That was tonsils, not appendix, but John let it go by, didn't figure it mattered. It quieted Sam down a little bit, anyway. Dean had that knack with Sam, had had it since Sam was born. Having Dean sit here by Sam might have been the better choice, if there'd been a chance in hell the hospital would allow it.
With a burn of exhaustion in his legs John sank back down onto the chair alongside Sam's bed and sipped at the oily dark sludge in the paper cup. It roiled around in his almost-empty stomach, made him wish he'd found something a little more substantial than vending machine peanut butter crackers to take the place of dinner. Because they had Sam's - Paul's - name on their list, the cafeteria staff had sent him up a dinner tray, not knowing he was still down for the count, and John began to think of that like it'd been ambrosia swiped from the gods. They'd taken it away without anyone's having touched it.
"He's a good boy," Randy said, looking at his son. "He's my good boy."
Then he started to cry.
He didn't make a lot of noise. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the air conditioner. John let him be for a couple of minutes, let him have his sorrow, gulp small sobs into the palms of his hands. He was about to get up from his chair when Sam stirred, made a soft oof of discomfort, and fluttered his eyes open halfway.
"Dad?" he mumbled.
John set his coffee down on the table beside Sam's bed. "I'm here."
"Where'm I?"
"Hospital. Remember?"
"Somebody…crying?"
"It's all right," John said quietly. "Go back to sleep."
Randy lifted his head from his hands and swiped unsteadily at his eyes with the flats of his fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -"
"It's all right," John told him.
Flustered, Randy stumbled up from his chair and out into the corridor, where he disappeared from sight.
"Why is he crying?" Sam murmured.
"He's upset about his son."
"Oh."
Sam was silent for a minute. Taking stock, John could tell: of his surroundings, the IV running into his hand, how he felt. Then he wiggled a little, finding himself a slightly more comfortable position to lie in.
"Are you staying here with me?" he asked finally.
"I am."
"Why?"
"Figured I could flirt with the nurses. The one who came on a while ago's kind of cute. Name's Mimi."
That got a frown out of Sam, but he was too dopey to protest. Too dopey to figure out that flirting didn't really show up anywhere on John's list of reasons for being here. Smiling, John reached out to brush Sam's bangs away from his forehead and left his hand lying on Sam's head, rubbing back and forth against Sam's temple with his thumb. After a moment Sam leaned into his touch and closed his eyes. "Go on back to sleep," John told him.
Sam mumbled, "Dean?"
"You'll see him tomorrow."
"Get ice cream?"
"We'll see."
"Dean said…"
John's gaze drifted over to the other bed, to the boy sleeping so silently there. His prognosis was good; Mimi the night nurse had surrendered that much information. He had a rough road ahead of him, but…
But.
John's attention went back to his own son, drifting back down into sleep.
Rough road, he thought distractedly. Long road.
Shifting his weight a little, he leaned in to press a kiss to Sam's temple. Then he aimed for the corridor, searching for a word of comfort he could offer to that other father, the one who only had one name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He'd made a couple of phone calls, to people a little more knowledgeable than he. Asked them, what was the earliest he could take Sam out of here AMA without risking bleeding, infection, fever, anything that would cause Sam to be anything worse than grouchy. He'd leave Sam in here that long, and no longer.
Characters: John, Sammy, OMCs
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Length: 1290 words
SPECIAL KID
By Carol Davis
"Your boy gonna be all right?" the other man asked, and offered John a smile that was meant to be supportive, understanding, a God help us, we're in the same boat kind of a thing. But John had heard him a while ago - heard the muffled cry he let out. The smile came from the same place the cry had, although the man didn't seem to recognize that. It was pure anguish. He and John might be in the same boat, yeah, but the poor guy thought that fucker was going down by the bow and he didn't have anything to bail with except his hands.
John nodded and said quietly, "Yeah."
That other boy, the one sleeping the black and dreamless sleep of the heavily doped-up in the bed next to Sam's, had bone cancer. A few hours back, a surgeon had taken off his left leg just below the knee.
Sam? Sam was only minus his appendix.
"Get you some coffee?" John offered.
"I -"
The poor bastard didn't seem to remember what coffee was. Without waiting for any more of an answer, John walked down the hall to the vending machine in the alcove near the elevators, fed in some coins, and carried two cups of dark, warmish liquid back to the room Sam was sharing with that other boy. He held one of the cups out to the boy's father and got a rerun of that grimace of a smile for his trouble.
"We just have the one," the man said.
It was a question. A request for more information. Something to hang a little sanity on.
"Two," John told him. "Got an older boy."
"We wanted more."
John nodded again and peered down into the shadowed sludge in his cup. No need to stay here, part of his mind told him. He could sleep in the car, or stretch out on the couch in the waiting room - that would be close enough. Sam would be fine; the nurses would look in on him like they did for all the other kids on the ward. They seemed good about that here - didn't seem pissed at the world, overtired, willing to settle for "good enough." The nurse who'd popped in a little while ago was sweet-faced, attentive, sympathetic. Had a boy of her own the age of these two, she said.
Yeah, they'd watch over Sam.
If he'd been willing to let them.
He'd made a couple of phone calls, to people a little more knowledgeable than he. Asked them, what was the earliest he could take Sam out of here AMA without risking bleeding, infection, fever, anything that would cause Sam to be anything worse than grouchy. He'd leave Sam in here that long, and no longer.
Leave "Paul Asherman" in here that long.
Asherman was the name on the insurance card, the one he kept for emergencies. He hadn't had any insurance in his own name for eleven years, not since Sam was a baby. Couldn't pay the premiums for even the most basic of coverage.
Could, yes, he thought, if he found himself a paying job, one that'd last more than a week or two. But there was no room for that any more, no room at all.
"Randy," the other man said.
He almost said it. Almost said John. "Steve. Asherman."
"He's a good-looking boy."
"Yours too."
"Appendix?"
"Yeah."
"That's a cinch, these days. They do a lot of those," Randy said in a voice that wobbled like a cup sitting on a running washing machine. "I remember when I had mine out. Eight years old. Got so scared."
Sam hadn't been scared. In pain, yes. He'd cried from the pain, kept his eyes on Dean even though Dean still had his own appendix and wasn't anybody's idea of a good source of information. He proved it by saying, "It's okay, Sammy. When you wake up, they want you to eat big bowls of ice cream." That was tonsils, not appendix, but John let it go by, didn't figure it mattered. It quieted Sam down a little bit, anyway. Dean had that knack with Sam, had had it since Sam was born. Having Dean sit here by Sam might have been the better choice, if there'd been a chance in hell the hospital would allow it.
With a burn of exhaustion in his legs John sank back down onto the chair alongside Sam's bed and sipped at the oily dark sludge in the paper cup. It roiled around in his almost-empty stomach, made him wish he'd found something a little more substantial than vending machine peanut butter crackers to take the place of dinner. Because they had Sam's - Paul's - name on their list, the cafeteria staff had sent him up a dinner tray, not knowing he was still down for the count, and John began to think of that like it'd been ambrosia swiped from the gods. They'd taken it away without anyone's having touched it.
"He's a good boy," Randy said, looking at his son. "He's my good boy."
Then he started to cry.
He didn't make a lot of noise. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the air conditioner. John let him be for a couple of minutes, let him have his sorrow, gulp small sobs into the palms of his hands. He was about to get up from his chair when Sam stirred, made a soft oof of discomfort, and fluttered his eyes open halfway.
"Dad?" he mumbled.
John set his coffee down on the table beside Sam's bed. "I'm here."
"Where'm I?"
"Hospital. Remember?"
"Somebody…crying?"
"It's all right," John said quietly. "Go back to sleep."
Randy lifted his head from his hands and swiped unsteadily at his eyes with the flats of his fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -"
"It's all right," John told him.
Flustered, Randy stumbled up from his chair and out into the corridor, where he disappeared from sight.
"Why is he crying?" Sam murmured.
"He's upset about his son."
"Oh."
Sam was silent for a minute. Taking stock, John could tell: of his surroundings, the IV running into his hand, how he felt. Then he wiggled a little, finding himself a slightly more comfortable position to lie in.
"Are you staying here with me?" he asked finally.
"I am."
"Why?"
"Figured I could flirt with the nurses. The one who came on a while ago's kind of cute. Name's Mimi."
That got a frown out of Sam, but he was too dopey to protest. Too dopey to figure out that flirting didn't really show up anywhere on John's list of reasons for being here. Smiling, John reached out to brush Sam's bangs away from his forehead and left his hand lying on Sam's head, rubbing back and forth against Sam's temple with his thumb. After a moment Sam leaned into his touch and closed his eyes. "Go on back to sleep," John told him.
Sam mumbled, "Dean?"
"You'll see him tomorrow."
"Get ice cream?"
"We'll see."
"Dean said…"
John's gaze drifted over to the other bed, to the boy sleeping so silently there. His prognosis was good; Mimi the night nurse had surrendered that much information. He had a rough road ahead of him, but…
But.
John's attention went back to his own son, drifting back down into sleep.
Rough road, he thought distractedly. Long road.
Shifting his weight a little, he leaned in to press a kiss to Sam's temple. Then he aimed for the corridor, searching for a word of comfort he could offer to that other father, the one who only had one name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~