MomentuM
TITLE: MomentuM
AUTHOR: i_speak_tongue
GENRE: Pre-series/Pilot AU, H/C, Gen
CHAR: Sam, Dean
SPOILERS: 1.01
RATING: PG 13
WORDS: 2783
A/N: Written for the prompt: Dean gets really sick while Sam is at Stanford. Sam is there in a fucking instant, at the ongoing and epic Again But With More Cold meme. (Also, when you hear the name Becky, you might be thinking Becky Rosen. Think back further. To "Skin")
SUMMARY:
MomentuM
Okay. The line up in the dining hall at Stern is going pretty fast, so you should be able to grab a couple of slices of cardboard-esque pizza before your Stats class at 1:45. Then you've got an Amnesty meeting with Jess at 4 and your study group for Geopolitics and US Foreign Relations at 6:30. If you're lucky, you'll still be awake enough at 9 to study for your Social Justice mid-term tomorrow. Or maybe you'll just pick up a six-pack of Red Bull. Yeah. That works.
You flip through your wallet for your ID card and your cell starts vibrating again. It was going off in the library but you forgot to check it when you left. You palm your ID card in one hand and swap your wallet for the phone. You don't recognize the number. 361 area code, and you've got no clue where that is. So many people at school have their old numbers from home that it could be anyone, really. Might be important. Might be about the mid term, or maybe it's someone calling to cancel your study group. God, that would be awesome.
The line advances and you grab a tray, then a bottle of iced tea. You hit the return call button and it starts ringing as you point two fingers at the pizza and then at the bald guy handing them out to everyone on the other side of the counter.
"Christus Spohn Memorial, Emergency. How may I help you?"
You're handed two slices of hot, cheese smothered dough. But suddenly you aren't hungry anymore.
"Someone... called me. You called my phone..." you tell the woman clumsily, like it's impossible to explain somehow.
"What's your name, Sir?" she asks as you ditch your tray and weave through the other students into the dining area. Lost.
"Sam Winchester."
Fuck. Dad. Dad or Dean or both. Probably both of them because why the hell else would the hospital be calling you.
"Hmm... one moment Mr. Winchester."
Jesus. You need to sit down. You scan the room for an empty table, but there aren't any. Becky and Logan are there though, waving you over to an empty spot right next to them. And you can't fucking figure out what else to do so you just obey them like a dog.
"You have a half-brother named Dean Berenstain?"
"Yeah," you say, no hesitation. Just a pounding heart where your trachea used to be. You should be pissed at him for using the insurance card that he came up with just so he could tease you about that damn Berenstain Bears book you carried around for a few months when you were little. You'd be pissed if you weren't so busy freaking out inside. If it didn't pull on all the heartstrings you were so convinced were cauterized three years ago.
"He was admitted early this morning," she says. "He's being treated for pneumonia.”
Becky stares at you from across the table like a confused rabbit. Carrot in her mouth and everything. "Sam?"
"That's... How... how's he doing?" It could be worse. It could be so much worse. You repeat these words to yourself like a mantra and continue to ignore your friend.
"I'm sorry. You'd need to come in and speak to his doctor for the details of his case."
"Well, can I talk to my brother? Can you transfer me to his room or something?"
“I can tell you he's not well enough to speak to anyone over the phone. And it would be beneficial to his recovery if a family member were to come sit with him. Are you in the area, sir?"
What does that mean, not well enough to speak to anyone? Is he unconscious? Maybe his throat is just really sore or something and he lost his voice. Yeah, that’s clearly what she meant. God, who are you kidding?
"Where?"
"Corpus Christi, Texas, Mr. Winchester," she says, like it's so fucking obvious. Like you should know where the hell your brother is.
You should know where the hell your brother is.
"Our dad. I mean... his dad. He's not there with him?" Jesus. Why the hell do you feel like the delinquent here?
"We haven't been able to contact him. We've been trying him since 2 am when your brother was brought in. You brother started asking for you a few hours ago and we found your number on his phone."
"Wait. He was brought in? Like… by an ambulance?" You stare at Logan’s Caesar salad as he stabs at it with his fork, at the excess of grayish-white dressing collecting at the bottom of the plate, and you repeat your mantra: It could be so much worse.
"Yes. Look, sir. Should we expect you?" the woman asks, her thick Texan accent turning ugly now that she sounds like she’s judging you.
"Yeah, okay?” you snap. “You should. I'm in California so it might take me a few minutes. Is that alright with you?”
"Sir, I didn't mean...."
"It's fine. Whatever. I'll be there as soon as I can. Tell my brother. Tell him I'm coming."
Dean’s sick and he’s alone and that woman better fucking tell him you’re coming. You end the call and scrub a hand over your face, and you might have been thinking this is a nightmare except Becky is staring at you with a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth and Logan is flipping through a J. Crew catalogue circling random pictures with a red sharpie. And it’s all too fucking stupid to not be real.
"Uh.. hey,” you say.
Becky bulges her eyes out at you as she digs around for the last of her yogurt. "Sam, what was that?"
"Family emergency. I... I gotta leave town for a few days."
"What? Like, right now? Sam! We have our Social Justice mid-term tomorrow!"
"Crap. Yeah. I guess I'm gonna miss that."
Logan lets out a low chuckle but he doesn’t look up from the Chambray shirt collection.
Becky slaps her spoon onto the table and little flecks of pink yogurt splatter onto its surface. "You guess? Seriously? You can't take off right now. Not only is it mid-terms, but you and Jess have that big dinner planned this weekend. And she will be totally depressed if you flake out on her. And she'll do it at my apartment while I'm trying to study."
"Hey. You think I want to take off? It's not like I have a choice here."
Becky sighs and stares at her thumb, like maybe she’s just realized she’s being a selfish brat. "What happened anyways?"
"Nothing. Not nothing... just... it's complicated,” you tell her, as it occurs to you that you really don’t have time for this shit. You shove your seat back and stand at the edge of the table. “Look I gotta go. I have to buy a plane ticket to fucking Texas and pack and write Jess a work of literature explaining how awesome she is for not hating me for doing this. So…"
"Yeah. Good luck with that, buddy," Logan snorts.
Back at the apartment you flip open your laptop. It takes you less than five minutes to find a six hour flight to Corpus with a layover in Dallas that leaves in four hours, and you're shoving clothes into your backpack before the confirmation is even finished printing.
Where the fuck is Dad? He should be there with Dean. He should have known Dean was sick, because if he was sick enough to need a fucking ambulance, then he's probably been sick for days. Weeks, maybe. Damn it.
You tell yourself to just keep moving, keep packing and write Jess that letter and check the BART schedule and call a cab. Keep going. It’s easy because school has been so fucking crazy lately that all you have is momentum, and you know from experience that the best way to keep going is to never stop. If you don’t stop then you don’t have as much time to think about what a shitty person Dad is, or how fucking reckless your brother is or how disappointed Jess is going to be or how fucked your grades are. Almost no time. Almost.
The airport’s a zoo, a half a dozen high school basketball teams running around, all apparently taking the same airline as you and you normally wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic except these guys are all just as tall as you and you don’t have the advantage of being able to see over everyone’s heads like a lighthouse keeper the way you normally do.
Waiting for your flight, you try calling Dad at least a half a dozen times without any luck, but it’s been so long since you talked to him that for all you know, this isn’t even a number he uses anymore. Jess is trying to call you but you don’t pick up because she’ll have questions about Dean, about why you never seemed to give two shits about him and now, out of nowhere you feel the need to drop everything to go see him. You don’t have answers to those questions for yourself, let alone your girlfriend.
You explained it just enough in the letter to sound sane, to sound like someone who’s honestly sorry, but knows what they’re doing. Just enough for her to not worry, and just enough for her to not break up with you for being a dick. You hope.
On the flight, you pull out your laptop and prepare emails to your profs explaining your extenuating circumstances (aka bullshitting) and begging for a chance to sit your mid-terms when you get back. And when you’re done with those, you start reading a bunch of journal articles for lectures you’re probably going to miss. You keep going.
The cab ride to the hospital is incredibly expensive and you don’t tip the cabbie because you’re pretty sure he took the scenic route without asking you first. You slam the door of the cab and walk up to the hospital. It’s past midnight and it’s still fucking hot in Texas. You can already feel sweat puddling under the weight of your heavy backpack as you approach the massive complex.
It’s one of those big corporate hospitals with metal detectors and plasma screens over the reception desk in the ER telling you how long the wait is, and where to go if you’re doing anything but dying. You tap your foot impatiently while you wait in line to talk to someone, a family of morbidly obese folk in front of you along with some guy ranting and raving at his shoes about Roswell and the CIA. Fucking Texas.
“What can I help you with, Sir?”
Secretly, you’re relieved that the girl at reception isn’t the one you talked to on the phone. She’s got huge eyelashes and a button down shirt with little yellow flowers and ruffles on the sleeves like something from Little House on the Prairie, and she smiles at you sweetly like she’s excited to interact with someone her own age who isn’t a junkie or a thug for a change.
She tells you Dean’s been admitted to “Special Care” whatever that means, and has you go wait for his doctor two floors up, down a maze of hallways and you lope past a few elderly patients and smile politely back at them when they look at you like your undeniable virility might rub off on them somehow.
The waiting area is a space at the top of an old spiral staircase that’s been incorporated into the newer parts of the building, and you study the architecture like you know anything about the subject, pace the room and stare out the window once in a while at the parking lot and beyond it a barren field, both lit by towering spotlights.
Finally, Dean’s doctor shows and he shakes your hand and thumbs through the papers on his clipboard. You feel nauseous suddenly, like for some weird reason you’re only just now realizing why you’re here.
“Do you know what walking pneumonia is?” the doctor asks.
“Yeah.”
“Right, well, it looks like your brother may have been suffering from it for a while. It’s a viral form and it’s not usually too serious. But it can be if it goes untreated for too long. In Dean’s case, it compromised his immune system and he picked up bacterial pneumonia in both lungs.”
“So… he has….”
“He collapsed in a bar down on Chapperal Street late last night. Came in with a temperature of 104, barely breathing. He’s still in pretty rough shape, but with the antibiotics we should see some improvement soon. You want to see him?”
You nod, trying to keep your head on straight as much as you’re agreeing to follow the doctor down the hall. You should ask him more questions. Figure out what they’re giving Dean. Exactly how long they think he’ll be here. That’s just the kind of person you are. You usually want to have all the facts.
But all you can bring yourself to ask is, “ Is he awake?”
“Last time I checked. He’s been asking for you,” he says, swinging a door open and inviting you to step through it ahead of him.
And there he is. Lying in bed with an oxygen mask covering half his face. Your big brother the ghost hunter pinned down by a pathetic bunch of machines and monitors. Conquered by bacteria. Held captive by an IV, a pulse oximeter and a little plastic ID bracelet. It’s insulting. And it also kinda makes you want to cry.
Dean squints at you like you might not be real but you squeeze his knee through a thin layer of sheets and you can see the smile in his eyes. He drags the plastic mask off his face and it’s clear now how laced with exhaustion each feature is. The corner of his lips, the indentation between his eyebrows, the tiny creases under his eyes.
“Hey… Sammy,” he whispers, each word its own desperate gasp of breath. All you can think is, thank god you came.
You turn for reassurance from the doctor that this is normal, that they know Dean sounds this weak, this frail, that it’s going to be okay and that he’ll get better. But the doctor’s gone and it’s just you and Dean and a huge void filled with everything that’s happened since you left.
“Hey. Keep that on, man. We can catch up later,” you tell him, trying to slip the oxygen mask back over his face, trying to be gentle. Dean stops you, his hand pressing over yours, hot and determined.
“Dad…. Dad’s…. missing. Four… days.” he gasps. It’s as if the hurt you left in his eyes when you told him you were leaving never went away. Christ. Well at least you know why Dad’s not here with Dean.
Part of you wants to go hunt down your father right now. Drag his ass back here so he can see what a fucking mess he’s left behind him. You don’t know if you’re worried or angry or both, but you do wish Dad would walk through that door right the fuck now. You wish you could see him, and it’s been a hell of a long time since you’ve felt that way.
But going to find Dad right now would mean leaving Dean here, and he’s so damn sick and you have to remind yourself Dean is the reason you’re here.
Bacterial pneumonia. Both lungs.
You shake your head, brush Dean’s hand aside and replace his oxygen.
“We’ll figure it out. I promise. But you need to get better first. Jesus, Dean. You can’t-“
But what are you going to tell him? That he can’t keep pushing himself with no regard for his own well being, or for what it does to the people that care about him? That’s what Dad’s always taught you. To keep pushing yourself, to keep moving. Always moving. It’s the one thing you all have in common whether you like it or not.
You lower yourself into the chair at Dean’s bedside and run your thumb over the plastic clip on his index finger, follow the wire attached to it up to one of the machines behind the bed and try to make sense of the numbers and symbols like they’re some kind of witches’ spell. Dean folds his hand over a little and you rub the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. He closes his eyes and you watch him fall asleep. And you stop.