Roses in December (5/14)
Okay, so ratherastory has found a ladder and gotten over herself. Thank you, guys, for putting up with my being an emo princess in my last post and leaving me nice and encouraging comments. I live for pats. ;)
So since I'm leaving town for the weekend, I thought I'd try to get one more chapter posted before I go.
Master Post
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
“Hey, Dad, it's me. Dean. I mean, obviously you know it's me, who else would- anyway, I guess you must've got my messages, 'cause your voicemail isn't full anymore. So, Sam's getting better, physically, anyway. Sort of. He, uh, he still doesn't remember anything. I'm kind of running out of ways to not tell him about what we do. The state he's in, I think it might screw him up even more. I don't know. He's still Sammy, though, smart as a whip, and asking questions... Look, uh, I know you wouldn't be keeping radio silence unless it was important, but I... we could really use you here. Call me back? Or, you know, maybe you could come? Anyway, I guess I'll talk to you later.”
Dean flips the phone shut, staring at it for a moment. He's out in Jess' yard (sort of his yard now too, he supposes), because that's the only place he can smoke in peace. She's resolutely not smoking anymore, something about the fact that she quit for Sam's sake or whatever, so he doesn't want to make her new place reek like an ash tray. He takes a drag off his cigarette, flips his phone open again. He hesitates before dialling, then shrugs and does it anyway, feeling his shoulders sag with relief when someone picks up right away on the other end. “Hey, Bobby.”
“Dean!” Bobby sounds pleased and annoyed at the same time, which is about par for the course. “Boy, it's been two weeks. You aimin' to make me age prematurely?”
“Too late for that,” Dean grins, falling back into the familiar pattern of joking around with something like gratitude.
“Smart-ass. If I was there, I'd kick your ass from here 'til next week. How you doin'?”
He shrugs, even if Bobby can't see him. “I'm fine. I was just wondering if you'd heard from Dad lately.”
“No, I haven't. I left him a couple messages giving him a piece of my mind, but he ain't called. Might be because I gave him a piece of my mind. I'm sorry, boy,” he can hear the genuine regret in Bobby's voice. “You mean he hasn't called you yet?”
“Nah, not yet. He's gotta be caught up in something, you know? It's gotta be big, or else he'd have called,” he uses the butt of his cigarette to light up another, then grinds it under his heel. Now he's chain-smoking. Fan-fucking-tastic.
He can practically hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “I'll keep checking, ask some of my contacts if he's been in touch. The minute I hear anything, I'll let you know. Now tell me about Sam, dammit, before I lose what little hair I got left. How's he doing?”
“Uh, not too bad, I guess. He started running a fever yesterday, so they're watching him a bit more carefully, giving him antibiotics. He was supposed to start physical therapy so they could see when they can release him, but that's kind of on hold for now. So... we're kind of in it for the long haul.”
There's a moment of silence. “How's he doing, you know, mentally?”
Trust Bobby to cut to the chase. Dean blows smoke through his nose, eyes screwed shut. “Honestly? Not good. He still doesn't remember anything, and it's fucking him up. I mean, more than he already is. I don't... he's still Sammy, you know? I can see him in there, but it's not exactly him, either. He's trying, but I don't think it's a question of trying, no matter how much we all want it to be. He's frustrated and sick, and... I don't know, Bobby. I don't know if I'm making things worse by being around, or what, but I can't just leave him, can I?”
“'Course not!” Bobby snaps. “It ain't that girlfriend of his makin' you uncomfortable, is it?”
“No, no, it's not that. Jess is... well, I can tell why Sam fell for her. She's a pretty cool chick, but it's hard for her too, you know?”
“Okay, so what's with you?”
He desperately wants to get up and pace, but it's only been a couple of days since he nearly killed himself and Charlie on the stairs, and just the idea makes his leg ache. He sucks on his cigarette instead. “I don't know. It's just hard to watch him like this, and I think he knows it and he's putting pressure on himself and it's just making things worse. He gets these really bad headaches, and his moods are all over the place, and sometimes I feel like I'm just causing more harm than good.”
“You tell him about hunting yet?”
“No. I don't know how. He's barely coping with the idea of a regular, civilian life that he can't remember. I don't know what it'll do to him if I tell him that, oh, by the way, our mother was killed by some supernatural thing and that's why we don't talk about it, and that Dad's off somewhere chasing down the thing, or maybe some other supernatural nasty, but don't worry, I'm sure he's fine even if he hasn't so much as given a sign of life in the past six weeks.”
“All right, all right,” Bobby says, his tone placating. “Take a breath, boy, don't get upset.”
“I'm not upset!”
“Sure you're not, princess. Look, Dean, I don't mean to pry or nothin', but six weeks in the hospital... that ain't cheap. You boys all right for money?”
Dean snorts. “Sam has insurance. Actual, real insurance, can you believe it? It's not going to cover everything, but right now it looks like he's okay.”
“How about you? It ain't like you can use your usual methods of earning cash. You hard up?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, actually, I've sort of been looking around for, uh, you know, regular work. Sammy's not... well, even if he does get his memories back, he's gonna need a lot of time to get back on his feet properly, and Jess still has to go back to school in the fall. There's a local bar needs a bartender, and they don't seem too picky about the fact that I don't have a CV or whatever, just so long as I know how to mix drinks.”
“All right then. You let me know if you need anything, all right? I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Bobby.”
When he finally ends the call, he feels about fifty pounds lighter.
*
Jess has a nagging suspicion that she might, contrary to all her previous beliefs, be a terrible person. She's been sitting next to Sam's bed for less than thirty minutes, watching him sleep restlessly, his face flushed from the fever he's been running for two days straight now, and all she wants to do is leave. She wants to go home and lose herself in unpacking, in the comfort of putting her things (their things, she corrects herself) in order. She doesn't want to be here, next to the man that, less than two months ago, she was going to marry, and guilt coils inside her stomach, making her feel slightly ill. She should want to be here, she thinks. Sam is sick and hurting and he needs all the support he can get, and all she can think of is how much she wishes none of this had happened and that he was still the goofy, shy kid she had a crush on in their first class together.
As if sensing her guilt, Sam stirs on the bed, makes a soft moaning noise before shifting around again, visibly uncomfortable, and she reaches out to grasp his hand, lying limp by his side. “Sam?”
He doesn't open his eyes, but at the sound of her voice he settles a bit, squeezes her fingers. She relaxes, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, trying not to think about how it feels too warm in her grip, the skin fragile like too-thin paper. There's a soft scuffing sound by the door, and she looks up to see Dean coming in, leaning heavily on his cane, which she's learned by now means he has to be in a serious amount of pain.
“Sorry I'm late. Interview with the owner of that bar kind of ran late. Hey, Sammy,” he says softly, sliding into the chair on the other side of the bed, but not loud enough to wake his brother if he's really asleep.
“How did it go?” she asks, realizing she's holding her breath without quite knowing what answer she wants to hear. He grins and winks at her, and the look is so smug that for a moment she kind of wants to smack it off his face.
“Like a hot knife in butter. Between my innate charm and spectacular drink-mixing skills, by the end she was practically begging me to work for her.”
She rolls her eyes, feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “You think you're pretty cute, don't you?”
“Cute? I think I'm adorable,” he smirks, and she rolls her eyes again, turns back to Sam pointedly. His expression turns worried almost immediately, and damn if that doesn't just make her feel more guilty. Apparently it's a Winchester talent. “How is he?”
“The fever's been getting worse. They think it might be a staph infection or something. They're going to remove the catheter tomorrow if he's not better, just in case that's what's causing it. Apparently it's pretty common.”
He makes a face. “I'm getting pretty sick of them telling us how common all these problems are.”
“I think it's meant to make us feel better, to think it's routine and easy to take care of,” she says, and he snorts, echoing her own sentiments on the matter. “When are you supposed to start work?”
“Next Monday. I already told her about Sam, and she's been pretty cool about it. It's not like the bar hours conflict too much with visiting hours here, and anyway, he's going to be coming back home soon, right? So I figure I can stay with him during the day while you're in class or whatever, and then you can be there when I'm at work.”
“You've obviously got this all planned out.”
His head jerks up in surprise at her tone. “Uh, what?”
“Nothing, it's stupid,” she shrugs, feeling petty and ridiculous.
“Are you mad?”
Definitely a Winchester thing. “No. It's stupid. I'm tired and it's stupid and I shouldn't have said anything.”
He's blinking at her as though she's suddenly sprouted a second head. “Is this because I didn't tell you first?”
She shrugs again, and doesn't really want to feel like she's turning into her mother, all passive-aggressive silence and expecting men to read her mind. “No. Okay, yes. A bit. I told you it was stupid.”
He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh. Okay. Umm, sorry?” he offers, though he's clearly still not quite getting why she's upset. She sighs.
“It's a good idea. I just... next time, could you just maybe talk to me first before you make decisions that affect my life?”
He blinks at her again, his expression not unlike one he'd wear if she'd just broadsided him with a Mac truck. She wonders if he's ever had to make decisions that affected anyone but himself before, and if that's not what the problem might be, here. Sam is restless on the bed between them, lips moving silently as though he's trying to talk to someone they can't see, and Dean reflexively rubs his arm, soothing. She's watched him do this a thousand times by now, if not more, the gesture natural, paternal, even. She knows just enough about Sam's family to know that his mother died when he was a baby, and that even if their father raised Dean, it was Dean who raised Sam. His behaviour makes more sense that way, she tells herself: either it was his father making decisions, or else he was the one making them for Sam. No discussion ever needed.
“Sure. Okay. Yeah,” Dean says to her, jolting her out of her pop-psychology moment, and she flushes, not even sure why she's embarrassed.
She opens her mouth to apologize, and that's when Sam starts screaming.
*
Women are a freaking mystery. That's the conclusion Dean inevitably comes to every time he has to deal with a woman who's not a witness in an investigation (and sometimes during an investigation too) for longer than a one-night stand. He's mostly managed to avoid Lauren for the past couple of days, because he's just not sure what she wants. She said something about having a coffee together, and even though he knows people do this all the time, well... Dean Winchester doesn't do coffee. Coffee is not a social experience, in his world. So until he figures out what to do with Lauren that doesn't involve alcohol and a motel bed, he's been playing it cool, which in turn has led to other complications, namely, that she appears to have got her feelings hurt. Which is just great. Like he has time to figure out how to un-hurt her feelings when he has all the rest of this crap to deal with.
Women.
The entire female species is a mystery, and Jessica Moore is no exception to the rule. Even though he's had six weeks and change to get used to her, he still feels he doesn't have the whole picture. She's a great chick: hot and smart and obviously attached to Sammy. Loves his little brother like he's her other half (and maybe he is, this isn't Dean's area of expertise). But she's also really hard to figure out, doesn't say what she means half the time, thinks it's weird that he's never operated a washing machine that doesn't take coins (and told him laughingly that she'd had to teach Sam the same thing), keeps asking awkward questions about their lives and about why Dad hasn't come yet.
In short, she's making him uncomfortable, and if he's going to be staying long-term, it's going to suck. So he figured out a way to make it work that would mostly keep them out of each other's way, and now she's mad at him for -what? Not talking to her about it before? He thought she'd be happy not to have him in her hair all the time, and... whatever. Women are complicated, that's all there is to it.
He doesn't have time to get into an argument with her about whatever bug it is that's crawled up her ass anyway, because Sam picks that moment to start thrashing on his bed, yelling incoherently about something only he can see. Dean's on his feet and leaning over him in the blink of an eye, pushing on the call button on the off-chance no one heard his little brother screaming bloody murder. Jess is up too, her efforts to calm Sam about as effective as his own. For all he's sick and weak, Sam's a tall guy, and he's putting up a hell of a fight with whatever he thinks is coming after him. He catches Dean in the collar bone with an elbow, and damned if that isn't going to bruise come the morning.
“Sam, Sammy come on! You're dreaming,” he tries to make himself heard above the screaming. “You're okay. Come, on, Sam! Sammy!”
Seconds later they're both being gently but firmly shoved aside by a nurse while the curtains are pulled close around Sam's bed. Whatever she was feeling before, she's obviously forgotten about it now, holding onto his arm with both hands, watching anxiously as though, if she stares hard enough, she might be able to see through the curtain. He knows exactly how she feels.
“He'll be fine,” he says, as much for his own benefit as for hers. “It's just the fever giving him nightmares. He used to get 'em all the time as a kid, especially when he was sick.”
She nods mutely, and he wraps and arm around her shoulders, and he steers her carefully out into the hallway before she finally finds her voice. “I think I need a cigarette after all.”
“We'll split one. Everyone knows cigarettes you bum off someone else totally don't count,” he keeps his tone light, although right now the furthest thing from his mind is anything that'll take him further away from Sam.
“We should stay, just until we're sure he's okay.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It feels a lot like the first night he got to Stanford, waiting anxiously for news of Sam. This time, the doctor puts him out of his misery much sooner, coming out with a reassuring smile.
“You can go back in. He's sedated, but he's asking for you. We're starting him on more aggressive antibiotics, and we had to remove the catheter, which is most likely the source of the infection. You should get him to sleep, if he can.”
Dean barely listens, is already making his way back to Sam's side. His brother is making valiant efforts to keep his eyes open, but it's a losing battle. He smiles weakly when he sees Dean and Jess, bites his lip, self-conscious, but his eyes are glassy and unfocussed. Dean leans up against the bed.
“How you feeling, drama queen?” he nudges Sam gently.
“You okay?” Jess is right beside him, her shoulder brushing up against his, and Sam nods tiredly.
“Yeah. It was just a nightmare, I guess. It just felt real, you know?”
Dean reaches out and smooths the hair from his forehead. Two months ago he'd never have done this, and Sam would never have put up with that kind of touchy-feely bullshit, but this Sam doesn't remember that, and Dean is starting to really not care about how things were before.
“Fever'll do that to you. You remember what it was about?”
Sam just kind of shakes his head, starts plucking at the sheets the way he did when he was just newly out of the coma, and it makes Dean's stomach flutter uncomfortably to watch him, well, regress like this. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes, speaks so softly Dean has to lean forward to catch what he's saying.
“There was a fire...”
*
Sam's head is throbbing. That's nothing unusual these days, and for all he knows it wasn't unusual before -although Jess and Dean both tell him that he didn't get headaches often before. The fever isn't helping, although he's grateful to be rid of the catheter, even if relieving himself is now a more complex production than before. He checks the clock, tries not to be disappointed when he sees he's not allowed more pain meds for at least another hour and a half, and shifts uncomfortably on the bed, waiting for Dean or Jess to show up. It feels as though he's always waiting these days. Waiting for a nurse, a doctor, Dean, Jess, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. He's had to listen to countless well-meaning speeches to be patient, to wait and it'll all come back.
Right now he's not sure that he wants it to come back. He's still jittery from the fever-induced nightmares of last night, trying to puzzle out what could have spawned them, and that isn't helping his head ache any less. The dreams have been coming and going for days, but last night, maybe because of the fever, they felt incredibly real, as though he was living the same horrific ordeal over and over, right up until the doctor pumped him full of some sort of sedative to get him to sleep. He's still obsessing over it, turning it around in his mind, when Dean slips into the room, moving more easily than Sam has seen him do in days, which means his leg must not be hurting anymore. He plasters a smile on his face, but judging by Dean's expression, it's not all that convincing.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything you want, Sammy.”
“You know, you're the only one who calls me that.”
“That's because I know you hate it,” Dean grins, and Sam snorts. “Was that what you wanted to ask?”
“No. I wanted to know, when our Mom died... you said there was a fire?”
Dean blanches a bit, but he nods. “Yeah. It, uh, it started in your nursery, and she died trying to save you.”
He doesn't know how to ask without sounding crazy. “Did she... I mean, was there anything, I don't know... Look, it's going to sound insane, but I need to know if there was anything strange about the fire.”
Dean gives him a sharp look. “You remember something?”
He shakes his head. “I was six months old. How could I remember that?”
“So what are you asking?” Tension is rolling off Dean in waves, and Sam is sure it's not his imagination.
“I don't know. I'm just trying to figure if the fever's messing with me, or what, like whatever you told me about Mom just got mixed up in my head and is making me dream weird stuff. It's... it's not the first time I dreamed that, but last night... I don't know, it felt real, even if it wasn't.”
“You dreamt about the fire that,” Dean stumbles a bit on the words, “that killed Mom?”
“I think so. I saw a fire, and a woman dressed in a white night dress, and she was bleeding... Dean?”
Whatever colour was left in Dean's face has drained away, and he drops into a chair by the bed, lips pressed together. He gestures to Sam to keep going, leans on his knees, still listening.
“It's crazy, right?” he tries to sit up further, but his head just throbs more, so he lies back down. “It's gotta just be a nightmare, it doesn't make any sense, because I was looking up at her -she was on the ceiling, and that's just not possible.”
“Sam...”
He swallows hard, hearing the confirmation in Dean's voice. “Oh, God. It is true, isn't it? That's how she died?”
Dean nods, and Sam can see his throat working, trying to hold back whatever's threatening to spill from his mouth. “Sam, you were a baby. How could you remember seeing Mom like that? You never remembered it before.”
He swallows again, trying to rid himself of the vivid imagery that keeps flashing behind his eyes. “I don't think I'm remembering Mom. I don't know what it is, because it can't be real. It's not her I'm seeing in my dreams, Dean.
“It's Jess.”
*
Chapter 6
So since I'm leaving town for the weekend, I thought I'd try to get one more chapter posted before I go.
Master Post
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
“Hey, Dad, it's me. Dean. I mean, obviously you know it's me, who else would- anyway, I guess you must've got my messages, 'cause your voicemail isn't full anymore. So, Sam's getting better, physically, anyway. Sort of. He, uh, he still doesn't remember anything. I'm kind of running out of ways to not tell him about what we do. The state he's in, I think it might screw him up even more. I don't know. He's still Sammy, though, smart as a whip, and asking questions... Look, uh, I know you wouldn't be keeping radio silence unless it was important, but I... we could really use you here. Call me back? Or, you know, maybe you could come? Anyway, I guess I'll talk to you later.”
Dean flips the phone shut, staring at it for a moment. He's out in Jess' yard (sort of his yard now too, he supposes), because that's the only place he can smoke in peace. She's resolutely not smoking anymore, something about the fact that she quit for Sam's sake or whatever, so he doesn't want to make her new place reek like an ash tray. He takes a drag off his cigarette, flips his phone open again. He hesitates before dialling, then shrugs and does it anyway, feeling his shoulders sag with relief when someone picks up right away on the other end. “Hey, Bobby.”
“Dean!” Bobby sounds pleased and annoyed at the same time, which is about par for the course. “Boy, it's been two weeks. You aimin' to make me age prematurely?”
“Too late for that,” Dean grins, falling back into the familiar pattern of joking around with something like gratitude.
“Smart-ass. If I was there, I'd kick your ass from here 'til next week. How you doin'?”
He shrugs, even if Bobby can't see him. “I'm fine. I was just wondering if you'd heard from Dad lately.”
“No, I haven't. I left him a couple messages giving him a piece of my mind, but he ain't called. Might be because I gave him a piece of my mind. I'm sorry, boy,” he can hear the genuine regret in Bobby's voice. “You mean he hasn't called you yet?”
“Nah, not yet. He's gotta be caught up in something, you know? It's gotta be big, or else he'd have called,” he uses the butt of his cigarette to light up another, then grinds it under his heel. Now he's chain-smoking. Fan-fucking-tastic.
He can practically hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “I'll keep checking, ask some of my contacts if he's been in touch. The minute I hear anything, I'll let you know. Now tell me about Sam, dammit, before I lose what little hair I got left. How's he doing?”
“Uh, not too bad, I guess. He started running a fever yesterday, so they're watching him a bit more carefully, giving him antibiotics. He was supposed to start physical therapy so they could see when they can release him, but that's kind of on hold for now. So... we're kind of in it for the long haul.”
There's a moment of silence. “How's he doing, you know, mentally?”
Trust Bobby to cut to the chase. Dean blows smoke through his nose, eyes screwed shut. “Honestly? Not good. He still doesn't remember anything, and it's fucking him up. I mean, more than he already is. I don't... he's still Sammy, you know? I can see him in there, but it's not exactly him, either. He's trying, but I don't think it's a question of trying, no matter how much we all want it to be. He's frustrated and sick, and... I don't know, Bobby. I don't know if I'm making things worse by being around, or what, but I can't just leave him, can I?”
“'Course not!” Bobby snaps. “It ain't that girlfriend of his makin' you uncomfortable, is it?”
“No, no, it's not that. Jess is... well, I can tell why Sam fell for her. She's a pretty cool chick, but it's hard for her too, you know?”
“Okay, so what's with you?”
He desperately wants to get up and pace, but it's only been a couple of days since he nearly killed himself and Charlie on the stairs, and just the idea makes his leg ache. He sucks on his cigarette instead. “I don't know. It's just hard to watch him like this, and I think he knows it and he's putting pressure on himself and it's just making things worse. He gets these really bad headaches, and his moods are all over the place, and sometimes I feel like I'm just causing more harm than good.”
“You tell him about hunting yet?”
“No. I don't know how. He's barely coping with the idea of a regular, civilian life that he can't remember. I don't know what it'll do to him if I tell him that, oh, by the way, our mother was killed by some supernatural thing and that's why we don't talk about it, and that Dad's off somewhere chasing down the thing, or maybe some other supernatural nasty, but don't worry, I'm sure he's fine even if he hasn't so much as given a sign of life in the past six weeks.”
“All right, all right,” Bobby says, his tone placating. “Take a breath, boy, don't get upset.”
“I'm not upset!”
“Sure you're not, princess. Look, Dean, I don't mean to pry or nothin', but six weeks in the hospital... that ain't cheap. You boys all right for money?”
Dean snorts. “Sam has insurance. Actual, real insurance, can you believe it? It's not going to cover everything, but right now it looks like he's okay.”
“How about you? It ain't like you can use your usual methods of earning cash. You hard up?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, actually, I've sort of been looking around for, uh, you know, regular work. Sammy's not... well, even if he does get his memories back, he's gonna need a lot of time to get back on his feet properly, and Jess still has to go back to school in the fall. There's a local bar needs a bartender, and they don't seem too picky about the fact that I don't have a CV or whatever, just so long as I know how to mix drinks.”
“All right then. You let me know if you need anything, all right? I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Bobby.”
When he finally ends the call, he feels about fifty pounds lighter.
*
Jess has a nagging suspicion that she might, contrary to all her previous beliefs, be a terrible person. She's been sitting next to Sam's bed for less than thirty minutes, watching him sleep restlessly, his face flushed from the fever he's been running for two days straight now, and all she wants to do is leave. She wants to go home and lose herself in unpacking, in the comfort of putting her things (their things, she corrects herself) in order. She doesn't want to be here, next to the man that, less than two months ago, she was going to marry, and guilt coils inside her stomach, making her feel slightly ill. She should want to be here, she thinks. Sam is sick and hurting and he needs all the support he can get, and all she can think of is how much she wishes none of this had happened and that he was still the goofy, shy kid she had a crush on in their first class together.
As if sensing her guilt, Sam stirs on the bed, makes a soft moaning noise before shifting around again, visibly uncomfortable, and she reaches out to grasp his hand, lying limp by his side. “Sam?”
He doesn't open his eyes, but at the sound of her voice he settles a bit, squeezes her fingers. She relaxes, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, trying not to think about how it feels too warm in her grip, the skin fragile like too-thin paper. There's a soft scuffing sound by the door, and she looks up to see Dean coming in, leaning heavily on his cane, which she's learned by now means he has to be in a serious amount of pain.
“Sorry I'm late. Interview with the owner of that bar kind of ran late. Hey, Sammy,” he says softly, sliding into the chair on the other side of the bed, but not loud enough to wake his brother if he's really asleep.
“How did it go?” she asks, realizing she's holding her breath without quite knowing what answer she wants to hear. He grins and winks at her, and the look is so smug that for a moment she kind of wants to smack it off his face.
“Like a hot knife in butter. Between my innate charm and spectacular drink-mixing skills, by the end she was practically begging me to work for her.”
She rolls her eyes, feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “You think you're pretty cute, don't you?”
“Cute? I think I'm adorable,” he smirks, and she rolls her eyes again, turns back to Sam pointedly. His expression turns worried almost immediately, and damn if that doesn't just make her feel more guilty. Apparently it's a Winchester talent. “How is he?”
“The fever's been getting worse. They think it might be a staph infection or something. They're going to remove the catheter tomorrow if he's not better, just in case that's what's causing it. Apparently it's pretty common.”
He makes a face. “I'm getting pretty sick of them telling us how common all these problems are.”
“I think it's meant to make us feel better, to think it's routine and easy to take care of,” she says, and he snorts, echoing her own sentiments on the matter. “When are you supposed to start work?”
“Next Monday. I already told her about Sam, and she's been pretty cool about it. It's not like the bar hours conflict too much with visiting hours here, and anyway, he's going to be coming back home soon, right? So I figure I can stay with him during the day while you're in class or whatever, and then you can be there when I'm at work.”
“You've obviously got this all planned out.”
His head jerks up in surprise at her tone. “Uh, what?”
“Nothing, it's stupid,” she shrugs, feeling petty and ridiculous.
“Are you mad?”
Definitely a Winchester thing. “No. It's stupid. I'm tired and it's stupid and I shouldn't have said anything.”
He's blinking at her as though she's suddenly sprouted a second head. “Is this because I didn't tell you first?”
She shrugs again, and doesn't really want to feel like she's turning into her mother, all passive-aggressive silence and expecting men to read her mind. “No. Okay, yes. A bit. I told you it was stupid.”
He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh. Okay. Umm, sorry?” he offers, though he's clearly still not quite getting why she's upset. She sighs.
“It's a good idea. I just... next time, could you just maybe talk to me first before you make decisions that affect my life?”
He blinks at her again, his expression not unlike one he'd wear if she'd just broadsided him with a Mac truck. She wonders if he's ever had to make decisions that affected anyone but himself before, and if that's not what the problem might be, here. Sam is restless on the bed between them, lips moving silently as though he's trying to talk to someone they can't see, and Dean reflexively rubs his arm, soothing. She's watched him do this a thousand times by now, if not more, the gesture natural, paternal, even. She knows just enough about Sam's family to know that his mother died when he was a baby, and that even if their father raised Dean, it was Dean who raised Sam. His behaviour makes more sense that way, she tells herself: either it was his father making decisions, or else he was the one making them for Sam. No discussion ever needed.
“Sure. Okay. Yeah,” Dean says to her, jolting her out of her pop-psychology moment, and she flushes, not even sure why she's embarrassed.
She opens her mouth to apologize, and that's when Sam starts screaming.
*
Women are a freaking mystery. That's the conclusion Dean inevitably comes to every time he has to deal with a woman who's not a witness in an investigation (and sometimes during an investigation too) for longer than a one-night stand. He's mostly managed to avoid Lauren for the past couple of days, because he's just not sure what she wants. She said something about having a coffee together, and even though he knows people do this all the time, well... Dean Winchester doesn't do coffee. Coffee is not a social experience, in his world. So until he figures out what to do with Lauren that doesn't involve alcohol and a motel bed, he's been playing it cool, which in turn has led to other complications, namely, that she appears to have got her feelings hurt. Which is just great. Like he has time to figure out how to un-hurt her feelings when he has all the rest of this crap to deal with.
Women.
The entire female species is a mystery, and Jessica Moore is no exception to the rule. Even though he's had six weeks and change to get used to her, he still feels he doesn't have the whole picture. She's a great chick: hot and smart and obviously attached to Sammy. Loves his little brother like he's her other half (and maybe he is, this isn't Dean's area of expertise). But she's also really hard to figure out, doesn't say what she means half the time, thinks it's weird that he's never operated a washing machine that doesn't take coins (and told him laughingly that she'd had to teach Sam the same thing), keeps asking awkward questions about their lives and about why Dad hasn't come yet.
In short, she's making him uncomfortable, and if he's going to be staying long-term, it's going to suck. So he figured out a way to make it work that would mostly keep them out of each other's way, and now she's mad at him for -what? Not talking to her about it before? He thought she'd be happy not to have him in her hair all the time, and... whatever. Women are complicated, that's all there is to it.
He doesn't have time to get into an argument with her about whatever bug it is that's crawled up her ass anyway, because Sam picks that moment to start thrashing on his bed, yelling incoherently about something only he can see. Dean's on his feet and leaning over him in the blink of an eye, pushing on the call button on the off-chance no one heard his little brother screaming bloody murder. Jess is up too, her efforts to calm Sam about as effective as his own. For all he's sick and weak, Sam's a tall guy, and he's putting up a hell of a fight with whatever he thinks is coming after him. He catches Dean in the collar bone with an elbow, and damned if that isn't going to bruise come the morning.
“Sam, Sammy come on! You're dreaming,” he tries to make himself heard above the screaming. “You're okay. Come, on, Sam! Sammy!”
Seconds later they're both being gently but firmly shoved aside by a nurse while the curtains are pulled close around Sam's bed. Whatever she was feeling before, she's obviously forgotten about it now, holding onto his arm with both hands, watching anxiously as though, if she stares hard enough, she might be able to see through the curtain. He knows exactly how she feels.
“He'll be fine,” he says, as much for his own benefit as for hers. “It's just the fever giving him nightmares. He used to get 'em all the time as a kid, especially when he was sick.”
She nods mutely, and he wraps and arm around her shoulders, and he steers her carefully out into the hallway before she finally finds her voice. “I think I need a cigarette after all.”
“We'll split one. Everyone knows cigarettes you bum off someone else totally don't count,” he keeps his tone light, although right now the furthest thing from his mind is anything that'll take him further away from Sam.
“We should stay, just until we're sure he's okay.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It feels a lot like the first night he got to Stanford, waiting anxiously for news of Sam. This time, the doctor puts him out of his misery much sooner, coming out with a reassuring smile.
“You can go back in. He's sedated, but he's asking for you. We're starting him on more aggressive antibiotics, and we had to remove the catheter, which is most likely the source of the infection. You should get him to sleep, if he can.”
Dean barely listens, is already making his way back to Sam's side. His brother is making valiant efforts to keep his eyes open, but it's a losing battle. He smiles weakly when he sees Dean and Jess, bites his lip, self-conscious, but his eyes are glassy and unfocussed. Dean leans up against the bed.
“How you feeling, drama queen?” he nudges Sam gently.
“You okay?” Jess is right beside him, her shoulder brushing up against his, and Sam nods tiredly.
“Yeah. It was just a nightmare, I guess. It just felt real, you know?”
Dean reaches out and smooths the hair from his forehead. Two months ago he'd never have done this, and Sam would never have put up with that kind of touchy-feely bullshit, but this Sam doesn't remember that, and Dean is starting to really not care about how things were before.
“Fever'll do that to you. You remember what it was about?”
Sam just kind of shakes his head, starts plucking at the sheets the way he did when he was just newly out of the coma, and it makes Dean's stomach flutter uncomfortably to watch him, well, regress like this. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes, speaks so softly Dean has to lean forward to catch what he's saying.
“There was a fire...”
*
Sam's head is throbbing. That's nothing unusual these days, and for all he knows it wasn't unusual before -although Jess and Dean both tell him that he didn't get headaches often before. The fever isn't helping, although he's grateful to be rid of the catheter, even if relieving himself is now a more complex production than before. He checks the clock, tries not to be disappointed when he sees he's not allowed more pain meds for at least another hour and a half, and shifts uncomfortably on the bed, waiting for Dean or Jess to show up. It feels as though he's always waiting these days. Waiting for a nurse, a doctor, Dean, Jess, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. He's had to listen to countless well-meaning speeches to be patient, to wait and it'll all come back.
Right now he's not sure that he wants it to come back. He's still jittery from the fever-induced nightmares of last night, trying to puzzle out what could have spawned them, and that isn't helping his head ache any less. The dreams have been coming and going for days, but last night, maybe because of the fever, they felt incredibly real, as though he was living the same horrific ordeal over and over, right up until the doctor pumped him full of some sort of sedative to get him to sleep. He's still obsessing over it, turning it around in his mind, when Dean slips into the room, moving more easily than Sam has seen him do in days, which means his leg must not be hurting anymore. He plasters a smile on his face, but judging by Dean's expression, it's not all that convincing.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything you want, Sammy.”
“You know, you're the only one who calls me that.”
“That's because I know you hate it,” Dean grins, and Sam snorts. “Was that what you wanted to ask?”
“No. I wanted to know, when our Mom died... you said there was a fire?”
Dean blanches a bit, but he nods. “Yeah. It, uh, it started in your nursery, and she died trying to save you.”
He doesn't know how to ask without sounding crazy. “Did she... I mean, was there anything, I don't know... Look, it's going to sound insane, but I need to know if there was anything strange about the fire.”
Dean gives him a sharp look. “You remember something?”
He shakes his head. “I was six months old. How could I remember that?”
“So what are you asking?” Tension is rolling off Dean in waves, and Sam is sure it's not his imagination.
“I don't know. I'm just trying to figure if the fever's messing with me, or what, like whatever you told me about Mom just got mixed up in my head and is making me dream weird stuff. It's... it's not the first time I dreamed that, but last night... I don't know, it felt real, even if it wasn't.”
“You dreamt about the fire that,” Dean stumbles a bit on the words, “that killed Mom?”
“I think so. I saw a fire, and a woman dressed in a white night dress, and she was bleeding... Dean?”
Whatever colour was left in Dean's face has drained away, and he drops into a chair by the bed, lips pressed together. He gestures to Sam to keep going, leans on his knees, still listening.
“It's crazy, right?” he tries to sit up further, but his head just throbs more, so he lies back down. “It's gotta just be a nightmare, it doesn't make any sense, because I was looking up at her -she was on the ceiling, and that's just not possible.”
“Sam...”
He swallows hard, hearing the confirmation in Dean's voice. “Oh, God. It is true, isn't it? That's how she died?”
Dean nods, and Sam can see his throat working, trying to hold back whatever's threatening to spill from his mouth. “Sam, you were a baby. How could you remember seeing Mom like that? You never remembered it before.”
He swallows again, trying to rid himself of the vivid imagery that keeps flashing behind his eyes. “I don't think I'm remembering Mom. I don't know what it is, because it can't be real. It's not her I'm seeing in my dreams, Dean.
“It's Jess.”
*
Chapter 6