Warning: Contraindicated (3/5)
Summary: It was just a concussion... wasn't it? Hurt!/Sick!Sam Angst!Dean
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren't mine, I'm not earning any money from this, etc
Rating: T
His hands were shaking. Car keys went unheeded to the floor as he threw himself across the room, smacking his knee on the nearer bed frame and not even noticing the flare of pain.
Nonononononono...
Sam was huddled on his side, his face pressed into the carpet. Dean turned him over, one hand feeling for a pulse while the other fumbled for the switch of the lamp. Sam flopped onto his back, limbs lying anyhow, carelessly sprawled. His eyes were shut.
“Sammy... Sam...” He was mouthing his brother’s name like an idiot. His fingers slid over clammy skin. It seemed an eternity before they discerned the feeble flutter of a heartbeat.
Too fast.
Clammy.
Cold.
He’s in shock.
What the hell?
“Sammy... come on man, speak to me... wake up. You’re freaking me out here...” His voice shook. He rested his palms on either side of his brother’s face, willing those almost translucent lids to lift. Sam was so frighteningly quiet. His skin was pale alabaster, cold and slick with sweat.
“Sammy...” One hand slid back down to his brother’s neck. Sam’s pulse was a hurried tapping that did little to reassure him.
Sam quivered, an almost imperceptible movement.
“Sammy?”
“De...” Green-blue eyes cracked open. Sam stirred, and a moan broke from him. “Hurts...”
“What is it? What hurts? Your head?”
“N-no... stomach...” Sam pressed his arm around his middle. His body curled, trying vainly to evade the pain. Dean blinked, confused and alarmed.
“Your stomach?”
“Mmm... De...” Sam’s breath stuttered. “I feel... sick....”
His face twisted as he swallowed convulsively, and Dean knew what was coming. Quickly he turned his brother onto his side, just as Sam’s body heaved.
He retched violently, and Dean’s hands went automatically to his shoulder and back, supporting and soothing, muttering comfort, even as his suddenly horror-stricken mind tried to take in what he was seeing. That was blood. Sam was vomiting blood.
Sam slumped down with a whimper and Dean caught him before he went headfirst into the expelled contents of his stomach. He pulled his brother up against him, feeling for the first time just how cold he was. Sam shivered hard, one hand coming up to clutch the fabric of Dean’s jacket.
“Dean...” His voice hitched, the fear evident through the weakness.
“What happened, Sam?”
“Stomach hurt... threw up... so much blood... tried to call you but... so dizzy...” He turned his head, pressing against his brother. “Feel... so sick... scared...” The last word was almost inaudible. Dean felt the clench of the fingers holding his jacket, and his own hand came up to cover his brother’s.
“De... don’t go...”
“I’m not gonna leave you, Sammy -”
“Hurts...”
“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t. Sam griped about all sorts of things: Dean’s music, the motels, Dean’s food, the credit card scams, Dean’s women... but he didn’t complain when there was genuinely something wrong. For him to be admitting to sickness - admitting that he was afraid - meant that he was in a bad way. If the crimson stains on the carpet weren’t already sufficient evidence of that. He needed to get to a hospital.
“Sammy? D’you think you can stand if I help you?”
“N-no... De... why...”
Sam was confused, his incoherence increasing as his words started to slur. His grip tightened desperately on Dean’s jacket.
“Sammy, I need to get you to a hospital.”
“Don’ wanna...”
“Sammy, you’re vomiting blood, for freak’s sake. We can’t deal with that here.” Dean’s voice came out sharper than he’d intended, fear lending it an edge that he regretted when he saw tears blur the already glazed eyes turned up to his.
“Aw Sammy, I’m sorry. Just... I can’t carry you, man. You need to work with me on this. Please?”
“ ’kay...” Sam’s voice was tiny and exhausted. Dean rested his hand against his brother’s face for a brief moment.
“Good. C’mon, Sammy.”
Sluggish muscles shifted weakly beneath his supporting hand. Sam was obviously trying, but his attempts were almost useless, his movements erratic. Dean’s arm tightened against his back, his other hand gripping Sam’s arm, and with a minimum of elegance, hauled him to his feet.
He felt the soft shallow sigh of breath on the side of his neck before Sam went slack in his arms, suddenly, bonelessly, unconscious again.
“Sammy!”
He struggled, fighting to support the unexpected dead weight, his knees buckling. Then they were on the floor again, Sam sprawled, heavily unmoving, against him. Dean only just managed to prevent his brother’s head from smacking against the floor.
“No...” He gripped his brother’s wrist, desperately seeking evidence to contradict the awful fear that was icy within him. Sam’s arm lolled unresisting in his grasp. Dean’s fingers searched for the thud of his brother’s heartbeat, and moved, and moved again, and found nothing.
He was mumbling to himself, panicky, meaningless words. Sam’s arm dropped with a thud as Dean’s hand went to his neck.
Maybe...
Can’t...
Sammy...
Sam.
It was the faintest quiver under his fear-sensitized fingertips. He stilled, almost willing his own heart to pause, to be silent, to confirm that that was Sam’s pulse he was feeling and not something conjured up by his desperation and longing. He bent his head down over his brother’s face.
And he felt it. Air moved against his cheek, quick, uneven, but there. Sam was breathing.
His arms tightened convulsively, tears he wasn’t aware he was crying spilling down his face. His breath broke from him in a hiccup that was almost a laugh, of relief and fear and emotions he couldn’t even define. He had to move, to get help, but for this one suspended moment it was enough to be holding his brother who was alive and breathing and not dead.
He swiped impatiently at his face, surprised to find it wet, and thrust his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.
“911, what is your emergency?”
The woman was so calm. Dean found himself shouting at her, furious and terrified and shaking, because it wasn’t right that she should be unmoved when this was happening, when Sam was unconscious and bleeding and unresponsive. Sam had been fine, and Dean had only left him for such a short time. He should have been researching on his laptop and sulking over their argument, complaining about feeling -
Feeling sick.
My stomach hurts, Dean.
I feel...
Suck it up, Sammy.
Not in the mood for a heart to heart, Samantha.
He could hear himself barking his address at the woman, his mouth on autopilot while his brain looped, the same thought over and over.
He told me... I should have known... something was wrong...
I left him.
I left him.
Oh Sam.
He let the phone drop to the carpet. The woman on the other end was still speaking but he ignored the tinny squeak, focusing instead on shrugging out of his jacket, tucking it around the limp body of the boy in his arms. Sam was only wearing jeans. He was so cold... how long had he been lying there? He pulled his brother more securely against him.
“I’m so sorry, Sammy... I’m so sorry... I should have listened to you... I’ve got you now, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”
His fingers ran through the strands of dark hair that clung damply to Sam’s forehead, a wretched comfort which his brother was unable to feel. Sam’s head was tucked against his shoulder. Dean rested his cheek against it.
“Hang in there, Sam... I’ve got you... not gonna leave you... hold on, bro... hang on, Sammy...”
He didn’t move when he heard the wail of the siren outside, the crunch of gravel under the wheels of the emergency vehicle and the hurried feet of the paramedics. They banged on the motel room door and pushed it open where Dean had forgotten to lock it, and came in, swirling around him in a rush of activity, and all he could think was that he’d failed his brother.
“Hypotensive...”
“Tachycardic...”
“Diaphoretic...”
Words eddied over him, technical and complicated and meaningless except for the one inescapable truth: that Sam was desperately sick and Dean had walked away and left him when he should have seen that something was wrong.
Sammy...
Sammy...
It was a refrain that repeated in his brain, over and over and over, as he watched them work over his brother, transfer him to a stretcher, lift him into the ambulance. When they moved to close the doors he argued, pleaded with them to let him accompany them in the ambulance, tried to convince them that he wouldn’t be in the way.
“Sorry, sir... need space to work... need to hurry... follow us to the hospital...” Disjointed and sympathetic and implacable.
He locked the motel door. Climbed into the Impala and switched on the ignition. Shifted into Drive and released the brake, foot going down on the accelerator and hands directing the steering wheel. Ahead the ambulance lights flashed red and he followed it mindlessly. The siren was a monotonous accompaniment to his thoughts.
Should have seen...
Should have noticed...
Should have listened...
Sammy...
So sorry, Sammy...
So sorry...
Chapter 4