Culpable 5/?
Summary: Dean was hurt because Sam had been careless, and now Sam had to get on with what needed to be done. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Pre-season, hurt/ sick! Sam, minor hurt/ major angst! Dean, angst! John.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?
Part 4
Lights flashed, repetitively alternating bright and dark. Through the seat the vibrations rumbled, almost soothing, lending a false sense of security. Of peace. Dean looked down as the current streetlamp passed them. Its yellow glow fell over the interior of the truck, illuminating it for a brief second before fading as its predecessors had done.
Sam’s face was buried in his jacket, his fingers curled into the fabric with a white-knuckled grip. Dean could feel the damp warmth against his skin, the sweat of fever and unbearable pain, and the tears that Sam was no longer able to fight. His arm tightened around his brother as he felt a shiver go through him.
“You okay there, bro?” His voice was quiet, too soft to be heard by his father in the front seat.
Sam’s head turned a little.
“Tired, De... ‘m so tired...” Exhaustion was in the thin whisper. Dean bent his head.
“I know... I know, dude. You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll give you the good stuff and then you can just sleep...” He wasn’t sure if Sam was even listening. His eyes were shut. Dean didn’t stop talking, though, the deep muttering almost inaudible against the throb of the engine.
“It’s okay... it’s okay, Sammy... you’re gonna be fine. Just relax... I gotcha... you’re gonna be okay...” He wasn’t sure who the reassurances were for, the semi-conscious boy or the big brother who held him so tightly. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but he knew Sam was seriously ill. This wasn’t just a stomach bug, a twenty-four hour flu. The soft agonised whimpers, the naked pain in his brother’s eyes, the way he clung to Dean, sent icy darts of fear through him even as he mumbled comfortingly.
In the rear view mirror John glanced at his sons.
“Dean? How’s he doing?”
Dean didn’t answer, but his gaze met his father’s briefly and John’s lips pressed together as he turned his attention back to the road.
The hospital was bigger than they’d expected, an ugly three-storey brick building set stolidly alongside a large gravel parking area. Experience pointed them in the direction of the Emergency unit, where an ambulance stood, doors open.
Dean was already shifting across the seat as the truck drew to a halt. Sam was tall now, almost as tall as Dean, and though his weight had not caught up with the added inches he was by no means light. Dean knew he should find a porter or some other member of staff armed with a gurney. But he couldn’t bring himself to break free of his brother’s grip, to remove those desperately clutching fingers. Sam huddled tightly against him as he hadn’t for years. He needed the physical security. Dean needed to give it to him.
He staggered a little under the dead weight before regaining his balance. John glanced at him, as if momentarily debating whether to offer his help, and then obviously decided Dean didn’t want it.
Dean didn’t. Sam was even heavier than he’d expected, and he knew his back would complain the next day. The youngest Winchester was strong and able, and undeniably going to end up bigger than Dean, but the Dean who had wrapped toddler arms around his baby brother and rescued him from a burning house had lost none of that protectiveness over the intervening years. Now an adult Dean cradled his lanky teenage brother and carried him into the hospital.
*************************************************************
Marcus Webber pulled the glove on with a snap of taut latex and glanced at the nurse.
“What have we got, Sophie?”
“Sixteen-year-old male with severe upper abdominal pain and vomiting. Temperature’s 101.8, pulse 110, blood pressure 95 over 60.”
“Gastro?” Dr. Webber worked his fingers into the second glove, flexed them, and looked up enquiringly at the silence. Sophie’s usually placid face was drawn into a frown.
“Unlikely. Not with that spectacular bruising.”
“Bruises?” It was the doctor’s turn for the frown. “Who brought him in?”
“Father and brother.”
“What’s the story?”
“The brother found him collapsed on the bathroom floor. Apparently there were no signs that anything was wrong before tonight.”
Dr. Webber didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the “apparently”. His eyes narrowed a little.
“And the bruises?”
“They didn’t mention those. We found them when we put on the gown.”
Dr. Webber closed his eyes briefly. Then he took a deep breath.
“Let’s take a look at -“
“Sam. Sam Winchester.”
Dr. Webber had been on call for thirty-three hours straight. He wanted a shower, a large plate of his wife’s spaghetti Bolognese and a very long sleep. He did not want to deal with all the ramifications of what he suspected might be a case of child abuse.
But none of that was the fault of the child in question, the thin teenager who lay on the examination table in a tight curl on his side, sweaty dark strands of hair flopping over shut eyes from which slow tears trickled. His fingers were clenched in a death grip on the blanket covering him.
“Sam?”
Slits of green showed as shadowed eyelids lifted reluctantly.
“I’m Dr. Webber. I’m going to take a look at your abdomen, okay? Sophie will help you move onto your back.”
“N-no... it hurts...”
“It hurts when you lie on your back? Is it better on your side?”
“Mmm.”
“Okay, then, Sam. I’ll try to be quick.”
The nurse hadn’t been lying about the bruises. Angry greenish-purple stained a wide band across the middle of his patient’s torso. More alarming to the experienced eye of Dr. Webber, though, were the apparently newer blotches on the sides and around the navel. Sophie saw the doctor’s nostrils clamp, a characteristic sign that he was disturbed.
“Where exactly does it hurt, Sam?” Whatever he was thinking, his voice was still calm and reassuring. Sam blinked at him, and one hand released the blanket.
“H-here...” His hand moved weakly. “an’... m’ back...” He shivered, and clutched at the blanket again as an involuntary whimper escaped again.
“When did it start hurting?”
Neither of them missed the quiver that passed across Sam’s face at that question.
“In... in the night...”
“Can you tell me how you got those bruises?”
“I... I fell... tripped...”
The doctor’s eyes met the nurse’s. Neither of them had missed the old scars that littered the limbs and torso of their patient.
“Sam?” Dr. Webber’s voice was gentle. “Does your father or your brother ever hurt you? Hit you or... or anything like that?”
For the first time something other than pain was visible on the teenager’s face.
“No.” His voice was weak, but the certainty in it was absolute. Bloodshot blue-green eyes looked directly at the doctor. “If you think... th-they’re abusing me... then you’re wrong.”
Dr. Webber was silent. Years of work in an inner city hospital with its never-ending parade of small victims of domestic violence had taught him not to believe a child who denied it. But the complete sincerity in this boy’s face gave him pause.
Sophie, who had met Sam’s aggressive and intimidating family, was less ready to accept what he was saying.
“How did you fall, Sam?”
“In the forest... m-my foot went to sleep, ’n I... ’n I stood up too quickly...’n...’n fell. Over a t-tree trunk.” His voice was fading.
“When was this?”
“S-Saturday...” Sam’s breath hitched, and he shivered again. He missed the glances the two adults exchanged. The brief spark of indignation on behalf of his father and brother flickered and died, taking with it the last of his energy.
“Sam?” Dr. Webber’s hand went to his patient’s wrist as he saw the dark head loll sideways. The heartbeat under his fingertips was rapid and thready.
Wet eyelashes flickered.
“Dean...” The voice was a broken whisper. “...want...D-de...”
*******************************************************
Sam was the one who went for the clever girls. They bonded in the exhilaration of long complicated assignments and surreptitiously held hands in the library while reading textbooks together.
Or so Dean said.
Dean had always preferred his women to have rather more visible attributes. In his opinion, intelligent women usually wanted to waste time in conversation when they could be occupied more... beneficially... and reading was an over-rated skill, anyway.
Or so Sam said.
The receptionist at this hospital was amply endowed with physical charms. Blonde curls, big blue eyes, a figure to make men salivate... under normal circumstances Dean would have had her number in two minutes flat. Even though she had to be at least five years his senior.
He was beginning to think, though, that there was some validity in Sam’s attraction for intelligence.
It was the sixth time he’d asked if there was any news of Sam. It was the sixth time she’d looked at him with those fluttering dark lashes and said she hadn’t heard anything.
It was at least the hundredth time he’d wanted to take something heavy and hurl it against the ugly yellow waiting room wall.
She worked there. It was her job to hear things. How could she know nothing? It had been over two hours since they’d brought Sam in and she couldn’t even tell them where he was?
He turned abruptly away from the obviously flirtatious smile and strode back to where his father sat staring moodily at the shabby carpet.
“Sit down, Dean. They’ll tell us when they know something.” John Winchester didn’t even glance up at his son as he spoke. Years of unquestioning obedience had Dean dropping into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside his father, but his expression grew even more thunderous.
He knew his father was concerned about Sam. For all their constant arguing and his father’s sometimes overbearing attitude, there was no doubt that he loved his younger son just as much as he did the elder. Dean just wasn’t sure that his father realised quite how bad the situation was. Dean was no doctor, but he knew his brother. He knew his reactions to pain, to illness. Sam was sensitive, and ridiculously in touch with his emotions, but he hadn’t been brought up by an ex-Marine without learning to take knocks. Whatever was wrong with him now was bad enough to break through that stoicism, and that scared Dean as nothing had in a long time.
It wasn’t his father who’d found Sam crumpled on the bathroom floor. It wasn’t his father who’d had desperate fingers digging into his leg. His father hadn’t held that shivering rigid body on the backseat of the truck, or tried helplessly to soothe the soft agonised whimpers. His father thought it was a really bad case of stomach flu.
Dean knew stomach flu. He’d had it before. Sam had had it before.
This wasn’t it.
He fiddled with a loose thread on the knee of his jeans and tried not to imagine what could be taking so long.
“H-hurts, De...”
The thread broke with a soft snap.
They’d better hurry the hell up and get out here and tell us what’s going on. They’d better fix Sammy up and sort out whatever’s wrong. There’d better be a really good reason for them to have taken so long - no, a really good reason means something’s really wrong - they’d better -
“Hurts, De...”
There was nothing he could do to quiet the echo of his little brother’s voice in his head.
He shifted in his seat, glanced at his watch, remembered he’d left it back at the motel, glanced at the wall clock instead. It had been at least three minutes since he last spoke to Einstein at the desk - maybe now she’d know something -
“Family of Sam Winchester?”
The doctor looked tired, thinning light brown hair standing up untidily above a face that was creased and worn with fatigue.
He also looked angry.
“John Winchester. Sam’s father.” The oldest Winchester sounded a little gravelly, but he was making an effort to be polite.
“I’m Dr. Webber. I’ve been attending to your son.” He gave the waiting room a cursory glance, saw that, for once, it was empty, and jerked his head in the direction of the chairs they’d just vacated.
Dean didn’t wait for him to speak.
“How’s Sam? Is he okay?”
Dr. Webber looked at him.
“You’re his brother?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor’s hand thrusting through his hair demonstrated the reason for its disarray.
“As a result of the abdominal trauma he sustained Sam has developed a severe case of pancreatitis. Had you brought him in when it happened we might have been able to prevent it but unfortunately the delay means that there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations -”
“Abdominal trauma?”
“When what happened?”
Dean and John spoke together, effectively cutting the doctor off.
His grim expression deepened into what was close to anger.
“I have to admit that I’m shocked you didn’t bring him in earlier. A fall like that should never be taken lightly, especially in a child, and even if that wasn’t enough the extensive bruising should have warned you that something was wrong. There was evidence of mild internal bleeding as well - ”
Again he was interrupted.
“A fall like what?” John’s voice was almost a bark.
This time there was no doubt of the anger in the doctor’s face, although his voice was under rigid control.
“Like the one in the forest. On Saturday.”
John turned to Dean, an incredulous frown on his face.
“Sammy fell?”
Dean was frowning too, as he searched through the hazy blur of memory. Brief flashes, images... Sam’s voice... Sam’s trembling terrified hands... the headache from hell... the insane shriek of the harpy... Then there was a split-second impression, of Sam sprawled across a tree-trunk as the monstrous bird-woman bore down on him. His eyes widened as he tried frantically to remember more. Sam had... he must have fallen... but... but he’d been okay... he’d killed the monster, and helped Dean out of there, driven the Impala back to the motel and dealt with his unconscious older brother...
“Dean! What happened?”
“Dad, I... I don’t remember - I think he did fall, but it’s all a blur. I was so out of it...” Horror was draining the colour from his cheeks. Sam had been hurt. Sam had been badly hurt. And there’d been nobody around to help. He’d had to deal with the harpy and Dean, all the while struggling with his own injuries.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dean could see the shock in his father’s face fighting with anger.
“I would have, but I was concussed.” He stared at his father, and for the first time a thought occurred to him. His voice went tight. “If it comes to that, why didn’t you check that he was okay when you got back that night?”
“Dean - ”
“What happened that night, Dad? Did you ask him what went down on the... uh... in the forest?” Dean could hear the attack in his own voice and a part of him was startled that he’d even dare to talk to the man that way. He never fought with his father, or even raised his voice to him.
But this was Sam, and Sam was sick because one, or both, of them had been negligent, and that overrode even his sense of his father’s absolute authority.
He could see from the clench of his father’s jaw that the older man didn’t see it that way.
“Dean - ”
“Excuse me!” The words were polite, but the tone was perilously close to a snap. Dr. Webber was glaring at them. “I’d like to discuss my patient, if you don’t mind. You can fight about who’s at fault afterwards.” He cleared his throat with a sharp cough.
Dean could feel the simmering anger sitting next to him, but his father nodded briefly.
“Go on.”
“As I said, there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations, which, compounded by the internal bleeding, has resulted in severe third space sequestration of fluids. Basically, a large amount of fluid has leaked into the abdominal cavity, and as a result he was dangerously close to shock when he arrived. We are treating that with aggressive IV fluid replacement. He’s going to need nasoenteral feeding until this settles, to rest the pancreas.”
“What about the pain?” Dean cut across the flow of jargon.
“Yes. We’re administering narcotics for that.”
“But he’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question.
Dr. Webber looked less than confident for the first time since he’d appeared. He thrust his fingers through his hair again.
“Many cases resolve without difficulty -”
“What about Sam’s case?” It was John who spoke this time.
“Well, I’m not trying to scare you, Mr. Winchester, but the fact that he’s already hypovolaemic is cause for some concern. This does appear to be a serious case, but we will be monitoring him carefully in the ICU so that any possible complications can be caught early. There’s no reason to believe that he won’t make a full recovery.”
“Cause for some concern...”
“A serious case...”
“Possible complications...”
“ICU.”
“Can we see him?” Dean broke through the words echoing horribly in his head. Something of what he was feeling must have come through in his voice. Dr. Webber looked at him, his grim expression softening infinitesimally.
“Are you Dean? Sam was asking for you. He should be settled in by now, if you’d like to follow me.”
Tbc
Part 6
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?
Part 4
Lights flashed, repetitively alternating bright and dark. Through the seat the vibrations rumbled, almost soothing, lending a false sense of security. Of peace. Dean looked down as the current streetlamp passed them. Its yellow glow fell over the interior of the truck, illuminating it for a brief second before fading as its predecessors had done.
Sam’s face was buried in his jacket, his fingers curled into the fabric with a white-knuckled grip. Dean could feel the damp warmth against his skin, the sweat of fever and unbearable pain, and the tears that Sam was no longer able to fight. His arm tightened around his brother as he felt a shiver go through him.
“You okay there, bro?” His voice was quiet, too soft to be heard by his father in the front seat.
Sam’s head turned a little.
“Tired, De... ‘m so tired...” Exhaustion was in the thin whisper. Dean bent his head.
“I know... I know, dude. You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll give you the good stuff and then you can just sleep...” He wasn’t sure if Sam was even listening. His eyes were shut. Dean didn’t stop talking, though, the deep muttering almost inaudible against the throb of the engine.
“It’s okay... it’s okay, Sammy... you’re gonna be fine. Just relax... I gotcha... you’re gonna be okay...” He wasn’t sure who the reassurances were for, the semi-conscious boy or the big brother who held him so tightly. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but he knew Sam was seriously ill. This wasn’t just a stomach bug, a twenty-four hour flu. The soft agonised whimpers, the naked pain in his brother’s eyes, the way he clung to Dean, sent icy darts of fear through him even as he mumbled comfortingly.
In the rear view mirror John glanced at his sons.
“Dean? How’s he doing?”
Dean didn’t answer, but his gaze met his father’s briefly and John’s lips pressed together as he turned his attention back to the road.
The hospital was bigger than they’d expected, an ugly three-storey brick building set stolidly alongside a large gravel parking area. Experience pointed them in the direction of the Emergency unit, where an ambulance stood, doors open.
Dean was already shifting across the seat as the truck drew to a halt. Sam was tall now, almost as tall as Dean, and though his weight had not caught up with the added inches he was by no means light. Dean knew he should find a porter or some other member of staff armed with a gurney. But he couldn’t bring himself to break free of his brother’s grip, to remove those desperately clutching fingers. Sam huddled tightly against him as he hadn’t for years. He needed the physical security. Dean needed to give it to him.
He staggered a little under the dead weight before regaining his balance. John glanced at him, as if momentarily debating whether to offer his help, and then obviously decided Dean didn’t want it.
Dean didn’t. Sam was even heavier than he’d expected, and he knew his back would complain the next day. The youngest Winchester was strong and able, and undeniably going to end up bigger than Dean, but the Dean who had wrapped toddler arms around his baby brother and rescued him from a burning house had lost none of that protectiveness over the intervening years. Now an adult Dean cradled his lanky teenage brother and carried him into the hospital.
*************************************************************
Marcus Webber pulled the glove on with a snap of taut latex and glanced at the nurse.
“What have we got, Sophie?”
“Sixteen-year-old male with severe upper abdominal pain and vomiting. Temperature’s 101.8, pulse 110, blood pressure 95 over 60.”
“Gastro?” Dr. Webber worked his fingers into the second glove, flexed them, and looked up enquiringly at the silence. Sophie’s usually placid face was drawn into a frown.
“Unlikely. Not with that spectacular bruising.”
“Bruises?” It was the doctor’s turn for the frown. “Who brought him in?”
“Father and brother.”
“What’s the story?”
“The brother found him collapsed on the bathroom floor. Apparently there were no signs that anything was wrong before tonight.”
Dr. Webber didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the “apparently”. His eyes narrowed a little.
“And the bruises?”
“They didn’t mention those. We found them when we put on the gown.”
Dr. Webber closed his eyes briefly. Then he took a deep breath.
“Let’s take a look at -“
“Sam. Sam Winchester.”
Dr. Webber had been on call for thirty-three hours straight. He wanted a shower, a large plate of his wife’s spaghetti Bolognese and a very long sleep. He did not want to deal with all the ramifications of what he suspected might be a case of child abuse.
But none of that was the fault of the child in question, the thin teenager who lay on the examination table in a tight curl on his side, sweaty dark strands of hair flopping over shut eyes from which slow tears trickled. His fingers were clenched in a death grip on the blanket covering him.
“Sam?”
Slits of green showed as shadowed eyelids lifted reluctantly.
“I’m Dr. Webber. I’m going to take a look at your abdomen, okay? Sophie will help you move onto your back.”
“N-no... it hurts...”
“It hurts when you lie on your back? Is it better on your side?”
“Mmm.”
“Okay, then, Sam. I’ll try to be quick.”
The nurse hadn’t been lying about the bruises. Angry greenish-purple stained a wide band across the middle of his patient’s torso. More alarming to the experienced eye of Dr. Webber, though, were the apparently newer blotches on the sides and around the navel. Sophie saw the doctor’s nostrils clamp, a characteristic sign that he was disturbed.
“Where exactly does it hurt, Sam?” Whatever he was thinking, his voice was still calm and reassuring. Sam blinked at him, and one hand released the blanket.
“H-here...” His hand moved weakly. “an’... m’ back...” He shivered, and clutched at the blanket again as an involuntary whimper escaped again.
“When did it start hurting?”
Neither of them missed the quiver that passed across Sam’s face at that question.
“In... in the night...”
“Can you tell me how you got those bruises?”
“I... I fell... tripped...”
The doctor’s eyes met the nurse’s. Neither of them had missed the old scars that littered the limbs and torso of their patient.
“Sam?” Dr. Webber’s voice was gentle. “Does your father or your brother ever hurt you? Hit you or... or anything like that?”
For the first time something other than pain was visible on the teenager’s face.
“No.” His voice was weak, but the certainty in it was absolute. Bloodshot blue-green eyes looked directly at the doctor. “If you think... th-they’re abusing me... then you’re wrong.”
Dr. Webber was silent. Years of work in an inner city hospital with its never-ending parade of small victims of domestic violence had taught him not to believe a child who denied it. But the complete sincerity in this boy’s face gave him pause.
Sophie, who had met Sam’s aggressive and intimidating family, was less ready to accept what he was saying.
“How did you fall, Sam?”
“In the forest... m-my foot went to sleep, ’n I... ’n I stood up too quickly...’n...’n fell. Over a t-tree trunk.” His voice was fading.
“When was this?”
“S-Saturday...” Sam’s breath hitched, and he shivered again. He missed the glances the two adults exchanged. The brief spark of indignation on behalf of his father and brother flickered and died, taking with it the last of his energy.
“Sam?” Dr. Webber’s hand went to his patient’s wrist as he saw the dark head loll sideways. The heartbeat under his fingertips was rapid and thready.
Wet eyelashes flickered.
“Dean...” The voice was a broken whisper. “...want...D-de...”
*******************************************************
Sam was the one who went for the clever girls. They bonded in the exhilaration of long complicated assignments and surreptitiously held hands in the library while reading textbooks together.
Or so Dean said.
Dean had always preferred his women to have rather more visible attributes. In his opinion, intelligent women usually wanted to waste time in conversation when they could be occupied more... beneficially... and reading was an over-rated skill, anyway.
Or so Sam said.
The receptionist at this hospital was amply endowed with physical charms. Blonde curls, big blue eyes, a figure to make men salivate... under normal circumstances Dean would have had her number in two minutes flat. Even though she had to be at least five years his senior.
He was beginning to think, though, that there was some validity in Sam’s attraction for intelligence.
It was the sixth time he’d asked if there was any news of Sam. It was the sixth time she’d looked at him with those fluttering dark lashes and said she hadn’t heard anything.
It was at least the hundredth time he’d wanted to take something heavy and hurl it against the ugly yellow waiting room wall.
She worked there. It was her job to hear things. How could she know nothing? It had been over two hours since they’d brought Sam in and she couldn’t even tell them where he was?
He turned abruptly away from the obviously flirtatious smile and strode back to where his father sat staring moodily at the shabby carpet.
“Sit down, Dean. They’ll tell us when they know something.” John Winchester didn’t even glance up at his son as he spoke. Years of unquestioning obedience had Dean dropping into the uncomfortable plastic chair beside his father, but his expression grew even more thunderous.
He knew his father was concerned about Sam. For all their constant arguing and his father’s sometimes overbearing attitude, there was no doubt that he loved his younger son just as much as he did the elder. Dean just wasn’t sure that his father realised quite how bad the situation was. Dean was no doctor, but he knew his brother. He knew his reactions to pain, to illness. Sam was sensitive, and ridiculously in touch with his emotions, but he hadn’t been brought up by an ex-Marine without learning to take knocks. Whatever was wrong with him now was bad enough to break through that stoicism, and that scared Dean as nothing had in a long time.
It wasn’t his father who’d found Sam crumpled on the bathroom floor. It wasn’t his father who’d had desperate fingers digging into his leg. His father hadn’t held that shivering rigid body on the backseat of the truck, or tried helplessly to soothe the soft agonised whimpers. His father thought it was a really bad case of stomach flu.
Dean knew stomach flu. He’d had it before. Sam had had it before.
This wasn’t it.
He fiddled with a loose thread on the knee of his jeans and tried not to imagine what could be taking so long.
“H-hurts, De...”
The thread broke with a soft snap.
They’d better hurry the hell up and get out here and tell us what’s going on. They’d better fix Sammy up and sort out whatever’s wrong. There’d better be a really good reason for them to have taken so long - no, a really good reason means something’s really wrong - they’d better -
“Hurts, De...”
There was nothing he could do to quiet the echo of his little brother’s voice in his head.
He shifted in his seat, glanced at his watch, remembered he’d left it back at the motel, glanced at the wall clock instead. It had been at least three minutes since he last spoke to Einstein at the desk - maybe now she’d know something -
“Family of Sam Winchester?”
The doctor looked tired, thinning light brown hair standing up untidily above a face that was creased and worn with fatigue.
He also looked angry.
“John Winchester. Sam’s father.” The oldest Winchester sounded a little gravelly, but he was making an effort to be polite.
“I’m Dr. Webber. I’ve been attending to your son.” He gave the waiting room a cursory glance, saw that, for once, it was empty, and jerked his head in the direction of the chairs they’d just vacated.
Dean didn’t wait for him to speak.
“How’s Sam? Is he okay?”
Dr. Webber looked at him.
“You’re his brother?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor’s hand thrusting through his hair demonstrated the reason for its disarray.
“As a result of the abdominal trauma he sustained Sam has developed a severe case of pancreatitis. Had you brought him in when it happened we might have been able to prevent it but unfortunately the delay means that there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations -”
“Abdominal trauma?”
“When what happened?”
Dean and John spoke together, effectively cutting the doctor off.
His grim expression deepened into what was close to anger.
“I have to admit that I’m shocked you didn’t bring him in earlier. A fall like that should never be taken lightly, especially in a child, and even if that wasn’t enough the extensive bruising should have warned you that something was wrong. There was evidence of mild internal bleeding as well - ”
Again he was interrupted.
“A fall like what?” John’s voice was almost a bark.
This time there was no doubt of the anger in the doctor’s face, although his voice was under rigid control.
“Like the one in the forest. On Saturday.”
John turned to Dean, an incredulous frown on his face.
“Sammy fell?”
Dean was frowning too, as he searched through the hazy blur of memory. Brief flashes, images... Sam’s voice... Sam’s trembling terrified hands... the headache from hell... the insane shriek of the harpy... Then there was a split-second impression, of Sam sprawled across a tree-trunk as the monstrous bird-woman bore down on him. His eyes widened as he tried frantically to remember more. Sam had... he must have fallen... but... but he’d been okay... he’d killed the monster, and helped Dean out of there, driven the Impala back to the motel and dealt with his unconscious older brother...
“Dean! What happened?”
“Dad, I... I don’t remember - I think he did fall, but it’s all a blur. I was so out of it...” Horror was draining the colour from his cheeks. Sam had been hurt. Sam had been badly hurt. And there’d been nobody around to help. He’d had to deal with the harpy and Dean, all the while struggling with his own injuries.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dean could see the shock in his father’s face fighting with anger.
“I would have, but I was concussed.” He stared at his father, and for the first time a thought occurred to him. His voice went tight. “If it comes to that, why didn’t you check that he was okay when you got back that night?”
“Dean - ”
“What happened that night, Dad? Did you ask him what went down on the... uh... in the forest?” Dean could hear the attack in his own voice and a part of him was startled that he’d even dare to talk to the man that way. He never fought with his father, or even raised his voice to him.
But this was Sam, and Sam was sick because one, or both, of them had been negligent, and that overrode even his sense of his father’s absolute authority.
He could see from the clench of his father’s jaw that the older man didn’t see it that way.
“Dean - ”
“Excuse me!” The words were polite, but the tone was perilously close to a snap. Dr. Webber was glaring at them. “I’d like to discuss my patient, if you don’t mind. You can fight about who’s at fault afterwards.” He cleared his throat with a sharp cough.
Dean could feel the simmering anger sitting next to him, but his father nodded briefly.
“Go on.”
“As I said, there are already significant haemorrhagic infiltrations, which, compounded by the internal bleeding, has resulted in severe third space sequestration of fluids. Basically, a large amount of fluid has leaked into the abdominal cavity, and as a result he was dangerously close to shock when he arrived. We are treating that with aggressive IV fluid replacement. He’s going to need nasoenteral feeding until this settles, to rest the pancreas.”
“What about the pain?” Dean cut across the flow of jargon.
“Yes. We’re administering narcotics for that.”
“But he’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question.
Dr. Webber looked less than confident for the first time since he’d appeared. He thrust his fingers through his hair again.
“Many cases resolve without difficulty -”
“What about Sam’s case?” It was John who spoke this time.
“Well, I’m not trying to scare you, Mr. Winchester, but the fact that he’s already hypovolaemic is cause for some concern. This does appear to be a serious case, but we will be monitoring him carefully in the ICU so that any possible complications can be caught early. There’s no reason to believe that he won’t make a full recovery.”
“Cause for some concern...”
“A serious case...”
“Possible complications...”
“ICU.”
“Can we see him?” Dean broke through the words echoing horribly in his head. Something of what he was feeling must have come through in his voice. Dr. Webber looked at him, his grim expression softening infinitesimally.
“Are you Dean? Sam was asking for you. He should be settled in by now, if you’d like to follow me.”
Tbc
Part 6