Culpable 6/?
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 5
Dean had been Sam’s older brother for over sixteen years. He’d seen him sick, feverish and sweaty, vomiting, snoring heavily and surrounded by used Kleenexes. He’d even seen him in hospital before, after the incident with the librarian. Sam had looked bad then, bruised and pale and extremely uncomfortable with his leg in traction.
Dean had never seen him like this.
Sam was a lively sleeper. He thrashed around, mumbled, cried out, and usually woke up with the bedclothes on the floor and his feet on his pillow. Even in the rare moments of quiet, he sprawled on his bed with arms and legs outflung.
Now he was still. He lay curled half on his side, like a discarded puppet with its strings trailing everywhere. Dean could see IV lines in both arms, leads to the heart monitor, a tube snaking from the oxygen cannula under his nose. His tall little brother looked suddenly small and vulnerable. He looked helpless, at the mercy of the impersonal machines. His eyes were shut, his lashes dark crescents against his white face.
When Dean had reluctantly left him, steeling himself against his brother’s whimpers, Sam had been writhing in agony. It was a relief now to see the pain smoothed from his face. But his stillness, the motionless limp fingers and huddled limbs under the hospital sheets, were somehow just as worrying. Dean couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. He hated not knowing.
“Sam?” Their father’s voice was quiet. His hand reached out and rested lightly on his younger son’s arm where it emerged from the starched white gown.
Thick lashes fluttered.
“D-dad...” The slurred syllable was testament to the drugs. Sam blinked drowsily up at them both.
“How’re you feeling, bro?” A little of the apprehension Dean was feeling subsided at Sam’s response to their father’s voice.
“Mmm...” Sam swallowed thickly. “F-fuzzy...”
Dean grinned.
“It’s called ‘stoned’, dude. They’ve got you on some heavy stuff here.”
Sam peered owlishly at him.
“Dean...”
The grin faded a little, although the twinkle still lurked, and when he spoke again Dean’s voice was gentler.
“How long were you feeling sick, Sammy? Why didn’t you tell us?”
Sam’s head moved a little on the pillow, his gaze shifting from Dean to John and back.
“Uhh...”
“The doc says you have some pretty impressive bruises. From the hunt, right? You should have told us you were hurt.”
Sam swallowed again.
“I... it wasn’t... I was okay...”
John’s hand lifted from Sam’s arm as he crossed his own over his chest.
“That’s sh - nonsense, Sam. You weren’t okay at all.”
Dean’s eyes flicked to his father’s face, narrowing at the tone.
“Dad -”
“You should have told me something was wrong. You should have told Dean.”
“Dad -”
“You had internal bleeding. You damaged your pancreas. If you’d only admitted something was wrong it could have been fixed up before it got so serious. It was irresponsible, Sam!”
“’m sorry... ’m sorry...” Sam was shrinking back against the pillows. “D-di’n’t wanna c-complain...”
“You know we don’t just ignore injuries, and yet you neglected this even when you knew -”
“Dad!”
Dean’s voice cracked across his father’s.
“Stop it, Dad! Just... just stop!” The green eyes looked almost black. Dean was glaring at him, his jaw clenched. One hand closed around Sam’s where the youngest Winchester had unconsciously caught hold of the hem of his jacket.
Sam’s gaze darted between his father and brother. His eyes were huge and wet.
“’m sorry, Dad... y’ said, mustn’t complain... mustn’t whine ‘f I g-got h-h-hurt...” His voice quivered. The soft incessant beep of the heart monitor was speeding up. “D-di’n’t think it... it w-was so b-bad...” He was beginning to shiver.
“Sammy...” Dean was still glaring at his father, but his voice as he addressed his brother was even gentler than before.
“Sam, calm down -”
“D-dean...” Sam swallowed. Then his face twisted and his body heaved as he retched violently.
John reached for the call button at the same moment as Dean reached for Sam, but the change in the tone of the monitor had already been noticed and a nurse came quickly in. Sam was a mess, still heaving miserably even though there was nothing more to bring up.
“Excuse me... excuse me, sir...”
Somehow, without realising it, Dean found himself manoeuvred away from the bed to where his father had already stepped back. Sam stopped vomiting and lay still. He was the one motionless part of the scene, the lone unmoving aspect amidst the efficient activity of the nurses around him. His eyes were shut.
“I’ve administered a sedative, sir,” the senior nurse told John. “You might as well try to get some sleep, and come back in the morning.” The words were a suggestion. The tone made it obvious that it was not. Her eyes were not exactly antagonistic, but they were not friendly.
“I’m not leaving my brother.” Suggestion or otherwise, Dean wasn’t going to listen. He wasn’t going to abandon Sammy. They’d already done enough in not noticing that he was hurt and sick.
The nurse smiled, but her eyes remained determined.
“I understand, sir, but I’m afraid visiting hours are over.”
Dean wanted to tell her what she could do with the visiting hours, but Sam’s eyes opened then.
“Sammy?” He pushed past the woman and went to the bedside.
The blue-green eyes were glassy. Sam blinked slowly at him, already under the influence of the sedative.
“S-sorry... my... f-fault...”
“What?”
“D-deserve this...”
“Sam? Sammy!”
But Sam was asleep.
*******************************************************
“What was that?”
John breathed heavily, glancing at Dean and then away without answering. The waiting room chairs were unusually comfortable, upholstered in a soft green fabric, but he looked uneasy. Out of place.
“Dad.” Dean wasn’t going to let him off. “What the hell was that? Going on in there?”
John tilted his head back, stretched tight muscles in his neck, stared at the ceiling without making eye-contact with his son.
“Sam should know he mustn’t just ignore injuries.”
“Sam is sick, Dad. He’s in ICU, for crying out loud, and you just walk in there and start tearing into him?”
“He should have told me, or you, that he was hurt. I obviously don’t want you boys crying over every little bruise but this was serious and he just kept it quiet until it got to this point. We have to be able to trust each other. What if we’d been on a hunt and he’d collapsed then?”
Dean flung himself up from the chair in which he had been sitting, sending it skittering back on the linoleum. He stalked to the window and stared out into the darkness. When he spoke his voice was tight.
“What happened that night?”
“What -”
“The night of the hunt. I was completely out of it. I barely remember the hunt itself.”
“From what I heard from Sam, he was distracted and the harpy got the drop on him. And then she threw you when you came at her.”
Dean turned.
“Yes Dad, I got that part. I meant afterwards. You were over in wherever it was ganking that poltergeist. Did Sam call you?”
“I got back later that night. You were both asleep, at the motel.”
“So Sam killed the harpy, got me back to the motel and fixed me up, by himself. And hurt.”
“Dean, I’m not trying to say -”
“Dad, I was concussed but I’m not stupid. Sam’s been training like I’ve never seen before. What did you say to him? Did you ask him what happened? Did you even ask if he was okay, or did you just tear into him?”
“Dean, you were seriously hurt because Sam had been careless. I’d warned him just that day that that could happen!”
“Yeah, I was hurt. But as it turns out, so was Sam. And nobody sorted him out. All he got was you shouting at him, and a whole load of extra training which was probably exactly what he didn’t need. I’ve gotta say, Dad, he was freaking me out in there just now. What’s with “you said I mustn’t complain if I got hurt”? And then he said he deserves this? Yeah, okay, he screwed up, he should have been paying attention, but how many times do you or I do the wrong thing? It just happened that this time it turned out badly, but it could have been fine. He made one little mistake, and you’ve got his head so messed up that he thinks he deserves to be sick!”
John was on his feet now. He stumped to the opposite window. Dean couldn’t see his face, but from the tension in his father’s neck and shoulders he could see that he was angry. Dean wouldn’t have expected anything else: he was, in all honesty, surprised his father hadn’t erupted at him. It was Sam’s role to shout and argue, and Dean’s to accept unquestioningly whatever their father said. But this was more than he could take.
“Sam’s a good hunter, Dad. Okay, he doesn’t enjoy it like we do. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do a good job. He works hard, doubly hard, actually, because he wants to get good grades as well, but all he ever hears from you is negative comments.”
“It worries me, Dean.” John turned, the turmoil on his face evident. “I know he’s a good hunter, and I know he works hard. But this - this is exactly why I get angry. His heart isn’t in it, and so you get hurt, and he gets hurt. I know we make mistakes, we do the wrong thing, and we get away with it sometimes, and sometimes we don’t, but we can’t afford to be careless. I worry about both of you, and the only way I know to protect you is to be hard on you, so that you won’t make mistakes and get yourselves killed.”
“I know, Dad. I understand that. But I don’t think Sam does. He just thinks you think he’s useless.”
“I don’t think he’s useless, but sometimes I don’t know that he really realises what we’re up against.”
Dean dragged his hand down his face. His voice was tired, the anger draining from it.
“He does realise, Dad. But face it. This time? It was you he was up against.”
**************************************************************
Dean blinked, turned his head and cursed softly as the night of sleeping in the chair made itself known. He curved his spine to release the knots which had taken up residence.
“Di’n’t know... you were into yoga.”
His head jerked round at the hoarse voice. Sam was looking at him, eyes bloodshot and exhausted, a shadowy version of his usual grin curling his mouth.
“Only you would imagine this was yoga, pansy-boy.” Dean snorted. “Anyway, you’re the one who gets to lie in that comfortable bed... hot nurses giving you sponge baths...”
Sam’s grin deepened a little, but he didn’t answer. Even as Dean’s eyebrows moved suggestively he was noting the lack of response, the absence of a comeback, and the nasty little hand that had been holding his insides tightened its grip. Sam should be getting better. He should be making some lame retort, and defending the decidedly not hot nurses. He shouldn’t still be lying there, looking sicker than when he’d come in.
“Dean?”
Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face. Sam looked a little worried. Dean coughed, and took a gulp of the cold coffee sitting on the bedside cabinet, making the most of his involuntary grimace at the bitter aftertaste and hoping Sam wouldn’t pursue it.
He should have known better.
“What’s wrong?”
You’re looking sicker than you should and it’s freaking me out.
You’re sick, full stop. You’re in ICU.
I should have forced you to tell me what was wrong because I knew something was. If only I hadn’t listened to you when you told me you were okay, you would be okay. I’m all angry with Dad because he didn’t check that you weren’t hurt but I’m just about as much to blame.
“Dean?”
“Sam, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
He hadn’t meant it to come out so abruptly. Sam’s eyes widened and he slid down a little in the bed. With the absence of the grin he looked suddenly much worse.
“I’m sorry -”
“No.” The monosyllable sounded harsh. “It’s not your fault, Sam, you hear me? It’s not your fault.”
“B-but you got hurt -”
“Yeah. I got hurt. And none of us has ever been hurt before.”
“But I got distracted -”
“Okay. You screwed up. I got my head bashed. So?”
“S-so, I should have... been concentrating. I should have seen her coming.”
“You’re not the only one who makes mistakes, Sam. Dad makes them, I make them. Dad and I messed up here, not noticing that you were hurt.”
Sam hunched his shoulders, his head dropping. Dean leant forward.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Sammy? You must have been feeling sick before. Why didn’t you say something?”
Sam’s breath caught.
“I... I didn’t think... I thought it wasn’t bad.”
“You were in so much pain you couldn’t even stand. That’s bad, Sam.”
“It was my fault, Dean! I screwed up, and you got hurt. Dad had told me that would happen, and then it did. I couldn’t make a huge fuss when there was no-one else to help you. A-and Dad said he didn’t want me to whine and complain when I got myself hurt because I was stupid. He was so mad when he found out what happened. I thought he would think I was trying to get out of the punishment, or trying to get sympathy. D-dad thinks I’m w-weak, a-and useless, and I d-didn’t want to make it worse, and I knew he’d be even madder if he knew I’d hurt myself as well.” Sam looked utterly exhausted after this long speech. Even worse was the broken resignation in his eyes.
Dean was silent for a moment, digesting his brother’s words. He felt the anger rising up towards his father again, and he forced it back.
“Okay, but Sammy, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I... I thought... I thought you were m-mad too.”
Dean stared at him. Sam thought he was angry. Sam thought he was angry?
“But - Sammy -”
“You thought the extra t-training was g-good. Y-you w-were c-cross when I k-kept asking you if... if... y-you w-were...” Sam’s voice broke.
“No. No, Sam.” He got up, sat down on the edge of the bed to face his brother. “I wasn’t mad, you hear me? Okay, well, maybe a bit, at first, but only a little. I know you were upset, and sorry, and it was an accident. Like I said, I’ve made mistakes, and Dad has too. And bro, you killed that fugly monster all by yourself, while you were hurt. And got us both back to the motel. I think that cancels out being careless for one moment.”
Sam’s fingers were twisting in the blanket. Dean squelched down the chick-flick-o-meter that was chirping indignantly in the back of his head, and put his hand over his brother’s, stilling it.
“Listen, dude. If you’re hurt, I want to know. It’s... well, it’s my job to look out for you.”
“B-but Dad -”
“Dad... Dad isn’t always thinking what you think he is, Sammy. He’s not very good at showing it, but he does care about us. Both of us.”
“He’s s-still mad, Dean.” Sam sounded very small and tired. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion and medication.
Dean sighed.
“Dad worries about us - you - and it comes out angry. He was upset that you got hurt and didn’t tell him.”
Sam’s head turned. His eyes drooped closed, and then opened again.
“Don’t hide it when you’re hurt, bro, okay? You need to tell me, and let me worry about Dad.” Dean could see that Sam was fading.
“Mmm. ‘m s-sorry... De...” Sam’s eyes were properly shut now, and Dean thought he’d fallen asleep. Then the hand in his twitched, and Sam’s fingers clutched his thumb. It was exactly how a baby Sammy had held onto his big brother.
An hour later when their father came in Dean was still sitting on the edge of the bed in the same position.
*********************************************************
It was only too evident that the older Winchesters were not among Dr. Webber’s favourite people. Dean guessed that he didn’t suspect them of outright abuse, as no CPS officials had made an appearance, but he clearly believed that Sam was neglected.
On some level that bothered Dean. It bothered him because Sam was truly the most important person in his life, the one for whom he would sacrifice everything. Sam didn’t have everything money could buy, endless clothes and books and what have you that other boys his age did, but then those things didn’t indicate a lack of neglect. What Dean could afford, Sam had.
Under normal circumstances he would have resented the doctor, with his cold eyes and clipped words. Dr. Webber didn’t know them, or what they did. He didn’t know the origins of Sam’s scars. He didn’t know that every one of those scars disturbed Dean even more than Sam, that Dean would rather have had them himself than see them on his little brother. But he didn’t resent the doctor, because there was a small, honest and desperately guilty part of him that acknowledged the truth in what the man thought. It had been negligence, on this occasion. Sam was sick because neither John nor Dean had checked that he was alright. As much as he wanted to smack the doctor’s disapproval back down his throat, he couldn’t really argue.
And watching him now with Sam, Dean had to admit that the man was truly concerned about the youngest Winchester. Sam was uneasily asleep, his breathing too fast and his face too pale, and the doctor murmured quietly as he examined him, his hands gentle. His censure of Sam’s father and brother were entirely because he seemed to care for Sam’s well-being, and that was something of which Dean could only approve.
He was expecting him to be frowning when he straightened.
He wasn’t expecting it to be a frown of concern.
“What is it?” Dean knew he hadn’t imagined the doctor’s disquiet when his father spoke.
The doctor glanced briefly at them, but didn’t answer. He looked at the nurse.
“Have his latest bloods come back yet?”
She disappeared, returning moments later with a computer printout which she handed to the doctor. He scanned the sheet, looked at Sam and then back to the papers in his hand, and his mouth quirked as if he was chewing on his lip. Then, at last, he looked directly at his patient’s family.
“I’d like a word outside.”
***************************************************************
He shifted uncomfortably, water oozing in wet sneakers. The shotgun was heavy in his hand as he peered through the leaves.
Where was Dean?
Dad... the angry voice echoed in his head. Those words...
Where was Dean?
The wind whipped around his face, tangling the soft strands of dark hair over his eyes. It was cold. He shivered, hard, and gripped the shotgun tighter.
What were they doing out here again? Some kind of hunt?
Wendigo? Chupacabra... No... no, harpy, that was it.
Where was Dean?
Wild screeching, and a violent rush.
“Sam!”
Then Dean was flying through the air, tossed by the harpy, and Sam was staring as his brother hit the tree and slithered down, and the monster was tearing at him with those vicious claws. Dean was screaming, and Sam was screaming, but he couldn’t get there, he couldn’t reach his brother, and the shotgun was so heavy in his hand and his feet refused to move. And Dean was lying on the ground, blood slowly forming into little rivulets from his shredded body, and his eyes were open and staring at Sam, and even though he was dead Sam could still hear him screaming for help...
“Sam! Sam!”
“Dean... Dean... no...no no no... Dean...”
“Sam...”
Dean was dead and Sam had killed him.
“Dean...”
“Sammy!”
Firm hands were on his face, and he fought them because they were keeping him away, he needed to go to Dean, but the hands wouldn’t let him. Dean was screaming, screaming for help, screaming because he was hurt, and he was dying, and he was dead...
“Dean... no... sorry... sorry...”
“Sam... Sammy... Sammy...”
*****************************************************
Sam tossed restlessly, evidently struggling with the bedclothes and fighting some foe conjured up by his fevered imagination. Sweat was slick on his face, clinging to limp strands of hair and blurring with tears of pain or distress that slid lazily from half open eyes.
Dr. Webber had been closest to the door, and he reached his patient first, but his attempts to calm him were worse than useless. Sam fought the doctor’s hands, muttering incoherently and breathing in sharp agitated gasps.
“No... no...”
“Sam -”
Dean knew they were walking a tightrope with this doctor, but Sam in distress had never been a sight to inspire him with caution. He pushed the man unceremoniously away and leant over the bed, one hand grasping his brother’s while the other smoothed through the damp dark hair.
“Sammy. Sammy... wake up. Wake up, bro... it’s okay... it’s okay... it’s just a dream.”
“Dean... Dean...” The glazed green slits were unrecognising.
“Sammy, wake up... I’m here.”
“No... no... Dean... sorry... sorry...”
Dean stiffened, and from across the bed he heard his father’s indrawn breath. His hand moved to cup his brother’s chin.
“Sam, you need to wake up... it’s just a dream... Sammy...”
“Dean...” The heavy lids lifted a little. Sam’s breath hitched on a delirious sob, and then he stilled as slow recognition dawned.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, bro, it’s me.”
“You... you died... harpy...”
“No. No, I’m fine, Sammy, see? It was just a dream.”
“I couldn’t... I tried to... to save you... couldn’t... you died...”
Dean couldn’t imagine what the doctor was making of this, but at that moment he didn’t care.
“You did save me, Sammy, remember? This was just a dream. I’m fine, you hear me?”
“You died...” The horror was fading a little from the hoarse voice as Dean’s words filtered through.
“No, I didn’t. I’m fine, bro. I’m right here, with you.”
Sam blinked wearily at him.
“Sorry...”
“Shh. It’s okay, Sammy. You saved me, and I’m fine. You need to relax now, okay?” Dean’s voice was soothing.
“’kay...” The purple-shadowed lids fell, and then lifted again halfway, as if in reassurance. “De...”
“Just try to get some sleep, Sam.” John’s voice was gruff. Two pairs of green eyes shifted in his direction and two hands tightened around each other, one seeking comfort and the other giving it.
“S-sorry... Dad...” Sam’s lower lip quivered once. His gaze flicked momentarily to his brother and then he closed his eyes obediently. He was still breathing too quickly, almost gasping, as the terror of the dream lingered, and Dean didn’t loosen his grip on his hand. He looked across the bed at his father, but the oldest Winchester’s face was unreadable as he watched his younger son.
“Dad...”
Dr. Webber glanced at the monitor which traced his patient’s too rapid heartbeat, and cleared his throat. John looked at him in what Dean guessed was relief at the interruption.
“You were going to tell us something... before...”
Dr. Webber nodded.
“Yes. I’ve been a little concerned with Sam’s vitals. As I mentioned when he was admitted, sometimes complications can occur with pancreatitis and that’s why we’ve been monitoring him in ICU. Unfortunately his latest blood counts confirm for certain what I suspected, that a systemic inflammatory response has developed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Right now, not much. Sam was unstable when he came in, from the fluid loss, so we have been treating him as if SIRS was already present. We will be continuing with this treatment. There’s no reason to believe that he won’t respond favourably, although it is likely to extend the length of treatment.”
John sighed. Dean recognised it for what it was, a little worried, a lot more impatient.
“So basically you’re telling us that Sam is just about as sick as you thought he was when he came in.”
Something flickered in the doctor’s eyes and was almost immediately concealed behind professional dignity. Dr. Webber did not like his patient’s father, but he wasn’t going to show it.
“What I’m telling you is that this is a more serious case than I’d hoped. There was evidence when he came in that this might develop. I was hoping it wouldn’t, but it did.”
“But it’s treatable.” Dean didn’t care what the doctor thought of his father, or of him. His concern was solely for the boy whose hand was lax in his, who was still breathing too fast even though he’d fallen asleep again. “Sam’s gonna be fine, right?”
The pause before the doctor spoke was infinitesimal.
“It’s treatable, certainly. It does increase the chance of further complications.”
“Complications? Like what?”
“Shock. Or organ failure.”
*****************************************************
He was crouched on the ground. Wetness seeped through thin jeans, stung grazed hands. He could see the shotgun. It was there, inches away. Such a powerful weapon. Useful. Effective.
He was helpless to reach it. His hands were pinned. As much as he strained, fought to pick it up, his muscles were paralysed. Clawed feet thrashed in the rotting debris of the forest floor. Boots thudded. Dean was running for him, and the harpy was running for Dean.
Then she caught him, and Sam saw his face, eyes wide and shocked and pained, and his mouth, open in a scream that faded as he hit the tree and then the ground, and Sam’s cry fought for release but was eternally caught in his throat.
And Dean was looking at him, green eyes that stared but saw nothing, and an open mouth that screamed but said nothing, and Dean was dead.
Then hands were shaking him, and his eyes were open and meeting those familiar green ones, not dead, not sightlessly staring. And the forest was gone, and the harpy and the gun that he couldn’t reach, and he wanted to catch hold of his brother and cling to him because Dean was alive and alright, but his arms wouldn’t move.
And he screamed, but somehow all that came out was a whimper, and there was so much he needed to say, but all he could say was his brother’s name.
But that was enough. That had always been enough.
He was slipping, sliding away into the dim nothingness again, but he could hear Dean’s voice and feel those familiar calloused hands holding his, because Dean knew what he needed, even when he couldn’t tell him.
******************************************************
He could feel the recoil of the shotgun as he fired, shot after shot after shot, and they all went home. The harpy jerked violently with every bullet, and then with every thrust of the knife, but somehow it wasn’t enough, and Sam could see the blood and hear the screams as those pitiless claws slashed and ripped and shredded.
And then she was gone, and Dean was sprawled out on the ground and there was so much blood, and Dean stared at him with dead green eyes and Sam screamed his brother’s name but Dean didn’t answer, because Dean was dead.
And his father was standing there, blocking the way where Sam fought the terrible heaviness to reach his brother, and his face was stony.
“You’re useless on the hunt... you’re careless and irresponsible... you’re a pathetic son... worthless brother... “
Sam wanted to answer but the words were like little daggers, and Dean’s eyes were accusing where they stared so blankly.
“You killed Dean... Dean is dead because of you...”
“No... no... Dean...”
“You killed him... you killed your own brother...”
“Dean... sorry... sorry...”
He was screaming, sobbing, because it was his fault and he deserved his father’s anger and Dean was dead because of him and he’d never speak to his brother again and he’d never hunt with him again and it was because he was so useless and he’d been distracted, and Dean had taken the fall. And the pain was a heavy weight pressing on his chest, and he couldn’t even breath with the thought of it, and with the angry green eyes like his brother’s staring at him, but they weren’t his brother’s because Dean was dead and it was all his fault.
“Dean... sorry... Dean... Dean...”
And he couldn’t breathe, and all he could say was his brother’s name, over and over, his big brother who’d always protected him and looked after him and whom he’d killed.
“Dean... Dean...”
“Sammy... Sammy!”
And hands were on him again, as they had been, and someone was talking to him, and he could see the spiky fair hair and those eyes which were Dean’s, and Dean was speaking, but he knew it wasn’t true, because Dean was dead.
“De...”
And that was all he could say because he was so heavy and his chest was so tired and he couldn’t breathe.
And the darkness swooped down again and he could hear his own voice screaming his brother’s name as Dean disappeared.
**************************************************************
Dean could see his father’s face across the bed. He was watching him almost more than he watched Sam, and he could see that his father was worried, more worried than he’d been before. More worried than he been at any stage of Sam’s illness up to now. Dean had been concerned all along, certain that Sam was sicker than his father thought. He knew the oldest Winchester hadn’t taken this as seriously. It was a relief now not to be carrying the fear alone.
Then he looked at Sam again, and knew that that fear was only greater now that they both bore it. Sam moaned, whimpered in distress, struggled violently with the nightmares which took an ever firmer grip on him. Even Dean was seldom able to calm him, or reach him in the delirious world in which he wandered. Most alarming was his increasing struggle to breathe. In between hoarse gasps he called for his brother, but stared, unrecognising, when Dean answered.
He met his father’s gaze briefly, and then looked away. There was nothing to say, and yet the silence was oppressive, broken as it was by the rasp of Sam’s tortured breathing. It was a relief when the steps at the door indicated the return of the doctor.
Dr. Webber looked tired. Even worse, he looked worried.
Whatever news he had was not going to be good.
Part 7
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?
Part 5
Dean had been Sam’s older brother for over sixteen years. He’d seen him sick, feverish and sweaty, vomiting, snoring heavily and surrounded by used Kleenexes. He’d even seen him in hospital before, after the incident with the librarian. Sam had looked bad then, bruised and pale and extremely uncomfortable with his leg in traction.
Dean had never seen him like this.
Sam was a lively sleeper. He thrashed around, mumbled, cried out, and usually woke up with the bedclothes on the floor and his feet on his pillow. Even in the rare moments of quiet, he sprawled on his bed with arms and legs outflung.
Now he was still. He lay curled half on his side, like a discarded puppet with its strings trailing everywhere. Dean could see IV lines in both arms, leads to the heart monitor, a tube snaking from the oxygen cannula under his nose. His tall little brother looked suddenly small and vulnerable. He looked helpless, at the mercy of the impersonal machines. His eyes were shut, his lashes dark crescents against his white face.
When Dean had reluctantly left him, steeling himself against his brother’s whimpers, Sam had been writhing in agony. It was a relief now to see the pain smoothed from his face. But his stillness, the motionless limp fingers and huddled limbs under the hospital sheets, were somehow just as worrying. Dean couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. He hated not knowing.
“Sam?” Their father’s voice was quiet. His hand reached out and rested lightly on his younger son’s arm where it emerged from the starched white gown.
Thick lashes fluttered.
“D-dad...” The slurred syllable was testament to the drugs. Sam blinked drowsily up at them both.
“How’re you feeling, bro?” A little of the apprehension Dean was feeling subsided at Sam’s response to their father’s voice.
“Mmm...” Sam swallowed thickly. “F-fuzzy...”
Dean grinned.
“It’s called ‘stoned’, dude. They’ve got you on some heavy stuff here.”
Sam peered owlishly at him.
“Dean...”
The grin faded a little, although the twinkle still lurked, and when he spoke again Dean’s voice was gentler.
“How long were you feeling sick, Sammy? Why didn’t you tell us?”
Sam’s head moved a little on the pillow, his gaze shifting from Dean to John and back.
“Uhh...”
“The doc says you have some pretty impressive bruises. From the hunt, right? You should have told us you were hurt.”
Sam swallowed again.
“I... it wasn’t... I was okay...”
John’s hand lifted from Sam’s arm as he crossed his own over his chest.
“That’s sh - nonsense, Sam. You weren’t okay at all.”
Dean’s eyes flicked to his father’s face, narrowing at the tone.
“Dad -”
“You should have told me something was wrong. You should have told Dean.”
“Dad -”
“You had internal bleeding. You damaged your pancreas. If you’d only admitted something was wrong it could have been fixed up before it got so serious. It was irresponsible, Sam!”
“’m sorry... ’m sorry...” Sam was shrinking back against the pillows. “D-di’n’t wanna c-complain...”
“You know we don’t just ignore injuries, and yet you neglected this even when you knew -”
“Dad!”
Dean’s voice cracked across his father’s.
“Stop it, Dad! Just... just stop!” The green eyes looked almost black. Dean was glaring at him, his jaw clenched. One hand closed around Sam’s where the youngest Winchester had unconsciously caught hold of the hem of his jacket.
Sam’s gaze darted between his father and brother. His eyes were huge and wet.
“’m sorry, Dad... y’ said, mustn’t complain... mustn’t whine ‘f I g-got h-h-hurt...” His voice quivered. The soft incessant beep of the heart monitor was speeding up. “D-di’n’t think it... it w-was so b-bad...” He was beginning to shiver.
“Sammy...” Dean was still glaring at his father, but his voice as he addressed his brother was even gentler than before.
“Sam, calm down -”
“D-dean...” Sam swallowed. Then his face twisted and his body heaved as he retched violently.
John reached for the call button at the same moment as Dean reached for Sam, but the change in the tone of the monitor had already been noticed and a nurse came quickly in. Sam was a mess, still heaving miserably even though there was nothing more to bring up.
“Excuse me... excuse me, sir...”
Somehow, without realising it, Dean found himself manoeuvred away from the bed to where his father had already stepped back. Sam stopped vomiting and lay still. He was the one motionless part of the scene, the lone unmoving aspect amidst the efficient activity of the nurses around him. His eyes were shut.
“I’ve administered a sedative, sir,” the senior nurse told John. “You might as well try to get some sleep, and come back in the morning.” The words were a suggestion. The tone made it obvious that it was not. Her eyes were not exactly antagonistic, but they were not friendly.
“I’m not leaving my brother.” Suggestion or otherwise, Dean wasn’t going to listen. He wasn’t going to abandon Sammy. They’d already done enough in not noticing that he was hurt and sick.
The nurse smiled, but her eyes remained determined.
“I understand, sir, but I’m afraid visiting hours are over.”
Dean wanted to tell her what she could do with the visiting hours, but Sam’s eyes opened then.
“Sammy?” He pushed past the woman and went to the bedside.
The blue-green eyes were glassy. Sam blinked slowly at him, already under the influence of the sedative.
“S-sorry... my... f-fault...”
“What?”
“D-deserve this...”
“Sam? Sammy!”
But Sam was asleep.
*******************************************************
“What was that?”
John breathed heavily, glancing at Dean and then away without answering. The waiting room chairs were unusually comfortable, upholstered in a soft green fabric, but he looked uneasy. Out of place.
“Dad.” Dean wasn’t going to let him off. “What the hell was that? Going on in there?”
John tilted his head back, stretched tight muscles in his neck, stared at the ceiling without making eye-contact with his son.
“Sam should know he mustn’t just ignore injuries.”
“Sam is sick, Dad. He’s in ICU, for crying out loud, and you just walk in there and start tearing into him?”
“He should have told me, or you, that he was hurt. I obviously don’t want you boys crying over every little bruise but this was serious and he just kept it quiet until it got to this point. We have to be able to trust each other. What if we’d been on a hunt and he’d collapsed then?”
Dean flung himself up from the chair in which he had been sitting, sending it skittering back on the linoleum. He stalked to the window and stared out into the darkness. When he spoke his voice was tight.
“What happened that night?”
“What -”
“The night of the hunt. I was completely out of it. I barely remember the hunt itself.”
“From what I heard from Sam, he was distracted and the harpy got the drop on him. And then she threw you when you came at her.”
Dean turned.
“Yes Dad, I got that part. I meant afterwards. You were over in wherever it was ganking that poltergeist. Did Sam call you?”
“I got back later that night. You were both asleep, at the motel.”
“So Sam killed the harpy, got me back to the motel and fixed me up, by himself. And hurt.”
“Dean, I’m not trying to say -”
“Dad, I was concussed but I’m not stupid. Sam’s been training like I’ve never seen before. What did you say to him? Did you ask him what happened? Did you even ask if he was okay, or did you just tear into him?”
“Dean, you were seriously hurt because Sam had been careless. I’d warned him just that day that that could happen!”
“Yeah, I was hurt. But as it turns out, so was Sam. And nobody sorted him out. All he got was you shouting at him, and a whole load of extra training which was probably exactly what he didn’t need. I’ve gotta say, Dad, he was freaking me out in there just now. What’s with “you said I mustn’t complain if I got hurt”? And then he said he deserves this? Yeah, okay, he screwed up, he should have been paying attention, but how many times do you or I do the wrong thing? It just happened that this time it turned out badly, but it could have been fine. He made one little mistake, and you’ve got his head so messed up that he thinks he deserves to be sick!”
John was on his feet now. He stumped to the opposite window. Dean couldn’t see his face, but from the tension in his father’s neck and shoulders he could see that he was angry. Dean wouldn’t have expected anything else: he was, in all honesty, surprised his father hadn’t erupted at him. It was Sam’s role to shout and argue, and Dean’s to accept unquestioningly whatever their father said. But this was more than he could take.
“Sam’s a good hunter, Dad. Okay, he doesn’t enjoy it like we do. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do a good job. He works hard, doubly hard, actually, because he wants to get good grades as well, but all he ever hears from you is negative comments.”
“It worries me, Dean.” John turned, the turmoil on his face evident. “I know he’s a good hunter, and I know he works hard. But this - this is exactly why I get angry. His heart isn’t in it, and so you get hurt, and he gets hurt. I know we make mistakes, we do the wrong thing, and we get away with it sometimes, and sometimes we don’t, but we can’t afford to be careless. I worry about both of you, and the only way I know to protect you is to be hard on you, so that you won’t make mistakes and get yourselves killed.”
“I know, Dad. I understand that. But I don’t think Sam does. He just thinks you think he’s useless.”
“I don’t think he’s useless, but sometimes I don’t know that he really realises what we’re up against.”
Dean dragged his hand down his face. His voice was tired, the anger draining from it.
“He does realise, Dad. But face it. This time? It was you he was up against.”
**************************************************************
Dean blinked, turned his head and cursed softly as the night of sleeping in the chair made itself known. He curved his spine to release the knots which had taken up residence.
“Di’n’t know... you were into yoga.”
His head jerked round at the hoarse voice. Sam was looking at him, eyes bloodshot and exhausted, a shadowy version of his usual grin curling his mouth.
“Only you would imagine this was yoga, pansy-boy.” Dean snorted. “Anyway, you’re the one who gets to lie in that comfortable bed... hot nurses giving you sponge baths...”
Sam’s grin deepened a little, but he didn’t answer. Even as Dean’s eyebrows moved suggestively he was noting the lack of response, the absence of a comeback, and the nasty little hand that had been holding his insides tightened its grip. Sam should be getting better. He should be making some lame retort, and defending the decidedly not hot nurses. He shouldn’t still be lying there, looking sicker than when he’d come in.
“Dean?”
Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face. Sam looked a little worried. Dean coughed, and took a gulp of the cold coffee sitting on the bedside cabinet, making the most of his involuntary grimace at the bitter aftertaste and hoping Sam wouldn’t pursue it.
He should have known better.
“What’s wrong?”
You’re looking sicker than you should and it’s freaking me out.
You’re sick, full stop. You’re in ICU.
I should have forced you to tell me what was wrong because I knew something was. If only I hadn’t listened to you when you told me you were okay, you would be okay. I’m all angry with Dad because he didn’t check that you weren’t hurt but I’m just about as much to blame.
“Dean?”
“Sam, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
He hadn’t meant it to come out so abruptly. Sam’s eyes widened and he slid down a little in the bed. With the absence of the grin he looked suddenly much worse.
“I’m sorry -”
“No.” The monosyllable sounded harsh. “It’s not your fault, Sam, you hear me? It’s not your fault.”
“B-but you got hurt -”
“Yeah. I got hurt. And none of us has ever been hurt before.”
“But I got distracted -”
“Okay. You screwed up. I got my head bashed. So?”
“S-so, I should have... been concentrating. I should have seen her coming.”
“You’re not the only one who makes mistakes, Sam. Dad makes them, I make them. Dad and I messed up here, not noticing that you were hurt.”
Sam hunched his shoulders, his head dropping. Dean leant forward.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Sammy? You must have been feeling sick before. Why didn’t you say something?”
Sam’s breath caught.
“I... I didn’t think... I thought it wasn’t bad.”
“You were in so much pain you couldn’t even stand. That’s bad, Sam.”
“It was my fault, Dean! I screwed up, and you got hurt. Dad had told me that would happen, and then it did. I couldn’t make a huge fuss when there was no-one else to help you. A-and Dad said he didn’t want me to whine and complain when I got myself hurt because I was stupid. He was so mad when he found out what happened. I thought he would think I was trying to get out of the punishment, or trying to get sympathy. D-dad thinks I’m w-weak, a-and useless, and I d-didn’t want to make it worse, and I knew he’d be even madder if he knew I’d hurt myself as well.” Sam looked utterly exhausted after this long speech. Even worse was the broken resignation in his eyes.
Dean was silent for a moment, digesting his brother’s words. He felt the anger rising up towards his father again, and he forced it back.
“Okay, but Sammy, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I... I thought... I thought you were m-mad too.”
Dean stared at him. Sam thought he was angry. Sam thought he was angry?
“But - Sammy -”
“You thought the extra t-training was g-good. Y-you w-were c-cross when I k-kept asking you if... if... y-you w-were...” Sam’s voice broke.
“No. No, Sam.” He got up, sat down on the edge of the bed to face his brother. “I wasn’t mad, you hear me? Okay, well, maybe a bit, at first, but only a little. I know you were upset, and sorry, and it was an accident. Like I said, I’ve made mistakes, and Dad has too. And bro, you killed that fugly monster all by yourself, while you were hurt. And got us both back to the motel. I think that cancels out being careless for one moment.”
Sam’s fingers were twisting in the blanket. Dean squelched down the chick-flick-o-meter that was chirping indignantly in the back of his head, and put his hand over his brother’s, stilling it.
“Listen, dude. If you’re hurt, I want to know. It’s... well, it’s my job to look out for you.”
“B-but Dad -”
“Dad... Dad isn’t always thinking what you think he is, Sammy. He’s not very good at showing it, but he does care about us. Both of us.”
“He’s s-still mad, Dean.” Sam sounded very small and tired. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion and medication.
Dean sighed.
“Dad worries about us - you - and it comes out angry. He was upset that you got hurt and didn’t tell him.”
Sam’s head turned. His eyes drooped closed, and then opened again.
“Don’t hide it when you’re hurt, bro, okay? You need to tell me, and let me worry about Dad.” Dean could see that Sam was fading.
“Mmm. ‘m s-sorry... De...” Sam’s eyes were properly shut now, and Dean thought he’d fallen asleep. Then the hand in his twitched, and Sam’s fingers clutched his thumb. It was exactly how a baby Sammy had held onto his big brother.
An hour later when their father came in Dean was still sitting on the edge of the bed in the same position.
*********************************************************
It was only too evident that the older Winchesters were not among Dr. Webber’s favourite people. Dean guessed that he didn’t suspect them of outright abuse, as no CPS officials had made an appearance, but he clearly believed that Sam was neglected.
On some level that bothered Dean. It bothered him because Sam was truly the most important person in his life, the one for whom he would sacrifice everything. Sam didn’t have everything money could buy, endless clothes and books and what have you that other boys his age did, but then those things didn’t indicate a lack of neglect. What Dean could afford, Sam had.
Under normal circumstances he would have resented the doctor, with his cold eyes and clipped words. Dr. Webber didn’t know them, or what they did. He didn’t know the origins of Sam’s scars. He didn’t know that every one of those scars disturbed Dean even more than Sam, that Dean would rather have had them himself than see them on his little brother. But he didn’t resent the doctor, because there was a small, honest and desperately guilty part of him that acknowledged the truth in what the man thought. It had been negligence, on this occasion. Sam was sick because neither John nor Dean had checked that he was alright. As much as he wanted to smack the doctor’s disapproval back down his throat, he couldn’t really argue.
And watching him now with Sam, Dean had to admit that the man was truly concerned about the youngest Winchester. Sam was uneasily asleep, his breathing too fast and his face too pale, and the doctor murmured quietly as he examined him, his hands gentle. His censure of Sam’s father and brother were entirely because he seemed to care for Sam’s well-being, and that was something of which Dean could only approve.
He was expecting him to be frowning when he straightened.
He wasn’t expecting it to be a frown of concern.
“What is it?” Dean knew he hadn’t imagined the doctor’s disquiet when his father spoke.
The doctor glanced briefly at them, but didn’t answer. He looked at the nurse.
“Have his latest bloods come back yet?”
She disappeared, returning moments later with a computer printout which she handed to the doctor. He scanned the sheet, looked at Sam and then back to the papers in his hand, and his mouth quirked as if he was chewing on his lip. Then, at last, he looked directly at his patient’s family.
“I’d like a word outside.”
***************************************************************
He shifted uncomfortably, water oozing in wet sneakers. The shotgun was heavy in his hand as he peered through the leaves.
Where was Dean?
Dad... the angry voice echoed in his head. Those words...
Where was Dean?
The wind whipped around his face, tangling the soft strands of dark hair over his eyes. It was cold. He shivered, hard, and gripped the shotgun tighter.
What were they doing out here again? Some kind of hunt?
Wendigo? Chupacabra... No... no, harpy, that was it.
Where was Dean?
Wild screeching, and a violent rush.
“Sam!”
Then Dean was flying through the air, tossed by the harpy, and Sam was staring as his brother hit the tree and slithered down, and the monster was tearing at him with those vicious claws. Dean was screaming, and Sam was screaming, but he couldn’t get there, he couldn’t reach his brother, and the shotgun was so heavy in his hand and his feet refused to move. And Dean was lying on the ground, blood slowly forming into little rivulets from his shredded body, and his eyes were open and staring at Sam, and even though he was dead Sam could still hear him screaming for help...
“Sam! Sam!”
“Dean... Dean... no...no no no... Dean...”
“Sam...”
Dean was dead and Sam had killed him.
“Dean...”
“Sammy!”
Firm hands were on his face, and he fought them because they were keeping him away, he needed to go to Dean, but the hands wouldn’t let him. Dean was screaming, screaming for help, screaming because he was hurt, and he was dying, and he was dead...
“Dean... no... sorry... sorry...”
“Sam... Sammy... Sammy...”
*****************************************************
Sam tossed restlessly, evidently struggling with the bedclothes and fighting some foe conjured up by his fevered imagination. Sweat was slick on his face, clinging to limp strands of hair and blurring with tears of pain or distress that slid lazily from half open eyes.
Dr. Webber had been closest to the door, and he reached his patient first, but his attempts to calm him were worse than useless. Sam fought the doctor’s hands, muttering incoherently and breathing in sharp agitated gasps.
“No... no...”
“Sam -”
Dean knew they were walking a tightrope with this doctor, but Sam in distress had never been a sight to inspire him with caution. He pushed the man unceremoniously away and leant over the bed, one hand grasping his brother’s while the other smoothed through the damp dark hair.
“Sammy. Sammy... wake up. Wake up, bro... it’s okay... it’s okay... it’s just a dream.”
“Dean... Dean...” The glazed green slits were unrecognising.
“Sammy, wake up... I’m here.”
“No... no... Dean... sorry... sorry...”
Dean stiffened, and from across the bed he heard his father’s indrawn breath. His hand moved to cup his brother’s chin.
“Sam, you need to wake up... it’s just a dream... Sammy...”
“Dean...” The heavy lids lifted a little. Sam’s breath hitched on a delirious sob, and then he stilled as slow recognition dawned.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, bro, it’s me.”
“You... you died... harpy...”
“No. No, I’m fine, Sammy, see? It was just a dream.”
“I couldn’t... I tried to... to save you... couldn’t... you died...”
Dean couldn’t imagine what the doctor was making of this, but at that moment he didn’t care.
“You did save me, Sammy, remember? This was just a dream. I’m fine, you hear me?”
“You died...” The horror was fading a little from the hoarse voice as Dean’s words filtered through.
“No, I didn’t. I’m fine, bro. I’m right here, with you.”
Sam blinked wearily at him.
“Sorry...”
“Shh. It’s okay, Sammy. You saved me, and I’m fine. You need to relax now, okay?” Dean’s voice was soothing.
“’kay...” The purple-shadowed lids fell, and then lifted again halfway, as if in reassurance. “De...”
“Just try to get some sleep, Sam.” John’s voice was gruff. Two pairs of green eyes shifted in his direction and two hands tightened around each other, one seeking comfort and the other giving it.
“S-sorry... Dad...” Sam’s lower lip quivered once. His gaze flicked momentarily to his brother and then he closed his eyes obediently. He was still breathing too quickly, almost gasping, as the terror of the dream lingered, and Dean didn’t loosen his grip on his hand. He looked across the bed at his father, but the oldest Winchester’s face was unreadable as he watched his younger son.
“Dad...”
Dr. Webber glanced at the monitor which traced his patient’s too rapid heartbeat, and cleared his throat. John looked at him in what Dean guessed was relief at the interruption.
“You were going to tell us something... before...”
Dr. Webber nodded.
“Yes. I’ve been a little concerned with Sam’s vitals. As I mentioned when he was admitted, sometimes complications can occur with pancreatitis and that’s why we’ve been monitoring him in ICU. Unfortunately his latest blood counts confirm for certain what I suspected, that a systemic inflammatory response has developed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Right now, not much. Sam was unstable when he came in, from the fluid loss, so we have been treating him as if SIRS was already present. We will be continuing with this treatment. There’s no reason to believe that he won’t respond favourably, although it is likely to extend the length of treatment.”
John sighed. Dean recognised it for what it was, a little worried, a lot more impatient.
“So basically you’re telling us that Sam is just about as sick as you thought he was when he came in.”
Something flickered in the doctor’s eyes and was almost immediately concealed behind professional dignity. Dr. Webber did not like his patient’s father, but he wasn’t going to show it.
“What I’m telling you is that this is a more serious case than I’d hoped. There was evidence when he came in that this might develop. I was hoping it wouldn’t, but it did.”
“But it’s treatable.” Dean didn’t care what the doctor thought of his father, or of him. His concern was solely for the boy whose hand was lax in his, who was still breathing too fast even though he’d fallen asleep again. “Sam’s gonna be fine, right?”
The pause before the doctor spoke was infinitesimal.
“It’s treatable, certainly. It does increase the chance of further complications.”
“Complications? Like what?”
“Shock. Or organ failure.”
*****************************************************
He was crouched on the ground. Wetness seeped through thin jeans, stung grazed hands. He could see the shotgun. It was there, inches away. Such a powerful weapon. Useful. Effective.
He was helpless to reach it. His hands were pinned. As much as he strained, fought to pick it up, his muscles were paralysed. Clawed feet thrashed in the rotting debris of the forest floor. Boots thudded. Dean was running for him, and the harpy was running for Dean.
Then she caught him, and Sam saw his face, eyes wide and shocked and pained, and his mouth, open in a scream that faded as he hit the tree and then the ground, and Sam’s cry fought for release but was eternally caught in his throat.
And Dean was looking at him, green eyes that stared but saw nothing, and an open mouth that screamed but said nothing, and Dean was dead.
Then hands were shaking him, and his eyes were open and meeting those familiar green ones, not dead, not sightlessly staring. And the forest was gone, and the harpy and the gun that he couldn’t reach, and he wanted to catch hold of his brother and cling to him because Dean was alive and alright, but his arms wouldn’t move.
And he screamed, but somehow all that came out was a whimper, and there was so much he needed to say, but all he could say was his brother’s name.
But that was enough. That had always been enough.
He was slipping, sliding away into the dim nothingness again, but he could hear Dean’s voice and feel those familiar calloused hands holding his, because Dean knew what he needed, even when he couldn’t tell him.
******************************************************
He could feel the recoil of the shotgun as he fired, shot after shot after shot, and they all went home. The harpy jerked violently with every bullet, and then with every thrust of the knife, but somehow it wasn’t enough, and Sam could see the blood and hear the screams as those pitiless claws slashed and ripped and shredded.
And then she was gone, and Dean was sprawled out on the ground and there was so much blood, and Dean stared at him with dead green eyes and Sam screamed his brother’s name but Dean didn’t answer, because Dean was dead.
And his father was standing there, blocking the way where Sam fought the terrible heaviness to reach his brother, and his face was stony.
“You’re useless on the hunt... you’re careless and irresponsible... you’re a pathetic son... worthless brother... “
Sam wanted to answer but the words were like little daggers, and Dean’s eyes were accusing where they stared so blankly.
“You killed Dean... Dean is dead because of you...”
“No... no... Dean...”
“You killed him... you killed your own brother...”
“Dean... sorry... sorry...”
He was screaming, sobbing, because it was his fault and he deserved his father’s anger and Dean was dead because of him and he’d never speak to his brother again and he’d never hunt with him again and it was because he was so useless and he’d been distracted, and Dean had taken the fall. And the pain was a heavy weight pressing on his chest, and he couldn’t even breath with the thought of it, and with the angry green eyes like his brother’s staring at him, but they weren’t his brother’s because Dean was dead and it was all his fault.
“Dean... sorry... Dean... Dean...”
And he couldn’t breathe, and all he could say was his brother’s name, over and over, his big brother who’d always protected him and looked after him and whom he’d killed.
“Dean... Dean...”
“Sammy... Sammy!”
And hands were on him again, as they had been, and someone was talking to him, and he could see the spiky fair hair and those eyes which were Dean’s, and Dean was speaking, but he knew it wasn’t true, because Dean was dead.
“De...”
And that was all he could say because he was so heavy and his chest was so tired and he couldn’t breathe.
And the darkness swooped down again and he could hear his own voice screaming his brother’s name as Dean disappeared.
**************************************************************
Dean could see his father’s face across the bed. He was watching him almost more than he watched Sam, and he could see that his father was worried, more worried than he’d been before. More worried than he been at any stage of Sam’s illness up to now. Dean had been concerned all along, certain that Sam was sicker than his father thought. He knew the oldest Winchester hadn’t taken this as seriously. It was a relief now not to be carrying the fear alone.
Then he looked at Sam again, and knew that that fear was only greater now that they both bore it. Sam moaned, whimpered in distress, struggled violently with the nightmares which took an ever firmer grip on him. Even Dean was seldom able to calm him, or reach him in the delirious world in which he wandered. Most alarming was his increasing struggle to breathe. In between hoarse gasps he called for his brother, but stared, unrecognising, when Dean answered.
He met his father’s gaze briefly, and then looked away. There was nothing to say, and yet the silence was oppressive, broken as it was by the rasp of Sam’s tortured breathing. It was a relief when the steps at the door indicated the return of the doctor.
Dr. Webber looked tired. Even worse, he looked worried.
Whatever news he had was not going to be good.
Part 7