ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-07-29 06:17 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-07-29 06:17 pm
Entry tags:
Roses in December (10/?)
You can thank the Procrastination Fairy for this one.
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Jess has had enough of pacing in hospital waiting rooms to last her several lifetimes. She thinks Dean would be pacing too, if he could, but he's been overdoing it ever since Sam came home, and he's been limping badly for the past couple of days. Since his double shift at the bar, in fact. He's sitting on the edge of his chair, jouncing the knee of his good leg up and down, trying to downplay his jitteriness and failing miserably. She glances at him, glances away again almost immediately. She shouldn't be angry at him, she knows it, but all she wants to do is scream at him for leaving Sam alone when he should have been watching him. Sometimes it feels as though her entire life is unfair.
Dean bounces out of his seat, limps to the door. “What's taking so damned long?”
“I don't know. I've been here the whole time, same as you. It's not like I have secret mind-reading powers here.”
“I didn't say that. Fuck,” he leans against the door jamb, lets his head fall back with a thunk. “I shouldn't have left him. I thought he was asleep, and it was just a couple of minutes. Why didn't he fucking call?”
She shakes her head. There's nothing coming out of his mouth that she doesn't want to say too. “You should sit.”
“I'm good here, thanks.”
“I can tell you leg is killing you. You're not doing any of us any favours by screwing yourself up.” He glares, doesn't move, and she shrugs. “Suit yourself. But you don't deserve to suffer just because Sam had an accident.”
“Don't psychoanalyse me. I got therapy for that,” he snaps, then passes a hand over his face. “Fuck, I'm sorry. Just...”
She flaps a hand at him. “Don't. It's fine. I'm trying not to be pissed at you for no good reason.”
He straightens, looking out into the hallway. “Finally!”
Dr. Alvarez arrives a moment later, clipboard tucked under her arm. She gives them both a warm smile, and Jess feels something loosen in her chest. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Why don't the two of you come with me, and we'll have a chat?”
Jess hurries after her, close on Dean's heels. For all his leg is hurting, he can still move faster than she can when he wants to. Dr. Alvarez takes them to a small consulting room a bit further away, and motions for them to sit.
“So?” Dean blurts. “How is he? Is he okay? How bad is it?”
The doctor smiles at him again. “Take it easy, Dean. There's no cause to worry just yet. It looked worse than it was.” She flips a few pages over on her clipboard, reading through her notes. “I want to keep Sam overnight, just for observation. We've stitched up his hand, and there shouldn't be any complications from that —just a small scar, if he's unlucky. He didn't fall hard, there was no damage to his leg or spine, so he's safe enough there. I just want to monitor his cognitive responses for twenty-four hours. He was mildly concussed when he was brought in, and he's still a little disorientated, which is normal. If he weren't already suffering from neurological trouble, I wouldn't even be keeping him overnight. It's just a precaution.”
Dean nods, chewing on his lip, and Jess tries not to look at him when she poses her next question. “Uh... when we found him, he was... he said something about his Dad. Like he remembered something. Is... does he...?” she trails off, not knowing how to finish her question, afraid almost to ask it, to let herself hope.
Dr. Alvarez gives her a sympathetic look, pats her arm. “I'm sorry, but it's very rare that there's any kind of miraculous memory recovery in these cases. Sam is confused and, like I said, disorientated from the blow to his head. He did express concern about his father, but I don't think it's much more than a confused impression, a latent memory. Don't get me wrong,” she adds. “It's a good sign. It means the memories aren't all gone, and I'm hopeful that as he gets stronger they'll start coming back more clearly. I just don't want you to get your hopes up about his immediate prognosis, okay?”
Jess swallows a lump in her throat, nods. “Right.” She wishes she didn't sound so much like she's trying not to cry.
“So there's no permanent damage?” Dean's got his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezes it, though he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing. It feels reassuring, steady, even if she knows it's probably not intended that way. She focusses on the feeling of his fingers digging into the muscles of her shoulder, letting it ground her.
“I don't think so. Like I said, we'll be monitoring him closely overnight, just to be sure, but he seems just fine, considering. Why don't you go see for yourselves?”
Jess is out of her seat almost before the doctor can finish her sentence.
*
Sam always manages to look like a kid in his hospital bed, despite the fact that his feet practically hang off the end. He's hooked up to a single heart rate monitor, eyes closed, his newly-bandaged hand resting loosely on his chest. Dean's almost reluctant to touch him, as though he's afraid Sam might not wake up after all and the past two and a half months will have been some sort of weird half-nightmare and that his brother's still in a coma. He forces himself forward, puts a hand gently on Sam's shoulder.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Prince Charming's here. Where's my kiss?”
Sam's eyes flutter open. “N-not my type,” he murmurs, and Dean feels his smile widen.
“You scared us, bitch. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Seemed liked a g-good idea at the t-time,” Sam's eyes are tracking past him, looking for something. “'s like, t-ten feet away. Thought I c-could do it. W-where's Jess?”
“I'm right here, sweetheart,” Jess steps up next to Dean. “How're you feeling?”
“They g-gave me something. I threw up. A lot. So they gave me something. Hate throwing up. M-makes my head hurt,” he complains weakly.
“That's the concussion, dumbass,” Dean brushes a hand against Sam's cheek. “Next time, bro, you gotta call one of us before pulling kamikaze stunts in the kitchen, okay?”
“'kay. I th-thought I could do it. M-made it all the way to the c-counter. F-fucking stupid. You mad at me?” Dean finds himself staring into very worried hazel eyes, which he's never been able to resist even at the best of times.
“God, no. We're not mad. Just... okay, a little mad. But only because you scared us.”
“'m sorry,” Sam lets his eyes close again. “I f-feel sick.”
Shit. This is bad. “You gonna hurl again, Sammy?”
Sam doesn't answer, but he's breathing hard, lips pressed together in a thin line. Dean exchanges a look with Jess, sees his own worry reflected back at him, and fishes an emesis basin from under the bed. He senses when Sam's breathing changes again, gets more desperate, hauls him upright so he can vomit into the little kidney-shaped bowl. There's nothing left to throw up except bile and saliva, but it doesn't stop Sam from dry-heaving convulsively, and when he's done he sags against Dean's chest with a muted whimper. Wordlessly Jess takes the basin away, and Dean rubs circles on Sam's back —just like when he was a little kid with stomach flu— feeling stupid and helpless and useless.
“Feel better?”
Sam shakes his head, but he doesn't pull away. “F-fuck no. This sucks.”
Okay, maybe not exactly like a little kid. “You want some water?”
“I w-want to go home,” comes the petulant answer, but Sam accepts the water anyway.
Dean sighs. “Yeah, I know buddy. Tomorrow. They're keeping you overnight, just to make sure you haven't addled your brain even more. Besides, it's not so bad here. You get all the good meds and they have cable. Plus, jell-o.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “They've only g-got the g-green stuff. T-terrible.”
“You always did hate green jell-o. You think you can lie back now?”
Sam nods, lets Dean ease him back onto the bed. “I b-broke a glass once, I think. It b-broke on the...” his forehead scrunches in concentration as he gropes for his word. “C-can't... I know the w-word, damn it!”
Dean can feel Jess' eyes boring into the back of his neck and moves aside a bit, enough to give her room. “It's okay, Sammy. Take your time.”
“Fuck,” Sam says under his breath. “At l-least I can st-still swear. 's f-fucking therapeutic,” he manages a weak smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “I r-remember the glass. I b-broke it, and I w-was...” he shakes his head, frustration written on his face. “D-dad?”
“You remember Dad?”
“N-not exactly. I j-just... I th-thought he'd be mad. There was g-glass all over the...” he stops. “Damn it. I kn-know the word!” he grits his teeth, and Jess reaches out to grab his uninjured hand, laces her fingers with his, brushes her lips against his cheek almost chastely.
“Hey,” she says softly. “It's not a race. The word isn't going to go away just because you can't find it right now. You know that, right?”
Sam catches his bottom lip in his teeth, and Dean can tell he's fighting back tears of frustration, probably pain too. Two steps forward, five fucking steps back. “I w-want to remember. Why's it so fucking hard?”
“Because life's really fucking unfair,” Jess chokes, caught somewhere between laughing and crying, rests her cheek on his shoulder. “That's why.”
To Dean's surprise, Sam reaches up with his bandaged hand and strokes her hair awkwardly. His breath hitches just a bit, but he keeps stroking, turns his head so he can look at her. That's when Dean realizes that she's crying in earnest now, barely making a sound, and she doesn't resist when Sam sits up, pulls her closer and wraps his arms around her. He looks over her head at Dean, gives him a sad smile.
“Give us a minute?”
Something clenches painfully in his chest, but he nods, backs away. He pauses at the door, looks back in time to see his little brother carefully wiping the tears away from his girlfriend's face with his thumb, and lean in to kiss her tenderly on her temple.
*
When Sam awakens again, there's a familiar figure sitting in the chair by his hospital bed, lanky legs crossed at the ankles, fingers laced behind his head, coffee cup at his feet. He sits up, smiles. “Brady, hey. What're you doing here?”
“Babysitting,” Brady smirks. “Kidding. I haven't seen you in over a week, and it seemed like a good opportunity to lend a hand and see you at the same time. Your brother had to go to work, and Jess was about done in, so she's getting some shut-eye for a few hours. She'll be back in the morning, soon as she can.”
Sam rubs at his eyes with the tips of his fingers, scans the room for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Just after one. You kind of slept the afternoon and evening away there. You need anything for pain?”
“No, I'm good,” Sam flexes his fingers experimentally, testing the range of movement in his injured hand. It's pretty good, all things considered. “You didn't have to come. I'll probably just end up sleeping most of the time.”
Brady tilts his head, purses his lips for a split second. “I know, but I wanted to. It's not like I had anything more pressing to do.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “Brady, it's Saturday night. Sunday morning. Whatever. I'm sure there are plenty of better things —or people— you could be doing.”
“Hey, don't sell yourself short. You are one good-looking guy. If you weren't one hundred percent straight with a really scary girlfriend, I would totally make a move on you.”
“Right. Okay. I'll take it as a compliment, but seriously, let's never talk about that again, okay?”
“Same old Winchester. You're such a prude.”
“Bite me,” Sam just groans, lies back on his bed. “I think I screwed up the barbecue tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that should be the least of your worries. How's your head?”
“Still fucked up. I kind of whacked it on a counter by accident, you know. But I'm not dizzy or in a ton of pain, and I'm not stuttering, so I'm counting it a win.” He can hear the bitterness in his voice, can't bring himself to try to mask it.
“You had everyone pretty worried, there, you know. What were you thinking, exactly?”
“I was thinking the kitchen was ten feet away, and how hard could it be? I don't want to have to get Jess or Dean to fetch and carry for me all damned day when I can just do it for myself.”
“Except that you can't, not yet,” Brady points out. “You need to cut yourself some slack there, Winchester. You've been back home what, a week? No one expects you to get right back in the saddle.”
Sam clenches his fists involuntarily, feels the stitches pulling in his right hand. “I know that! Come on, Brady, it was ten fucking feet! Jess is studying and working and Dean's pulling double-shifts and I can tell his damned leg is killing him, and... it was ten feet. I can't even walk ten fucking feet without it turning into a fucking disaster.”
Brady gets up, then, and comes to perch on the side of his bed, claps a hand on his shoulder. “You're a lot more foul-mouthed than you used to be. It's an improvement, if you ask me. Look, Sam, I get it,” he says, his tone gentle. “I saw how tired Jess is too, how badly Dean's limping. I'm not blind, and I know you're not either. I didn't come by because I thought you'd all need time to settle in, but... maybe you could use someone who's not as close sometimes, you know? I don't have classes on Wednesdays. I could stop by, we'd have coffee or whatever the hell it is you're allowed to drink these days, and give Jess and Dean a break without having you split your skull open on the linoleum. What do you think?”
Sam thinks that he might just burst into tears if Brady doesn't shut up. “You don't have to.”
Brady rolls his eyes. “Would you shut up with that already? You're a broken record. I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to. You're a friend, and that's what friends do. It's not for you, anyway. Your brother and your girlfriend need time for themselves too. It's a caregiver thing: you learn about it in those psych classes they make med students take. Burnout happens all the time, especially at the beginning. They're trying to do everything and be everything for you and they're trying to adjust too, and it's hard for them. So, yeah, they deserve a break, and I think once a week is pretty reasonable.”
It's hard to argue with Brady's logic, and if Sam's honest with himself he knows it's damned selfish of him to want Dean and Jess around all the time. They have lives and needs outside of taking care of him, especially when he's too fucking broken to even remember them properly. He nods. “Okay. I mean, you'll have to ask them. It's their lives, you know?”
“It's your life too.”
“I know. Doesn't feel like it, sometimes. Like I'm living someone else's life,” Sam stares at his hands, tracing the curve of his fingers with his eyes. He's not even sure why he's saying this, not now, especially not to Brady. Except that he can't say shit like this to Dean and Jess. It wouldn't be fair to lay yet another burden at their feet.
“Yeah?” Brady arches an eyebrow, and Sam shrugs.
“It's stupid. I just feel like I'm living Sam Winchester's life.”
“You are Sam Winchester.”
“Am I?”
Brady ruffles his hair, and it feels a bit like when Dean does it. “Yes, you are. Even if you don't remember it right now, you will. Eventually.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” Sam's tired, all of a sudden, eyelids drooping. He can't remember a time when he wasn't tired. “How can you be so sure?”
“I don't know,” Brady shrugs, keeps his hand on Sam's head, cards his fingers through Sam's hair, the motion soothing. “Let's just say I have a good feeling about you. You're not going to be stuck like this forever, you know. I think you're destined for much bigger things than living in limbo, waiting to get your life back.”
He can't keep his eyes open. “I hope you're right. Hate this.”
“Of course I'm right. If you could remember, you'd know I'm always right about these things. Get some sleep, Sam. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise.”
*
Dean's asleep on the sofa when Sam manages to make his way out of the bedroom, twisted awkwardly, unconsciously keeping his weight off his bad leg even in sleep, one arm flung over his face. He's drooling a little, Sam's amused to note, jaw slack, his breathing not quite loud enough to qualify as snoring. Sam is a little surprised, although he's not sure why. He's pretty sure Dean isn't the type to take naps, which means he must be as exhausted as Sam feels these days, and that's saying something. It took most of the morning to get all the discharge papers signed and organized, and he doesn't think Dean got much sleep, if any, between the end of his shift and coming back to the hospital to get him out. Burning the candle at both ends, which strikes Sam as something his brother would do. It's a gut feeling, rather than any practical knowledge, but it's the best he can do for now. Carefully he negotiates the wheelchair around the coffee table, and shifts into the armchair, easing his leg up onto the footrest. He has a moment of giddy triumph that he managed it all without waking his brother, until one of the crutches comes loose from the back of the wheelchair and clatters to the floor. Dean starts, and Sam sighs.
“So much for being stealthy. Sorry, man.”
Dean sits up, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “No worries. Didn't mean to fall asleep. You didn't come out here alone, did you?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I used the wheelchair. Can't fall on my ass if I'm already sitting, can I? And you looked like you needed the rest. When's the last time you slept?”
“Hey, who's taking care of who, here?” Dean demands, but Sam can see the corners of his mouth twitching.
“It's kind of hard to tell. Umm,” he gestures vaguely. “You're sorta drooling there, bro.”
“Shit,” Dean wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “That's classy.”
“I think Brady's onto something. You can spend your day off napping, or whatever.”
Dean stiffens a bit, though it's hard to say why. “Sure.”
“It was just an idea,” he says quickly, not sure how he transgressed but eager to fix it. Anxiety knots in his stomach, making him trip over his tongue. “It doesn't mean anything. I mean, you d-don't... I d-didn't mean—”
“Sam, chill,” Dean holds up a hand. “Just give me a second to wake up, wouldja?”
“Sorry,” he twists his hands in his lap, and Dean sighs, reaches over to pat his knee.
“Quit worrying.”
“K-kind of hard to do that,” he takes a breath, tries to steady himself. “There's a lot to worry about, you know?”
“Hey, I won't let anything bad happen to you, okay?”
He nods, keeps twisting his hands together, rubbing one thumb over the other. “You never did tell me about our Dad.”
“I guess I didn't,” Dean doesn't meet his gaze.
“Or about you, either,” Sam presses him. “What's so secret about what you do that I couldn't even tell Jess about it? I asked her... she said I never talked about you at all. That she barely knew you even existed, that you never came to visit, never called. That I never called you.”
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, but doesn't say anything, so Sam keeps going.
“L-look, you're here now, right? So w-was it something I did? Before?”
“Christ, no!” Dean looks appalled. “You just... look, you and Dad had a fight about your going to Stanford, and you both said some really shitty things to each other and you were both too damned proud and stubborn to... I dunno. Do whatever so you could fix it.”
“So where is he now?”
“I don't know.”
Sam makes a frustrated noise. “Please stop stonewalling me. I'm n-not so goddamned fragile that I'll b-break if you tell me my Dad hates me, or whatever. Whatever it is, it can't be so awful.”
“It's not that,” Dean flaps a hand at him. “I'm just... we don't talk about this sort of thing with civilians. I can't figure out how to start explaining it to you now. You used to know all this, I don't even know what—” he huffs a breath, looks just as frustrated as Sam feels. “And part of me doesn't want to. You wanted to be normal, and...”
“And this is as close as I'm going to get?” Sam said wryly.
Dean has the grace to look abashed. “I didn't mean it like that.”
“Whatever it is, it can't possibly be that bad. We're not part of a gang or the Klu Klux Klan, are we?”
Dean snorts. “No.”
There's silence after that. Sam waits, watches emotions flicker across his brother's face, sometimes faster than he can even identify them. Sadness, anger, relief... it's dizzying. He waits for Dean to find his words —he can sympathize with how hard that must be, at least. Finally, when it's obvious Dean's not going to talk, he clears his throat.
“So I've b-been having nightmares.”
His brother looks up, startled. “What?”
“Nightmares,” he repeats patiently. “Bad dreams.”
“I know what nightmares are, thanks. And I know you haven't been sleeping well.”
“That's not my point. I mean... I've been having nightmares about stuff that... it doesn't feel like just dreams. And a lot of the time you're there, and I think our Dad is too. I mean, it looks like him, the guy in that photograph, except that he's older. Sometimes he's older, anyway.”
He looks up to find Dean staring at him as though he's trying to see right past his skull into his mind. He drops his gaze, keeps talking before he chickens out, because it's obvious Dean isn't going to come clean unless he does first. “So, you know, I've kind of been wondering about that. I d-don't... I don't remember things about my life, but I know things, you know? Like I remember the LSAT questions. I remember the story of Moby Dick, even though I don't remember when I read it. I remember stupid details about law and about Kant and Hegel and other things I probably learned in an intro to philosophy class. And... I know other things, too, and they make sense, even though they shouldn't. Like that spirits can't cross a line of salt. You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet to the heart. Vampires don't exist, but demons do.”
Dean has all but stopped breathing, tension radiating off him, poised where he's sitting as though he's going to bolt at any moment. “Sam...”
He feels surprisingly calm. “I haven't told Jess. Not about this, not about the dreams, because it's crazy, right? It's completely crazy. So I was hoping maybe you could explain it to me.”
*
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Jess has had enough of pacing in hospital waiting rooms to last her several lifetimes. She thinks Dean would be pacing too, if he could, but he's been overdoing it ever since Sam came home, and he's been limping badly for the past couple of days. Since his double shift at the bar, in fact. He's sitting on the edge of his chair, jouncing the knee of his good leg up and down, trying to downplay his jitteriness and failing miserably. She glances at him, glances away again almost immediately. She shouldn't be angry at him, she knows it, but all she wants to do is scream at him for leaving Sam alone when he should have been watching him. Sometimes it feels as though her entire life is unfair.
Dean bounces out of his seat, limps to the door. “What's taking so damned long?”
“I don't know. I've been here the whole time, same as you. It's not like I have secret mind-reading powers here.”
“I didn't say that. Fuck,” he leans against the door jamb, lets his head fall back with a thunk. “I shouldn't have left him. I thought he was asleep, and it was just a couple of minutes. Why didn't he fucking call?”
She shakes her head. There's nothing coming out of his mouth that she doesn't want to say too. “You should sit.”
“I'm good here, thanks.”
“I can tell you leg is killing you. You're not doing any of us any favours by screwing yourself up.” He glares, doesn't move, and she shrugs. “Suit yourself. But you don't deserve to suffer just because Sam had an accident.”
“Don't psychoanalyse me. I got therapy for that,” he snaps, then passes a hand over his face. “Fuck, I'm sorry. Just...”
She flaps a hand at him. “Don't. It's fine. I'm trying not to be pissed at you for no good reason.”
He straightens, looking out into the hallway. “Finally!”
Dr. Alvarez arrives a moment later, clipboard tucked under her arm. She gives them both a warm smile, and Jess feels something loosen in her chest. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Why don't the two of you come with me, and we'll have a chat?”
Jess hurries after her, close on Dean's heels. For all his leg is hurting, he can still move faster than she can when he wants to. Dr. Alvarez takes them to a small consulting room a bit further away, and motions for them to sit.
“So?” Dean blurts. “How is he? Is he okay? How bad is it?”
The doctor smiles at him again. “Take it easy, Dean. There's no cause to worry just yet. It looked worse than it was.” She flips a few pages over on her clipboard, reading through her notes. “I want to keep Sam overnight, just for observation. We've stitched up his hand, and there shouldn't be any complications from that —just a small scar, if he's unlucky. He didn't fall hard, there was no damage to his leg or spine, so he's safe enough there. I just want to monitor his cognitive responses for twenty-four hours. He was mildly concussed when he was brought in, and he's still a little disorientated, which is normal. If he weren't already suffering from neurological trouble, I wouldn't even be keeping him overnight. It's just a precaution.”
Dean nods, chewing on his lip, and Jess tries not to look at him when she poses her next question. “Uh... when we found him, he was... he said something about his Dad. Like he remembered something. Is... does he...?” she trails off, not knowing how to finish her question, afraid almost to ask it, to let herself hope.
Dr. Alvarez gives her a sympathetic look, pats her arm. “I'm sorry, but it's very rare that there's any kind of miraculous memory recovery in these cases. Sam is confused and, like I said, disorientated from the blow to his head. He did express concern about his father, but I don't think it's much more than a confused impression, a latent memory. Don't get me wrong,” she adds. “It's a good sign. It means the memories aren't all gone, and I'm hopeful that as he gets stronger they'll start coming back more clearly. I just don't want you to get your hopes up about his immediate prognosis, okay?”
Jess swallows a lump in her throat, nods. “Right.” She wishes she didn't sound so much like she's trying not to cry.
“So there's no permanent damage?” Dean's got his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezes it, though he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing. It feels reassuring, steady, even if she knows it's probably not intended that way. She focusses on the feeling of his fingers digging into the muscles of her shoulder, letting it ground her.
“I don't think so. Like I said, we'll be monitoring him closely overnight, just to be sure, but he seems just fine, considering. Why don't you go see for yourselves?”
Jess is out of her seat almost before the doctor can finish her sentence.
*
Sam always manages to look like a kid in his hospital bed, despite the fact that his feet practically hang off the end. He's hooked up to a single heart rate monitor, eyes closed, his newly-bandaged hand resting loosely on his chest. Dean's almost reluctant to touch him, as though he's afraid Sam might not wake up after all and the past two and a half months will have been some sort of weird half-nightmare and that his brother's still in a coma. He forces himself forward, puts a hand gently on Sam's shoulder.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Prince Charming's here. Where's my kiss?”
Sam's eyes flutter open. “N-not my type,” he murmurs, and Dean feels his smile widen.
“You scared us, bitch. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Seemed liked a g-good idea at the t-time,” Sam's eyes are tracking past him, looking for something. “'s like, t-ten feet away. Thought I c-could do it. W-where's Jess?”
“I'm right here, sweetheart,” Jess steps up next to Dean. “How're you feeling?”
“They g-gave me something. I threw up. A lot. So they gave me something. Hate throwing up. M-makes my head hurt,” he complains weakly.
“That's the concussion, dumbass,” Dean brushes a hand against Sam's cheek. “Next time, bro, you gotta call one of us before pulling kamikaze stunts in the kitchen, okay?”
“'kay. I th-thought I could do it. M-made it all the way to the c-counter. F-fucking stupid. You mad at me?” Dean finds himself staring into very worried hazel eyes, which he's never been able to resist even at the best of times.
“God, no. We're not mad. Just... okay, a little mad. But only because you scared us.”
“'m sorry,” Sam lets his eyes close again. “I f-feel sick.”
Shit. This is bad. “You gonna hurl again, Sammy?”
Sam doesn't answer, but he's breathing hard, lips pressed together in a thin line. Dean exchanges a look with Jess, sees his own worry reflected back at him, and fishes an emesis basin from under the bed. He senses when Sam's breathing changes again, gets more desperate, hauls him upright so he can vomit into the little kidney-shaped bowl. There's nothing left to throw up except bile and saliva, but it doesn't stop Sam from dry-heaving convulsively, and when he's done he sags against Dean's chest with a muted whimper. Wordlessly Jess takes the basin away, and Dean rubs circles on Sam's back —just like when he was a little kid with stomach flu— feeling stupid and helpless and useless.
“Feel better?”
Sam shakes his head, but he doesn't pull away. “F-fuck no. This sucks.”
Okay, maybe not exactly like a little kid. “You want some water?”
“I w-want to go home,” comes the petulant answer, but Sam accepts the water anyway.
Dean sighs. “Yeah, I know buddy. Tomorrow. They're keeping you overnight, just to make sure you haven't addled your brain even more. Besides, it's not so bad here. You get all the good meds and they have cable. Plus, jell-o.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “They've only g-got the g-green stuff. T-terrible.”
“You always did hate green jell-o. You think you can lie back now?”
Sam nods, lets Dean ease him back onto the bed. “I b-broke a glass once, I think. It b-broke on the...” his forehead scrunches in concentration as he gropes for his word. “C-can't... I know the w-word, damn it!”
Dean can feel Jess' eyes boring into the back of his neck and moves aside a bit, enough to give her room. “It's okay, Sammy. Take your time.”
“Fuck,” Sam says under his breath. “At l-least I can st-still swear. 's f-fucking therapeutic,” he manages a weak smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “I r-remember the glass. I b-broke it, and I w-was...” he shakes his head, frustration written on his face. “D-dad?”
“You remember Dad?”
“N-not exactly. I j-just... I th-thought he'd be mad. There was g-glass all over the...” he stops. “Damn it. I kn-know the word!” he grits his teeth, and Jess reaches out to grab his uninjured hand, laces her fingers with his, brushes her lips against his cheek almost chastely.
“Hey,” she says softly. “It's not a race. The word isn't going to go away just because you can't find it right now. You know that, right?”
Sam catches his bottom lip in his teeth, and Dean can tell he's fighting back tears of frustration, probably pain too. Two steps forward, five fucking steps back. “I w-want to remember. Why's it so fucking hard?”
“Because life's really fucking unfair,” Jess chokes, caught somewhere between laughing and crying, rests her cheek on his shoulder. “That's why.”
To Dean's surprise, Sam reaches up with his bandaged hand and strokes her hair awkwardly. His breath hitches just a bit, but he keeps stroking, turns his head so he can look at her. That's when Dean realizes that she's crying in earnest now, barely making a sound, and she doesn't resist when Sam sits up, pulls her closer and wraps his arms around her. He looks over her head at Dean, gives him a sad smile.
“Give us a minute?”
Something clenches painfully in his chest, but he nods, backs away. He pauses at the door, looks back in time to see his little brother carefully wiping the tears away from his girlfriend's face with his thumb, and lean in to kiss her tenderly on her temple.
*
When Sam awakens again, there's a familiar figure sitting in the chair by his hospital bed, lanky legs crossed at the ankles, fingers laced behind his head, coffee cup at his feet. He sits up, smiles. “Brady, hey. What're you doing here?”
“Babysitting,” Brady smirks. “Kidding. I haven't seen you in over a week, and it seemed like a good opportunity to lend a hand and see you at the same time. Your brother had to go to work, and Jess was about done in, so she's getting some shut-eye for a few hours. She'll be back in the morning, soon as she can.”
Sam rubs at his eyes with the tips of his fingers, scans the room for a clock. “What time is it?”
“Just after one. You kind of slept the afternoon and evening away there. You need anything for pain?”
“No, I'm good,” Sam flexes his fingers experimentally, testing the range of movement in his injured hand. It's pretty good, all things considered. “You didn't have to come. I'll probably just end up sleeping most of the time.”
Brady tilts his head, purses his lips for a split second. “I know, but I wanted to. It's not like I had anything more pressing to do.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “Brady, it's Saturday night. Sunday morning. Whatever. I'm sure there are plenty of better things —or people— you could be doing.”
“Hey, don't sell yourself short. You are one good-looking guy. If you weren't one hundred percent straight with a really scary girlfriend, I would totally make a move on you.”
“Right. Okay. I'll take it as a compliment, but seriously, let's never talk about that again, okay?”
“Same old Winchester. You're such a prude.”
“Bite me,” Sam just groans, lies back on his bed. “I think I screwed up the barbecue tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that should be the least of your worries. How's your head?”
“Still fucked up. I kind of whacked it on a counter by accident, you know. But I'm not dizzy or in a ton of pain, and I'm not stuttering, so I'm counting it a win.” He can hear the bitterness in his voice, can't bring himself to try to mask it.
“You had everyone pretty worried, there, you know. What were you thinking, exactly?”
“I was thinking the kitchen was ten feet away, and how hard could it be? I don't want to have to get Jess or Dean to fetch and carry for me all damned day when I can just do it for myself.”
“Except that you can't, not yet,” Brady points out. “You need to cut yourself some slack there, Winchester. You've been back home what, a week? No one expects you to get right back in the saddle.”
Sam clenches his fists involuntarily, feels the stitches pulling in his right hand. “I know that! Come on, Brady, it was ten fucking feet! Jess is studying and working and Dean's pulling double-shifts and I can tell his damned leg is killing him, and... it was ten feet. I can't even walk ten fucking feet without it turning into a fucking disaster.”
Brady gets up, then, and comes to perch on the side of his bed, claps a hand on his shoulder. “You're a lot more foul-mouthed than you used to be. It's an improvement, if you ask me. Look, Sam, I get it,” he says, his tone gentle. “I saw how tired Jess is too, how badly Dean's limping. I'm not blind, and I know you're not either. I didn't come by because I thought you'd all need time to settle in, but... maybe you could use someone who's not as close sometimes, you know? I don't have classes on Wednesdays. I could stop by, we'd have coffee or whatever the hell it is you're allowed to drink these days, and give Jess and Dean a break without having you split your skull open on the linoleum. What do you think?”
Sam thinks that he might just burst into tears if Brady doesn't shut up. “You don't have to.”
Brady rolls his eyes. “Would you shut up with that already? You're a broken record. I wouldn't offer if I didn't want to. You're a friend, and that's what friends do. It's not for you, anyway. Your brother and your girlfriend need time for themselves too. It's a caregiver thing: you learn about it in those psych classes they make med students take. Burnout happens all the time, especially at the beginning. They're trying to do everything and be everything for you and they're trying to adjust too, and it's hard for them. So, yeah, they deserve a break, and I think once a week is pretty reasonable.”
It's hard to argue with Brady's logic, and if Sam's honest with himself he knows it's damned selfish of him to want Dean and Jess around all the time. They have lives and needs outside of taking care of him, especially when he's too fucking broken to even remember them properly. He nods. “Okay. I mean, you'll have to ask them. It's their lives, you know?”
“It's your life too.”
“I know. Doesn't feel like it, sometimes. Like I'm living someone else's life,” Sam stares at his hands, tracing the curve of his fingers with his eyes. He's not even sure why he's saying this, not now, especially not to Brady. Except that he can't say shit like this to Dean and Jess. It wouldn't be fair to lay yet another burden at their feet.
“Yeah?” Brady arches an eyebrow, and Sam shrugs.
“It's stupid. I just feel like I'm living Sam Winchester's life.”
“You are Sam Winchester.”
“Am I?”
Brady ruffles his hair, and it feels a bit like when Dean does it. “Yes, you are. Even if you don't remember it right now, you will. Eventually.”
“You seem pretty sure of that,” Sam's tired, all of a sudden, eyelids drooping. He can't remember a time when he wasn't tired. “How can you be so sure?”
“I don't know,” Brady shrugs, keeps his hand on Sam's head, cards his fingers through Sam's hair, the motion soothing. “Let's just say I have a good feeling about you. You're not going to be stuck like this forever, you know. I think you're destined for much bigger things than living in limbo, waiting to get your life back.”
He can't keep his eyes open. “I hope you're right. Hate this.”
“Of course I'm right. If you could remember, you'd know I'm always right about these things. Get some sleep, Sam. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise.”
*
Dean's asleep on the sofa when Sam manages to make his way out of the bedroom, twisted awkwardly, unconsciously keeping his weight off his bad leg even in sleep, one arm flung over his face. He's drooling a little, Sam's amused to note, jaw slack, his breathing not quite loud enough to qualify as snoring. Sam is a little surprised, although he's not sure why. He's pretty sure Dean isn't the type to take naps, which means he must be as exhausted as Sam feels these days, and that's saying something. It took most of the morning to get all the discharge papers signed and organized, and he doesn't think Dean got much sleep, if any, between the end of his shift and coming back to the hospital to get him out. Burning the candle at both ends, which strikes Sam as something his brother would do. It's a gut feeling, rather than any practical knowledge, but it's the best he can do for now. Carefully he negotiates the wheelchair around the coffee table, and shifts into the armchair, easing his leg up onto the footrest. He has a moment of giddy triumph that he managed it all without waking his brother, until one of the crutches comes loose from the back of the wheelchair and clatters to the floor. Dean starts, and Sam sighs.
“So much for being stealthy. Sorry, man.”
Dean sits up, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “No worries. Didn't mean to fall asleep. You didn't come out here alone, did you?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I used the wheelchair. Can't fall on my ass if I'm already sitting, can I? And you looked like you needed the rest. When's the last time you slept?”
“Hey, who's taking care of who, here?” Dean demands, but Sam can see the corners of his mouth twitching.
“It's kind of hard to tell. Umm,” he gestures vaguely. “You're sorta drooling there, bro.”
“Shit,” Dean wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “That's classy.”
“I think Brady's onto something. You can spend your day off napping, or whatever.”
Dean stiffens a bit, though it's hard to say why. “Sure.”
“It was just an idea,” he says quickly, not sure how he transgressed but eager to fix it. Anxiety knots in his stomach, making him trip over his tongue. “It doesn't mean anything. I mean, you d-don't... I d-didn't mean—”
“Sam, chill,” Dean holds up a hand. “Just give me a second to wake up, wouldja?”
“Sorry,” he twists his hands in his lap, and Dean sighs, reaches over to pat his knee.
“Quit worrying.”
“K-kind of hard to do that,” he takes a breath, tries to steady himself. “There's a lot to worry about, you know?”
“Hey, I won't let anything bad happen to you, okay?”
He nods, keeps twisting his hands together, rubbing one thumb over the other. “You never did tell me about our Dad.”
“I guess I didn't,” Dean doesn't meet his gaze.
“Or about you, either,” Sam presses him. “What's so secret about what you do that I couldn't even tell Jess about it? I asked her... she said I never talked about you at all. That she barely knew you even existed, that you never came to visit, never called. That I never called you.”
Dean rubs a hand over his mouth, but doesn't say anything, so Sam keeps going.
“L-look, you're here now, right? So w-was it something I did? Before?”
“Christ, no!” Dean looks appalled. “You just... look, you and Dad had a fight about your going to Stanford, and you both said some really shitty things to each other and you were both too damned proud and stubborn to... I dunno. Do whatever so you could fix it.”
“So where is he now?”
“I don't know.”
Sam makes a frustrated noise. “Please stop stonewalling me. I'm n-not so goddamned fragile that I'll b-break if you tell me my Dad hates me, or whatever. Whatever it is, it can't be so awful.”
“It's not that,” Dean flaps a hand at him. “I'm just... we don't talk about this sort of thing with civilians. I can't figure out how to start explaining it to you now. You used to know all this, I don't even know what—” he huffs a breath, looks just as frustrated as Sam feels. “And part of me doesn't want to. You wanted to be normal, and...”
“And this is as close as I'm going to get?” Sam said wryly.
Dean has the grace to look abashed. “I didn't mean it like that.”
“Whatever it is, it can't possibly be that bad. We're not part of a gang or the Klu Klux Klan, are we?”
Dean snorts. “No.”
There's silence after that. Sam waits, watches emotions flicker across his brother's face, sometimes faster than he can even identify them. Sadness, anger, relief... it's dizzying. He waits for Dean to find his words —he can sympathize with how hard that must be, at least. Finally, when it's obvious Dean's not going to talk, he clears his throat.
“So I've b-been having nightmares.”
His brother looks up, startled. “What?”
“Nightmares,” he repeats patiently. “Bad dreams.”
“I know what nightmares are, thanks. And I know you haven't been sleeping well.”
“That's not my point. I mean... I've been having nightmares about stuff that... it doesn't feel like just dreams. And a lot of the time you're there, and I think our Dad is too. I mean, it looks like him, the guy in that photograph, except that he's older. Sometimes he's older, anyway.”
He looks up to find Dean staring at him as though he's trying to see right past his skull into his mind. He drops his gaze, keeps talking before he chickens out, because it's obvious Dean isn't going to come clean unless he does first. “So, you know, I've kind of been wondering about that. I d-don't... I don't remember things about my life, but I know things, you know? Like I remember the LSAT questions. I remember the story of Moby Dick, even though I don't remember when I read it. I remember stupid details about law and about Kant and Hegel and other things I probably learned in an intro to philosophy class. And... I know other things, too, and they make sense, even though they shouldn't. Like that spirits can't cross a line of salt. You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet to the heart. Vampires don't exist, but demons do.”
Dean has all but stopped breathing, tension radiating off him, poised where he's sitting as though he's going to bolt at any moment. “Sam...”
He feels surprisingly calm. “I haven't told Jess. Not about this, not about the dreams, because it's crazy, right? It's completely crazy. So I was hoping maybe you could explain it to me.”
*
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