ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 08:08 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 08:08 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (22/24)
Part 21
Part 22
Sam awoke on his back, staring at group of unfamiliar silhouettes above him, became aware of someone trying to press something over his nose and mouth. He panicked and flailed, trying to push away the hands that were trying to restrain him. Another set of hands grabbed his wrists, grappled with him, held him down.
“Easy, now, son. Take it easy! Let us do our work, now.”
“Dean!” he couldn't breathe, and coloured spots danced before his eyes.
“Keep him calm, dammit!”
“Come on, now. What's his name?” The question came from the strongest one, the one holding his wrists.
“Sam.”
“Okay, Sam. Take it easy. You breathed in a lot of smoke. You have to keep that mask on for me, okay Sam? You hear me?”
He nodded, forced himself to stay calm, tried to pull off the mask anyway. “Dean. My brother... there was a fire,” he coughed, suddenly grateful for the pure oxygen that managed to find its way into his lungs. “The kids...” he gasped, coughing harder, until he felt a hand pat his shoulder reassuringly.
“Everyone got out, don't you worry. They're all safe. Your brother, the kids, the woman. Everyone. They're all going to be fine. Just settle down.”
He felt the tension drain out of him, started to cough again as he allowed himself to feel the effects of the smoke inhalation. Everyone was safe, it was all that mattered. Soon he was surrounded by the bright lights of an ambulance, the buzz of machinery and anxious voices. Then he was staring at the fluorescent lights of a hospital ceiling flashing by, voices raised and barking numbers and words that he was pretty sure he would have understood under normal circumstances. He let his mind drift, faded in and out as an I.V. was hooked up to his arm and began pumping him full of what felt like a really awesome painkiller. He submitted without protest to being manhandled into a seated position so that someone with deft fingers and a really good local anaesthetic could stitch up the laceration at the back of his head, flopped back bonelessly when they were done. It was nice, for a while, not to have to think too hard about anything. When he was finally able to focus again, he found an older woman grasping him by both shoulders, speaking directly into his face.
“Sam, are you with me?”
He blinked, sat up a bit. The oxygen mask was gone, and when he put up a hand gingerly to probe at his head he found it wrapped in gauze, padded where he remembered it connecting violently with the windowsill. “Uh,” he managed, trying to figure out what she'd been saying before. He could hear a commotion coming from further down the hall, raised voices, tried to make out what they were saying.
“You with me, son?”
He made an effort, pulled himself together. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
She smiled, and he decided he liked her. She looked a little bit on the maternal side, which didn't hurt, with grey hair that was rapidly going white pulled into a braid, and soft brown eyes with long lashes behind a set of rimless glasses. “Don't worry about it. You have a solid concussion, that'll throw anyone for a loop. I'm Dr. Nichols, just follow my finger, okay?” When he did so without too much trouble, she smiled. “Good job. How're you feeling?”
“Like I went ten rounds with a monster truck.” He sat up, poked at the bandage on his head.”
She laughed. “Sounds about right. You're doing pretty well, considering the number of stitches I had to put in the back of your head. No dizziness, disorientation?”
“No. I know my name, I'm pretty sure it's Thursday, and we're in Guthrie, right?”
“Bingo. So you definitely have a concussion, but it looks like we don't have much to worry about in the brain injury department. Now that you're clear-headed, can you tell me if anything else hurts?”
He shook his head. “No, I think I got lucky. I'm kind of sore, but nothing bad.”
“Good job. Umm, are you feeling up to coming with me? Normally I wouldn't ask, but we need your help with something.”
“Uh, sure. What is it?” Sam felt his brow crease, perplexed.
She gave him a rueful look. “We're having some trouble with your brother.”
“Dean?”
“Yes. He's... he's resisting treatment. Keeps fighting off every attempt we make to help him, keeps demanding to know if you're safe, what we've done with you, except he doesn't seem to believe us when we tell him you're being taken care of.”
Sam rubbed his forehead and grimaced. “Sounds about right. How is he? Is he hurt?”
“Not badly. Not as far as I can tell, but he's definitely suffering from smoke inhalation, and he's been altered since he woke up, belligerent even. He won't let me near him to even try to examine him. He's not really coherent, but I think it would go a long way to getting him calmed down if you would come talk to him, reassure him. You seem to be the focus of his agitation, so...” she shrugged apologetically.
“Of course. Where is he?”
“He's down the hall,” she gently pulled the I.V. needle out of his arm, then motioned to a wheelchair. “I'll take you. No, you're going in the chair, that's not negotiable.”
He hoisted himself into it with a sigh, let her wheel him out and down the hall, where the sounds of commotion were much louder. She took him to an exam room, pushed open the door, revealing three orderlies in green scrubs were gingerly trying to approach the far corner of the room. When he stood up —ignoring the doctor's protests— Sam caught sight of Dean backed against the wall, wild-eyed, in full fight-or-flight mode, clutching a surgical scalpel in one hand, the other arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. He was a mess, his clothing torn, bloodstained and singed, his jacket completely missing, his face blackened with smoke. Sam could see he wasn't far from collapsing completely, though he was obviously planning to take someone down with him before he did.
“Get away from me!” Sam winced as he heard the strangled croak, but Dean managed to stay upright, the scalpel never wavering, even as he broke into a fit of coughing that sounded as though it ought to choke him.
“Easy, now, son,” one of the orderlies sidled closer, only to be driven back by a vicious stab of the scalpel. “We're just trying to help. Easy, now!”
“No!” Dean lunged with the scalpel, forcing them back another step, retreated to the wall again. “Where's Sam? What've you done with him? Hey, back off!” he rounded on another orderly who'd tried to step in from his unarmed side. “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you did with him!”
Sam put a hand on the shoulder of the nearest man. “Here, let me. I'm his brother, he'll listen to me.”
“You Sam?” the orderly had to tilt his head back to look up at him. “Damn,” he added, obviously surprised. “Wasn't expecting you to be so big.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“It's about time,” another orderly muttered. “He's been yelling bloody murder about you. Well, if he had any voice left he'd be yelling. He's all yours, see if you can reason with him.”
“Okay, move back. You're just spooking him.”
“Spooking him?” The orderly snorted. “Man, he nearly filleted us. I ain't worried about him.”
Sam pushed him aside gently, edged closer to his brother, who looked as though he was about to fall over, in spite of the litany of threats he was still uttering. “Hey... hey, Dean. You want to put that down? Remember, you promised me, no more unlicensed surgery on the orderlies in hospitals,” he said lightly, trying to gauge just how far gone his brother really was.
When Dean didn't budge, he stepped closer, counting on his brother's being too sick and disoriented to react fast enough, snaked out a hand and grabbed him by the arm, twisting the scalpel out of his hand. Panicked, reacting out of pure instinct, Dean lashed out with his free hand, but Sam had anticipated him, caught him by the wrist, forced both his hands down and pulled him close, holding him up as much as he was restraining him. Heat was rolling off Dean in waves, fever burning in his eyes, lending a wild edge to his panic.
“Dean! It's me, it's Sam. You're okay. Snap out of it, come on!”
His brother blinked at him, the frantic look leaving his eyes, immediately stopped struggling. “Sam?”
“Yeah, it's me. What the hell, dude? You trying to set a record for how fast you can get us kicked out of a hospital?” he smiled, kept his tone reassuring and light.
Dean coughed, pulled a hand free and laid it flat against Sam's chest. “Y'okay? They wouldn' tell me where you were...”
“I'm fine. It's you they're worried about. Come on, let them check you out, okay?”
“'kay, Sammy.” Abruptly whatever last dregs of adrenaline had been keeping his brother going faded, and Sam caught him just as his knees buckled, letting him sag against his chest, still coughing.
“I'll be damned,” one of the orderlies elbowed the other. “D'you see that?”
“I saw it. Takes all kinds, is all I can say.”
“Better him than us, anyway.”
“Sammy...” Dean twisted both hands in Sam's hospital-issue shirt, clinging so hard Sam thought the fabric might tear. “The demon,” he whispered, “it was there. I couldn't get to it. I tried, Sammy... I don't know what happened.”
“It's okay,” Sam soothed him, patted his shoulder, lowered his voice to a murmur. “I saw it too. I don't know what it wanted, but it wasn't us. It threw me against the wall, and I don't know what happened after that either. Whatever happened, it's gone, now, okay? We'll just have to keep looking.”
His brother nodded breathlessly against him, eyes closed. “Okay.”
“Come on, lean on me. You need to lie down before you fall over.”
As Sam steered him back toward the gurney from which he'd torn himself earlier, Dean stopped abruptly, his breathing erratic. Sam recognized the look, pulled him down and put his head over the trash can by the wall so he could throw up, rubbed his back.
“It's okay, I gotcha.”
Dean coughed, retched some more, one arm braced against the wall, the other one still around his ribs. “Oh, man, that is nasty,” he made a face. “And I thought NeoCitran was gross going down.”
“Dude, gross.”
“Ugh. Now my mouth feels like an ashtray.”
“From the looks of it, you swallowed a couple of bucketfuls of ash, there. Think you can get up?”
Dean shook his head. “Gonna be sick again. Gimme a sec...” He was breathing hard, his face pinched and drawn. Sam kept a hand on his back, steadying him.
“Take your time. There's no hurry.”
Dean didn't answer, both arms wrapped around his ribs now. Sam could hear him whimpering under his breath after each wretched dry-heave, kept rubbing between his shoulder blades. Dean tried to push himself to his feet, stumbled, and Sam felt his stomach twist as his brother's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward into his arms.
Part 23
Part 22
Sam awoke on his back, staring at group of unfamiliar silhouettes above him, became aware of someone trying to press something over his nose and mouth. He panicked and flailed, trying to push away the hands that were trying to restrain him. Another set of hands grabbed his wrists, grappled with him, held him down.
“Easy, now, son. Take it easy! Let us do our work, now.”
“Dean!” he couldn't breathe, and coloured spots danced before his eyes.
“Keep him calm, dammit!”
“Come on, now. What's his name?” The question came from the strongest one, the one holding his wrists.
“Sam.”
“Okay, Sam. Take it easy. You breathed in a lot of smoke. You have to keep that mask on for me, okay Sam? You hear me?”
He nodded, forced himself to stay calm, tried to pull off the mask anyway. “Dean. My brother... there was a fire,” he coughed, suddenly grateful for the pure oxygen that managed to find its way into his lungs. “The kids...” he gasped, coughing harder, until he felt a hand pat his shoulder reassuringly.
“Everyone got out, don't you worry. They're all safe. Your brother, the kids, the woman. Everyone. They're all going to be fine. Just settle down.”
He felt the tension drain out of him, started to cough again as he allowed himself to feel the effects of the smoke inhalation. Everyone was safe, it was all that mattered. Soon he was surrounded by the bright lights of an ambulance, the buzz of machinery and anxious voices. Then he was staring at the fluorescent lights of a hospital ceiling flashing by, voices raised and barking numbers and words that he was pretty sure he would have understood under normal circumstances. He let his mind drift, faded in and out as an I.V. was hooked up to his arm and began pumping him full of what felt like a really awesome painkiller. He submitted without protest to being manhandled into a seated position so that someone with deft fingers and a really good local anaesthetic could stitch up the laceration at the back of his head, flopped back bonelessly when they were done. It was nice, for a while, not to have to think too hard about anything. When he was finally able to focus again, he found an older woman grasping him by both shoulders, speaking directly into his face.
“Sam, are you with me?”
He blinked, sat up a bit. The oxygen mask was gone, and when he put up a hand gingerly to probe at his head he found it wrapped in gauze, padded where he remembered it connecting violently with the windowsill. “Uh,” he managed, trying to figure out what she'd been saying before. He could hear a commotion coming from further down the hall, raised voices, tried to make out what they were saying.
“You with me, son?”
He made an effort, pulled himself together. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
She smiled, and he decided he liked her. She looked a little bit on the maternal side, which didn't hurt, with grey hair that was rapidly going white pulled into a braid, and soft brown eyes with long lashes behind a set of rimless glasses. “Don't worry about it. You have a solid concussion, that'll throw anyone for a loop. I'm Dr. Nichols, just follow my finger, okay?” When he did so without too much trouble, she smiled. “Good job. How're you feeling?”
“Like I went ten rounds with a monster truck.” He sat up, poked at the bandage on his head.”
She laughed. “Sounds about right. You're doing pretty well, considering the number of stitches I had to put in the back of your head. No dizziness, disorientation?”
“No. I know my name, I'm pretty sure it's Thursday, and we're in Guthrie, right?”
“Bingo. So you definitely have a concussion, but it looks like we don't have much to worry about in the brain injury department. Now that you're clear-headed, can you tell me if anything else hurts?”
He shook his head. “No, I think I got lucky. I'm kind of sore, but nothing bad.”
“Good job. Umm, are you feeling up to coming with me? Normally I wouldn't ask, but we need your help with something.”
“Uh, sure. What is it?” Sam felt his brow crease, perplexed.
She gave him a rueful look. “We're having some trouble with your brother.”
“Dean?”
“Yes. He's... he's resisting treatment. Keeps fighting off every attempt we make to help him, keeps demanding to know if you're safe, what we've done with you, except he doesn't seem to believe us when we tell him you're being taken care of.”
Sam rubbed his forehead and grimaced. “Sounds about right. How is he? Is he hurt?”
“Not badly. Not as far as I can tell, but he's definitely suffering from smoke inhalation, and he's been altered since he woke up, belligerent even. He won't let me near him to even try to examine him. He's not really coherent, but I think it would go a long way to getting him calmed down if you would come talk to him, reassure him. You seem to be the focus of his agitation, so...” she shrugged apologetically.
“Of course. Where is he?”
“He's down the hall,” she gently pulled the I.V. needle out of his arm, then motioned to a wheelchair. “I'll take you. No, you're going in the chair, that's not negotiable.”
He hoisted himself into it with a sigh, let her wheel him out and down the hall, where the sounds of commotion were much louder. She took him to an exam room, pushed open the door, revealing three orderlies in green scrubs were gingerly trying to approach the far corner of the room. When he stood up —ignoring the doctor's protests— Sam caught sight of Dean backed against the wall, wild-eyed, in full fight-or-flight mode, clutching a surgical scalpel in one hand, the other arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. He was a mess, his clothing torn, bloodstained and singed, his jacket completely missing, his face blackened with smoke. Sam could see he wasn't far from collapsing completely, though he was obviously planning to take someone down with him before he did.
“Get away from me!” Sam winced as he heard the strangled croak, but Dean managed to stay upright, the scalpel never wavering, even as he broke into a fit of coughing that sounded as though it ought to choke him.
“Easy, now, son,” one of the orderlies sidled closer, only to be driven back by a vicious stab of the scalpel. “We're just trying to help. Easy, now!”
“No!” Dean lunged with the scalpel, forcing them back another step, retreated to the wall again. “Where's Sam? What've you done with him? Hey, back off!” he rounded on another orderly who'd tried to step in from his unarmed side. “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you did with him!”
Sam put a hand on the shoulder of the nearest man. “Here, let me. I'm his brother, he'll listen to me.”
“You Sam?” the orderly had to tilt his head back to look up at him. “Damn,” he added, obviously surprised. “Wasn't expecting you to be so big.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“It's about time,” another orderly muttered. “He's been yelling bloody murder about you. Well, if he had any voice left he'd be yelling. He's all yours, see if you can reason with him.”
“Okay, move back. You're just spooking him.”
“Spooking him?” The orderly snorted. “Man, he nearly filleted us. I ain't worried about him.”
Sam pushed him aside gently, edged closer to his brother, who looked as though he was about to fall over, in spite of the litany of threats he was still uttering. “Hey... hey, Dean. You want to put that down? Remember, you promised me, no more unlicensed surgery on the orderlies in hospitals,” he said lightly, trying to gauge just how far gone his brother really was.
When Dean didn't budge, he stepped closer, counting on his brother's being too sick and disoriented to react fast enough, snaked out a hand and grabbed him by the arm, twisting the scalpel out of his hand. Panicked, reacting out of pure instinct, Dean lashed out with his free hand, but Sam had anticipated him, caught him by the wrist, forced both his hands down and pulled him close, holding him up as much as he was restraining him. Heat was rolling off Dean in waves, fever burning in his eyes, lending a wild edge to his panic.
“Dean! It's me, it's Sam. You're okay. Snap out of it, come on!”
His brother blinked at him, the frantic look leaving his eyes, immediately stopped struggling. “Sam?”
“Yeah, it's me. What the hell, dude? You trying to set a record for how fast you can get us kicked out of a hospital?” he smiled, kept his tone reassuring and light.
Dean coughed, pulled a hand free and laid it flat against Sam's chest. “Y'okay? They wouldn' tell me where you were...”
“I'm fine. It's you they're worried about. Come on, let them check you out, okay?”
“'kay, Sammy.” Abruptly whatever last dregs of adrenaline had been keeping his brother going faded, and Sam caught him just as his knees buckled, letting him sag against his chest, still coughing.
“I'll be damned,” one of the orderlies elbowed the other. “D'you see that?”
“I saw it. Takes all kinds, is all I can say.”
“Better him than us, anyway.”
“Sammy...” Dean twisted both hands in Sam's hospital-issue shirt, clinging so hard Sam thought the fabric might tear. “The demon,” he whispered, “it was there. I couldn't get to it. I tried, Sammy... I don't know what happened.”
“It's okay,” Sam soothed him, patted his shoulder, lowered his voice to a murmur. “I saw it too. I don't know what it wanted, but it wasn't us. It threw me against the wall, and I don't know what happened after that either. Whatever happened, it's gone, now, okay? We'll just have to keep looking.”
His brother nodded breathlessly against him, eyes closed. “Okay.”
“Come on, lean on me. You need to lie down before you fall over.”
As Sam steered him back toward the gurney from which he'd torn himself earlier, Dean stopped abruptly, his breathing erratic. Sam recognized the look, pulled him down and put his head over the trash can by the wall so he could throw up, rubbed his back.
“It's okay, I gotcha.”
Dean coughed, retched some more, one arm braced against the wall, the other one still around his ribs. “Oh, man, that is nasty,” he made a face. “And I thought NeoCitran was gross going down.”
“Dude, gross.”
“Ugh. Now my mouth feels like an ashtray.”
“From the looks of it, you swallowed a couple of bucketfuls of ash, there. Think you can get up?”
Dean shook his head. “Gonna be sick again. Gimme a sec...” He was breathing hard, his face pinched and drawn. Sam kept a hand on his back, steadying him.
“Take your time. There's no hurry.”
Dean didn't answer, both arms wrapped around his ribs now. Sam could hear him whimpering under his breath after each wretched dry-heave, kept rubbing between his shoulder blades. Dean tried to push himself to his feet, stumbled, and Sam felt his stomach twist as his brother's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward into his arms.
Part 23