Chapter Text
After Sam gets Dean into bed – grumbling and peevish in a way that belies how hard he's trying not to reveal how drained he is – Sam steals Dean’s phone and goes out to the Impala.
Most of Dean’s contacts are names Sam’s already tried from Dad’s journal, but there’s a few he hasn’t yet. Top of the list is Bobby Singer. He’s well outside of even Bobby’s shotgun range, and, well, Sam’s not above begging.
Bobby picks up after the first two rings. “Better be good, boy. I got a meatloaf burning in the oven.”
“B-Bobby?” The last time Sam saw Bobby was eight years ago, after the whole Flagstaff debacle when Dad dumped him and a stony-faced Dean at Singer’s Salvage for more than a month to cool off. Sam still doesn’t know how things turned so bad; all he knows is the trip ended when Dad came back to pick them up and Bobby chased him off with a loaded shotgun, angrier than Sam’d ever seen him, yelling to never show his sorry ass on his property again. Sam figures Dad’d just dumped his kids on the man one too many times.
“Sam?” Bobby gasps into the phone.
“I’m sorry,” Sam hastens. “Don’t hang up. I know you don’t wanna hear from us, but I need your help – need anyone’s help –”
“The fuck you talking about, boy?” Bobby demands. “And the hell are you using Dean’s phone for? What on God’s green earth are you doing out of college?”
“I didn’t have your number. I’m sorry,” he says again, desperate, sure at any moment he’ll hear the click of an aborted line. “Please – just listen to me.”
“The hell you think I won’t listen to you?” Bobby's gruffness is undercut by genuine confusion.
“You said you didn’t wanna see us,” Sam says. He expected to grovel, not explain.
“Jesus Christ,” Bobby says. “That was your daddy – not you! Dean’s been to see me more’n a handful of times. ‘Course I don’t give a shit about you calling.”
This is so unexpected, so fucking kind, that Sam is embarrassingly near tears. “Oh."
“Tell me again what the hell you’re doing with Dean’s phone."
“I – fuck,” Sam says. He made a concerted effort to clean up his language while at school, but less than five months back with Dean, and he’s back to swearing like a sailor. “Dean – Bobby, Dean –”
“Sam,” Bobby interrupts him, absolutely terrified, and Sam’s stomach clenches hard enough, he thinks he might throw up. He knows what Bobby thinks and Sam can’t – he can’t – get past that terrible, inconceivable idea without choking.
“He – he’s really sick,” Sam says haltingly. Suddenly, Sam’s sobbing. Snot and tears drip off his chin. He spills the whole sorry tale: finding Dean passed out in the Godforsaken basement, doing CPR until the cartilage in Dean’s sternum crackled, dragging Dean to Nebraska in a Hail Mary, Dean’s refusal to let Le Grange heal him, his insistence that something wasn’t on the up-and-up, the horrific truth the two of them stumbled on, the enslaved Reaper, Sue Ann’s death, and the destruction of Le Grange’s ministry, and, with it, Dean’s last chance for a miracle.
“Fuck,” Bobby swears soundly after Sam snivels himself into silence. “Jesus. Why the fuck didn’t you call me earlier?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, voice scraped raw. “I didn’t – I didn’t know.”
“And your father ain’t picking up the damn phone?”
“No,” Sam answers. Misery churns in his stomach. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so helpless. And he – he’s scared. And he’s angry, so fucking angry at Dean’s maddening gallant streak. Because if he wasn’t so – so righteous then he would have just let Le Grange lay hands on him, would have stopped worrying about his damn hunter sense and let whatever happen happen.
And Sam’s selfish. He knows he’s selfish. Because so what the Reaper was equivalent exchanging other people’s lives? None of those unlucky bastards were Sam’s brother. And Sam’s brother is dying. Sam can’t bear it. Not after Jessica, he can’t.
“Typical,” Bobby spits, almost too low for Sam to hear. “Listen, Sam – we’re not out of options, yet.”
“I feel pretty fucking out of options." Even he can hear the note of hysteria in his voice, and it doesn’t make him feel any better to remember Dean’s words: stop being such a girl, Sammy.
“You able to get Dean over to Boston?” Bobby asks.
“What’s in Boston?” Sam says. “Some kind of witch or –”
“The damn Massachusetts General Hospital, you idjit. Best thoracic surgery department in the country. Nothing supernatural about it.”
“The doctors said –”
“You think I give a shit what some bottom tier med school dropout says in the middle of hickville, bumfuck nowhere? It’s called a damn second opinion,” Bobby barks. “Get your brother over there. I’ll pull some strings to put you at the head of the line for an appointment. Get started on some IDs and insurance that will get you seen.”
“Okay.” Sam sucks in a breath. “Okay,” he repeats.
“And, listen,” Bobby says. There’s something in his voice that makes Sam want to start sobbing again, but he presses his nails into his palms and drags himself back from the brink. “If Dean – if there aren’t any answers in Boston – you bring Dean back on this way. Or – if the trip’s too hard – you call me. I’ll come to you.”
“Yeah,” Sam croaks. “Yeah. Okay, Bobby – th-thanks.”
“Anything come up, call me, boy, I mean it,” Bobby warns.
“I will,” Sam promises. He hangs up the phone and slides it into his back pocket. He braces both hands on the top of the Impala, metal cold under his palms. His head hangs between his arms.
He’s prayed nearly every night for the past ten years. Sometimes mindless, innocent thoughts about tests or crushes, other times pleading for Dean to come back home safe from a hunt, for Dad to still be alive. To bring her back. Please, just bring her back. Let him wake up and find this has all been a terrible nightmare. It’s never been hard to pray – when Sam’s been angry, scared, lonely, sick with grief – but now Sam bends his neck, and there’s no words.
OOO
It’s a twenty-five-hour drive from Nebraska to Massachusetts. Ordinarily, Sam and Dean would do it in one go, one sleeping in the passenger seat while the other drives across stretches of American flatland before breaking across the hills of New England. But this isn’t ordinary.
It was painfully clear on their way to Nebraska that Dean’s barely comfortable in the car. The only time he doesn’t look like he’s in agony is if he’s in bed with his back propped up on three pillows, which the Impala can’t exactly accommodate. And Sam sure as shit can’t drive a twenty-five-hour stretch all by himself.
Instead, he sets Dean up in the backseat as best he can, and makes the drive in 600-mile chunks, stopping what feels like every hour to adjust Dean’s position, force him to take medication or a sip of water, hauling him out of the car and into some flee-ridden hotel room for a fitful night’s sleep, full of panting and rattling coughs that bring up pink slime from Dean’s chest.
“What’s the fucking point?” Dean rasps when they’re in Newton, twenty-minutes out from Boston and in the closest hotel to the city that won’t overdraw Sam’s credit card. He’s using the bona fide one he got while he was freshman – no point in risking the cops at a time like this.
“What?” Sam asks. Dean watches him, raccoon-eyed and listless on his bed as Sam goes through Dean’s duffle, finding something that will be easy for him to get out of for the appointment Bobby scheduled with Mass General’s cardiothoracic department tomorrow.
Dean doesn’t answer. The only clean clothes in Dean’s bags are jeans, flannels, and one rumpled dress shirt that he wears when he pretends to be a Fed. Sam sure as hell isn’t dragging Dean into any of that. He’s still wearing Sam’s hoodie – a fixation for the past two weeks. It probably smells like shit at this point, but it’s zip-up, which means Dean can get it on and off without help. Sam should do a load of laundry. He could leave Dean alone for an hour or two to get it done. And he still needs to get to that PO box in Bay Village for the new insurance cards Bobby mailed express.
“What did you say?” Sam asks, getting up from the floor. His body hurts from being cramped in the car all day. There’s a pinching pain in the base of his spine, a knifepoint ache in his right temple.
“What’s the point?” Dean croaks. “Drive – we drive half-way across the country and for what?”
Sam stares at Dean. “To see a heart specialist,” Sam says slowly. Is it possible Dean’s been so out of it that he doesn’t even know what they’re here for? Or is this another symptom? The doctor said heart failure can result in difficulty concentrating or disorientation.
“Yeah,” Dean says. He presses both hands into the mattress, struggling to sit up against the pillows behind his back. It just makes the covers fall off his shoulders. He keeps complaining that he’s cold. “For what?”
“So they can look at your heart, Dean.”
“Why?” Dean demands. Despite the pale waxiness of his skin, his drooping eyelids, the slump of his body against the pillows, his voice is strong. “Why the – the fuck are we even bothering with this? I don’t want my last few weeks spent being poked and prodded and stuck with a shit ton – a fuck ton of needles and tubes.”
“It’s not going to be your last weeks,” Sam says. He keeps his voice steady. Dean’s upset. It’s okay that Dean’s upset. That doesn’t mean Sam’s gonna get upset, too.
“Stop lying to yourself, Sam,” Dean says viciously. “You might as well be dragging around a corpse.”
“Don’t say that,” Sam says. He’s not gonna get angry. He won’t. He won’t. “Don’t say that to me.”
“What?” Dean says. Two points of color rise on his cheeks. It’s the first time he’s been even remotely flushed since the accident. “You can’t just face the fucking truth, Sammy? There’s no point – I’m telling you, there’s no fucking point. Might as well just leave me with a gun, so I can go out on my own terms –”
“Shut the fuck up!” Sam yells. His eyes prickle with hot, angry tears. “Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t you fucking dare leave me like this! You fucking – you fucking coward! You dragged me back into this shitshow, and you don’t get to walk out of it again!”
“I wasn’t the one who fucking walked out of it in the first place!” Dean hisses, trying to sit up. The frustration at his lack of mobility is crystal clear in the hard glint in his eyes, in the way his shoulders lift near his ears, how he tries to kick the blankets off his legs.
“And I was happy to do it!” Sam screams. “I should never have agreed to come with you – it’s your fucking fault we’re here in the first place! Your fault I wasn’t there for Jess. If you’d just stayed away like I told you than none of this would have happened!”
“F-fuck you!” Dean chokes. “F-fuck –” he opens his mouth, tries to draw in air but there’s a terrible wet, choking sound in his throat, and his face loses any hint of color it gained. Sweat jumps to his hairline. His chest spasms and he curls into himself, wheezing desperately like a vacuum with a clogged hose.
“Dean!” Sam gasps. No. No. Not like this. God, not like this. “Dean – no! I’m sorry,” he babbles, grappling for his brother, digging his fingers into his shoulder and yanking him upright. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Dean –”
Dean gags helplessly, jerking in Sam’s arms as he fights for air. His hands shake when he struggles to put them up to his chest, fingers white and thin against his dark sweatshirt. This close, Sam can see Dean’s hair is greasy and flat. He hasn’t showered in a while, Sam thinks nonsensically. Maybe he’s afraid of slipping. Sam hasn’t been taking good enough care of him.
“Dean, please,” Sam sobs.
Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s – eyelashes glued into points from tears, pink saliva dripping off his lips. And he looks terrified. Utterly terrified as his eyes roll back into his head, and he goes deathly still in Sam’s arms.
OOO
“I-I didn’t have a chance to pick up the stuff,” Sam says into the phone. His voice is weird. Sounds high and distorted in his ears. Maybe it’s just the way the ER waiting room consumes and regurgitates sound: echoing and disjointed.
“That’s okay,” Bobby says.
“It’s the same – the same we used in the last hospital,” Sam says unsteadily. He’s shaking. He can’t stop shaking. It’s so fucking cold in here. “David and Sal Berkowitz.”
“Alright,” Bobby says. There’s a sternness in his voice that tells Sam he’s holding himself back from ripping Sam a new one. “Son of Sam – really?”
“It – it was a joke,” Sam says faintly. He can’t feel his lips. He can’t – his fingers, too. He keeps thinking about the way Dean jerked in his arms, the spasms in his body as he struggled to pull in air. Sam doesn’t know what that would feel like – the fear on his brother’s face. To breathe and get nothing: a hand pinching his trachea closed.
“Jesus,” Bobby says. “Fine. It’s fine, Sam. Even if the other hospital flagged it, you have time before MGH notices. I’ll get you new cards. We can switch out the insurance, pray they don’t notice the credit card.”
“Bobby –” Sam begins, not sure if he’s going to start bawling or screaming or puke. He can’t shake the feeling of Dean’s ribs cracking under his hands as he frantically performed chest compressions for the second time in as many weeks, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. He can’t get the noises of the EMTs working on his brother out of his head: their clipped voices, shouted clear and the startling jerk of Dean’s body on the bed as they attempted to shock his heart back to life.
“It’s gonna be fine, boy."
“Sir,” the receptionist leans across the counter, harried. “Sir, you can’t talk on the phone in here. You can step into the parking lot, or there’s a bathroom down the hall if you need –”
“Sorry,” Sam tells her robotically. “Bobby – I have to go.”
“Keep me posted,” Bobby says.
“Sorry,” Sam tells the receptionist again when he shuts his phone. She’s not paying attention to him, anymore, talking down a young mother with a screaming baby in her arms.
The waiting room is stuffed full of miserable people, sitting in pairs or by themselves in uncomfortable chairs. There are kids crying on parents’ laps, people nursing broken bones or hastily bandaged lacerations. Above it all, the din of the hospital drones on: crackling announcements through the intercom, shrill alarms, chattering medical personnel.
It’s pure agony for nearly two hours before Sam’s head finally snaps up at the voice of a woman, standing at the mouth of the intake hallway and holding a clipboard.
“Sal Berkowitz?”
“Yes – yeah?” Sam’s on his feet.
“You’re brother is David?”
“Yes,” Sam says. There’s a pointed rock in the center of his throat. It makes it impossible to swallow.
“We’ve got him stable in the ICU. You can follow me.”
“Is – is he okay?” Sam stammers, stumbling over his feet to follow the nurse.
“He’s breathing on his own,” the nurse says and doesn’t elaborate.
Sam’s head buzzes with panic because what the hell does she mean? Were there times on the table when he stopped breathing on his own?
The nurse brings him up to the ICU on the third floor, leads him to the door of a room that houses six beds, three on either side. The two nearest the door are taken up by strangers. Dean’s in the center bed on the left, behind a curtain that the nurse pushes open before leaving Sam with the promise the doctor would be by soon.
Dean’s shrunken and pale in the hospital bed. He must have lost weight over the past weeks, because he’s skeletal beneath his hospital gown and blankets. The dark imprints around his eyes are more pronounced than ever. There’s an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and he’s attached to so many tubes and wires that he looks like some kind of sickly science experiment.
Sam chokes back a sob at the mere sight of him. He looks so – he looks so fucking ill and young. Sam collapses into the plastic chair by the bed and fumbles for his brother’s hand – knowing Dean would hate it, but Sam can’t help it. Dean’s fingers are impossibly cold. Sam folds his hand between his own, trying to work warmth into his skin.
“Hey, man,” Sam whispers. He’ll go insane if all he listens to is the lethargic beeping of Dean’s heart monitor, the squeal of gurney wheels in the hall, the shuffle of footsteps and hacking coughs from somewhere in the ward. “I know you’re probably hurting, right now, but you’re gonna be okay, alright? I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. It’s my turn to take care of you, now. So you just rest up. You don’t have to worry about a thing, you hear me?”
It doesn’t appear as though Dean can hear a thing, but it doesn’t stop Sam from speaking to him, keeping up a low drone of meaningless platitudes and encouragements as Dean does nothing but breathe through the mask, eyes shut, skin whiter than the pillow below his head.
Eventually, the attending doctor comes by, rattles off some complicated figures about blood pressure and pulse rate that all boils down to the fact that, although they’ve got him stable for now, his condition is still serious, and he can’t be moved to their heart center until he improves, but they can get a cardiologist consult down to him tomorrow morning.
For now, there’s nothing to do but wait.
OOO
Dean regains consciousness with a horrible, gurgling gasp before he jerks up in bed, gagging on bile. Vomit spurts into his oxygen mask, and Sam explodes out of his chair, yanking the mask off his face with one hand, pressing Dean back into the bed with another, and yelling over his shoulder.
“Nurse! Someone help! Fuck, Dean.” Sam tosses the ruined mask onto the bed and tries to get Dean onto his side without dislodging any equipment when Dean throws up again.
A couple nurses rush in, sneakers squeaking on the floor.
“Sir – please,” one huffs at Sam, pushing him out of the way so she can get to Dean’s bedside.
Sam retreats, fuming. “If you’d been here quicker –” but, obviously, the nurses don’t pay attention to him. Sam presses against the wall, trying to make himself small, never feeling so much like a freak of nature, holding his breath as they work on his brother.
The nurses take care of the multiple blaring alarms that leapt to life when Dean did. They clean his face and neck and switch out his sheets. He’s shivering violently, teeth clacking, and one nurse sticks her head into the hall to get an aid to bring warmed blankets. The nurse who remains at Dean’s bedside speaks soothingly as she slips an oxygen canula over his ears and fixes it in his nostrils, saying his oxygen levels have improved now he’s awake. Dean doesn’t look awake. He looks groggy and unalert, eyes at half-mast and body drooping in the bed without any hint of his usually vigilance when he’s in an unfamiliar place.
Finally, the nurses leave him alone again. The one who yelled at Sam pauses to give him a nod and an almost apologetic smile. “He can hear you if you talk to him,” she suggests.
Sam gives her a curt nod. He doesn’t want to scream at her, and he’s worried he will if he opens his mouth.
“Dave?” Sam says, getting close enough to Dean’s face that he can hear him. “Dave – it’s Sal. Okay? David – you hear me?”
“Heh,” Dean laughs weakly. “Sally.” It must hurt his chest, because his feeble smile droops into a grimace.
“Yuck it up, big guy,” Sam tells him, part-astonished and part-triumphant that Dean still has the strength to be an asshole. Sam blinks his sticky eyes and attempts to roll the pinched ache out of his neck from allowing himself to drift off beside Dean’s bedside.
“Gentlemen,” The doctor who pushes aside the curtain has a Boston accent so clipped it sounds posh. He looks too old to be a doctor – with a rounded paunch under his white coat, eyeglasses hanging off the end of his red, bulbous nose, and sagging wrinkles at his jaw and eyes. He looks grandfatherly in terms of an aloof, affluent patriarch who sits in an armchair by the fire, smoking a meerschaum pipe.
“Um, hi,” Sam says, standing.
The doctor extends a pale, knobby hand, and shakes Sam’s. Despite his age, his grip is strong. “Dr. Winchester,” he says. The name sends startled fear down Sam’s spine, but he sees the nametag on the man’s coat - Dr. C. E. Winchester, MD, - and Sam tries to relax. It’s just a coincidence. “And you are?”
“Sal,” Sam hastens to reply. “Sal Berkowitz. That’s Dave – my brother.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Dr. Winchester says. “Hello, David,” he says to Dean. Dean doesn’t do anything more than lay there with his mouth half open and eyelids drooping, but Sam can see his brother’s pupils track the doctor. “Feeling better?”
Dean blinks at him. Sam can’t tell if Dean’s not responding because he can’t, or if he’s not responding because it’s a stupid question.
Dr. Winchester hums in his throat and walks to the computer monitor against the wall. His fingers clatter on the keyboard as he signs in and pulls up multiple windows onto the screen. “All this digitization is, frankly, more trouble than it’s worth. There’s nothing wrong with a clipboard hung at the end of a bed.”
Sam doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to say anything.
“Fucking crypt keeper,” Dean mumbles.
“Shh,” Sam hisses, but he’s too late. If Dr. Winchester’s slightly raised eyebrows are anything to go on, his hearing is certainly not a casualty of his age.
“Not to worry,” Dr. Winchester says dryly. “I don’t operate any longer. Simply consult. And – here we are,” he continues, apparently finding the document he needs. He presses his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and squints at the screen. “David Berkowitz. Twenty-seven-years-old. Stage D heart failure after suffering cardiac arrest that resulted in significant damage to your heart. Can you tell me, David, what triggered a heart attack in an otherwise healthy young man like yourself?”
But Dean’s eyes have slipped all the way shut. Sam can tell by the way he’s struggling to hold his head upright that he isn’t asleep, just too exhausted to keep his eyes open.
Dr. Winchester moves his gaze from Dean to Sam, eyebrows raised.
“It was an accident,” Sam hurries to say. “He got electrocuted.”
“A work accident?” Dr. Winchester guesses. He doesn’t look particularly shocked. Sam figures a doctor like him has seen plenty stranger and more alarming things.
“Not exactly,” Sam hedges.
“Self-inflicted?” Dr. Winchester inquires.
“What?” Sam blurts out. “No!”
Dr. Winchester just shrugs. He walks away from the computer to the sink in the corner. He washes his hands to the elbow, pats them dry on a paper towel wrung from the dispenser on the wall. “These injuries are not unusual among failed suicide attempts,” he explains.
“It was – he was working on something in the breaker box,” Sam invents wildly. “There was water on the floor. It was a stupid mistake.”
“Mmh,” Dr. Winchester says again. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves. He turns all his attention to Dean. For a moment he works silently, lifting Dean’s eyelids with nimble fingers to peer into his pupils. He puts two fingers under Dean’s jaw to count his pulse.
“How much pain are you in?” Dr. Winchester asks Dean softly.
“Fine,” Dean says, barely audible.
“Pain management is essential,” Dr. Winchester remarks before he straightens up to fiddle with Dean’s IV bag, apparently able to sniff out a bullshit fine as well as Sam.
Sam hates that – fucking hates it. Makes him think about end-of-life treatment and easing someone into the great beyond.
When Dr. Winchester withdraws, he moves back to the computer screen, scrolling down the tab, face utterly unreadable. He types for nearly a minute, fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard despite his condemnation of technology.
Finally, he peels off his gloves, drops them through the swinging lid on the garbage can under the sink, and addresses himself to Dean.
“David, I’m going to leave you to get some rest while I borrow your brother for a moment. Not to worry, we’ll be right in the hall.”
Dean doesn’t stir, but Sam’s got twenty-two years of Reading Dean Winchester for Dummies under his belt. He sees Dean’s jaw tighten incrementally, clear proof Dean’s hearing every word.
“Be back in a second,” Sam mutters to his brother before following Dr. Winchester out of the room.
Sam realizes, standing across from the man in the hall, that Dr. Winchester is strikingly tall. He’s only an inch or two shorter than Sam, himself, and might have stood even with him as a younger man.
Dr. Winchester looks at Sam carefully through his glasses.
“How long has it been since the accident?”
“About two weeks,” Sam answers.
“What was the initial prognosis?”
Sam shrugs. “A few weeks, maybe a month, they said.” His mouth is dry. There’s only one reason doctors have to step outside for a minute; it’s never good news.
Dr. Winchester nods slowly. “His EF is at 30%. Ejection fraction. It refers to how well your left ventricle pumps blood with each heartbeat. An EF below 35% greatly raises his chance of cardiac arrest because of cardiac dyssynchrony, which means his right and left ventricles are not pumping in unison.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Sam says feebly, head spinning.
“It means, if there’s any hope of survival, your brother needs a heart transplant,” Dr. Winchester replies. “It should have been his doctor’s first choice. Unfortunately, he’s much too ill to undergo such a procedure, not to mention, at this stage it’s going to be very difficult to get him on the transplant list. We don’t give new hearts to patients unless they have a very good chance of surviving the procedure.”
“So, what are you telling me?” Sam says tautly. “There’s nothing you can do –”
Dr. Winchester looks unimpressed by Sam’s pessimism.
“The way I see it, there are two options.” He puts up two fingers like Sam’s a toddler. “The first is that we focus on getting your brother healthy enough to implant a ventricular assist device into his heart. It will help pump blood from the lower chambers of his heart to the rest of his body. This would be done in anticipation of a heart transplant donor becoming available in the next four to six months. It requires open heart surgery, the risks of which are fairly self-evident. We can’t guarantee that even our healthiest patients survive the procedure. The second option is palliative care.”
“No,” Sam says immediately. “Fuck no. We’re not giving up.”
“Hospice is not giving up,” Dr. Winchester says slowly, evidently trying to find the right words, “Sometimes it can be the more compassionate choice. To allow someone in great pain to pass with dignity –”
“Bullshit,” Sam interrupts. “My brother isn’t dying. You’re not gonna let him die.”
Dr. Winchester is silent for a moment. “We will also have to ask your brother his opinion on this. He’s still sound of mind. We can’t intercede without his consent.”
“He’ll give it to you,” Sam growls, inwardly wondering if that was true. Like the chill of a ghost creeping up his spine, Sam remembers Dean’s ominous words back in the hotel: Might as well just leave me with a gun so I can go out on my own terms.
Dr. Winchester’s pager goes off on the waistband on his scrubs. He lifts a finger, cutting Sam off, and checks his message. His face immediately clouds.
“I’m sorry, Mr. –” he stares at Sam hard for a minute, and Sam’s stomach clenches. “Berkowitz. But there’s something I need to address. Please remain here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Panic whirs in the back of Sam’s head. Did something happen? Did the insurance fall through? Should Sam run? Everything in Sam’s body is telling him to run, hard-fought warning bells that have guided him through haunted houses and graveyards, untold horrors in the dark since he was a kid are screaming at him to run. But Dean – Dean’s stuck in his bed in the room behind him. Sam can’t run and leave Dean behind.
Sam watches Dr. Winchester uneasily as he walks down the hallway to the nurse’s station. The older man leans across the high counter to speak to the nurse on duty. After a moment, her eyebrows raise and she cranes her neck to peer at Sam.
Sam tries very hard to look innocent.
The nurse must flag someone, because an aid appears at Dr. Winchester’s side – a larger guy wearing a frown.
Shit. Sam’s feet are glued to the floor, dangling like he’s caught between two repelling magnets. He can’t leave Dean, but he needs to fucking go.
Dr. Winchester walks back to him, frown pulling at the wrinkles on his forehead and the corners of his eyes. The aid walks beside him, shoulders appearing more broad the closer he gets.
“Your insurance was flagged,” Dr. Winchester says without preamble. “As fraudulent. The receptionist has already contacted the police. They will be here shortly.”
Sweat pools in Sam’s palms. His tongue is clumsy and fat inside his mouth. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say. Dean’s always been the sweet-talker.
“I don’t – there must be a mistake,” Sam says weakly.
“My associate and I won’t stop you from leaving,” Dr. Winchester says stonily, casting a hand to the aid beside him, who’s glaring at Sam like he’s got a personal vendetta against him. “But there is security at every exit point at the hospital. It will be better for you if you stay calm and stay here.”
“Please –” Sam begs, heart going off like a machine gun inside his chest. “Please – I can’t leave him. You can’t make me leave him.”
“Are you even brothers?” There’s an unexpected softness in Dr. Winchester’s face that throws Sam for the loop. Of course they’re brothers. What the fuck else could they be?
“Yes!” He cries. “And he really is dying –”
“But I assume you gave us false names?” Dr. Winchester says.
“Yes!” Sam blurts out again. “Yes – okay? My name’s really Sam Winchester and that’s my brother Dean. And we don’t have any fucking money!” Once he starts, he can’t stop. It’s like he’s losing his shit on the phone with Bobby again. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. “And without money you’re not gonna fucking treat him – at least not quick enough! So, yeah, we fucking lied, okay? We used fake IDs and fake insurance and the fucking credit cards are fake, too, because my brother’s dying, okay? He’s dying!”
“Winchester?” Dr. Winchester asks, disbelief evident in his voice.
“It’s a pretty fucking common name!” Sam roars.
“Sir,” the aid steps forward. “We need you to remain calm.”
“I am calm,” Sam snaps. “I’m fucking calm. And I’m asking you – I’m fucking begging you not to make me leave my brother here. Not – not now –” Sam’s throat catches. His eyes burn. He feels the eyes of passing nurses and visitors stick to him, watching him fall apart in the middle of a hospital hallway while his brother counts his last heartbeats in the room behind him.
Down the hallway, the elevator dings. A couple uniformed policemen push out of the doors. Sam fights back every hard-won instinct to dart as soon as he sees the black and white, instinct that even three and a half years of normal life couldn’t ease out of him.
“Please,” Sam says pathetically to Dr. Winchester, finding his eyes behind his spectacles, finding they’re green – muddier than Dean’s, but it still makes Sam’s stomach lurch.
“I’m sorry, Sal – or Sam – whatever your name is, but my hands are tied in this,” Dr. Winchester says.
OOO
Dean’s spent more than his fair share of time in city lockup, but Sam’s been in a holding cell enough times as a teenager to know how it goes. He’s got the intake process down pat: hands over his cellphone, wallet, watch, belt, and shoelaces like a pro. They let him keep his jacket after pulling out the string from the hood. He listens to his rights read, stone-faced, and doesn’t say anything except to ask to call his lawyer.
His lawyer is, of course, Bobby. Sam rattles off the bare bones of the situation, clutching the payphone awkwardly between his cuffed wrists, as Bobby listens silently on the other end of the line.
A strange, numb stillness has fallen over Sam. It’s easier to keep himself in check now that his blood doesn’t feel like it’s boiling inside his skull. These are things he can do: tell Bobby which city jail he’s in, tell him where Dean is, then wait for Bobby to tell him what to do. Bobby tells him to sit tight. He’ll work on getting someone out to them.
Then an officer brings Sam back to the holding cells. He opens one about half-way down the corridor. There’s a lone man sprawled on his back on the single bench, snoring slightly. After Sam’s in the cell, the officer tells Sam to stick his cuffed hands through the bars so he can unlock him.
Sam rubs feeling back into his wrists once the cuffs are gone. The cell smells like stale alcohol and piss. There’s an unidentified stain on the cement floor. There’s a waterless toilet with a sink built into the tank in one corner. Because the bench is taken, Sam stays on his feet. And he begins to pace.
OOO
“Winchester?” The officer is back, looking bored.
“Yes, sir?” Sam whirls on his heel so quickly he nearly trips over his toe, feet unstable in his loosened shoes.
The officer puts one jangling key in the lock and swings his door wide. “You’re out, come on.”
“Um…what?” Sam says. It’s only been two hours, if that. Sam wasn’t expecting Bobby to move so fast.
“Old guy posted your bail,” the officer says impatiently. “Come on.”
Sam doesn’t wait to be told another time. He bundles his jacket in his arms and steps quickly through the door – halfway fearing it’s some kind of twisted joke and the officer will clang it shut in his face before he gets there.
He stumble over his floppy, unlaced shoes as he follows the officer down the hallway, back through the intake room. The officer snatches a paper bag – scrawled with an S.W. and a list of numbers – and pushes it into Sam’s hands. Sam doesn’t bother double-checking to make sure it’s got all his possessions. He nearly has to trot as the cop continues out of the intake room and back into the nice, carpeted office space Sam passed through in handcuffs just a couple hours ago.
Finally, they reach the end of the hall and the officer opens the door into the reception office, spanned on one side by a massive desk.
There is, indeed, an older guy waiting there, one elbow on the counter, other raised so he can look at his watch on his wrist.
Sam wasn’t expecting Bobby – he knows the man’s still 1,000 miles away, at least, but he was expecting one of Bobby’s hunting buddies. Maybe Pastor Jim or Caleb. Maybe someone else Sam had met before. But he sure as shit wasn’t expecting Dr. Winchester – scrubs covered in a black wool p-coat instead of his white jacket from the hospital.
“Samuel,” Dr. Winchester says, inclining his head.
“Sam,” Sam corrects him by rote.
“Sam,” Dr. Winchester parrots, and Sam thinks he detects a hint of amusement in the old man’s face.