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It's obvious that Dean is hurt. When the paramedic asked if he was injured, he said he just had some cuts on his face. They cleaned and bandaged those and sent the brothers on their way. If Sam hadn't been talking with the police at the time, he would have made the paramedics check him out, but it was too late for that.
Dean shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat and Sam doesn't miss the grimace of pain that crosses his face.
Gone for four years and Dean is still his same, stubborn self. Sam shakes his head. He checks the road sign ahead. There's a hotel not too far off the road. He steers the car over to the exit, wondering if the reason Dean gave up the car to Sam so easy was because of how bad he's hurt. The idea wasn't comforting.
At the stoplight, Sam takes a right. "Dude, what're you doing? The hotel's that way." Dean points behind them.
"I saw a sign for a drug store."
"Okay." Dean draws out the word. "And?"
"Don't play dumb," Sam says, annoyed. "You're hurt. Self care doesn't make you any less of a man. Unless you're a masochist who wants to be in pain." Sam looks at Dean just as he looks away. "If you won't let me take you to a doctor, we have to treat it on our own." Sam can practically feel Dean roll his eyes. He turns into the parking lot of the drug store. "We need another icepack and more pain medication. And no arguing," Sam says when Dean opens his mouth.
"I'm fine." If Sam didn't know Dean as well as he did, he'd believe him.
"Bull." He looks down at Dean's arm wrapped around his torso. "You haven't moved your arm from your side at all since we left." Dean opens his mouth, about to argue but gives up and sighs, making him groan in pain quietly. "Are your ribs bruised or broken?"
"Probably broken, but the pain's only a three, max." Which Sam knows with Dean's high pain tolerance, is probably a normal person's seven. Sam'll have to keep a close eye on him.
"Okay. I'll give you a once over when we get to the hotel. Don't move," he instructs.
"Yes, sir," Dean says, mock-seriously.
• • •
When Sam gets back to the car ten minutes later, Dean's asleep. Sam opens the back door and puts the bags in; he might've gone a little overboard on the supplies. He closes the door, probably a little too loudly. When he gets in the front, Dean is pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing. "Don't fucking do that," he forces out through clenched teeth.
Sam cranks up the car, turning on the heat for Dean's sake. "Sorry. Here, have an ice pack or two." He holds out one of those ice packs that you break and it turns cold. Dean keeps his eyes closed and takes them from Sam.
Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye as he puts the car in reverse and drives out of the parking lot. Dean lifts his arm as little as he can to put one of the ice packs against his ribs. With his other hand, he puts the other one against the back of his head. "Are you okay?" Dean asks out of the blue.
"Me?" Sam keeps his eyes on the road. "I didn't get my ribs broken by a wendigo. Well, I did fall through the floor and land on my back, but –" he says casually.
"What?" Dean asks, suddenly alert. He holds in a groan as the sudden intake of air made pain shoot through his ribs.
He shrugs. "Didn't knock my out. My head doesn't even hurt anymore."
"Great," he mutters. Sam rolls his eyes. He glances back at Dean who's staring straight ahead, eyebrows pulled together in confusion.
Sam's mind goes right to Dean's head wound. Concussion? Brain damage? No. No. He pushes that thought back, not wanting to get ahead of himself. "What? What is it." He looks at the road to make sure he's not going over the line and then looks back at Dean.
"I was going to ask something, but I don't remember... What was I talking about?"
Sam pushes on the gas pedal, eager to get to the motel and check in soon. "You asked if I was okay."
Dean thinks for a second. "Oh. You haven't been sleeping. The nightmares."
Not that Sam wants to talk about it, but at least Dean remembered what he wanted to ask. "I'm fine. The nightmares aren't as bad anymore."
"Ha." There's no humor in Dean's voice. "And you called me a liar."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to talk about it," Sam shuts him down.
"Fair enough."
• • •
When they finally make it into the room, Sam drops the duffles on the floor and sets the drug store bags on the table. "Sit on the bed," he instructs. Dean slowly meanders to the bed closest to the door. Sam takes a chair from the table over there and sits in front of Dean. Sam lifts his index finger up so it's in front of Dean. "Track my finger."
"Fuck you," he says without malice.
"I'm really not in the mood for this tonight, Dean."
"Me neither. Are you gonna do a full neuro exam on me?"
"Not a full one." Sam speaks before Dean can protest. "Shut up and just track my finger." Sam moves his hand left to right, up and down. "Good." Then he lifts up a pen light seemingly out of nowhere and shines it in Dean's eyes, flicking it back and forth to check his pupils. "Concussion," he confirms.
"Where the hell did you get a pen light?"
"I have my ways. What's the date?"
Dean presses the ice pack tighter against his side. "November something; late November. My name is Dean Winchester. It's 2005. The president is George Bush. Are we done?" he asks impatiently.
"No. Few more questions. Dizzy?"
"No." Sam's eyes narrow; based on the way his brother was moving earlier, he's lying, but he let's it go.
"Nauseous?"
"Only 'cause you won't leave me the fuck alone." Sam holds back his own Fuck you at that.
"All right, take off your shirt."
"Aw, come on, at least take me out to dinner first," Dean jokes.
It's far too difficult for Sam's liking to get Dean's jacket off. "Breathe, Dean," Sam reminds him. Dean obeys, exhaling slowly. His breathing is shallow as he's consciously trying to minimize the pain by moving as little as he can. The younger brother goes back to the table and retrieves a pair of scissors like the ones at hospitals with the rounded tip. "I'm cutting off the shirt seeing as you can hardly move."
"You owe me a new shirt," Dean says as Sam starts cutting the shirt at the bottom.
When the shirt is off, Sam grimaces sympathetically at the dark bruises already forming across half his torso. He presses the tips of his fingers at the start of the bruises, right next to his sternum. Sam doesn't miss the pained sound at the back of Dean's throat. He walks his fingers across the injury. He pauses when he feels the break in the bones. He moves his fingers in circles over it for a few seconds to assess it more.
"Could you please stop doing that, for Christ's sake?"
Sam doesn't say anything as he resumes walking his fingers across to the edge of Dean's ribs. "Broken in a few places." Sam reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the ice pack, handing it to Dean. He holds it tightly against his ribs. "Breathe," Sam reminds him again. He gets couple pillows and arranges them behind Dean. "You can lay back now." Dean turns and lifts his legs off the ground and onto the bed. Sam goes to the table to put some stuff back and returns with pain pills and a glass of water. Dean graciously takes it from him. "You can go to sleep now." Sam goes over to his own bed and sits on top of the covers.
"Finally," Dean mutters.
"I'll wake you up in two hours to check on your concussion." Dean groans but doesn't say anything.
Sam doesn't bother setting an alarm; he knows he'll be awake two hours from now. Normally, he stays up trolling for cases or doing research to avoid the nightmares, but tonight he'll just watch TV.
He's almost twenty minutes into an infomercial about a magic mop or some shit when he hears Dean say, "Fuck."
"You okay?" Sam looks at his older brother who's sitting in the same position as before but now seeming very annoyed.
"I always sleep on my stomach," is all he says. No My stitches hurt, My head hurts, or any actual complaint just I always sleep on my stomach. It doesn't give Sam much to work with.
"Is your pain any better?" Sam swings his legs over the bed, waiting to see if he's needed.
"I mean, laying propped up on pillows like this helps but I can't fall asleep."
"You were sleeping in the car earlier while I was in the drug store," Sam points out.
"Baby's different." Sam hides a smile at the car's name.
"All right. Let's just wait half an hour and see if the pain meds start working and help you fall asleep. If not, we'll try something else."
"Fine," Dean grumbles and closes his eyes.
Sam lays back to continue watching the infomercial at a low volume. After about another ten minutes, Sam has an idea. He gets off the bed, grabs his phone, and heads to the door. "Where're you going?" Dean asks.
He had been silent long enough that Sam had hoped he'd fallen asleep, but no dice. The flickering light of the television is the only thing illuminating Dean's face, so it's hard to tell, but Dean looks suspicious. "I'm gonna make a call."
"Who ya gonna call?"
"Ghostbusters," Sam says, almost laughing at his own joke. Dean obviously doesn't think it's funny. Before Dean can say anything else, Sam exits the room.
He scrolls through his contact list, past a few people from school, down to Bobby Singer. Sam walks over to the Impala and sits on the hood. He hopes he doesn't look too sketchy – a tall, muscled guy sitting on a car outside a motel room, the only light on him coming from a street light a ways away.
Bobby answers after the third ring. "Who is this?" the gruff voice answers.
"Hey, Bobby. It's Sam Winchester."
"Sam," he responds, voice less gruff. "It's been awhile. You boys okay?" There's a tinge of worry in his voice. Something's gotta be up for Sam to be calling him out of the blue; he hasn't seen any of the Winchesters in years.
"Relatively. Dean's got a couple broken ribs and a concussion. He can't sleep in the hotel because he's used to sleeping on his stomach and he can't get comfortable. He said he sleeps okay in the car, so I figured I'd just drive us around for awhile. If it's okay with you, I thought we could drive up there and stay with you for a few days."
"Of course." Sam smiles; he always liked Bobby. He was always more of a dad than his own. Sam really got to be a kid when he was with Bobby. "Are you back into hunting?" he questions. "Last I heard, you got a full ride to Stanford."
Sam ignores the feelings that brings up. "Uh, yeah. It's a long story."
"Sure," Bobby says immediately. "We can talk about it later. How far away are you?"
Sam thinks. "Mmm, about ten hours, maybe."
"Have you slept any?"
"No..."
"You know the drill; pull over if you get tired or stop at another motel room. No rush in getting here."
"Yes, sir," Sam answers although he doesn't plan on doing that. More like going to a drive-thru of the nearest McDonald's and buying a terrible tasting large coffee. "See you soon." Sam hangs up.
Sam walks back in quietly in the vain hope that Dean has fallen asleep. No such luck. "So who did you call."
Dean looks pale and his eyes look sunken; Sam hopes it's only an illusion caused by the light of the TV. "Bobby."
"Bobby?" Dean repeats.
"Yeah." Sam roots around in Dean's bag until he finds a button-down flannel for Dean to wear. He walks over to Dean and moves like he's going to help him put it on, but Dean takes it from him with the hand not pinned to his chest and begins struggling to put it on. As Sam starts putting his boots on, he says, "You told me you can sleep in the car but not in here, so I figured a long drive would help." Sam looks up from lacing his boots to see Dean buttoning his shirt. He really doesn't want to have to move Dean after them getting settled in the room, but if Dean can't sleep...
"This isn't some kind of ploy to get me to the hospital, is it?"
"No."
"Good." Dean moves to get off the bed. "Because if it is, I'll kick your ass."
"Sure you would," Sam says as he goes to retrieve Dean's shoes.
"Don't patronize me. I can kick your ass any time I want."
"Okay, Chuck Norris," Sam responds easily. Sam kneels on the floor in front of Dean, and tells him to put his foot in the boot so he can lace it up.
"I can tie my own damn shoes. I'm not friggin' four."
"I know you can, just let me do it." Dean's ego is really getting in the way tonight. Dean concedes. "And I think four year olds can tie their own shoes," he points out.
• • •
An hour later, after Sam packed the car, they checked out, and he got some coffee, the Impala is driving smoothly along an old highway. The feel of the running engine and the sound of classic rock playing softly in the background have lulled Dean to sleep. The pain lines are less prominent than before which makes Sam feel better. He's finally relaxed now; he'd been tense ever since they separated from Haley and her brothers. Sam always hated when his brother was sick or injured because he made things so damn difficult. Sam didn't like feeling weak like that either, but come on, give a guy a break.
After two hours pass, Sam doesn't have the heart to wake Dean. Dean stirs an hour after that, so Sam talks to him. "Hey. You awake?"
"Barely. Where are we?" Dean looks ahead with heavy eyes to assess the area, but it's still dark.
"It's only been three hours since we left the motel room. Answer a few questions then go back to sleep." It isn't a suggestion, more of an order. "How were you injured?"
Dean winces. "Wendigo broke my ribs."
Sam opens a pill bottle with one hand still on the wheel. "Take these." Dean takes the pills from Sam's extended hand and swallows them with some water from a bottle that Sam got when he stopped for coffee. "Where are we going?" Sam asks.
"Bobby's house." He still sounds exhausted.
"Go back to sleep."
Dean wakes up again a few hours later and they do the same routine. A couple hours after that, he wakes up again and Sam decides it's time to stop for breakfast. He wants to get to Bobby's as soon as possible, so he goes through a drive-thru.
Sam eats his food in less than five minutes (he didn't realize until now how hungry he was), but Dean just sits there, picking at his.
"Dude, you need to eat." Dean doesn't respond. "At least drink something; you're probably getting dehydrated." Dean takes a few small sips. "Do you want more pain meds? It's time." Dean shakes his head slowly. His demeanor only confirms for Sam that he still feels bad, maybe even worse than before. "Put this on." Sam pushes the plastic bag full of ice he got from McDonald's toward Dean. Dean does as he is told.
Sam's starting to worry again; he begins listing off things in his mind. Dean has a concussion and broken ribs, which aren't too bad on their own, but the combination makes Sam uncomfortable. He's almost certain Dean doesn't have any severe damage from the head injury and there wasn't any bleeding. The ribs though... There was something wrong with two ribs; he was hoping they were cracked, but they could be broken and he could've missed other cracked ribs. The bruising was bad which also made him worry. Sam looks at Dean and watches the rise and fall of his chest. His breathing is too shallow. He was breathing okay while he was sleeping. If the damage to his ribs is worse than Sam thought originally, he could be bleeding internally. If he keeps breathing shallowly like this, he might develop pneumonia. Sam knows that's unlikely, but still.
"Do the pain meds help at all?"
"I don't have a headache anymore." Dean's voice has taken on a lower tone than normal, like all the energy has drained out of him.
Sam thinks back to what he learned about internal bleeding from his years as a hunter. He's not coughing up blood, so that's definitely a good sign, but it doesn't necessarily mean anything. "Is the pain isolated to your ribs?"
"Yes," Dean answers tiredly. Keeping his eyes on the road, Sam reaches over and puts the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. "Sam," Dean complains, not even having the energy to bat his hand away.
Sam knows he's probably overreacting; that tends to happen when he's alone with his thoughts for too long. "Talk to me about something."
He meets Dean's confused eyes. "If this has to do with my concussion –"
"It has to do with the fact that I haven't had anyone to talk to in six hours."
"I'm not in the mood to talk." Dean picks up one of the pills bottles and takes another dose. "You talk," Dean retorts. He lays back in his seat and closes his eyes again.
All Sam can think of is Jessica and he's definitely not ready to talk about her. "I don't want to either."
"There you go."
Dean falls back asleep, and even that worries him. Dean usually only sleeps four hours. Six hours was bad enough but now he's going back to sleep. Yes, sleep fights sickness, blah, blah, blah but how much is too much?
The four hours hours after that are long even if Dean is awake for the last three.
"You boys look like hell," is the greeting they receive upon arrival at Bobby's house.
"We know."
Sam and Dean follow him into the kitchen. He pulls out a chair and tells Dean to sit down. "Sam, why don't you take a little siesta and we can talk when you get back?"
"I'll stay." Sam crosses his arms and leans against the door frame.
Bobby repeats the process Sam did earlier, walking his fingers across Dean's ribs, feeling for a break. At one point, he looks up to consult Dean and notices how Dean is sitting there, ashen and sweating.
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. "Dean, breathe." He's afraid his older brother will pass out from oxygen deprivation if he keeps this up. "Dean, look at me." Sam grabs his hand and puts it against his chest. "Try to match me." Dean fixes his eyes on Sam and takes in a breath as deeply as he can. He winces as his chest rises, but he keeps trying.
After a minute, Dean starts looking better. Sam lets his hand drop. "Do you want to go to the bed upstairs or the couch?" Bobby asks Dean.
"Couch."
"Sam, you follow Dean to the couch. I'll go get some blankets from the linen closet."
A couple minutes later after Dean is settled and watching Scooby Doo reruns on TV, Sam and Bobby go to the kitchen. "Please tell me this isn't as bad as I think it is," Sam says.
"I don't know. He's in a lot of pain. Small chance it could be internal injuries, but I don't think so."
"He wasn't this bad before."
"Well he got hurt on a hunt, right?" Sam nods. "Adrenaline," Bobby suggests.
"Do we take him to a hospital?" Sam says in a hushed tone.
Bobby shakes his head. "I think we need to try to manage his pain on our own first. If he's not in pain, he won't breathe shallow like that. If he keeps breathing like that, he'll get pneumonia, and that's when we'll have a problem." Sam nods again. "You know what would really help?"
"What?"
"You getting some sleep."
Sam spares a glance at Dean. At this point, Sam is dead on his feet. He know he needs sleep. A restless sleep full of nightmares is better than none at all. Sam nods. "You're right."
"Always am." Sam looks back at Bobby with anxious eyes. "I'll make sure he eats and drinks and takes medicine."
Sam nods and grips Bobby's shoulder as a silent thank you. He quickly heads upstairs and collapses on the bed in the guest room.
• • •
After a few hours of sleep and a shower, Sam goes downstairs. His eyes immediately go to Dean. He's in the same position as before, propped up by multiple pillows and watching TV. A blanket covers his legs. His right arm is still held across his torso like it's protecting his injured ribs. His breathing is still shallow. Sam looks to Dean's left where Bobby is sitting at his desk, poring over an ancient book.
Dean takes his eyes off the TV to look at Sam. "How'd you sleep."
"Fine. How do you feel?"
"Fine," he echoes. Sam knew he'd say that. Wanting a more honest answer, Sam goes to Bobby's desk and takes a seat.
"How's he really doing?"
Bobby leans back in his chair. "The over-the-counter pain meds aren't doing him any good. I've got some stronger stuff, but I wanted to make sure you're okay with that."
"Yeah, yeah. Did you get a chance to check them? I'm afraid I missed something."
"I did. They're definitely cracked in two places, might be broken all the way through. I could've missed others, it's hard to tell. Let's give him some professional grade meds and go from there."
"Sounds good."
• • •
Apparently, pneumonia can come on suddenly. Dean hadn't been improving, but he hadn't gotten any worse either, so Bobby and Sam mostly left him alone. He stayed on the couch while the other two did research for other hunters. Then, one morning, Sam brought Dean his breakfast, hoping he would eat more than he had been. He immediately knew something was wrong. Dean's face was flushed and Sam could swear he heard wheezing along with Dean's still shallow breathing.
The silverware clattered on the plate as Sam quickly set it on the table. He reached out and put the back of his hand to Dean's forehead. "Dude," Dean complains.
"You have a fever."
"Relax."
"You're sick and you didn't think to tell me?"
"It's not a big deal."
"No big deal," Sam mutters. "I'm gonna go find Bobby." He leaves before Dean can form an argument.
• • •
Dean isn't in the living room when they return a few minutes later. He isn't hard to find; Sam and Bobby just follow the sound of coughing in the bathroom. There they find Dean kneeling and coughing up a lung into the toilet. It's painful just to hear it, the rattling deep in Dean's chest. Dean gags but doesn't throw up and coughs once more. When he moves into a sitting position on the floor, he looks up and makes eye contact with Sam. He smiles weakly. "Hey, guys."
"Shit," Sam says.
"I didn't throw up." Dean leans back against the bathtub. "Just thought I was going to." Dean wraps his arm around side and winces. He's having trouble breathing; each quick rise and fall of his chest accompanied by a wheezing sound. The coughing obviously took a lot out of him; he looks sick. How didn't Sam notice before, he doesn't know.
Sam looks at Bobby. "Hospital or clinic," he asks simply.
"Neither works for me," Dean says. He somehow manages to push himself off the floor, staggering a only little.
"Dean," Bobby chastises.
Dean walks past them, trying his best to stand tall. They all head back to the living room where Dean slowly lowers himself onto the couch. "Are you really gonna do this?" Sam asks. "Act like a five year old who doesn't want to go to the doctor?"
"More like a smart and devilishly handsome twenty-six year old who knows that committing insurance fraud just for a cold is too risky."
"I'd say it's worth it if you've got broken ribs and pneumonia," Bobby says.
"Someone wanna hand me the remote?" Dean takes another wheezing breath. "There's a Clint Eastwood movie marathon on that I don't want to miss."
Sam racks his mind for some way to convince his stubborn brother to go to the doctor, but he can't think of any. "Fine. I'll try not to say 'I told you so' when we're in the ER two days from now," he quips.
"And I'll try not to tell you 'I told you so' when I'm fine a week from now."
"You two need to grow the hell up," Bobby says, annoyed. "I'll be outside working on some cars if either of you idjits need me." He grabs his toolbox and heads out leaving them in the room where the only sound is Dean's wheezing breath.
• • •
Sam successfully stays mad for a few hours but then his damn mothering instinct sets in. When he looks at Dean who's sweating despite the fact that he's only wearing a thin t-shirt and sweatpants, he gives in. He soaks a washcloth in lukewarm water from the sink and fills a glass with water and takes them back to Dean. Sam thrusts the water forward. "Drink." Dean glares but takes the glass and drinks some. He tries to hand it back to Sam but he won't take it. "More." Dean's glare intensifies, but it's not very impressive with the flushed yet pale face and the dark circles under his eyes. Sam takes it after Dean drinks half. He holds out the washcloth but Dean doesn't accept. "If you won't let me at least take care of you here, I'll–"
"You'll what?"
"I'll turn off the TV."
"You'll ground me?" Dean laughs which quickly turns to another coughing fit. Each time is longer than the last and seems more painful. It sounds like pneumonia. He hasn't produced any fluid yet, but Sam predicts it won't be long. He just hopes Dean'll be smart enough to let them take him to the doctor sooner rather than later.
"That's funny, Sam," Dean rasps.
• • •
The rest of the day and into the next include more coughing and less eating, drinking, and sleeping. The day after that, the coughing is accompanied with fluid which Dean spits into a tissue and then throws in the trash.
"Seriously?" Sam points at the trashcan slowly filling with tissues.
"What?" Dean asks, pretending to be clueless.
"That's not a cold, Dean. You have pneumonia."
Dean waves a hand, dismissing him.
• • •
The coughing gets progressively worse as the day goes on, happening more often and putting Dean in even more pain. Then the vomiting starts. Sam fell asleep at Bobby's desk just before midnight. Around 1 am, Sam's woken up by the sound of Dean retching into the trashcan by the couch. "Shit." Sam rubs the sleep from his eyes and walks over to Dean in three strides. By the time he gets there, Dean's only dry heaving. "You okay?"
Dean takes a slow, shaky breath through his mouth and then pushes himself back up onto the couch. He looks like shit, complete and utter shit. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes. "I swear to God, If you say 'I told you so' I'll kick your ass from here to Sunday." He adds, "I think I cracked another rib," and Sam can't tell if he's serious or not.
• • •
A few hours later, Dean is lying in a hospital bed with an IV taped to his hand, administering fluids and antibiotics. He's finally asleep after they gave him some of the good pain meds. Sam can finally relax.