Chapter Text
Ticking. A clock on a white wall. 3:15.
This is the first thing Dean sees when he opens his eyes. He can't tell if it is morning or evening. The neon light is too bright to keep his eyes open anyway.
Then there is the smell. Sharp. Disinfectant. He has smelled it before.
A vague memory of sitting in the Impala, his baby warm and comforting, despite him being too drunk to drive. His head spinning and the cars coming at him doubling and tripling before they focus into one shape again. It’s a dumbass idea to drive while being this drunk.
When the voice is telling him that now, he can see it’s right. Back in the Impala, it was easy to ignore. His baby takes care of him, after all. The only one who does. Only she didn’t. There was a flash and a bang. A big bang when he hit something. A tree? A car? He can't recall.
“It was touch-and-go for a bit there, but he's pulling through. He lost a lot of blood, though. It’ll be a while before he wakes up.”
A voice from far away but it still draws him back. Ticking and whirring. The smell of disinfectant. A hospital, that's where he is. The thought alone is exhausting.
He tries to open his eyes again, but it is still too bright and then there are blotches of black and red encroaching on his vision. He tries to fight it, he wants to figure out who's there, because there is a voice so someone has to be there, but the exhaustion wins.
It wraps itself around him and leaves him no choice but to give in.
***
The damn clock. Why is it that this damn clock is the only thing he sees? It’s 8:23 and he can't tell if that means that he has slept for a few hours or a few days. Time is relative, he thinks and can’t really bring himself to care.
The insistent beeping of a machine is drowning out the ticking of the clock. It has to be intensive care then. Slowly he moves his head, to see if he can and to see if he's right. Yep, head moves. Vision follows, too, albeit a moment too late. A white room, bright white. That's why he hates hospitals, no colors here. No colors at all.
He stomps down the little spark of disappointment that the room is empty. Whoever was talking before is now gone. Who would even want to visit him? Dean can't think of anyone.
Well, Sam would, but he is in Stanford. Far away, doing what he should be doing, becoming what Dean never could at a safe distance from Dean. To make sure that he won’t get tangled up in stuff like this.
So, he summarizes. He’s alone, in a hospital bed, and there’s a beeping machine. What has happened again? An accident. Right. He was driving while he was wasted.
‘Winchester, you aren’t getting any smarter with age, you know this was going to fuck you up even while you were doing it,’ he sighs to himself.
The exhaustion is pulling at him, making every bone heavy as lead even while he doesn’t feel the pain. Painkillers. Probably shouldn’t have those. Not with the amounts of alcohol he’d thrown down. But then, who cares, really? Well, the other driver cared, he guesses. If there was another driver.
Suddenly, his anxiety spikes. There is not much that he actually remembers. Did someone else get hurt? Did he hit someone? Did he kill someone?
He feels the blood drain from his face and for a moment the black spots in his vision threaten to overwhelm him again. But this time, he’s better able to fight back.
He does what he has learned a long time ago. What he has re-learned in one of the programs that his brother made him go to.
He prays.
He prays that he hit something that isn’t alive. Something that can't feel, can't bleed.
He prays that he didn’t add murder to the list of his sins. That he didn’t take someone’s father or mother or kid and doesn’t even remember it.
Prayers.
So stupid. So stupid to pray when he can't change anything. And still he clings to the prayer as his last lifeline. Not only here and now. Always.
He prays for little things. For big things. For everything.
Stubborn as he is, once it got ingrained, he couldn’t change the habit anymore.
Maybe because it reminds him so much of his mother.
All of a sudden he is 4 years old and sitting at the kitchen table. It smells of cinnamon and apples. They’ve baked a pie together and now it’s standing on the table in front of them and smelling delicious. Her hand is cupping his and there is a smile on her face. The kind of smile she only smiles when his father is not at home. So he knows all is good. It is just them and the pie.
They are praying together before they eat. Another thing she only does, when his father isn’t around to mock her for it.
“Thank you, God, for all the good that you bring us. Thank you for taking care of our family.”
His mother’s voice is soft and comforting. He feels safe and home.
The image fades even though he desperately clings to it. It's a good memory, one he instantly feels guilty about having. He doesn’t deserve good memories. But it’s one of the very few he has of his mother that are this clear. Apart from the other one, that is. The one that changed everything.
He remembers the acidic smoke burning his lungs. The fire flaring through the stairwell. He remembers his father yelling at him, “Take your brother and run!”
He remembers the heavy weight of Baby-Sam in his arms. He can picture the house burning down while desperately rocking Sam to get him to stop crying as clearly as if it was a blockbuster movie. Can see his father stumbling out of the house with the most desperate look Dean has ever seen.
He didn’t realize it right then, of course. What it meant. That came later.
He still thought things might turn out okay when they moved in with Uncle Bobby for a few weeks. It was Bobby, who had to explain it to him. That his Mom wasn’t going to come back. Ever. That they’d have a funeral and that he should say goodbye to her then. Only he didn’t know how. She wasn’t there. He could only say goodbye to someone who was there.
“Just pray, she’ll hear it,” was what the pastor finally said to him. So he did. But he never got an answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Maybe the pastor was wrong.
And then his dad became more and more obsessed with the idea that the fire wasn’t an accident. That it was arson. That he had to find and punish the one who did it. He remembers that argument, too, even though he was supposed to be in bed sleeping. His Dad and Bobby shouting at the tops of their lungs. He just crept into Sammy’s room and rocked his crib slowly so that he wouldn’t start crying.
They moved soon after. And then again. And again. Until the apartments turned into motel rooms, never staying long enough to call any place home.
He remembers the drinking, too. His father hadn’t been a nice guy even when his mother was alive. And then, after the drinking started…
Dean pushes the thoughts away but the sour smell of his father’s breath invades his mind. He concentrates on the disinfectant to force the memories away, but that only serves to remind him of the time he had to call an ambulance because his father wasn’t moving anymore. The bills for that hospital stay had been expensive, though, so he had caught hell for that from his Dad later.
God, he wants to drown the memories. Isn’t there a painkiller that kills this? Because drinking is not enough. He has tried. God, he has tried.
Disgusted with himself, he closes his eyes again. He’s no better than his old man. Doesn’t deserve to be treated any better, either.
With that thought, he drifts off into unconsciousness again.
***
When he wakes this time, there is no clock. Well, there is a clock, as he notices when he turns his head to look for it. But it’s in the wrong place. The walls have a different color, too. A soothing shade of light yellow. Pleasant, not as clinically stark as the white in the other room. A small nightstand, a TV. An unoccupied second bed. A small ordinary hospital room.
He’s out of the ICU. So it can’t have been that bad. That’s right, isn’t it? The soothing yellow provides no answers.
He eyes the buttons on the remote that is attached to the bed. He could hit the call button. Then a nurse would come and she can probably tell him all about what happened. Not only about what shape he is in. But also if he hit – yeah, his mind blocks that thought.
A part of him really wants to know what happened and another doesn't want to hear it at all.
Because once he knows, he’ll have to add it to his list of ‘things I fucked up beyond repair’.
Of course he can’t avoid it forever. Sooner or later, he’ll have to face the truth. But honestly, he’s okay with learning it a little later. Especially if he hit someone – but no, better not go there.
A knock on the door relieves him of any further contemplations of whether or not he should call someone in. He perks up best as he can and focuses on the entrance. “Come in,” he hoarsely chokes out the two words.
It’s not a nurse, but a doctor who makes his way in. Tall, though not in the Moose-range. Dark hair, mussed into a daylight version of a bed-head. Professionally friendly smile, even though there is a hard edge around his mouth. Whether it is because Dean is a DUI-case or because it’s a natural kind of authority, he doesn’t know. He can’t really focus on it, either, because now he’s noticed the eyes. Blue like the deep sea, as if they can look right through him, look straight into his soul and see all of his sins. He shudders.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Winchester.”
He can’t look away from the eyes even as the voice rips through him. It’s much much darker than he expected. Dark and rough. The kind of voice you’d like to hear greeting you a lot less formally. The kind of voice you’d like to hear whispering things to you in the middle of the night. The kind of voice you’d like to lazily tell you ‘I love you’ when you wake up in the mornings.
Fuck. Where did that come from?
Using all his willpower, Dean rips his eyes away. Daydreams of this sort will only land him in more trouble than he already is in. Better stomp this down immediately. It’s not that he isn’t used to doing that with any feelings that he ever has.
When he finally thinks that he has a grip on the situation again, he gives the doctor his best smile, while pointedly avoiding his gaze.
“Good morning, Doctor....” He glances at the nametag, “... Novak.”
He can’t help it and his eyes flit up to the doctor’s face for a second. A small smile graces the hard edge of Doctor Novak’s mouth, or so Dean believes at least. Suddenly he thinks he would do a lot to see that smile more often.
“Thank you.” The answer is curt and when Dean finds it in him to look up again, the smile is replaced with the unhappy edge round the mouth again.
Oh yeah. Dean knows that look. It is a look that Sammy gives him, too. Is the look that says ‘I’m calm and friendly because I’m helping you, but you are an asshole and a fucktard and a drunk on top of that.’
Of course, Sammy wouldn’t use those words. Sammy would say ‘disappointed’. Same thing. Waves of guilt wash over him.
Now the doctor flips through the pages on the clipboard. His frown is getting deeper, even though he appears to just be skimming the pages. Finally, he closes the clipboard with a sigh. “Mr. Winchester, I'm glad you’re back with us but I’m not going to beat around the bush. This is pretty serious.”
The guilt intensifies. Still, he nods. “Don’t sugar-coat it. I need to hear it.”
The Doctor glances down at the chart in his hand and flips a page before meeting his eyes again and giving him a short nod. “You had a car accident, do you remember that?”
Dean nods in reply.
“Good. OK. You were brought into the emergency room at 3:45 am three days ago.”
Dean feels a cold chill… 3 days…
The doctor watches him carefully for a second and continues, apparently coming to the conclusion that Dean is able to hear more. “You received some pretty serious injuries as a result of the accident. You broke your collarbone and a rib, which punctured your spleen. Luckily, the damage was not severe enough to warrant removal but the bleeding was quite severe. You were extremely fortunate that we got to you in time.”
He meets Dean’s eyes again, conveying just how much weight that carried before continuing.
“Here’s the fun part. Your blood alcohol level was 0.28. Mr. Winchester,” his voice getting sterner.
Dean knows this tone well. This is the lecture he had coming to him. He swallows and turns his eyes away, guilt overcoming everything else.
“Mr. Winchester, I won’t comment any further on any personal problems that you may be having, but it’s a miracle you survived with only the injuries that you sustained.”
Dean nods slowly and catches himself staring at the doctor again.
“Do you have any further questions?”
His head is not right today, because the first question that comes to mind is ‘are you single?’ He cringes at the thought of accidentally saying these words out loud. Why in the hell is he even thinking this?
This guy is a doctor. Not in the best of circumstances would he go out with a washed up drunk like Dean Winchester. And these are far from the best circumstances. In fact, these are possibly the worst circumstances. A DUI case. No family, no visitors.
Dean looks down at his hands. The tremor is slight but he’s sure that the doctor has noticed it. It is his job, after all. God, Dean would kill for a drink to make this go away. Yeah. Great idea… He has no right to judge the doctor for seeing a waste of space and resources in him.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he ploughs on before his thoughts can drown him, “it’s just that, I... don't remember well... about what exactly happened....”
“I’d be surprised if you remembered anything at all,” the doctor says in a carefully measured voice.
Dean doesn’t look up, he doesn’t want to see the look of disappointment again. But still, he decides that it's better to hear this here and now from professionally friendly and also sexy Dr. Novak, who at least does his best not to show his disgust of Dean than from anybody else later.
“If you could… if you could just tell me whether I hit someone?” It sounds desperate and urgent and Dean closes his eyes for a moment, as if that might help to avoid the inevitable.
There is a pause, a hesitation, and Dr. Novak’s voice is a tad less professionally cool and a tad more compassionate when he answers, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Winchester. I wasn’t on duty when you came in. I don’t have the details. You’ll have to wait for the police officers. They will want to talk to you sometime in the next few days.”
Dean clutches his fingers hard. He’s dreaming the warmth in the voice because he wants to hear it. Because he would listen to this guy read the dictionary to him. Because he is desperate to hear actual warmth in a voice directed at him.
Dean wishes he could stop the thoughts running through his head.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, anything to make you more comfortable?” Dr. Novak asks and Dean manages to get himself together long enough to smile.
Of course he makes the mistake to look directly into those blue eyes, then. He wants to believe it so desperately, that the eyes have changed, just a little bit, a deeper shade of blue, a worry about his well-being, genuine care about him. Even admitting it, how bad he wants someone to share his worries, his dreams, his life, makes him crave alcohol and he bites his lips before he can admit that.
Suddenly he doesn't think he can stand being alone in this room. He thinks he is either going to jump out of the window or find the next bar in his hospital gown. Take your pick what’s worse there. So he thinks hard and fast, but the only question he can think of is, “How long do I have to stay here?” That won’t get him more than a few seconds, but a few seconds are better than nothing.
This time, the doctor truly smiles and while it’s still a quiet thing it's such a radiant smile that Dean can't help but smile, too, which is weird, because he doesn’t smile. Not anymore.
“Of course... I'm sorry, I must have forgotten to tell you. The injury to your spleen is going to require a stay for another 10 days, maybe more. It depends on how fast you can rehab.”
Rehab, huh? Dean doesn’t like that word much. Quick, ask something else to get away from that word. “So I figure we will see each other quite often?”
Dean wants to kick himself immediately. But to his surprise, a little chuckle fills the room and there is no offense in the other man’s voice, “Yes, Mr. Winchester, I figure that, too.”
And right in this moment Dean knows that he is doomed if he lets this feeling grow. He has to stop it, right now, he has to get as far away from Dr. Novak as he can.
But instead he blurts out, “Call me Dean. I hate this formal stuff.”
Well done, Winchester. That's a good way to get rid of him.
Dr. Novak frowns and stares at Dean for a long time. Dean fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze. Eyes that can look into his soul. He shivers. He knows the answer before the doctor responds. “I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but I like to keep all of my relationships with patients strictly professional.”
“I understand,” Dean mutters and curses himself for having said anything at all.
He only notices that he has his eyes squeezed shut again, when something warm touches his arm. Dr. Novak has rested his hand lightly on Dean’s arm. “You should rest now. I’ll come by on my rounds later today. Until then, the call button is right there and you are in good hands with our nurses.”
Dean just nods and keeps staring at the hand on his arm. Long fingers, strong, but the touch is gentle. “Thank you,” is the only thing he finally allows himself to say, the only thing he trusts won’t ruin anything else.
“It’s alright, nothing to thank me for, it’s my job.” A slight increase in pressure as the doctor squeezes his arm lightly, then the warmth is gone and Dean is alone.
Yep, the tremor is still there. Not a good sign. It means it isn’t just nerves. It is the fact that he’s drying out. Dean knows that he is screwed when that only makes him want a drink harder. No dice of course, not in the hospital. Unless he gets up and goes to that bar that’s bound to be around here somewhere… He looks at his arm where the IV steadily drips into him.
There is a question he could have asked to keep Mr. I-am-so-professional here for a little while longer. What’s in this IV? It’s an innocent question, too, unless you count in his natural gravitation towards addiction. If this is morphine, he might end up double screwed. And judging by the heaviness in his limbs, the slow fogging of his mind, it might well be.
Alright, morphine instead of bar then. He can deal with that. Possibly. Maybe. Sleep is good anyway, he figures and closes his eyes again, resolutely blocking out both the future and the past.
.
