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He had one vamp down, thanks to dead man’s blood, and was just about to shoot another when something fell from the rafters, driving him to the ground, and chomped down on his neck. Hard.
“Dean!” Sam gasped, just managing to blast the second vamp from below, right before it would’ve jumped his brother. But it lost him precious seconds of defense. By the time Sam tried to roll out from under the attacker on his back, he was already fighting off weakness from blood loss.
Still, he managed to jab the stock of the shotgun back into the bloodsucker, making the creature gasp and release. But before Sam could manage to capitalize on that moment of freedom, the vamp grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head to the floor.
Things went…gray.
The searing pain returned to his neck, along with an overwhelming wave of lassitude.
“Dean.” It was a mumble now.
The weight on his back was suddenly gone. Sam blinked heavily as there were thuds and growls around him. Then something round and shaggy hit the ground in front of him with a wet plop. Dead eyes stared at him from the severed head.
Sam stared back, bewildered.
“Hey. Sam. Lemme see.”
There was pressure on his neck again, but not sharp like before. His hair was brushed aside, then a hand slid under his aching head, fingers exploring. Dean, it was Dean, wrapping something around his bleeding neck, checking his—ow—that spot right there above his ear that beat with pain.
Dean muttered a curse. “He got you good. Sammy, you with me?” Another hand encircled his wrist, rested on his chest. How many hands did Dean have?
“Deee…” His mouth felt loose, not under his control. Like his arms, which flopped against his brother. His teeth were chattering—why was he so cold?
“Yeah, I got you. Hang on, little brother.”
Sam’s vision cleared for a moment to see Dean, a trickle of blood on his cheek, face grim as he leaned over Sam. Then the pressure on Sam’s neck increased, squeezing a gasp from him, and his vision tunneled again.
“Stay with me, Sam.” He was being jostled, and it hurt. “Hey, c’mon now, open your eyes. Look at me. Sam?”
He wanted to. Dean sounded worried. And Sam wanted him to stop what he was doing because it spiked his own worry.
“Sam!”
But gray was fading to black, the pain to numbness, and Sam didn’t have a choice.
He was pretty sure he remembered a hospital. The whiteness, the distant beeps and murmurs, the antiseptic smell. Someone in a white coat. Dean with a white face. Feeling awful, sick and pinned down by exhaustion and cold. Someone squeezing his hand.
Darkness. A lot of darkness.
And then there was motion and cool air on his face, and Dean and the Impala and Dean and more motion and Dean and…
Sam woke up with a groan. Blinked at the dim light and the decidedly non-hospital walls. He lifted his head, flinching when that pulled at something tight and burning.
“Easy.” Dean appeared, bending down in his field of vision, hand against Sam’s chest. “No pulling stitches out—you don’t have any blood left to spare, Pincushion.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to assess his body, but it was hard to think. And then it was hard to breathe as hot bile climbed up his throat.
“Yeah, there’s that, too.” Dean was already rolling him, one hand on his shoulder, the other shoving something to his lips. Sam retched miserably into the basin while Dean patted his back, pushed his hair back. “Gross. Okay, easy, it’ll pass in a minute,” Dean soothed.
It did, but Sam was even more wrung out than before, lying there gasping like a beached fish, no strength to even roll back.
Dean offered him a straw and a blunt, “Rinse and spit.” He did. Sam could feel his brother’s assessing gaze. “You with me now? Sam?”
“’es.” Sam managed a short nod, still trying to catch his breath. Why was he so winded?
The bed dipped, Dean’s hip nudging against Sam’s chest as Dean sat on the edge of the bed. It felt…steadying, as Sam leaned into him and tried to get his body back under control.
Dean checked something on Sam’s neck, then the side of his head, and finally pressed a hand against his forehead. His brother’s skin felt cool against Sam’s.
“Yeah, you’re still running a little fever. Antibiotics should be kicking in soon.”
Sam made a noise he hoped sounded like a query.
“That bloodsucker just about drained you dry, man. You were going into shock—took a few days to get you stabilized. Bet you feel about ten kinds of lousy, huh?” He was rubbing Sam’s back in slow, hypnotic strokes, and Sam tried to focus on that instead of the pain. “Sick from blood loss, sick from transfusions—you got it coming and going. Oh, and can’t forget the concussion.”
His head throbbed and his stomach gurgled. Sam swallowed convulsively.
“Here.” A cold spoon pressed against his lips. He reluctantly accepted it, and relaxed as the ice melted on his tongue, beating back the nausea. “It’s gonna be a couple days before you can keep stuff down, so just try to sleep it off, huh? We got the room for a week, and I’ll make sure you stay topped off.” There was the sound of plastic rustling, and Sam cracked his eyes open to take in the IV he hadn’t noticed before, the stiffness of his arm.
Sam licked his lips. “There…there was…”
“Vamps are taken care of. Saved two teens. We got nowhere else to be now, and your only job is to rest and get better. You hear me? Sammy?”
Sam sighed. There was something looming, research he had to do… But right now he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and every thought slipped away. Rest was…good. “Bossy,” he whispered.
Dean snorted, tweaked a lock of his hair. Then he pulled the blanket up to Sam’s neck and continued the back rub. “Go to sleep, bitch,” His voice was low, too.
Sam tried to form the answer, but he was pretty sure he went to sleep before he succeeded.
He slept. A lot.
Sometimes the pain dragged him up out of sleep, and sometimes the nausea did. Dean would be there with pills and bottles of Gatorade or cups of broth and the emesis basin clearly nicked from the hospital. Sam swallowed and spat, tried to get up and failed, tried to talk to Dean and somewhat succeeded.
“Y’all right?”
“Dude, I’m fine. You’re the one who got sucked dry. In the non-fun way.”
“…what?”
“Yeah, go back to sleep, Sammy.”
A few times he wobbled out to the bathroom with Dean’s help, first peeing, then throwing up from all the movement. Twofer, Dean smirked, but he was gentle as he mopped Sam’s face.
And then Sam slept some more.
But each time the burn in his neck and the throb in his head and the soreness all through his body seemed less. His heart no longer felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest, and the queasiness and dizziness eased. The IV finally disappeared.
Sam finally woke up feeling almost peaceful. Still exhausted and weak, but not gasping or moaning or retching, so, yay him. Sam cracked his eyes open and sought out Dean.
His brother was on the other bed, and he looked like he had most of the Impala’s trunk’s contents spread around him. Each vial or bag or box of ammo he picked up, he put in different piles, then wrote something in the notebook in his lap.
Sam watched him quietly for a while, taking advantage of Dean not knowing he was being watched. Sam would’ve thought he’d take advantage of the downtime to catch up on some movies, or read the latest Stephen King, or even tune up Baby. It was strange to see Dean so…domestic.
“How’s the stomach?” Dean asked, eyes still on his task.
So much for fooling Dean. His brother had probably heard Sam’s breathing change, as Sam would’ve in his place. The perks of living together 24/7. “Staying in place,” Sam murmured. “Inventory?”
Dean’s head lifted at that. He looked tired but not particularly stressed, which told Sam everything he needed to know about his own condition. “Yeah, figured it was a good time to see what needed restocking.” He held up a baggie of…something brown. “Time for a supply run on a couple of herbs.” Dean set his notebook down and climbed off the bed. “How’re you feeling? Getting your strength back?”
Good question. Sam tried to sit up…and made it about halfway before he started going down again.
“Whoa, whoa.” Dean grabbed his arm and lifted him to sitting. “No marathons yet for you, dude.”
Sam dropped his head, fighting the dizziness. “How long’s it been?” he asked after sucking in a breath, grimacing as he pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes.
“Since the vamps? Uh…” Dean was obviously doing a quick calculation. So, not so long that he had counted the days of Sam’s recovery, but long enough that he’d lost track. “Six days. Almost four in the hospital.”
Sam looked up, startled. Almost a week? He remembered maybe a few hours out of all that. “Six days?”
Dean sat down next to him. “Dude, you were over half-empty. And you were still bleeding when I got you to the hospital. For a while, they weren’t even sure you’d make it.” Dean’s jaw set, eyes momentarily bleak.
Sam blew out a breath, leaned over to knock his shoulder into Dean’s. “Sorry,” he said earnestly.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dean said immediately, shaking his head. As Sam didn’t—couldn’t quite—sit up straight again, Dean hooked an arm around him. “You got jumped. And you still managed to save my bacon. Just don’t do it again.”
Sam snorted softly. It was ridiculous how tired he felt after six days of mostly sleeping. “No promises,” he murmured.
“You always were a stubborn kid,” Dean said fondly. “Hey, don’t go back to sleep yet, you should have some juice, see if you can eat something.”
Well, he made it through the juice, at least—best thing he’d ever tasted—but fell asleep before Dean finished microwaving…whatever.
The next time—Sam thought, anyway—he made it to his feet, with considerable help from Dean, and to the bathroom. He had to be doing better: his pee no longer looked like apple juice.
Dean got him to the table after, a first. Sam had an actual piece of toast before he started to tilt over.
His brother took advantage of Sam being up to take out the stitches in his neck, and Sam managed to stay awake until it was over and Dean helped him get flat again. That was progress, right?
He woke with a cry, teeth ripping into his neck again, blood quickly soaking his shirt.
“Hey, hey, Sam. Sam, listen to me, you’re safe, okay? You’re in the motel, you’re safe.”
Sam gasped, flailing, arm striking something before it was grabbed, pressed down.
“Sammy, it’s me, it’s Dean. You’re okay. You hear me? You’re safe. We’re safe.”
“Dean…”
“Slow, easy breaths. That’s it. Just a nightmare, Sammy.”
The blind panic started to recede, and Sam could breathe again. Still sucking in air, he looked around the dim room, his sleep-disheveled brother leaning over him. He could feel Dean kneading his shoulders, smelled the bleach in the motel linens, tasted the sweat that he licked off his lips. Blinked hard as he searched Dean’s face. “Yeah.” He nodded hard. “Yeah. M’okay. I’m okay.”
“Yeah, that would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t shakin’ like a leaf,” Dean said, patting his shoulder as he let it go. He sat back on the edge of the bed. “Vamps?”
Sam shut his eyes, nodded. His hand strayed to the gauze still taped to his neck.
Dean intercepted his hand, squeezed it before setting it down. “Leave it alone, Sammy.” Man, he was so gentle; Sam must’ve freaked him out. “You know the drill—gonna take a while for your head to work through it. Big brain like yours, probably take even longer.”
Sam smiled shakily. “Shut up.” He wasn’t too wiped out to feel embarrassed, but Dean was making it easy for him, as usual.
Dean’s hand was on his chest; Sam wasn’t even sure when he put it there. Sam felt his heart’s hammering slow against that steady palm. “You feel like some TV?”
Sam glanced over again at Dean’s rumpled bed, his brother’s sleep clothes, the impressive case of bed head. And nodded. “Yeah.”
Dean got up to grab the remote and nudged him over. “Creature Feature should’ve just started,” he commented as he flicked on the TV and helped Sam sit up and get comfortable.
It was The Blob, and Sam dozed in and out, sometimes on Dean’s shoulder, but was awake to see Steve McQueen save the day.
Dean was the one who fell asleep before the end this time. He looked exhausted, so Sam didn’t bother him, just rolled onto his side facing Dean before he also fell asleep.
Honest-to-God solid food. Well, mostly. A vanilla shake and chicken noodle soup and crackers. It tasted awesome.
“Stomach still feel okay? Not gonna upchuck all over the bed or anything, right? We’re outta clean clothes…”
“No, Dean,” Sam said, overly patient because it was the third time Dean had asked.
“Good. That’s good.” Dean was tucking into his own lunch, which looked like a meatball sub with extra sauce and fries with ketchup and a strawberry shake. It was a lot of red.
Sam swallowed; maybe his stomach was still a little iffy. He set the half-eaten shake down and yawned.
“You gonna take another nap?” Dean sounded amused as he watched Sam from across the table.
“No,” Sam said petulantly, then yawned again. Crap.
“Hey, if that’s what you need, that’s what you need.”
Sam shook his head. If he didn’t start moving soon he’d really become weak. “I could sleep in the car,” he offered.
“No way are you throwing up in my car.”
Sam’s mouth twisted. “Dude, I haven’t thrown up in…days.” He actually had no idea how many.
“Yeah, because you’ve been lying flat in a bed that’s not moving and doesn’t fold you in half, Sasquatch,” Dean said, pointing at him. “We’re not messin’ around with this—we’ll hit the road when you’re good.”
Sam chewed his lip a moment. “You could go ahead and I’ll catch up. I’m mostly just gonna sleep, and Bobby was waiting on us to—”
“Sam.” Dean’s tone shut him up. Sam looked up to see Dean set his sandwich down, glaring. “You almost died last week. I sat in that hospital for two days not knowin’ if you were gonna pull through. It’s been a week now, and a toddler would still beat you in hand-to-hand. If you think I’m going to leave you here, a sitting duck, just so I can hit the road, you got your bell rung harder than I thought.” He paused. “Where are you in such a big hurry to get to, anyway, huh?”
There was Bobby, but it seemed counterintuitive to push back recovery just to go someplace to recover. If Sam knew his brother, Dean had kept Bobby updated on how they were doing. Sam wouldn’t be ready yet to hunt for a few more days, and he himself would have preferred Dean not hunt alone. So there was really no reason to hurry…besides Dean not handling downtime very well. If he’d already done inventory and no doubt cleaned the weapons, he’d be bouncing off the walls soon.
But. Dean could have deep wells of patience when it concerned Sam. Watching Sam in the ICU must have shaken him badly, like the reverse had done Sam in the past. And so far, Sam hadn’t seen any sign of his brother making excuses to go out or being disappointed that Sam needed more recovery time. Dean was even the one who was pushing for them to stay longer. Maybe he needed time, too?
So Sam was going to have to take this at face value. At least until he could stay awake for longer than two hours, or make it to the bathroom without swaying or pausing to rest. He’d keep an eye out for any signs of Dean coming down with cabin fever. But Dean really did seem okay and, truth be told, a few more days of rest sounded really good to Sam.
His mouth twisted and he raised and dropped a hand. “You wanna play something? Cards, cribbage?” An unspoken, Sorry.
Dean grinned. “I’ll get the board.” An unspoken, Don’t be an idiot.
Sam measured time by meals and how much effort it took to get up and his healing injuries instead of by watch and calendar.
They played not only poker and Go Fish and Crazy Eights, but also cribbage and hangman and the old Monopoly and Scrabble and Clue board games they found in the closet. Sam’s better vocabulary was closely matched by Dean’s more varied one, and Dean somehow always managed to win Clue.
Finally getting to sit outside in the late-summer heat was a treat, and soon Dean was nudging him to take walks, too. They went window shopping in town, and Sam bought a book he saw Dean eyeing, while Dean pretended not to notice. Christmas was still a few months away, but as kids they often made up holidays when they wanted to give each other something, and Sam had a suspicion Brother’s Day was just around the corner.
Other times when he woke, Dean was watching TV, or working on his or Dad’s journal, or talking outside on the phone. Dean picked him up an iPod from somewhere, and Sam filled it with podcasts as well as music. And, just like when they were kids, there was a pile of stolen library books—Agatha Christies—beside the bed that Sam would insist they return before they left town.
Dean finally did peel himself away from Sam’s side to give some attention to his car, it felt like Sam had passed some kind of recovery milestone. They would surely be on the road again soon. Sam was ready to go.
Dean wasn’t pushing, though, and the restlessness Sam kept expecting never came. His big brother had been anxious before about Sam’s developing gifts, wanting to figure them out, fix them in some way. But now he seemed more than content with time off, watching Sam only to make sure he didn’t overdo it and he was healing okay, not because he was worried Sam would start a fire with his brain. That helped Sam feel better in its own way, too.
Over a dinner of unusually good ribs and potato salad and watermelon—Dean was still getting some of his favorites—Sam suddenly spoke up.
“I think we should head out tomorrow.”
Dean eyed him a moment, then responded just as mildly, “Okay.”
“Think that weird case in Wisconsin is still there?”
Dean takes a big bite out of a roll and said around the food, “Last I heard.”
“All right.”
They kept eating.
The emesis basin got packed into the trunk, along with an extra pillow. And Sam was pretty sure there were about ten bottles of Gatorade stuffed into the cooler that usually held beer. There was a bag of anti-emetics, Pepto, painkillers, and antibiotic cream in a bag on the back seat, on top of Sam’s lightweight jacket. Dean taking care of him without ever asking if he felt okay or was sure about leaving.
Sam popped in the gag “smoking cassette tape” he’d also bought. Ten minutes later, Dean was cursing up a streak and tossing the trick tape out the window while Sam howled with laughter.
There were a lot of ways to say thank you.