Chapter Text
A phone call from an old family friend asking for help lands the brothers in Spokane, fighting a particularly ticked off poltergeist.
It goes to show how screwed up their lives are lately that this feels like a vacation.
Mr. Walters is an old military buddy of their late father’s, who claims he “never really bought into all that ghost crap”. Until now, when the new home he’s purchased seems to have come with an invisible and unwanted guest. Sam and Dean ask him and his wife to vacate the property while they set about banishing the angry squatter.
It feels nice, Sam thinks, as they prepare bags of herbs side by side on the hood of the Impala, to go on a straightforward hunt with his brother again. The drive here from the bunker, while brutal in length, reminded him of simpler times, when the world hadn’t faced any apocalypses and neither of them knew what Hell felt like. When they hadn’t hurt each other so badly they were afraid there was no going back. Though, Sam thinks tentatively, things aren’t so bad in that department right now, either.
Dean seems content, too, in his element, though he’s been keeping a close eye on Sam since they got to the house, probably remembering the last poltergeist they had faced in their childhood home, what feels now like a lifetime ago.
Overall, though. Things are good.
And, for once, they stay good. The hunt goes off without a hitch, and they call the new homeowners back to their now pest-free home after only one night. Mr. Walters is grateful there’s only been minimal property damage—the poltergeist hadn’t gone completely without a fight—and Dean is grateful for the homemade thank-you pie from Mrs. Walters.
They pack up shortly after to head back to the bunker. As much as Sam feels nostalgic sometimes for being on the road with his brother, and as much as it took some getting used to, it’s nice to have a home base to return to. Though, really, it’s never been the where that Sam calls home, but rather the who. And with Dean next to him in the driver’s seat singing horribly off-key, this is as close to home as Sam thinks he’s felt in a while.
They stop at a gas station in Montana, and Sam gets out to stretch his legs while Dean fills up the car. It’s a tourist town, and there are a few people milling about inside, pondering over souvenirs.
Sam has crossed the country so many times that that sort of stuff became uninteresting a while ago, though he pokes around anyway to kill the time. Maybe he should get a poster or something to hang up in his room. It would probably make Dean happy.
“Sam. Psst. Hey.”
Speaking of Dean, his brother is at the other end of the shop, waving Sam over. He’s holding a local newspaper, and when Sam gets closer he can read the title, Strange Stabbings Reported at Mount Glacier National Park.
“Our kind of thing?” Sam asks, skimming the details of the article. Widespread area of attacks, no suspects, conflicting witness statements…
Dean shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe. What do you think?”
Sam squashes down the warm feeling in his chest that insists on cropping up whenever Dean asks for his input. It was always a stupid little brother trait that he never managed to grow out of, though in more recent years it stems from knowing that Dean still cares what he thinks, still wants his opinion. Still trusts him.
“We’re in the area anyway,” Sam offers, “might as well check it out.”
“Awesome,” Dean grins at him.
Maybe Sam’s not the only one feeling nostalgic for these old-school hunts.
Dean’s a little less gung-ho when he realizes venturing into the national park is going to involve hiking through the woods, and, depending how fast they find anything—if they find anything—maybe even camping.
“Dude,” Dean protests as they stuff gear into backpacks and lace up hiking boots, “what if it starts raining?”
“You won’t melt,” Sam teases, “you’re not made of sugar. Though, with how much of Mrs. Walters’ pie you ate…”
Sam avoids the elbow Dean drives towards his ribs with practiced ease.
“Shuddup,” Dean mutters, though he’s smiling.
They have an educated guess of what they might be searching for, just not any great idea of how to find it. A quick stop to the local library to use the wifi and browse local archives, as well as one witness in the news article describing their attacker as “three feet tall, naked, and spiky”, leads Sam to believe with some certainty they might be facing a Pukwudgie.
“A pucky-what now?” Dean had asked when Sam showed him the page in a dusty old book.
“Pukwudgie,” Sam corrected, turning the book more to show his brother the photo of the stout little creature.
“Porcupine troll guy,” Dean nodded sagely, “got it.”
And so, here they are, in the shadow of the Rockies, leaving the Impala behind to continue on foot.
Dean looks wistfully over his shoulder at the car. “Be back soon, Baby!” he calls.
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes fondly.
They investigate the areas cordoned off with police tape first, though there isn’t much to see, just some trampled grass and broken twigs. There are multiple sites, starting not far from the park entrance and gradually moving deeper into the wilderness, and it’s only on the edge of the last crime scene, about an hour’s hike in, that Dean spots a footprint.
He whistles to catch Sam’s attention, and Sam crouches to study the print close up. To the untrained eye, it would probably be easily mistaken as something left behind by the natural fauna. To the Winchesters, it looks like something a little less natural.
“Like a duck with claws,” Dean observes. “You think it’s our guy?”
“Definitely doesn’t look like any wild animal I've ever seen,” Sam says. “Are there any more tracks?”
There aren’t many, but there aren’t none, either. Sam lets his brother take point on following the creature’s trail—Dean’s always been better at that kind of stuff, anyway—and mans the map and compass instead.
Hours later, when they’re officially miles and miles away from civilization, the incline of the trail getting steeper and steeper, Sam notices Dean start to slow just a little, favoring his right leg.
Sam’s had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that Dean’s leg has been giving him grief since he broke it in that tangle with the Leviathan. He knows Dean cut his cast off too early—to save Sam’s ass, no less—and might just now be dealing with the consequences of a healed, but maybe not-quite-properly-healed fracture.
Sam grimaces in sympathy.
“Let’s take a break,” he calls ahead.
That Dean doesn’t deny him is all the proof Sam needs to turn his suspicion into fact.
They sit next to each other on a fallen log, sipping from water bottles and munching on trail mix in comfortable silence. Sam pretends not to notice Dean trying to casually stretch out his sore leg.
“There’s more tracks up ahead,” Dean says. “They look fresher. I think we’re getting closer.”
Sam nods.
It’s not long before they set off again. The trail gets so steep they’re practically scaling a cliff, before it slowly levels out again into a large outcropping blanketed with trees.
“A lot more tracks around here,” Dean points them out. “Are we sure there’s only one of these things?”
“We should still be careful, but the lore says they travel alone,” Sam offers.
“That means we’re probably close to its home, then. Stay sharp, it could be hiding anywhere.”
A snapping branch has them both pulling their guns, standing shoulder to shoulder as they try to pinpoint where the sound came from.
Sam palms the grip of his pistol, peering through the trees. They’re armed with just regular rounds for the Pukwudgie, but he’s got some silver and iron stowed in a jacket pocket on Dean’s insistence, just in case they’re dealing with something else.
This time, though, Sam’s research is spot-on.
The Pukwudgie ambles through the underbrush and into sight, raising itself to a not very impressive full height and brandishing a tiny spear. It flicks its long, crooked ears at them, before its spiked face breaks into a sneer.
“You’re one ugly little bastard, aren’t you?” Dean tells it, and fires.
No sooner as the shot gone off than the creature vanishes into thin air with a shrill cry.
“Dean, behind you!” Sam barely has time to call out before the Pukwudgie has reappeared.
Dean curses and whirls around, firing off another shot. The Pukwudgie blips out of sight again before the shot can land.
The brothers shift back to back, backpacks brushing against each other and guns raised, scanning the trees.
“Where are you, you little creep?” Dean mutters.
A low whistle is all the warning Sam has to duck out of the way before the spear is whizzing past his head. The Pukwudgie materializes between two trees and screeches at them before it turns and runs, waddling at surprising speed on spiky little legs.
Sam and Dean give chase, ducking through the trees to try and get a clear shot. Sam fires at it once, but again, before the shot hits, the creature blinks out of sight and reappears a few feet further away.
They follow it out of the trees and back along the steep rock outcropping, shale scattering underfoot and tumbling over the cliff edge.
Every time they fire at it, the thing disappears, its shrieks turning to laughter, taunting them.
It vanishes again near the edge of the cliff with Dean hot on its tail, only to pop up again directly behind him.
“Dean!” Sam shouts in warning, but it’s too late.
Time slows as Sam watches the stout little creature shove at his brother’s legs, its mouth twisted in a pointy sneer.
Three things happen in quick succession.
Sam fires.
The Pukwudgie explodes into dust with a final screech.
And Dean topples over the steep drop.
“DEAN!” Sam yells, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach.
He scrambles to the rock ledge where Dean went over, uncaring of the Pukwudgie dust that coats his shoes.
Terrified and gulping back bile, Sam peers over the edge.
Thirty feet down, Dean is sprawled against the rocky ground.
He’s not moving.
Sam forces himself to pull his eyes away in order to find a way down to him.
The cliff is steep and footing unstable, and Sam nearly twists an ankle three times in his hurried descent. His heart hammers in his ears as he picks his way down. This is taking too long. Dean is hurt. Dean needs help.
Dean wasn’t moving.
“Please,” Sam whispers to anyone or anything willing to listen.
This can’t be it.
“Dean,” Sam gasps when he finally reaches the bottom, “Dean!”
Up close, Dean looks worse, his face ashen and already bruised, blood streaking from his nose and limbs askew. There’s blood on his jeans just below the knee and his leg sticks out at an odd angle.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, falling to his knees on the unforgiving ground at his brother’s side.
His hands hover over Dean’s body, scared to touch, until he settles for lightly tapping Dean on the cheek.
His skin is cool and damp, and for a second Sam fears the worst until he feels a slight puff of air against his hand. Sam’s own breath punches out of his chest in relief. Dean is hurt, hurt bad, but he’s alive.
“Oh, thank God. Dean, hey. Hey. Can you hear me?” Sam reaches for his pulse and finds it thready and fast.
Sam catches a brief glimpse of green as Dean’s eyes blink open before quickly squeezing shut again, and Dean groans, starting to shift uncomfortably.
“Easy, easy,” Sam coaxes, placing his hands on either side of Dean’s head to try to keep him from moving too much. “Try to stay still.”
Dean groans again and squirms, letting out a sharp cry when the movement jostles his injured leg.
“Stay still,” Sam repeats. “You’re hurt, Dean, you gotta stay still.”
Dean squints up at him, a flicker of comprehension passing over his face before it’s replaced with pain.
“Sam,” he rasps, jaw clenched, lips moving over red-stained teeth.
“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, I’m right here, buddy. Talk to me, man, what hurts?”
“M’leg,” Dean slurs, looking up at Sam with unfocused eyes, “S’mmy, I hurt m’leg.”
“Your leg,” Sam echoes, glancing down at the red patch under Dean’s knee that’s steadily soaking through his jeans, “right, okay. What else?”
“Dunno,” Dean mumbles. “Sammy, m’leg.”
“I know, I know. Hang on, okay? I gotta find your backpack.”
In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to keep most of the first aid supplies in Dean’s bag. He’s obviously parted ways with it at some point during his fall, and Sam looks around frantically to try and spot it on the rocks. A glint of silver catches his eye.
“Stay here,” he tells Dean, patting him delicately on the shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
The silver he saw was the sun glinting off Dean’s gun. His pack lies just ahead of it, and Sam collects both before quickly returning to Dean’s side.
Dean’s face is still pinched in pain and horrifically pale, but he seems to have rallied himself a little by the time Sam gets back.
“Hey,” Sam says. “Doin’ okay?”
Dean nods weakly as Sam takes a pair of shears to the bottom of his jeans.
“D’we get it?” Dean mumbles. “The…the puke wedgie?”
“Pukwudgie,” Sam corrects absently, “yeah, man, it’s dead.”
He slices the jeans up to Dean’s knee in one quick motion and sucks in a faltering breath at the sight.
“‘S’it bad?” Dean asks.
“It’s, um, it’s not good.” Sam swallows thickly.
Slowly, with a lot of effort and despite Sam’s protests, Dean props himself up on an elbow and looks down at his leg.
“Fuck,” he curses, face turning impossibly whiter, “oh, fuck, oh, shit.”
There’s quite a bit of blood seeping from mangled tissue, and underneath all that, stained crimson and protruding sharply, is jagged bone.
Dean swears again and writhes in place, fingers scraping in the dirt.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam tries to soothe, grabbing the hem of his jacket to keep him in place. “Sit still, you’ll make it worse.”
“It is not fucking okay, Sam,” Dean wheezes, eyes blown wide and darting around, “there are parts outside that are supposed to be inside, that is not okay!”
He’s shocky, and getting worse. The borderline hysterical tone, combined with the pallor and racing heartbeat is enough to tell Sam, let alone the fact that he’s just fallen from the equivalent of a two story house.
“Dean,” Sam places himself directly in Dean’s line of sight to keep his attention, “you gotta calm down, man. You’re gonna be okay, but you gotta let me wrap that leg, alright? It’s bleeding too much.”
Dean swallows and nods, shutting his eyes tightly. Sam pulls the bandage materials out of their med kit.
“Sorry,” Sam apologizes in advance. It’s going to hurt.
“Jus’ do it.”
Sam doesn’t have the skills or tools to properly set such a bad break, but he tries to arrange the leg as straight as possible before tightly wrapping the damaged flesh and bone.
Dean curses him out the whole time, back arching off the ground, good leg kicking uselessly at the dirt. When it’s done, he slumps back, exhausted, his breathing ragged, groaning with each exhale.
“Okay,” Sam says, assessing the bandage job with a satisfied nod. “Now we just need to get out of here.”
“And how’re you plannin’ t’do that?” Dean pants, slowly regaining a little composure. “I can’t walk, Sam. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Sam looks at the rough terrain around them. They’re surrounded by mountain and trees, and the trail they took in wasn’t exactly smooth. He pulls his phone from his pocket. No service.
Castiel comes to mind next, but there’s been radio silence from the angel since he returned to heaven for some “important business” Sam isn’t privy to, and he isn’t rewarded with anything when he sends out a prayer for help.
Dean must have had the same thought, because he tells Sam, “Cas isn’ answerin’. Take the trail back. Go get help.”
Sam shakes his head. “No. I’m not leaving you here.”
He doesn’t want to leave Dean alone that long. Already, there are spots of blood striking through the bandage on his leg, and he’s looking paler by the minute. And besides, the sun would be setting by the time Sam even made it back to civilization, the temperatures dropping to freezing. Dean is already starting to shiver.
Sam flips open his phone again, frowning at the lack of bars.
“I’m going to get to higher ground, try and get a signal,” he decides aloud.
Dean isn’t listening; whatever clarity he had briefly is now evaporated. He gazes hazily up at the blue sky, and if Sam looks hard enough he can imagine that Dean’s pupils are a little uneven.
A head injury is pretty much a given, but that doesn’t mean Sam is happy about it.
“Dean,” he calls softly, leaning over him so Dean can see him better. “Dean, hey. Still doing okay?”
Dean looks around anxiously, confused, before he settles on Sam. “Sammy?”
“Yeah, I’m here, big brother.” Sam smooths a hand over his hair on instinct. It’s matted with blood that’s trickling from a cut on the crown of his head. “Listen, I gotta go call for help, okay? I need you to wait here for me, can you do that?”
Dean just stares at him, a patina of sweat beading his forehead. His voice is small, nervous, when he asks, “You’re comin’ back, though, right?”
Sam’s heart just about shatters at the uncharacteristic show of fear, and it strengthens his resolve to get help, now.
“I promise,” he assures Dean, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Just hang in there.”
He leaves Dean his gun just in case there's anything else lurking in the woods, and begins the climb back up the cliffside to higher ground.
He checks his phone at the top where Dean fell, but there’s still no signal. Sam follows the trail higher, climbing each outcropping he comes across, and when there’s still no signal and nowhere else to go, he starts scaling the nearest tree.
This might have been a bad idea, he thinks as the branches sway beneath him in the wind. The last thing he needs is to fall, too. But when he’s climbed as high as he dares and pulls out his phone again, he’s rewarded with a single bar.
The reception is choppy, but he’s able to get the point across and give the operator their approximate location, thankful for once for Dad’s orienteering drills when he was younger.
A search and rescue chopper is going to be dispatched, Sam is promised, and should reach them within a half hour. Sam gets off the phone, then, in favor of returning to his brother.
Dean is in the same spot he left him, thank God, and he gives Sam a watery smile when he catches sight of him.
“Y’came back?” Dean asks hopefully.
Sam tells himself it’s just the head injury talking, that Dean doesn’t really believe Sam would abandon him here.
“‘Course I came back,” he says. Then, “I got a call through. Help’s on the way.”
Dean doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes again and leans his head back against the ground. He’s still shivering.
“You cold?” Sam asks.
Dean shrugs noncommittally. “Little bit. ‘S’okay.”
Sam pulls off his jacket to drape it over him, kicking himself for not thinking to do it sooner. It’s not much, but it’s all he’s got. He sits crosslegged next to Dean, as close as he can get without putting pressure on injuries, in hopes that some of his body heat will transfer, too.
“Sammy?” Dean whispers.
“Yeah?”
“You still there?”
“Yeah, Dean. I’m still here.” He doesn’t point out that answering the first question already also answered the second.
“‘Kay. Good.”
With nothing else to do but wait, Sam checks the bandage—still holding, but more bloody—and puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s arm every time he notices his jaw clenched against the pain.
“Help is coming,” Sam reminds him, just as much for his own sake as his brother’s, “just hang in there.”
“‘S the same leg as last time. Maybe same place, too,” Dean mumbles, his eyes still closed. His head lolls against the hard ground, and Sam tucks a hand underneath to pillow it.
“Last time…” Sam wracks his brain, then feels like an idiot for not remembering when he was just thinking about it while they hiked. “You mean at Bobby’s? With the Leviathan?”
“Mhm. Looks like it’s broke worse now, though.”
Sam’s memories of the specifics from last time Dean broke his leg are a little spotty. He never saw the injury until after it was casted, and he himself had been dealing with the mother of all concussions at the time. Not to mention the constant Lucifer hallucinations.
“Last time sucked really bad,” Dean sighs. He blinks a couple times, eyes glassy and unfocused.
Sam remembers Dean being laid up on the couch in Rufus’ cabin, bored out of his mind watching soap operas and miserable with pain. Busy fighting his own demons, Sam hadn’t exactly done a lot to help him other than the occasional grocery run.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says.
“‘S’okay,” Dean says, voice still not much more than a low, disjointed mumble. “Wasn’ your fault. They…they were tryin’ t’kill you, in the hospital. Pretendin’ they were doctors. Doped me up ‘n I couldn’t do anythin’. Chasin’ me…”
Sam bites the inside of his cheek. He can’t imagine what it was like, lying helpless in a hospital bed with monsters around every corner, and knowing your brother wasn’t even awake to protect himself.
“It’ll be better this time,” Sam vows aloud. “I’ll be right there with you. You’ll be safe.”
Dean is quiet for a minute. Sam checks his pulse again and finds it the same. Blood seeps around the bandage on his leg.
Dean wets his lips, tongue skirting over flecks of dried blood, and looks up weakly. “Sammy, ‘m I dyin’?”
“No,” Sam says immediately. “No, you’re alright. You’re gonna be just fine, bud.”
Dean relaxes, head sagging in Sam’s hand. “‘Kay.”
Dean alternates between semi-lucid to scared and disoriented. Sam talks him through it, praying for their rescue to come as soon as possible.
Sam hears the helicopter before he sees it, the thrum of its blades reverberating over the landscape.
Dean hears it too when it gets closer, and he frowns up at Sam, eyes suddenly a lot clearer.
“How did you say they were gonna come get us?” he asks slowly.
Shit. Sam really didn’t think about Dean’s fear of flying. Hopefully it only applies to planes and not helicopters.
“Sammy, that better not be what I think it is.”
Adrenaline, apparently, is the best medicine, because when the helicopter draws nearer, Dean is the most alert he’s been since falling.
“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head frantically when it hovers in the sky above them, rotors whirring loudly, “no, no, no, no, you are not gonna put me on that thing.”
“It’s just a helicopter,” Sam tells him. He’s pretty sure the pilot can see them, but he waves an arm up at them anyway.
Dean balks. “That is a flying tomb and I am not getting on. Uh-uh. No way.”
“Dean, it’s the only way out of here. It’ll be fine, trust me.” Sam switches from waving to quickly stowing their gear back in their packs. The last thing they need is to scare away their saviours with a supernatural-hunting arsenal.
Something is being lowered from the helicopter, steadily growing from a speck in the sky to a defined shape as it draws nearer.
It’s two somethings, actually. Or, something and someone. Their rescuer touches down nearby with a long, low basket in tow, and quickly strides over to them.
“Howdy, fellas. Somebody call for a ride?”
It’s a young woman, wearing a big black helmet and an orange flightsuit. She quickly looks the two of them over and comes to the conclusion that Dean is going to be her priority for extraction.
“I’m Beth, with Search and Rescue,” she introduces herself, already unravelling straps and clamps from her basket-stretcher. “That leg looks gnarly, so I want to get you loaded up and we’ll fly you right to the hospital.”
Dean looks up at her and then the helicopter with wide, terrified eyes and shakes his head.
“He’s not so good with flying,” Sam informs her with a slight grimace.
Beth crouches down next to Dean. “What's your name, hun?”
“Dean,” Dean tells her, voice so quiet and timid it’s nearly drowned out by the helicopter overhead.
“Dean,” Beth repeats, “it’s nice to meet you. Listen, I know it’s scary, but it’s my job to keep you safe, and I take my job real seriously, so I’m going to get you and your friend out of here—”
“Brother,” Dean corrects her softly, “Sammy.”
Beth smiles. “I’m going to get you and your brother out of here, safe and sound.”
“Sammy’s comin’, too?” Dean double-checks anxiously.
Beth winks at him. “You betcha. Now, let’s get you geared up.”
Together, Sam and Beth get Dean settled into the basket. He lets out a quick cry when they move him, and if it was anyone other than Dean, Sam would say he starts whimpering after. As it is, he can distinctly tell Dean’s handle on reality is slipping, being replaced with panic the closer they get to being ready to lift him in the air.
Dean grips the side of the basket tightly, staring up at Beth and borderline hyperventilating.
“You’re really pretty,” he tells her.
“Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls,” she says distractedly, more focused with adjusting the straps holding Dean in place. “Just wait until you see the helmet hair, you’ll change your mind.”
It’s not long before she has him fully secured and is radioing that they’re ready to be hoisted up.
“I’ll come back for you once we have him settled up there,” she tells Sam.
Sam nods and steps back, but not before leaning down to give Dean’s hand a squeeze.
“You’ll be okay,” he promises. “I’m right behind you.”
Sam’s chest feels tight with worry as he watches his brother disappear into the air. He’s in good hands, he knows, but he also knows that Dean is scared to death and he itches to be up there with him to try and calm him.
It feels like forever before Beth is being lowered to the ground again.
“How is he?” Sam asks as soon as she touches down.
“You weren’t kidding when you said he wasn’t good in the air,” she says wryly. “I think he’ll do better with a familiar face, though. I’ve got a harness here for you, come on.”
Sam lets her arrange the harness around him and clip their backpacks and holds on tightly to her as instructed as they’re lifted in the air. The wind whips his hair around and the drum of rotor blades grows louder the higher up they get.
Dean looks worse for wear. If he wasn’t hyperventilating before, he sure is now, and his face is streaked with tears.
Beth makes one last check to make sure everyone is properly strapped in before turning to outfit Sam with a headset that drowns out the worst of the noise and lets him hear her talking more clearly. Dean gets one, too, and his panicked breaths crackle through the static.
Sam cups his hands around Dean’s face to keep him still and hopefully help him focus on Sam and not the fact they’re insanely high off the ground right now. He’s not very with it, judging by the way his eyes keep rolling around.
“You’re alright,” Sam says, hearing the echo of his own voice ring tinny through the headset. “You’re okay, Dean, you’re okay. Just breathe. It’s gonna be over soon.”
“Soon” can’t come quick enough, Sam thinks.
The helicopter ride to the hospital takes approximately fourteen minutes. Dean has an approximately fourteen minute long panic attack.
"Goin' down," Beth informs them over their headsets when they reach the hospital. Sam can see the helipad beneath them when he glances out the window, slowly and steadily growing closer.
Dean spits an impressive string of expletives as they descend and ends on a decidedly unmanly scream as the aircraft jolts when they hit the ground.
"You're good," Sam tells him, "you’re good. You're on the ground again, it's over. You did great, man."
"Get me the hell off'a this deathtrap," is Dean's hoarse reply.
"You got it," Beth says cheerfully, already opening the door and hopping out.
There are people there to meet them with a gurney, and Sam tries to stay out of their way and let them work as much as he can—which is to say, not too much, because Dean reaches out and keeps a death grip of his hand, stoically refusing to let go even as he's wheeled away from the helicopter and towards the hospital. Sam shoulders both their bags and walks along next to him.
The helicopter takes off again as soon as they're clear of the landing pad, but Beth remains on the ground with them, following inside and talking to the medical personnel that swarm them when they pass through the hospital doors.
Dean looks worse under the harsh fluorescent lighting, pale and clammy, but Sam can see him slowly collecting himself now that they're back on solid ground.
He still doesn't let go of Sam’s hand, but Sam certainly isn't going to say anything about that.
They're wheeled into a large, curtained off cubicle and a doctor stands near the head of the bed while the rest of the staff is a flurry of activity around them.
"Dean, hi, I'm Dr. McCarthy. I understand you've taken quite the fall. Do you remember what happened?"
Dean nods, clenching his jaw as a nurse takes scissors to his shirt to start sticking ECG leads to his chest, and another sticks him in the arm with an IV. Sam doesn't miss the flinch as needle enters skin, and he clutches Dean's other hand tighter in his own without really thinking about it. Dean doesn't shake him off.
"He’s been confused off and on,” Sam offers when Dean doesn’t speak up. “He might have been unconscious before I got to him.”
Dr. McCarthy hums, pulling a penlight from his pocket. "Dean, can you tell me what day it is?"
"Uh," Dean mumbles, glancing anxiously at Sam, "no."
He gets the next two questions about what month it is and the president wrong, too, but there's no hesitation when the doctor asks, "And who's this that's here next to you?"
"Sammy," Dean answers immediately, wide eyes finding Sam's. "M'brother."
"You've definitely got a concussion, but we'll need to run a CT to rule out anything more serious," McCarthy tells them, moving on to pull out a stethoscope and place the bell over Dean's bare chest. "Deep breaths."
There's significant bruising along Dean's right side, colorful purples and blues blossoming along skin pulled tight and shiny with swelling. Probably some broken ribs, Sam guesses, nothing in that category that they haven't patched up by themselves in a motel room before, and the doctor doesn't say anything concerning about lung sounds when he removes the stethoscope.
"We've got you something here for the pain," McCarthy says, "and then I'll assess that leg."
"Wait," Dean says, eyes widening as he watches the plunger of a syringe be depressed into a port on his IV line, "wait, wait—Sam!"
"It's okay," Sam soothes, "I'm right here, dude. You're alright."
"No," Dean mumbles, slowly fighting a losing battle with whatever narcotic they've given him, "no, Sammy—Sammy, 're y'okay?"
Sam’s stomach makes anxious flips low in his gut. Pretendin’ they were doctors, Dean had said. They were tryin’ to kill you. Doped me up ‘n I couldn’t do anythin’.
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam tries to make his voice low and calm. "Let's just take care of you for right now, yeah?"
Dean blinks up at him, slow and hazy, and Sam squeezes his hand, makes sure he stays in Dean's line of sight.
They don't notice the doctor has unwrapped the leg until they hear him whistle and say, "This one's a doozy."
“He broke it once before,” Sam provides, in case that makes a difference. “Near that same spot.”
The doctor moves on to feel the pulse point in Dean's foot, and the frown on his face fills Sam with unease.
"We'll need to set this as quickly as possible, then get you down to radiology," he explains. "I'm worried about blood flow to the lower portion of the limb. Without surgery, there's a chance of losing it."
Sam blanches. Dean losing the leg hadn't even occurred to him as an option.
Dean doesn't look much better, face ashen as he looks at the doctor, then the horrific mess of his leg, then finally back up at Sam. Sam's never seen him look so young, so afraid. He squeezes his hand again.
The doctor is feeling the leg and getting ready to reposition it, making Dean wince.
"You'll want to brace yourself for this, son," he says. "You probably won't remember it with the drugs, but it'll hurt in the moment."
Sam moves to the head of the bed so he's out of the way, standing behind Dean, and taking their clasped hands with him. He takes Dean's other hand, too, crosses his arms over his chest and holds him steady. Dean's breathing quickens in anticipation.
"It's okay, big brother," Sam murmurs in his ear, quiet enough that only Dean will hear him. "You'll be fine. I've got you. You’re alright."
He repeats the mantra, even as the doctor counts down from three, even as Dean screams and tries to fight his way out of Sam's hold, then lies panting and shaking on the bed, sweat glistening along his forehead. A single tear tracks from the corner of his eye.
Sam wants to cry, too, seeing him in so much pain, but he won't. Dean needs him, he tells himself, he's not going to break down.
He's not allowed to go with Dean for the xrays and CT, but he waits dutifully until they're allowed to reunite. Not for long, he's told, because Dean is going to be prepped for surgery as soon as the OR team is ready.
The shock and the fracture in his leg are their main concerns, the doctor informs Sam. The ribs will heal, concussion will heal, and no serious bleeding from anything internal.
Sam isn’t glad that Dean’s leg is broken, not by any means, but he is grateful it isn’t worse.
"Sam," Dean whispers. His eyes are cloudy and words muddled by preanesthetic drugs, getting fuzzier by the minute, but he still looks scared. "What'f I lose m'leg?"
"Then we'll deal with it," Sam says firmly. "I'm with you, Dean, okay? No matter what."
"S'mmy..." Dean looks at him, and it's thank you and I love you and a million other things that are too old and too powerful to even put into words.
"I know," Sam says, "me too."
Dean's wheeled away, and Sam's led to a waiting room. He dumps their bags of hunting gear on the floor next to his feet and slumps into one of the uncomfortable chairs, exhausted, stomach still tied in knots, and he waits. And waits, and waits, and waits.
They give him some paperwork to fill out at some point, and Sam enters Dean’s medical history to the last detail, and lies his way through the insurance section with practised ease.
Not long after, Sam’s jolted out of his thoughts by a familiar voice.
“Hey.”
It’s Beth, their rescuer, coming to sit in the chair next to him. Sam almost doesn’t recognize her not wearing the helmet.
“Hey,” Sam says tiredly. The adrenaline of the whole ordeal has begun to evaporate, and he sinks lower in the chair, running his hands through his hair.
“I gotta head back out, man, but I just wanted to wish you guys luck.”
“Thank you,” Sam says. “Thank you so much, for everything. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“No worries, that’s what we’re here for. You boys stay out of trouble from now on, and we’ll call it even.”
Sam huffs an almost-laugh. “Heh. We’ll try.”
Beth leaves, and then he’s alone again.
After about two hours and fourteen and a half minutes of waiting—Sam's totally not counting, no—a little old lady that's sitting nearby takes pity on him and brings him a coffee. She's waiting while her husband is getting a hip replacement, she tells Sam matter-of-factly, and Sam quickly realizes the coffee may have been less from pity and more of an excuse to talk his ear off when she proceeds to do just that.
He accepts the distraction, though he struggles to really pay attention to anything she's saying and isn't able to contribute much to the conversation in return, too weary and sick with worry. His new elderly friend doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, content to tell Sam her long, long life story until she's finally called away by a nurse to go see her husband.
And then, once again, Sam is alone. The last of the afternoon drags on at a snail's pace, and he spends the hours nervously bouncing his knee up and down as he shifts uncomfortably in the plastic waiting room chair, absently picking grime and dried blood from beneath his nails before anxiously chewing them down to the quick. He inquires at the nurses' station about any updates on Dean, and is informed politely that he’s still in surgery and there's no word yet.
He tries contacting Castiel a few more times, but there’s still nothing on the angelic front.
It's early evening and Sam has managed to convince himself that no news is probably good news when he's beckoned into a small office by another doctor wearing scrubs and a surgical cap.
"Your brother's out of surgery," he informs Sam, "and you'll be able to go see him very soon. I'd just like to discuss the details of the operation with you first."
Sam slumps in relief and his breath leaves him like he's been punched in the gut. He manages a shaky, "Okay."
"Overall, I'm very happy with the repair of the bone itself, but we did experience a few complications during the procedure."
Sam feels what little color is left drain from his face. "What sort of complications?"
"There was significant bleeding from the fracture and all the damage it caused to surrounding tissues. Dean required a blood transfusion partway through the surgery. He's hemodynamically stable now, but he is running a low grade fever. It could be a reaction to the transfusion, or it could be the start of an infection. He'll need to be hospitalized for at least a few days so we can administer intravenous antibiotics. Right now he's being closely monitored while the anesthesia wears off. He’s doing as well as can be expected, considering, but it takes a lot out of the body to recover from such a major trauma. I'm afraid it's hit him pretty hard and he's feeling rather lousy, for lack of a better word."
Sam nods, slowly, taking it all in. He feels five years old again when he asks, "Is he gonna be okay?"
The doctor smiles sympathetically. "He's young, and otherwise healthy. All his other vitals are stable right now. I can't predict the future, but as long as he doesn't develop an infection, he should bounce back well from this hospital visit. That being said, it'll be a long recovery. I've pinned the bone in place, and once that heals, he may require another surgery to repair torn ligaments. And lots of physical therapy, especially with his previous fracture."
"He's going to hate that," Sam offers, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. Really, he just wants to go see Dean now.
The doctor must sense that, because he motions for Sam to follow and says, "I'll take you to see him now. Just keep in mind, he's still feeling confused and sleepy from the anesthetic, and in some pain, though we're giving him pain medications to help manage that."
"Okay," Sam says, then belatedly, "thank you."
"It's my pleasure," the doctor offers him a handshake. "I've enjoyed meeting you and helping care for your brother."
Sam is led to a large ward sectioned off by blue fabric curtains. It's busy and noisy with the bustle of hospital operations, though when they reach Dean's curtain cubicle, the lights are dimmed, and the only sounds from inside are the soft beep of a heart monitor and the hum of fluid pumps.
Dean looks horribly small and horribly pale lying on the bed, face nearly as white as the thick cast enveloping his leg up to the mid thigh and dark circles under his eyes. He's clad only in a thin hospital gown and draped in a myriad of wires and IV tubing, but he's breathing steady and not panicking or yelling in pain like Sam last saw him, so he counts it as improvement.
"Heya, Dean," Sam says quietly as he slides into the chair next to the bed, "it's good to see you, man."
Dean doesn't acknowledge him at first, eyes half lidded and sluggishly tracking back and forth like they can't stay focused on any one thing, pupils blown wide.
Sam remembers what the doctor told him about Dean still being out of it, and so he stays patient, gently laying a hand on Dean's forearm.
"I'm here, big brother," he murmurs. "You take your time."
Dean slowly rocks his head toward the sound of Sam's voice.
"Sss—S’mmy?" he slurs.
"Yeah, I'm here, Dean," Sam keeps his voice low and soft, rubbing his thumb along the pulse point at Dean's wrist. It's a little fast, his skin still clammy. "How're you feeling?"
Dean makes a noise like he's confused, eyes still searching.
"Spinnin'," he mumbles. "Room."
"You dizzy?" Sam asks.
"Hm," Dean hums, and Sam can't tell if it means yes or no until Dean is abruptly leaning over the side of the bed, retching.
Sam slides over a nearby trashcan just in time, and spends a slow second hovering and watching until his brain catches up and he takes Dean by the shoulders to stop him from listing to the floor.
Dean heaves a couple more times but doesn’t bring anything up. Sam wipes a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth, too worried to care about the mess, and eases him back down to the bed. He doesn’t answer when Sam asks if he’s okay, just groans pathetically and screws his eyes shut. Sam reaches out to palm damp hair off Dean’s forehead and finds his skin burning hot.
Sam’s looking for a button to call someone when a nurse steps through the curtains.
She’s a woman, maybe in her fifties, with round cheeks and curly hair. She smiles at Sam and crow’s feet crinkle at the corners of her eyes.
“Everything alright in here?” she asks.
“He just threw up,” Sam tells her. “And he feels really warm.”
The nurse takes a clipboard from the end of the bed and quickly jots down numbers from the monitors, before she pulls out a stethoscope to have a listen of Dean’s chest. She has to pull down the sheets and move aside his gown, and he stays too out of it to even notice.
“He’s about the same as his last check,” she informs Sam. “I’m going to ask his doctor about adding something for nausea, though. And I’ll see if I can scrounge up a few more things to help him feel more comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Sam can’t quite bring himself to smile through the worry, but he means it all the same.
She’s not gone for very long before she comes back with a small IV bag that she attaches to the main line running into Dean’s arm.
“This is a medication called ondansetron,” she explains to Sam, and while he’s sure he’s probably not going to remember, he’s still glad to be kept in the loop. “It’s for nausea. It’ll take effect within about fifteen minutes.”
When she’s done fiddling with the IV, she starts pulling things out of cabinets. An extra pillow comes first, and she uses it to better prop Dean’s injured leg, sliding it into place so smoothly that Dean doesn’t even react to the shift. Next comes a couple of emesis basins and a stack of washcloths.
“I’m going to get some water for cool compresses,” she says, “I’ll be right back.”
She returns this time with a basin of water and a cup of ice chips, setting both on the table nearby.
“He can have some of these whenever he’s feeling up to it,” she says, indicating the ice chips.
Sam stops her hesitantly when she dunks a cloth in the water and wrings it out.
“I can do that part,” he offers, feeling so out of his depth but wanting to do something, anything, to make his brother feel better. “If you want.”
She smiles at him kindly. “Sure.”
There are a couple neat, tiny stitches in the cut on Dean’s head, Sam notices this time as he smooths the cloth over Dean’s forehead.
“Hey, hey,” Sam murmurs when Dean makes a grunt of displeasure at the cool temperature, “it’s alright.”
The nurse shows Sam how to adjust the bed and where the call button is.
“Call if you need anything at all,” she says. “My name is Sarah, I’ll be on for another five hours until shift change.”
“Thank you,” Sam says. He manages an almost-smile this time.
Dean gets sick two more times before the medication starts working. Each time, Sam holds onto him and talks him through it, even though he’s not sure Dean understands a word he’s saying. He knows Sam’s there, though, rasps his name as Sam wipes a cloth over his face and neck.
If Dean was in his right mind, he’d probably want to be licking his wounds in private, Sam thinks. Too bad, because watching his big brother shaking with pain and flushed with fever, Sam’s already decided that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here next to him. It’s time to return the favor for all the times growing up that Dean took care of him when he was sick or scared or hurting.
“Yeah,” Sam says when Dean mumbles his name again, “I’m here, man. Not going anywhere.”
Sam doesn’t have much practice being on this side of the exchange, and it feels a little like he’s swimming in a riptide with no lifeguard. But if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s be here with Dean.
Dean shifts uncomfortably, tossing his head back and forth, eyes open but unseeing.
“S’mmy,” he whines, “gotta…gotta get outta…huntin’ us…”
“It’s okay,” Sam says, lightly rubbing Dean’s shoulder. Once Dean’s a little more with it, he’s probably going to reject the touchy-feely stuff, but until then, Sam’s taking advantage of whatever comfort he can provide. “It’s okay, Dean. We’re safe here."
Dean settles. Sam keeps rubbing his shoulder until it’s time to change out the cool compress, checking Dean’s temperature with the back of his hand in between and shushing him when he starts to get agitated again.
That cycle continues for about an hour. Sarah checks on Dean every fifteen minutes like clockwork, jotting down his vitals, bringing fresh washcloths and replacing the now-melted cup of ice.
Sam makes sure to thank her each time and stay out of her way. No one mentioned a limit on visiting time, but he wants to be on his best behaviour in hopes he won’t be asked to leave.
“Sam?” Dean rasps after a long stretch of quiet in which Sam assumed he was sleeping.
“Yeah, Dean?”
“Wha’happened?”
Dean’s eyes are still closed, but Sam thinks he sounds a little more coherent.
“You fell,” Sam says, tries to keep the explanation as simple as possible, “busted your leg.”
“Oh.”
“How do you feel?” Sam asks.
Dean rolls his head back and forth a little, and Sam wonders if maybe he’s not quite as with it as he thought.
“Thirsty,” Dean mumbles, smacking his lips.
Sam reaches for the cup of ice. “Here. Open up.”
He’s definitely still out of it, because he does what Sam asks without question, still without even opening his eyes. Sam spoons a little chunk of ice onto his tongue and Dean closes his mouth around it, humming appreciatively, and then opening again for another like a baby bird.
Sam obliges and doles out another ice chip. Dean doesn’t ask for any more after that, instead his lips form a tight line as he shifts uncomfortably.
“You hurting?” Sam asks.
The fact that the answer isn’t an immediate no tells Sam all he needs to know.
“‘S’not too bad,” Dean mumbles.
“Yeah,” Sam scoffs lightly, “I bet. You need anything?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. No, just…don’t go anywhere, ‘kay?”
“I won’t,” Sam promises.
Dean drifts off again for a little while, breaths evening out. Sam stretches in the hard plastic chair, tracks the beats on the ECG machine and counts the seconds between each drip in the chamber of Dean’s IV to pass the time.
The peace doesn’t last for long. Sam gets a sneaking feeling that Dean’s fever is creeping up again. Sweat sheens his skin and his cheeks flush bright red, and the most Sam gets from him is an incoherent mutter.
He’s shivering, too, trying to curl up miserably despite his sore ribs and casted leg.
Sam pushes Dean’s hair back where it’s become slicked to his forehead again and blots at his burning skin with a damp cloth.
Dean honest to God whines at the touch, shivers growing fiercer.
“It’s okay,” Sam whispers helplessly. “You’re okay.”
“F-freezin’,” Dean mumbles.
There aren’t any extra blankets just lying around, so Sam shrugs out of his jacket—they’d given it back to him at some point in the waiting room, he thinks, though he was a little too stressed to really register it at the time and too tired to remember it now—and spreads it over Dean’s current blanket.
His suspicions about Dean’s temperature are confirmed when their nurse comes back to do her next check and reports that his fever’s climbed.
“He says he’s cold,” Sam tells her. “Is he allowed to have more blankets?”
“I’ll grab some,” she says.
Sam tries to replace the jacket with the fresh warm blankets, but Dean’s latched onto it with surprising strength and refuses to let go, so he just layers them on top and leaves the jacket be.
This is easily shaping up to be one of the most miserable nights of Sam's life—which is really saying something—and he can't even imagine how Dean's feeling.
They spend the next several hours locked in a battle with Dean’s elevated temperature. The nurses change shifts, and the hospital traffic behind the curtain ebbs and flows, but time remains at a standstill in their makeshift room as Sam changes compresses and dishes out more ice.
Dean swings from somewhat aware to completely dazed with no rhyme or reason, and Sam has to guess where he’s at on the scale each time he wakes up.
So far, this time, he seems to be mostly tracking.
“Hey,” Sam says when he feels Dean’s eyes on him. “Doin’ okay?”
“This is stupid,” Dean mumbles.
“What’s stupid?”
“You spoon feedin’ me ice chips like a goddamn pregnant lady.”
“Is this you asking for more ice chips?”
“...Maybe.”
Sam huffs fondly and reaches for the cup.
“You shoulda been a nurse, ‘stead of a lawyer,” Dean says, seemingly very amused with himself.
“I’m not a lawyer,” Sam reminds him.
“Eh.” Dean waves an uncoordinated hand. “Close enough.”
Stanford doesn’t exactly hand out diplomas for close enough, Sam wants to tell him, but he’s touched nonetheless. It doesn’t matter anyway; school was a long time ago. Being Dean’s partner is all that really matters to him anymore.
Slowly, evening wastes away into night, and night into dawn. Sam twists in the unforgiving visitor’s chair, trying to stretch pins and needles out of his legs. Dean sleeps, mostly, stirring only occasionally to squint around the room in confusion before Sam reassures him and he drifts off again.
It’s early morning when Dean’s fever finally breaks. He’s sweaty and weak, still loopy with drugs, but his eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night.
“Hey,” he croaks up at Sam.
Sam manages a bit of a smile despite the exhaustion that pulls at him. “Hey. You with me again?”
“Think so.” Dean’s quiet for a minute, taking silent stock of himself. “Kinda fuzzy. ‘M I high?”
Sam chuckles, glancing at all the labels on Dean’s IV drips. “Very,” he answers.
“Well, shit,” Dean mumbles.
A couple hours later, Dean is deemed well enough to be released from the recovery ward and into a regular room. Their fake health insurance must be holding up pretty good, because he's set up in his own private room, with a bathroom and even a little television.
Once Dean is settled, buried under blankets and with his leg propped up, Sam takes the opportunity to sit and figure out how he's going to reunite them with the Impala. They've got their stuff from the hunt, but weapons and MREs aren't going to be very useful for a hospital stay, and they're going to need the car back at some point.
Dean's had his pain meds topped up recently, and he's not much help coming up with a plan when Sam asks his opinion.
"Jus' bring me back m'baby," he slurs, looking up at Sam with a dopey sort of slant to his face, eyes half-lidded.
Sam eventually decides he's going to have to take a cab. That is, if he can find one willing to drive the longer distance. It's far enough that it's going to cost a pretty penny, but he's not really seeing a lot of other options.
Dean flinches when Sam tells him.
"You're leavin'?" he asks, eyes wide and a little too watery for Sam's liking.
"We need the car," Sam explains. He looks down at himself, covered in mud and blood. "And definitely clean clothes."
He supposes he could wait a little while before leaving, but he is going to have to leave at some point. And once Dean is a little more coherent, he's probably going to be mad at Sam for not fetching his beloved car sooner. And maybe it’s selfish, but Sam’s been sitting in a shitty plastic chair all night and he really wants that change of clothes.
“Dean,” Sam leans next to him, waits until Dean’s cloudy eyes latch onto his, “are you gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?”
Dean swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he mumbles, voice small. “Yeah, I want you to get the car. You’re comin’ back, though, right?”
“I’m coming right back,” Sam says. “Promise.”
“‘Kay.”
Sam digs around in Dean’s backpack and procures his cell phone, setting it on the bedside table within arms’ reach. “You can call me if you need anything, okay?”
Dean nods.
Sam’s pretty sure his heart rips in half when he walks out of the hospital room, the image of Dean lying so helpless and scared seared into his brain. His resolve nearly breaks right then and there, but he forces himself to keep going. Dean’s not in any imminent danger, his fever broken, and he just needs to rest now.
That doesn’t stop Sam from speeding back to the hospital as quick as he can.
Dean’s lying much the same as Sam left him, though his shoulders are tense and he’s on alert as much as he can be with all the drugs in his system. He deflates like a balloon when he catches sight of Sam.
“Hey,” Sam greets him, slinging the duffel he’s brought in with him off his shoulder. “How’re you doing?”
“‘M’fine,” Dean says automatically. It’s punctuated with a wide yawn.
“Try and get some more sleep,” Sam tells him. “I’m just gonna wash up.”
Dean hums, his eyes already closed.
Sam takes his time getting cleaned up in the small bathroom, and emerges feeling significantly better. Dean’s a little better, too, still exhausted but relaxed enough now to actually get some rest.
They're going to be here another day or two, so Sam makes another quick run out to the car to bring Dean a few other things, mostly toiletries and some stuff to keep him entertained like books and magazines. He knows Dean has a habit of stealing Sam's hoodies when he's not feeling well, so he grabs one of those, too.
Embarrassment pinkens Dean's cheeks when he sees it, but that doesn't stop him from pulling it on.
He still looks sort of pathetic and miserable (no offense, Dean, Sam's just telling it like it is here) but he's at least aware of what’s going on and not puking his guts up, and that's enough to put Sam at ease.
"Put somethin' on TV," Dean requests sleepily, bundled up under the covers and Sam's hoodie.
“You’ve got a concussion,” Sam reminds him.
“I can still listen,” Dean mumbles petulantly.
Sam reaches for the remote and flicks through the channels, settling when he lands on the medical drama Dean refuses to admit that he likes.
Dean perks up a little when the title card for Dr. Sexy, M.D. flashes onscreen. He can't look at the TV more than a second without getting a headache, but he closes his eyes and listens while Sam sits next to him with his feet kicked up on the bed, careful not to jostle Dean's injured leg.
Sam's never had much interest in the show, so he picks up the book he brought instead and spends time reading while Dean alternates between listening to Dr. Sexy and dozing off.
They bring Sam a cot so he can stay, too. It's not very comfortable, and his feet hang way off the end.
"You don't hafta stay here," Dean mumbles. "Might as well get a motel room somewhere and get some real sleep."
Dean doesn't quite meet his eyes when he says it. Sam can't quite believe how selfless Dean can be to be more worried about his little brother's comfort than the fact he's obviously terrified to be alone in the hospital. All day, any time Sam stepped out, even just to grab a drink of water or use the bathroom, Dean’s been on high alert.
"Nah," Sam says easily, "I'd rather stay here with you."
"Okay," Dean says quietly. He swallows thickly. "Thanks, Sammy."
"Besides," Sam nods at the TV, "I'm invested now. Gotta find out how Dr. Picasso gets out of trouble."
"It's Picollo," Dean corrects him, a hint of a smile playing along his lips, "bitch."
"Jerk." Sam grins.
Neither of them last long before they’re asleep.
The sky is dark outside the window when Sam wakes some time later with a crick in his neck from being squished on the small cot. He yawns and stretches, glancing over at Dean, who’s looking drained and drawn in the dim lighting but at least sitting up, poking halfheartedly at a tray of food.
Dean nudges the tray closer to Sam when he notices he’s awake. A small plastic container of caesar salad sits untouched.
“Got them to bring you some rabbit food,” Dean says weakly.
Hurt and sick and still looking out for his little brother, Sam thinks incredulously. He’s grateful, too, because it’s at that moment that his stomach reminds him it’s been way too long since he’s last eaten.
He wolfs down the salad in record time. Dean only manages a few more bites of the lasagna on his plate, his energy flagging, before he passes the rest off to Sam to scarf down the leftovers.
Sam helps Dean reach the cup of water that’s on the bedside table, then adjust the bed so he can lay down again, and turns out the light for him.
Sam lies back on his cot, hands folded over his stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. It’s too dark to read, and he doesn’t want to disturb Dean’s sleep by turning on the TV, and unfortunately there’s not much else to do except lie here and wait.
He’s content to do it, though. He’d endure a lot worse—has endured a lot worse—for Dean.
Dean sleeps for a little while, but Sam can tell when he wakes up by the way his breathing changes, how he tosses and turns and groans when the movement catches either his ribs or his leg.
“Sammy,” he calls quietly into the darkness, sounding groggy or maybe a little dopey, “you ‘wake?”
Sam shifts, rolling to face him. “Yeah. You alright?”
“Bored,” Dean sighs. “Hate hospitals.”
“You want me to put the TV on?”
“No. Head hurts.”
Sam props himself up on an elbow, squinting to try and see Dean’s face. “You want me to call a nurse?”
“No.”
Sam still can’t see him, but he can hear the pout in Dean’s voice. Probably still a little loopy from his last dose of meds, then.
“You ‘member that game we used to play, as kids?” Dean asks groggily. “With the alphabet, ‘n the animals?”
“Yeah,” Sam says.
“You go first,” Dean mumbles.
Guess they’re doing this, now, Sam supposes.
“Aardvark,” he says.
“Bear.” Dean’s hard to hear with his face smushed into his pillow.
“Coyote.”
“Dragon.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Yes it does,” Dean protests. “Dragons’re real.”
“Fine. Elephant.”
“Uh, fish.”
“Goat.”
“Hm…harpy.”
“That’s not an animal, Dean.”
“Whatever. What comes next?”
They go through about half of the alphabet, until Dean grows quiet, and soft snores fill the room on his next turn. Sam resettles on the cot, and stares at the ceiling again until daylight starts to creep in through the window.
Dean is more coherent at breakfast time, and more cranky.
“This coffee tastes like ass,” he complains.
Sam sighs. He wants to roll his eyes, too, but really Dean’s right, the coffee is shit. “I could go pick up coffee somewhere else.”
“No,” Dean says immediately. Then adds, almost guiltily, “I mean. If you want to, yeah. You can. Stretch your legs, or whatever.”
“Dean,” Sam ventures, “if you don't want to be alone here, then I’m not gonna leave you alone. It’s okay.”
He knows he’s hit the nail on the head when Dean refuses to look at him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”
“Dean, the last time you broke your leg like this, we were staving off another end of the world and trying not to get eaten by Purgatory’s most wanted. I think it’s fair if you’re a little freaked, man.”
Dean shifts, winces, and lies back, gaze on the ceiling. “I guess I’m a little freaked, then,” he says quietly.
Sam nods. He already knew, but putting it out in the open feels like a step in the right direction. “Can I do anything to make it better?”
Dean shakes his head, manages to give at least part of a smile. “You already are.”
Time in the bland hospital room moves a little funny, but Sam’s pretty sure they stay there for another two days. He stays with Dean the whole time, other than one quick trip to the car for more clothes. Dean’s reluctant to let any of the nurses touch him, so Sam helps him with most things, like reaching for a drink of water and adjusting the bed, and supporting him to hobble to the bathroom. They both sleep a lot, and play the alphabet game one more time, and by the time Dean’s ready to be discharged, he looks a lot better and seems to be feeling a lot more like himself.
That’s cemented by the fact that he’s determined he’s going to walk out of here, instead of being rolled in the wheelchair like the hospital staff have recommended.
Sam holds the crutches out to him when he’s ready, and holds his arms to steady him as he stands.
“Get off,” Dean grumbles, shouldering him away, “‘m’fine.”
Sam grits his teeth. “You’re not fine, idiot. You got hurt really bad, and you’re too damned stubborn to use the wheelchair, so you gotta let me help, okay?”
Dean’s not really listening, his eyes clenched shut against what must still be a killer headache, but he doesn’t push Sam off when he takes his arm again and they begin the arduous journey down to the lobby.
Sam deposits him on a bench when they get outside.
“Wait here,” he says, “I’ll bring the car around.”
Panting with exertion, Dean merely nods.
It takes Sam a few minutes to find the car in the parking lot and bring it up to the curb in front of the building. Dean’s rallied himself a little by that time, but he still accepts Sam’s help clambering into the passenger seat.
“This sucks,” he mutters when Sam sits next to him behind the wheel.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees quietly. “You ready to go?”
“God, yes, get us the hell outta here.”
Sam chuckles. It’s a long drive home, and they probably won’t make it all in one shot, especially with Dean as wrecked as he is.
“You got it,” he says anyway.
A few minutes later, when they’re out on the highway, Dean clears his throat.
“Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Just, uh. Thanks. For. Well, for, y’know.”
Sam offers him a half smile. “Anytime.”
There’s a long road ahead of them, literally and figuratively. If they still can’t get ahold of Castiel, there’s a good chance Dean isn’t going to get to skip out on all the physiotherapy and maybe even another surgery.
But whatever comes, Sam knows he’ll be here for it. There’s really nowhere he’d rather be.