Devastation and Reform 9/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: Just keep in mind this is all decidedly AU now and it was written before Jus in Bello ever aired. All other notes of importance in chapter one :)  Previous parts here.

-o-

Chapter Nine

It wasn't the first interrogation room Dean had ever been in, but Dean couldn't help but wonder if it would be his last.

This one was no more memorable than the others. It was plain and dreary, blank walls and sparse furniture and the telltale mirror that the other side could see through.

He really would have thought the FBI could have dredged up something better than this. Though he had to give them credit, at least this time they were much faster on the draw. In Arkansas it'd been local authorities who'd taken them in (only because they let them), but this time it was the FBI's show all the way. While the fact that Henricksen had tracked them was impressive, not much else was.

This chair was padded at least, and his right hand was cuffed to the table. He'd been left there and told to wait, like he had some choice in the matter.

He started humming Metallica, mostly to pass the time, and also to keep himself from thinking too much about Sam waking up, alone in the hospital. Because that really was his biggest regret. Not that he was anxious to do time, but he could deal with his own situation, as long as he knew Sam was safe, that Sam would be okay—not just physically, but emotionally, too. The kid had lost a lot over the last few years, and Dean wasn't sure what Sam's response would be to this most recent change of events.

Part of him wondered if Sam would try to break him out. His little brother was enough of a geek that Dean was pretty sure he could come up with something, and when push came to shove, Sam had been known to fracture a law or two in the name of family.

Dean sighed. But this was the FBI. This was the big time. Dean didn't know just how much of a case they had against him, but he knew enough--and it wasn't good. If Sam did try, there was a good chance he'd get caught too, and then all of Dean's sacrifice would be for nothing. They'd gotten away once, but Dean didn't think they'd be able to swing that again.

As much as he hated to think of Sam alone out there, he hated to think of Sam alone in prison even more.

It was kind of a lose-lose situation.

Not that that didn't seem like the story of their lives.

His muses were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Henricksen swaggered in, a smug grin on his face as he sauntered up to the table.

Normally Dean would have been cocky, ready to banter with him. But right then, he just wanted out. Because there as no point to the arguing, to the posturing. He could lie, he could tell the truth, and it wouldn't change anything.

He'd been screwed before, but never like this.

-o-

Sam had spent a lifetime moving around. He'd never had a home, not except for a two year stint with Jess in Palo Alto. But, more often than not, home was nothing more than a string of motel rooms, dingy apartments, and the Impala's backseat.

Therefore, Sam was used to not knowing where he was. It wasn't even disconcerting to him; instead it was an expected weightlessness as he waited for awareness to settle on him. His location was nothing more than background; it was his state of mind that he took security in. That, and the people around him.

He was always able to tell when he was alone, not just literally, but emotionally, when his dad or his brother or Jess weren't around. He could feel their absence like an emptiness in his heart. It came from years of familiarity and was toned by the hunts of his preteen years when he was told to stay back, alone, locked in the car, drifting off in uneasy rests that made him feel more alone than he'd ever known.

It was the feeling he had now.

His eyelids felt heavier than usual, almost seeming to stick shut with the weight of sleep. And his body—it felt hindered, more deeply stuck in the land of dreams.

But there had been no dreams. It was like waking from a void.

And he was alone.

The air was sterile and clean, and there were unfamiliar noises. Voices, movement, machines.

A hospital.

That made Sam struggle harder to open his eyes. Because if he was in a hospital, then where was Dean?

Then he remembered the warehouse, the ritual, Michael, the puma. He winced, shifting on the bed. The puma's claws, the puma's teeth.

Finally cracking his eyes, light streamed in, bringing with it a sense of feeling in his body, which was not a welcomed sensation. It wasn't unbearable, though he was pretty sure it would be if not for the drugs that were surely working through his system.

Blinking, he glanced around, taking in the IVs and the monitors. For all intents and purposes, he was alive, whatever that was worth.

But there was something off in his room. There was a curtain drawn, presumably separating him from another patient, which was never his favorite thing in the world. Still, there was something more, something more important, something missing.

His brother wasn't there.

Sam's breathing hitched at that realization. His vision dimmed a little on the edges and he endeavored to sit up, to move, not that he exactly knew what he'd do if he achieved such mobility.

How long had he been here? Maybe Dean was getting coffee, or going to the bathroom? Those were perfectly reasonable things for his brother to do. If that was the case, Dean would be here soon, within minutes, ready to crack a joke or something.

Sam tried to relax, but found his breath catching expectantly in his throat. He strained to hear beyond the steady noises of the monitors by his head, to distinguish between the muffled voices and footsteps in the hallways, to hear Dean's laugh, or the cadence of Dean's boots on the linoleum.

Nothing.

He didn't know how much time had passed—had no way to measure it—but he found himself growing tense and worried. If Dean wasn't with him, then that meant Dean could be in another room, in surgery, someplace else in this hospital.

He just knew that Dean should be there--Dean would be there. Den was so good about being there. Sam had been in the hospital more than his share in his lifetime, and Dean nearly always managed to find a way into Sam's room, no matter what rules or nurses tried to tell him.

The thought renewed his efforts to move.

He didn't get very far. His body felt weak, fuzzy; movement was limited. He was able to roll his right shoulder up off the bed, but could get no farther. His left arm nearly refused to move altogether and Sam could feel his heart rate picking up with a twinge of panic.

A monitor bleeped, but Sam could hardly hear it. He just wanted out. He wanted to know what was going on. He wanted Dean.

The monitor was still bleating in annoyance and soon Sam found himself not alone. Warm, steady hands were on him, restraining, gentle. "Dean?" he asked, his voice hopeful, a bit desperate.

Looking up, he was met with the none-too-concerned gaze of a nurse. "Mr. Winchester," she said. "Can you relax for me? You're going to hurt yourself more."

It was meant to be placating, and her eyes were brown and sincere, but it did nothing to assuage the growing sense that something was very, very wrong.

He tried to move away from her, to break her contact with him. He opened his mouth to speak, but coughed instead, surprised to find it dry.

"Careful," she soothed. "You've been out of it for awhile."

Sam just shook his head, trying to force back the tears that were threatening his eyes. "Dean," he said again. "Where's Dean?"

She just looked confused. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just got on this shift—I don't—"

It was like something was tightening Sam's chest, Sam's brain, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, and Dean needed to be here.

"Relax," she was saying. "I've paged the doctor. But you need to calm down."

But Sam didn't want to calm down. He was in a hospital he didn't remember coming to, surrounded by people he didn't know. He could barely move--hell, he could barely think straight--and she was telling him to calm down.

She was gripping his good arm with a gentle tenacity, and he blinked a few times until she came into focus.

"Work on breathing evenly," she said, her voice trained and soothing. "You're going to hyperventilate. Just focus on in and out."

His mind struggled to rebel, but he found himself transfixed and helpless. In and out. He could manage that much.

Lulled by it, Sam felt his body relaxing, sinking back into the bed. The pain distanced itself from him, and sleep hovered near.

A noise came from the doorway, and he jerked to awareness again, the same questions flooding to mind. He strained upward, hoping to see his brother standing in the doorway.

It was a doctor. Long white coat, nondescript glasses, and a benevolent face.

He was striding to the bed before Sam had the breath to ask him where the hell his brother was. His fight must have been visible because the doctor took the nurse's place by his side, and looked at his critically.

"Easy," the doctor said, placing a firm hand on Sam. "You're going to go and screw up your stitches. And you may not be feeling the pain now, but you will soon if you don't calm down."

Sam eased his fighting, letting himself go limp on the bed again, more out of exhaustion than submission. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother? I don't know," the doctor said with a plaintive shrug.

"He's not here?" Sam couldn't keep the desperation in his voice. Dean was always here, always, and Sam hurt, he ached, and his brother wasn't here.

The doctor shook his head. "No," he said. "But in case you were wondering, you are still in the ICU. Your surgery ended just over five hours ago. You've been sedated to help keep you still and protect your stitches."

Sam's brow furrowed. There was too much information and yet not enough. He couldn't handle the intake and he needed to know where Dean was.

"Let's see if you've managed to do any damage," the doctor suggested simply, seeming to sense Sam's confusion.

Sam swallowed hard, too shaky to stop the doctor as he pulled back Sam's blanket. The doctor then made short work of Sam's gown, deftly pulling it up and Sam felt himself blushing. He quickly noted, however, that the doctor's eyes were probing much higher, pulling at layers of gauze he'd barely noticed before.

The tape stuck and Sam winced a little, leaning his head up to get a better look.

He immediately regretted it.

Though it was still hard for his eyes to focus, the bandage across his chest revealed a nasty slice, still red and oozing with puss through rows of neat stitches. The doctor scowled a little, dabbing at it with his gloved hands before discarding the old bandage and fixing it with another.

The man looked up at Sam, a hint of humor in his face. "And that's not even the bad one, son."

He maneuvered Sam's gown farther out of the way and went to Sam's shoulder. The contact made Sam grimace, a deep pain suddenly aching through his body with a paralyzing intensity.

The doctor was careful, even gentler with this bandage, but the second it was removed, Sam felt his stomach turn and he nearly threw up.

The doctor's hands were restraining now. "Careful," he said. "You need to breath through it."

Breathing was difficult and more than a little overrated in Sam's opinion. He'd settle for thinking coherently, for knowing what the hell was going on, for seeing his brother.

The examination was continuing though, with or without Sam's awareness. The touch rekindled the pain and Sam whimpered despite himself.

His shoulder was a mess; he'd never seen so grotesque an injury up close. At least not on a living person.

"We had to do a skin graft," the doctor explained gently, examining the wound. "We've been keeping you full of antibiotics to help fight off the infection you had when you got in here. Luckily your temperature has been holding at a low fever, so I think we've managed to preempt the worst of it."

Sam was too nauseated to reply, and he was more than a little relieved when the doctor covered the wound up with a fresh bandage and pulled Sam gown back into place.

"Now that you're awake, we'll up your pain medication," the doctor continued.

Shaking his head, Sam interjected, "No."

Taken aback, the doctor studied him. "No? I don't think you understand—"

"I need to be awake," Sam insisted. "I need to see my brother."

The doctor frowned a little. "I wasn't aware there was anyone with you when you were admitted. There's no note of a next of kin on your chart, and the doctor from last shift didn't inform me of anything."

It took all of Sam's self-control not to panic. He was in a hospital—his arm barely worked. He couldn't even think straight, and he couldn't even remember how he got here. Worse yet, Dean wasn't there. Dean was nowhere to be found.

This wasn't okay. None of this made any sense. Dean would be here. Dean would be here if it he could, and Sam needed to think, he needed to remember, but everything hurt and he didn't know if Dean was okay, if Dean was safe, or what the hell had happened.

The doctor's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You need to relax," he said gently, placating. "I don't know where your brother is. But I'll look into it for you, okay? Do you remember what happened before you got here? How you received your injuries?"

Sam's thoughts stirred. He remembered the warehouse, the spirit. Then the cops. Then the puma attacking him. Blood. It hurt.

He swallowed back his story. "No," he said shakily. "I don't remember anything."

It was a lie, but the only lie Sam could tell at the moment. If he wasn't sure how he got here, then he couldn't be sure if Dean had already told a cover story to the police. He couldn't give away anything until he touched base with Dean.

He just needed Dean.

The doctor gave him a small smile. "I'll send the nurse in to give you some more pain medication." At Sam's protest, he raised his hand. "Not a lot, but you need something. Trust me. You're barely awake right now, though I doubt you realize that. You'll want it once you wake up a little more."

Taking a shaky breath, Sam couldn't find the will to contradict him. He nodded meekly, his eyes trained downward.

"Now you rest," he said. "And I'll see what I can find out about your brother."

Sam didn't look up as the doctor left, just kept his eyes focused on the thin sheet that covered him. A feeling of helplessness assailed him. He was alone, he was hurt, and Dean was nowhere. If Dean wasn't here, then things were bad—really bad. Dean could be hurt or dead or he went back to finish it himself. He could need Sam's help, he might need Sam to save him, and Sam was laid up like some invalid.

Trying to push himself up, to move, to do something, his shoulder screamed out in pain, and he fell back, whimpering against the agony that pulsed through his body.

It was too much. He couldn't think, he couldn't breath. The world was closing in on him. Feeling defeated, he closed his eyes and couldn't stop the pull of sleep from taking him under.

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