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ohsamTitle: The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated, while Sam tries very hard not to break.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
The sky's still clear when they get outside, but the wind has picked up, knifing through their clothes.
"We don't want to be out here too long," Sam says.
"Some of us apparently don't want to be out here at all," Dean mutters.
Sam demonstrates that he can make the Marge Simpson noise too, but doesn't say anything.
It doesn't take long to drive out to the field where the tree is. Even without its leaves, Dean has to admit it's a pretty impressive specimen. Its branches spread into a canopy so full it has to create some serious shade. It must be something in the summer.
"Wonder what kind of oak it is," Sam says as Dean pulls the car off the road.
"The mighty oak," Dean says. "What do you mean, what kind?" He yanks his collar up, hunching against the cold as he rummages in the trunk for the pistols with silver bullets.
"There's the red oak, white oak, pin oak, live oak. Live oak is an evergreen, though, so we can rule that out."
"How do you know this stuff?"
"Jess was thinking about a degree in forestry before I knew her." He sticks his pistol in the back of his waistband and falls in step beside Dean, who carefully picks his way over the stubble and uneven ground, listeing to the crunch of their footsteps and the rasp of their breath.
What if they do get this thing? Sammy's going to insist on finding some way to undo Dean's deal. Since the whole trickster thing, his determination has been more like pure obsession. If he doesn't chill his shit, he's going to blow everything Dean tried to accomplish with the deal -- and that, Dean knows, will hurt him as bad as any literal hell.
He just wishes Sammy would stop before things get any more fucked up than they already are. He wishes he could give Sam some peace.
They slow as they approach the tree, Sam slowly circling the trunk, looking for anything that indicate something living in or near the tree.
"Hard to tell what to do," Dean says. "Make charms from the wood to protect people in town, or burn this thing to ash."
Sam turns his back to the wind -- and the tree -- fumbling with his jacket pocket. "Maybe this will give us a clue." He switches on his EMF meter, but there's no sound other than the wind.
Dean looks up through the bare branches for any other sign. It's almost dizzying, looking up into the deepening blue sky. He reaches a hand to steady himself against the tree, and there's a bright flash and a roar in his head, and that's the last --
Part 2: Sam
Without warning there's a blaze of light behind Sam that bleaches the whole world to white before he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his face into the crook of his arm. A blast of wind -- almost warm, not icy -- pushes him forward two staggering steps. Just as suddenly, both the light and the wind die away, and he reels again.
"Dean?" Sam turns, blinking. It takes him a second to find his brother, because he's sprawled on his back on the ground, limbs splayed outward. "Dean!"
He drops onto one knee next to Dean, who is still and pale as death. "Dean! What the hell happened?"
No answer, no movement. Sam drops the EMF meter and puts two shaking fingers to Dean's neck to feel for a pulse. It's not strong, but at least it's present. Sam gently lifts one of his eyelids with his thumb, but there's only a sliver of green showing above a fair amount of white. Then Dean takes a ragged breath and starts to convulse, his limbs flailing, his neck arched back.
"Dean!" Sam reaches toward him, but Dean's arm lashes out, knocking him onto his ass. He scrambles out of reach, groping for his cell phone.
"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice, brisk and competent, with just a hint of a Southern twang.
"I need an ambulance. My brother's unconscious and having a seizure. We're outside and he's on the ground, so he needs help fast."
"What's your location?"
"A field a couple of miles outside Union. We're at the meteor tree."
"I've got someone on the way to you now, sir. Are you familiar with first aid for a seizure?"
"No. He's never had one before."
His movements grow more violent, one arm crashing against the tree trunk.
"If there's anything he could hurt himself on, move it if you can. Don't try to hold him down or force anything into his mouth."
"All right."
"If he stops before the squad gets there, turn him on his left side, and make sure his face is turned in case he vomits."
"Yeah, okay." He ends the call, the weight of those one hundred Tuesdays pressing in on him, the helpless feeling of watching his brother die each and every day slamming back into him. All he can do now is stay out of the way and keep watch. "Help's on the way, Dean. Hang on."
Sam reaches for the fallen EMF meter, and as he shifts, he feels the cold metal of the Beretta against his spine. "Shit!" He clambers back toward Dean, trying to ease him off his back without either of them getting hurt. Dean arches and thrashes, his arm whipping across Sam's face. Sam hisses as Dean's watch opens a gash on his cheek.
"Easy, Dean. It's okay. Help's coming." Might as well tell someone to stop having a heart attack.
Sam gets his hand on the gun, slipping it out from under Dean just as he begins to hear the wail of a siren in the distance. He tucks it away with his own, rearranging his shirt tail over them.
The siren grows ear-splittingly loud and then cuts off, replaced by the sound of voices and clanging doors.
"They're here, Dean. They're coming across the field right now."
All at once the convulsions subside, leaving Dean sprawled at the base of the tree. Sam strokes a hand over his sweat-spiked hair, murmuring, "It's okay, you're okay, I've got you." Though the paramedics are drawing near, he shifts Dean's dead weight so he's lying on his left side, turning his face as directed.
The first paramedic reaches them and sets her equipment by Dean.
"I'm gonna get out of their way now, but I'm right here. You're going to be fine." Sam gets to his feet and steps back, hoping to god that he's telling the truth.
***
Dean's as still now as he was before the seizure, and Sam finds himself avidly watching the rise and fall of his chest when the EMTs aren't blocking his line of sight. Some part of him is answering questions they ask, but he's on autopilot, while most of his brain is busy with the horror of this moment in context of one hundred recent ones very much like it.
This is not how Dad taught him to be.
This is, however, how those hundred Tuesdays taught him to be. Frozen, terrified, despairing, unable to do anything concrete to help his brother, beyond a call to 911.
Once they've got him bundled on a stretcher, ready to lift and carry across the frozen field, the first paramedic turns and asks, "Do you want to ride along?"
Sam's chest aches with how much he wants to ride along. But it's not smart, considering he's got two handguns tucked in hs waistband, and the Impala is his sole mode of transport. "I'd like to, but my only transportation's out here. I'll follow."
Sam reaches out, squeezes Dean's foot gently. "Dean. I'll be right behind you, all right? I'll see you when I get to the hospital."
Not a twitch of expression or a flutter of an eyelash.
Sam squeezes again and nods to the EMTs. "Meet you there."
He sets off at an angle to the EMTs' straight line, heading for the spot where they'd pulled the Impala off the road. He's aware that he's moving too fast in the gathering dark, but he wants to shout at the EMTs to get a fucking move on! Dean's phrase, and Sam hears it in Dean's voice.
Tripping and righting himself, Sam feels his ankle buckle and protest, but he ignores the stab of pain and keeps going. Once he reaches the Impala, he hastily tucks the handguns back into the false bottom of the trunk. While he waits for the EMTs to finish loading up, he hits Bobby's number on the speed dial.
Bobby's voice mail kicks in. Sam usually finds some amusement in hearing the growl that invites Bobby's caller to leave a name and number but is more discouraging than welcoming. This time there's nothing funny about it. Please don't be out on a hunt, he thinks. Dean hadn't said anything along those lines after he talked to him, but Bobby doesn't tell everything.
"Shit," he says when the beep sounds. "Bobby, it's Sam. I hope you're around. Something's wrong with Dean. We're on our way to the hospital. We were out by this meteor tree, and next thing I knew, he was having a seizure, and now he's unconscious. I didn't see what happened; I was screwing around with the EMT meter. There was a flash. EMF. Did I say EMT? I meant EMF." Is this going to sound as incoherent as he thinks? "Call me," he says. "As soon as you can."
The EMTs climb into the ambulance, and it starts to roll. The Impala rumbles to life and Sam gooses the gas pedal to follow the flash of red lights and yowl of the siren.
***
Sam sprawls across the front seat of the Impala under the harsh glow of a security light, rummaging in the glove compartment for the right IDs. Shit shit shit! There's all the fake agency credentials he could want, but the insurance cards that will get Dean taken care of instantly, and IDs that will prove they're brothers so Sam's not kept at arm's length as they treat Dean, are harder to find. His hands are shaking by the time he comes up with the right cards, and he drops them into the footwell, cursing viciously as he chases after them.
Once he's got them inserted into his wallet and Dean's -- which he'd thought to lift at the same time he took Dean's gun -- he launches himself out of the car and sprints across the parking lot to the emergency entrance.
A burly security guard meets him just inside the doors, telling him to slow down and put his name in at the desk.
"They just brought my brother in," Sam blurts. "Where is he?"
"Sit yourself down. Sir."
"Bullshit," Sam says. "He just collapsed out of the blue. I need to know what's going on."
"It's all right," a woman at the intake desk says. She's young and pretty and reminds him of Cassie, but with her hair cut short. "I need to get some information from you."
This is the part he hasn't done one hundred times over. Just the twice -- when Dean's heart gave out on him (ironic -- his heart is the one thing about Dean that never quits, though he'd probably deny it), and after the wreck. Those other times it had been quick and horrifying, but Sam had always been right there at his side.
"Look, I need to be with him."
"Then the sooner we finish this, the sooner you can do that," she says, not unkindly.
The EMT stops by after finishing her own paperwork. "Your brother's stable. They'll be taking him down for some tests soon."
"Thanks."
"You're almost done here," the admin says before Sam can plead to see Dean.
He commits twenty-seven varieties of fraud before he's done, plus signs off on any diagnostic tests and treatment Dean might need. By the time he's slashed his phony signature across the last of the consent forms, there's a guy in scrubs waiting to walk him back to the treatment area where they're taking care of Dean. There's no change, except for gauze encircling his hand where, Sam guesses, he'd skinned it against the bark of the meteor tree. He's completely still, so deathly pale that his freckles stand out in stark relief.
"You should get that cut on your face looked after," an ER nurse says.
"Sure. Later." Sam touches Dean's other hand. "Dean, I'm right here. The doctors are going to run a few tests, find out what's going on. It's gonna be all right."
The doctor looks at a clipboard of information the admin gathered. "His name's Robert?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "His family nickname is Dean, though. He's maybe more likely to respond to that."
The doctor nods and makes a note. "I'm Dr. Mehta. They're going to get the tests started, and you and I can fill each other in."
They step aside as an orderly wheels Dean's gurney through a pair of double doors. Sam watches the doors swing gently behind them, feeling numb.
***
The cell phone is just a weight in Sam's pocket. Bobby hasn't called back, and Sam can't think who else to try. If he's hunting, Ellen might have known, if the road house were still standing.
Sam remembers that time after the rawhead, when the doctors gave Dean a month at most and he looked worse than a great many of the ghosts he and Sam had laid to rest. The call Sam had made to Dad, choked and deperate and frightened. Like talking into the void, for all the response it got. Even then he'd had other hunters he could call, but after they'd uncorked the entrance to hell, they'd lost a lot of the friends they'd had.
He waits for test results to come back, hunched in a chair in the waiting area. Sam's not alone in this; in the time he's been here, he's been joined by a couple awaiting word on their child, an elderly woman and her daughter worrying about the woman's husband, and now a large family and their minister praying for the teenaged boy who was in a car crash.
Sam tries not to make anything of the fact that he's the only one here who's waiting alone. He drinks way too much of the bitter coffee from the push-top thermal dispensers on a table under the overhead TV set. All the waiting room time he'd put in as a kid, he'd longed for the distraction of a TV, but now that they're inescapable, he wishes he could put a few rounds in the fucking screen.
He flips through every magazine in the room, registering nothing, gazes at the bland landscape paintings as if they're as impenetrable as a Pollock. Tries to imagine not being so alone, but the brief flash he conjures of Jess holding his hand and murmuring reassurance is more painful than isolation.
Dr. Mehta finds him and sits with him. "We're in the process of admitting your brother now, and our chief neurologist will be taking over his case in the morning."
"Have you found something?" His heart hammers as he waits for the answer.
"We've ruled out some things, including stroke and aneurism. There's no swelling, which is a huge thing in his favor. But we're not sure yet what is going on."
"Has he been conscious at all?"
"No. We've evaluated his level of consciousness, which we measure using the Glasgow Coma Scale."
Coma. Sam's breath gusts out as if he's been kicked in the gut.
"At present, Dean falls at 7 on a scale of 3 to 15. His eyes will open at pain, and he withdraws his limbs from pain. But verbally, he's completely unresponsive."
"Is 3 the good end of the scale, or the bad?" Sam thinks he knows the answer already.
Dr. Mehta regards him with compassion. "It's on the serious end of the scale. But he is breathing on his own, and he's holding steady."
"Have there been any more seizures?"
"No. We'll give him a night's rest and keep a close watch, and see what the morning brings."
"Yeah. Thanks, Doctor."
"We'll let you look in on him as soon as he's settled in the ICU."
When the doctor's gone, Sam suddenly becomes aware that the waiting room is quiet, except for the drone of the television. The big family has departed, down to the last cranky toddler. He can't imagine how they could have vanished without pulling his attention toward them, even briefly.
Their minister has stuck around, approaching now that Sam's aware of him. "I see you were having a talk with one of the ER doctors," he says. "Is there any way I can help -- call someone, or anything else?"
Sam shakes his head. "Thank you, Reverend, but no. The only family I have is in there. My brother, he's -- well, we don't know yet."
"I can pray, if you like."
Sam chokes back the urge to snarl, "Go right ahead, if you think anyone's listening." Sam prayed. One hundred and one times he prayed for Dean's life to be restored. What looked like an answer was merely a cruel joke. The only god who ever responded was a capricious bastard with a sick sense of humor, who reset the pins of Sam's universe so he could knock them down again. Sam's done with prayer. He looks into the man's dark eyes, forcing himself to be polite. "You're welcome to if you like. I can't."
Excusing himself, Sam finds the restroom, where he relieves himself and splashes his face. He looks in the mirror to find the same haunted man he'd spent hundreds of days gazing at.
Whatever's done this to Dean, he's going to find it and kill it.
***
"Hey. It's Sam, I'm here," he says, but he can barely hear himself over the sound of the monitors. He clears his throat and repeats himself, taking Dean's hand in his own. It's like holding a dead leaf in his palm, for all the responsiveness there. This, he knows, should be on Dean's personal coma scale: Does not withdraw from chick flick moments. This is bad.
"The doctor said they're going to give you a break from tests for a little while, let you get some rack time. I've got a call in to Bobby. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can."
A nurse bustles around Dean's bed, adjusting the IV drip, straightening the sheets. She's pretty, dark-haired and petite, just Dean's type. Sam can practically hear him crack one of his favorite jokes -- Did you hear about the nurse who was so good she could make the patient without disturbing the bed? -- which has yet to meet with any degree of amusement from his audiences. (Not that this has prevented him from getting laid on occasion; Sam's still not sure how that works.)
"They're going to kick me out in a couple more minutes," he tells Dean. I'm going to head back to the diner, see if I can talk to the waitress you talked to this morning. I guess that's yesterday morning, now. Maybe she's heard about things like this happening before."
Nothing but the sound of machines and the rustle of crisp linens.
"We are going to get this figured out." Sam's voice rings with a lot more certainty than he's feeling right now, but he's grateful for that.
The nurse signals him that it's time to leave. "I'll let you get some rest now, Dean. I'll be back soon." Sam tightens his grip on Dean's hand just a fraction, then releases it. "Thanks," he says to the nurse, his voice sounding raspy and strange to his own ear. He turns on his heel and leaves the ICU.
When Sam reaches the Impala, he settles behind the wheel -- always 180 degrees off normal, even after those months when he was the car's sole occupant -- and starts the engine, blasts the heater. He jerks out his phone and calls Bobby's number again.
"Goddammit, Bobby, where are you?" he snarls when his voice mail gives the signal to record a message. "It's Sam. I need some help here, all right? Dean needs help. They're using the word coma. I'm trying to figure this out, but I need help." Sam snaps the phone shut, tosses it on the dash. His head's throbbing, and the topical anesthetic has worn off where he got the stitch put in his cheek.
He pushes his hair out of his eyes and puts the Impala in gear.
***
The diner's right at the peak of morning rush when Sam walks in. All the tables are occupied, so he settles onto a stool at the counter and orders a coffee, eavesdropping on the talk around him.
The pharmacy fire is the main topic of conversation, and already the theories are flying. The pharmacist had a drug problem and knew those guys from the state board were on their way to look into things. No, it was trouble with the IRS. A few theories border on the far-fetched, but nothing as crazy as what Sam suspects is the truth.
He's practically nodding into his coffee by the time the place starts to thin out. The waitress tears a check from her order pad, thumping it on the counter by him. "That everything for you?" she asks, her tone indicating she thinks it ought to be. God only knows what he looks like, unshaven, unwashed as he is.
"Warm me up, if you would," Sam says, touching a finger to his cup. He ignores the irritation she projects as she pours and says, "My brother and I were in here yesterday. I think he talked to you about the meteor tree?"
She defrosts slightly. "Oh sure. I remember him."
"I have a question which might seem a little strange," Sam continues. "Have you ever heard of anything strange happening out there? Strange events, unexplained illness, anything?"
The waitress frowns. "Nothing I can think of offhand. Well, except there's one of the farmhands. He said he carved his initials into it one day when he was working there in that field. Said the next day when he went back, they were gone, like he'd never done it. But to tell you the truth, he is so full of crap you can smell it clear from Florence. What makes you ask?"
"My brother and I went out there last night. He got sick suddenly. I wondered if you'd heard anything like that."
"No, can't say I have. How is he?"
"We don't know yet. He's having tests run."
"That's too bad," she says. "He seems like a nice kid."
Sam can imagine Dean's snort at that. He's a charmer and a flirt, but nice is not a word he'd probably use for himself. "Yeah, he is. Oh hey -- one more thing. Have you seen or heard anything about flashes of light out there. Or lightning striking in the area when the sky's perfectly clear?"
"Nothing like that, no."
Sam nods, slips a five under the rim of his coffee cup. "Thanks, I appreciate it."
He steps out into the bone-aching cold, as damp and gloomy as yesterday was clear and bright. He heads back to the motel to extend their stay and have a quick shower. By the time he makes it back to the hospital, Dean's been whisked off for more tests.
***
Sam is weaving on his feet, so a nurse directs him to the gourmet coffee cart on the ground floor. She gives him a flying saucer-shaped pager and a promise that she'll alert him the moment Dean's back from his test.
There's an atrium with cafe tables and two-story high windows, though the sunroom effect lacks any kind of sun. The sky's an especially Midwest brand of February gloom, just grayed over into one giant mass of cloud. He prefers the cloud cover you get in the West, charcoal formations piled one on the other, reminding you of that Big Sky, even when it's obscured. Dean disagrees. More accurately, Dean thinks Sam's full of shit. He --
Sam pushes back the wave of panic and grief that wells within him. As long as Dean's on this earth, Sam's going to fight for him tooth and claw. Fuck that. He'll keep it up if Dean does die, because Dean's all he has left.
Before he finishes his triple shot latte (which shows no signs of breaking through the exhaustion clouding over his brain), his cell rings. Sam's so focused on the pager that he's out of his chair before he realizes it's not the signal he's waiting for. "Yeah," he says once he's sorted out which piece of electronics to respond to.
"It's Bobby."
Relief floods through Sam so strongly it knocks his knees out from under him, dumping him back in the chair.
"I'm on my way to you now. Just tell me exactly where I'm going."
Sam offers up the specifics.
"Anything new on Dean?"
"They're doing more tests. So far they don't know a thing. He's not totally unresponsive, but it's close. I've got nothing to go on, but I'm thinking it has something to do with that tree. Which doesn't fit in with the wampus cat theory at all."
"Doesn't mean you couldn't have two unrelated things going on."
"Yeah, I guess."
"I should be there in about ten hours, give or take." It'll be take, knowing Bobby's lead foot when there's a reason to move. "Try to get some sleep. You sound like shit."
"Sure," Sam says, and they both know he's lying. The pager vibrates, clattering on the table top. "I've gotta go, Bobby. He's back from his test. See you when you get here."
Tossing his coffee cup in the trash, Sam rises and heads back to the nurse's station, hoping for good news, bracing for bad.
***
The doctors have decided Dean's stable enough to be in a room instead of the ICU, which means Sam can actually watch over him instead of wait for his five minutes per hour (if Dean's not off having another test).
Sam supposes he should be encouraged, but seeing Dean as still as before, hair spiky with grease and almost as pale as the faded hospital gown he wears -- it's hard to take. He makes an effort to keep his voice light. "Hey Dean. I'm right here. I talked to Bobby. He's on his way."
He should keep talking, he's heard that a million times. Somewhere in that unmoving shell, there's a piece of Dean that can hear what's going on. It's just more than he can handle right now.
"Now that you're settled in, I'm going to try to catch a little sleep. I'll be right here in this chair, Dean. If you need anything, just --" Sam's hands clench around the bed railing. "Just speak up, I'm right here."
He settles in, but sleep is beyond his reach for a long while. Three shots of espresso might not do much for the mental fog, but it has its effect, and each sound from the hallway or nurse who comes in to check on Dean rockets Sam to wakefulness again.
He's had a little bit of unbroken sleep when the doctor comes in, enough that Sam's neck and back feel permanently stoved up when he straightens in the chair. A tall, black man with some gray theaded through his close-cropped hair, he reaches Sam by the time he's managed to unfold himself from the chair.
He offers his hand. "I'm Dr. Moultrie, the chief neurologist. You're Mr. Plant's brother?"
"Yes. I'm Sam." He knows Sam Plant has to be the stupidest sounding name he's ever adopted, but if Dean's ever going to come around and call out for him, he wants no confusion. "Have you found anything that tells you what's going on?"
"We're still working on that. I'd like to do a quick exam here, and then we can talk."
"Sure."
The doctor leans over the bed. "Mr. Plant? Dean? It's Dr. Moultrie. Can you open your eyes for me? Your brother Sam's right here too. You want to open those eyes?"
"I'm right here, Dean," Sam says at Dr. Moultrie's encouraging look. "You should think about waking up. There are some seriously good-looking nurses in this hospital." He flicks a glance up at the doctor. "Sorry."
Dr. Moultrie grins. "You know the patient. Whatever works."
But it doesn't, so the doctor thumbs Dean's eyelids open in turn, shining a small flashlight into them. He runs through a few other quick assessments, finally taking Dean's hand and pinching the bed of his thumbnail hard.
Dean's eyes flutter and he jerks his hand away with a low grunt.
"That's good," Dr. Moultrie exclaims softly, surprise coloring his voice. He looks up at Sam. "That's the first verbal response we've had. That puts him a little farther up the scale." He releases Dean's hand, setting it gently on the covers at Dean's side, then makes some notes in the chart.
"So there's improvement?" Sam asks.
"Yes." He gestures Sam back toward his chair and brings another over from beside the next bed, currently unoccupied. "He's no longer at the bottom of the verbal response scale." Dr. Moultrie settles into his chair, facing Sam.
"What else have you found?"
"So far we're not sure what's going on. We've done an EEG, which records the electrical activity of the brain. In many coma patients, the most predominant brainwaves are the delta waves, the slow waves that normally appear in sleep. But in your brother's case we found a great deal of electrical activity in his brain, with a type of wave pattern that I've never seen before. I'd like to do some further studies, and repeat this one. To be honest, these results are baffling."
Sam likes his honesty. "But what's happening is abnormal."
"The wave patterns are not disordered. They're just ... nothing I've ever seen before. We'll keep running tests until we find out what's going on." He rises and Sam gets to his feet too. "I'm going to do some research, and I'll be back by in a couple of hours."
"Thanks, Doctor."
Moultrie offers another handshake, and then Sam's alone again with Dean.
***
Once the doctor leaves, Sam finds himself wide awake. He perches on the edge of Dean's bed, down by the foot where there's no railing. "I think you'd like this guy, Dr. Moultrie. Did you hear what he said? Some of the signs are improving. Just keep it up. You know the thing about talking to coma patients, right? The longer you lie there on your ass, the longer you've gotta listen to me. I am not, repeat not going to be reading Busty Asian Beauties at your bedside, not even the letters column. Keep lounging around, and I'm gonna read you the Wall Street Journal and play the most emo alt rock I can find. Then when I need a break, Bobby'll take over, and it'll be country music and the sound of him riding your ass until you wake the fuck up."
Sam is no good at this sort of bullshit threat. Dean, on the other hand, is a master at issuing them and making them sound like iron-clad promises.
Sam wishes he could do what they do in the sappy movies on what Dean calls "Chick Flick Network," which he occasionally watches so he can mock them. He wishes there were happy memories to talk about, childhood games and pets and old girlfriends. But he's drawing a blank. Every memory he can think of is dark, dark. Dean, remember that time you offered to shoot that girl I fell for, so I wouldn't have to? Yeah. Right.
It's about an hour shy of the time Dr. Moultrie said he'd be back when the door opens and a man in a white coat enters. Sam's instant impression is that everything about this guy is the polar opposite of Moultrie: white skin, pale eyes, a distinct lack of warmth. He offers neither a handshake or a name, and Sam takes an immediate dislike to him.
"I would like to ask you a few questions about Mr. --" he consults a piece of official-looking paper. "Plant."
"Are you an associate of Dr. Moultrie's?" Not because he doubts this, but he figures it might at least prompt a name.
"Yes. You are the patient's brother?"
"Yes." Two can play the one syllable/zero information game.
"This happened yesterday? At what time?"
"I didn't happen to pull out a watch," Sam retorts. "It was before dark, but not that much before."
Dr. Warmth nods. "You were present when he became ill."
"Yes."
"Where were you?"
Didn't this asshole bother to read the chart? Everything he was asking Sam had told EMTs, nurses, doctors. All but the EMTs seemed to be transcribing furiously.
"We were a mile or two out of town. There's a tree in the middle of the field. There's a story surrounding it, so we went out to see it."
"And he fell ill while you were there. Can you describe what happened?" He sounds just like that buzz-cut cop on Dragnet.
"Just the facts?"
The snark flies right over his not-so-buzz-cut head. "Yes, that would be valuable."
"I thought Dr. Moultrie was going to come and take this history."
"He was delayed."
"He's not even due yet."
The arrogance rolls off this guy, who's clearly accustomed to deference. "Every person on this staff wishes to help your brother," he says in reproach.
Sam makes himself relax his hands. "I'm sorry. I know that. This is ... hard."
"Take your time," the doctor says, but his manner conveys the opposite.
"We were out there by the tree. There was a flash. He went down, lost consciousness. At first he didn't move at all, then he had a grand mal seizure. When it was over, he was like this."
The doctor frowns. "Was he touching the tree?"
"I had my back turned. The wind was really cold. But he was close enough that he could have."
"Thank you for your cooperation," he says, still sounding for all the world like Joe Friday. Something about that pings some instinct in Sam, but he's out the door before Sam can respond.
Hunter? If so, he's no one Sam's heard about. Another thing he'll have to ask Bobby about when he arrives.
***
Dr. Moultrie arrives with Dean's fat chart under his arm and goes through every piece of it with Sam, including a review of the same information Sam gave Dr. Warmth. "I've made some calls to some of the best clinics and specialists there are," Dr. Moultrie adds, "so I'm hoping it connects with something they've seen."
Some doctors might give off the impression that they were hot on the trail of their next important JAMA article, but with Moultrie it reads as geniuine concern.
"I've even called some neurologists I know who are retired, but are whip-smart."
"Thank you. We appreciate this."
"Have you had any rest at all since this happened?"
Sam shrugs. "A little sleep in the chair here."
Dr. Moultrie lets out an even breath, seemingly weighing a decision. "Mr. Plant."
"Sam."
"Okay, Sam. I'm not brushing aside any prospect of hope, I want to make that clear. But this could go on for a while. You won't be doing your brother any good by running yourself into the ground at the very start. You need a night's sleep, and frankly you could start any time now."
Sam pushes his hand through his hair. "I know. But we've got family coming. When my uncle gets here, I'll get some sleep, I promise."
The doctor claps him on the arm and says, "See that you do." After another quick check of Dean's vitals, he leaves Sam to slouch back into the chair by Dean's side. Eventually he falls into a fitful sleep, punctuated by sudden muscle twangs from his position, or weird dreams woven from the sounds of the hospital.
When the phone pulls him out of yet another unpleasant dream, the windows are blank, black rectangles. He flips open the cell -- against regs, Dr. Moultrie had told him, before adding the evidence that they interfered with medical equipment wasn't that convincing, winding up with Just don't get caught. "Yeah."
"I need you to come down here and vouch for your uncle Bobby," and at this moment that road-roughened growl qualifies as the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.
"Be right down." He launches out of his chair so fast it gives him a headrush, and he grabs at the railing on Dean's bed until he regains his balance. "It's Bobby, Dean. He's here. I'm going to go clear him with the desk downstairs, and then we'll be right up."
There's no answer but the sound of monitors, but Sam still feels like things could turn out all right.
Sam takes the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, the clatter of his boot soles echoing off the concrete walls. When he bursts out of the stairwell and spots Bobby at the desk, he expects to feel an uncomplicated surge of relief and hope.
But the sight of him fills Sam with such a complex, uneasy mixture of feelings that it makes him reel worse than the headrush. Last time he saw Bobby -- last time he saw what looked like Bobby -- Sam had been forced to confront what he was willing to do for the slightest hope of bringing Dean back. He remembers ramming the stake through the body that looked just like Bobby's, and that sickening moment when he believed he'd killed him and not the Trickster. Sam's staggered by a wave of guilt and sorrow and self-loathing and utter certainty that he'd do the same thing again in the same circumstances.
Bobby catches the look on Sam's face and his own reflects rising dread. "Sam? He's not--"
"No, no, Jesus, no. He's about the same." He manages to unfreeze his feet and go to Bobby then, gathered up into a bone-crunching hug.
"Jesus, boy, you scared me there."
"Sorry, Bobby. God, I'm sorry. I'm just so --" Lost, is what he wants to say, but the word gets stuck sideways in his throat.
"Tired," Bobby says. "You're runnin' on next to no sleep, if that, and that rubs a man's emotions raw. Once you've had a chance to sleep, it'll be better."
"Yeah," Sam says, but he's not sure he believes it, and the worried look Bobby's wearing doesn't change that.
"C'mon," Bobby says. "Let's go see Dean, and you can tell me the whole story."
***
It's almost too painful to stand there and watch Bobby lean over the ghost lying in the hospital bed, calling Dean "Kid" and promising to get to the bottom of this.
All Sam can register is the memory of the last time Bobby's back had been presented this way. As a target. Every physical sensation of that moment is so clear in his head. If Bobby knew, he'd never turn his back on Sam again.
Hold it together. Might as well say Stop the moon from rising. He turns toward the window and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes.
"So fill me in," Bobby says as he turns from Dean's bedside. "What do the -- Sam?"
"I can't do this."
Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. It's not gentle or comforting, it's the patented Bobby Singer This is what getting a grip feels like grab. "What, son?"
"I can't do it again. I said I would fight, Bobby, but I might just put a bullet in my brain."
Bobby shakes him, hard. "You're not making any sense. And this is not the place for this kind of talk. What can't you do again?"
Sam looks over at Dean. Take away the machines and put him in a suit, and he could be laid out for his own funeral. "Not here."
Following his gaze, Bobby nods. "Is your motel far?"
"Someone has to be with Dean."
"I'm a helluva lot more worried about you than him right now. Dean's stable. You're comin' unglued. I'll drive you to the motel, you can fill me in, then I'll come back and sit with Dean."
"Too far away." The nearest hospital with a neurology department from Union is, of course, on the outskirts of Cincinnati.
"Then we get a room at the hotel across the street. Problem solved." And Bobby actually starts to steer him across the room.
Sam tenses to resist, but he cannot fight Bobby, not after what happened. What, to be more accurate, didn't happen.
All he can concentrate on is keeping himself from flying apart while Bobby takes care of the details. He herds Sam into the elevator like a farm dog, ordering him around with monosyllabic equivalents of barks, guiding him to the room.
When they're inside, Bobby says, "Sit down, Sam."
Sam obeys without taking off his coat. Bobby rummages in the mini-bar and pours a stiff drink, which he passes over to Sam, who wraps his fingers around the glass but doesn't lift it. "Someone should be with Dean."
"I set some wards. He'll be safe enough until I get back. Tell me what's going on."
"The doctor --"
"That's not what I'm talking about. And drink that, dammit. It'll cost enough."
Sam dutifully takes a sip.
"This ain't a sorority tea. Lower your damn pinkie and drink." When he's satisfied, he perches on the bed nearest Sam's chair. "What did you mean, you can't do this again? Do what?"
Warmth spreads through him as the whiskey hits his system. "Watch Dean die."
"'Die'? 'Again'? The hell are you talking about, boy?"
Sam rubs his hand across his mouth, looks at the streak of moisture on his fingers. Blood's smeared there; he has chewed his lips raw. "We ran into the Trickster god we thought we'd killed. Down in Florida."
"Christ." Bobby readjusts his hat. "This can't be good."
"I didn't know he was the cause of it, not right away. Dean died."
"Sonofabitch," Bobby says softly.
"And then I woke up, and it was the same day again. And we went through the same motions, except I tried to change things. And he died again, only in a different way. And then wham, Groundhog Day again. Starts the same way, ends the same way, just with variations on how."
"Jesus. How many times?"
"A hundred, I'd guess. Then we found the Trickster, and he said he was getting bored anyway. So the next day, there's actually a next day. Loop over. And Dean -- he dies again. I don't wake up, he doesn't come back.. He's gone."
All the air goes out of Bobby then; he's at a loss for even a curse word.
"And then I'm alone. Each morning I wake up, and I'm still alone. Hunting. Trying to find the Trickster."
"How long?"
"Months, Bobby. It was the worst --"
"Shit, son." The hand on his shoulder this time is fatherly. "How did you make it end?"
This he cannot ever -- will not ever -- say. "Summoned the Trickster. Begged. Pleaded. He decided he was bored with that one too. And then I was back where I was the day the loop ended."
"When was this?"
Sam shakes his head. "A week, ten days ago."
"Damn, son." Bobby clumsily pats his shoulder.
"I'm not lying, Bobby. If he dies, I will shoot myself and go to hell with him."
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated, while Sam tries very hard not to break.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
The sky's still clear when they get outside, but the wind has picked up, knifing through their clothes.
"We don't want to be out here too long," Sam says.
"Some of us apparently don't want to be out here at all," Dean mutters.
Sam demonstrates that he can make the Marge Simpson noise too, but doesn't say anything.
It doesn't take long to drive out to the field where the tree is. Even without its leaves, Dean has to admit it's a pretty impressive specimen. Its branches spread into a canopy so full it has to create some serious shade. It must be something in the summer.
"Wonder what kind of oak it is," Sam says as Dean pulls the car off the road.
"The mighty oak," Dean says. "What do you mean, what kind?" He yanks his collar up, hunching against the cold as he rummages in the trunk for the pistols with silver bullets.
"There's the red oak, white oak, pin oak, live oak. Live oak is an evergreen, though, so we can rule that out."
"How do you know this stuff?"
"Jess was thinking about a degree in forestry before I knew her." He sticks his pistol in the back of his waistband and falls in step beside Dean, who carefully picks his way over the stubble and uneven ground, listeing to the crunch of their footsteps and the rasp of their breath.
What if they do get this thing? Sammy's going to insist on finding some way to undo Dean's deal. Since the whole trickster thing, his determination has been more like pure obsession. If he doesn't chill his shit, he's going to blow everything Dean tried to accomplish with the deal -- and that, Dean knows, will hurt him as bad as any literal hell.
He just wishes Sammy would stop before things get any more fucked up than they already are. He wishes he could give Sam some peace.
They slow as they approach the tree, Sam slowly circling the trunk, looking for anything that indicate something living in or near the tree.
"Hard to tell what to do," Dean says. "Make charms from the wood to protect people in town, or burn this thing to ash."
Sam turns his back to the wind -- and the tree -- fumbling with his jacket pocket. "Maybe this will give us a clue." He switches on his EMF meter, but there's no sound other than the wind.
Dean looks up through the bare branches for any other sign. It's almost dizzying, looking up into the deepening blue sky. He reaches a hand to steady himself against the tree, and there's a bright flash and a roar in his head, and that's the last --
Part 2: Sam
Without warning there's a blaze of light behind Sam that bleaches the whole world to white before he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his face into the crook of his arm. A blast of wind -- almost warm, not icy -- pushes him forward two staggering steps. Just as suddenly, both the light and the wind die away, and he reels again.
"Dean?" Sam turns, blinking. It takes him a second to find his brother, because he's sprawled on his back on the ground, limbs splayed outward. "Dean!"
He drops onto one knee next to Dean, who is still and pale as death. "Dean! What the hell happened?"
No answer, no movement. Sam drops the EMF meter and puts two shaking fingers to Dean's neck to feel for a pulse. It's not strong, but at least it's present. Sam gently lifts one of his eyelids with his thumb, but there's only a sliver of green showing above a fair amount of white. Then Dean takes a ragged breath and starts to convulse, his limbs flailing, his neck arched back.
"Dean!" Sam reaches toward him, but Dean's arm lashes out, knocking him onto his ass. He scrambles out of reach, groping for his cell phone.
"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice, brisk and competent, with just a hint of a Southern twang.
"I need an ambulance. My brother's unconscious and having a seizure. We're outside and he's on the ground, so he needs help fast."
"What's your location?"
"A field a couple of miles outside Union. We're at the meteor tree."
"I've got someone on the way to you now, sir. Are you familiar with first aid for a seizure?"
"No. He's never had one before."
His movements grow more violent, one arm crashing against the tree trunk.
"If there's anything he could hurt himself on, move it if you can. Don't try to hold him down or force anything into his mouth."
"All right."
"If he stops before the squad gets there, turn him on his left side, and make sure his face is turned in case he vomits."
"Yeah, okay." He ends the call, the weight of those one hundred Tuesdays pressing in on him, the helpless feeling of watching his brother die each and every day slamming back into him. All he can do now is stay out of the way and keep watch. "Help's on the way, Dean. Hang on."
Sam reaches for the fallen EMF meter, and as he shifts, he feels the cold metal of the Beretta against his spine. "Shit!" He clambers back toward Dean, trying to ease him off his back without either of them getting hurt. Dean arches and thrashes, his arm whipping across Sam's face. Sam hisses as Dean's watch opens a gash on his cheek.
"Easy, Dean. It's okay. Help's coming." Might as well tell someone to stop having a heart attack.
Sam gets his hand on the gun, slipping it out from under Dean just as he begins to hear the wail of a siren in the distance. He tucks it away with his own, rearranging his shirt tail over them.
The siren grows ear-splittingly loud and then cuts off, replaced by the sound of voices and clanging doors.
"They're here, Dean. They're coming across the field right now."
All at once the convulsions subside, leaving Dean sprawled at the base of the tree. Sam strokes a hand over his sweat-spiked hair, murmuring, "It's okay, you're okay, I've got you." Though the paramedics are drawing near, he shifts Dean's dead weight so he's lying on his left side, turning his face as directed.
The first paramedic reaches them and sets her equipment by Dean.
"I'm gonna get out of their way now, but I'm right here. You're going to be fine." Sam gets to his feet and steps back, hoping to god that he's telling the truth.
***
Dean's as still now as he was before the seizure, and Sam finds himself avidly watching the rise and fall of his chest when the EMTs aren't blocking his line of sight. Some part of him is answering questions they ask, but he's on autopilot, while most of his brain is busy with the horror of this moment in context of one hundred recent ones very much like it.
This is not how Dad taught him to be.
This is, however, how those hundred Tuesdays taught him to be. Frozen, terrified, despairing, unable to do anything concrete to help his brother, beyond a call to 911.
Once they've got him bundled on a stretcher, ready to lift and carry across the frozen field, the first paramedic turns and asks, "Do you want to ride along?"
Sam's chest aches with how much he wants to ride along. But it's not smart, considering he's got two handguns tucked in hs waistband, and the Impala is his sole mode of transport. "I'd like to, but my only transportation's out here. I'll follow."
Sam reaches out, squeezes Dean's foot gently. "Dean. I'll be right behind you, all right? I'll see you when I get to the hospital."
Not a twitch of expression or a flutter of an eyelash.
Sam squeezes again and nods to the EMTs. "Meet you there."
He sets off at an angle to the EMTs' straight line, heading for the spot where they'd pulled the Impala off the road. He's aware that he's moving too fast in the gathering dark, but he wants to shout at the EMTs to get a fucking move on! Dean's phrase, and Sam hears it in Dean's voice.
Tripping and righting himself, Sam feels his ankle buckle and protest, but he ignores the stab of pain and keeps going. Once he reaches the Impala, he hastily tucks the handguns back into the false bottom of the trunk. While he waits for the EMTs to finish loading up, he hits Bobby's number on the speed dial.
Bobby's voice mail kicks in. Sam usually finds some amusement in hearing the growl that invites Bobby's caller to leave a name and number but is more discouraging than welcoming. This time there's nothing funny about it. Please don't be out on a hunt, he thinks. Dean hadn't said anything along those lines after he talked to him, but Bobby doesn't tell everything.
"Shit," he says when the beep sounds. "Bobby, it's Sam. I hope you're around. Something's wrong with Dean. We're on our way to the hospital. We were out by this meteor tree, and next thing I knew, he was having a seizure, and now he's unconscious. I didn't see what happened; I was screwing around with the EMT meter. There was a flash. EMF. Did I say EMT? I meant EMF." Is this going to sound as incoherent as he thinks? "Call me," he says. "As soon as you can."
The EMTs climb into the ambulance, and it starts to roll. The Impala rumbles to life and Sam gooses the gas pedal to follow the flash of red lights and yowl of the siren.
***
Sam sprawls across the front seat of the Impala under the harsh glow of a security light, rummaging in the glove compartment for the right IDs. Shit shit shit! There's all the fake agency credentials he could want, but the insurance cards that will get Dean taken care of instantly, and IDs that will prove they're brothers so Sam's not kept at arm's length as they treat Dean, are harder to find. His hands are shaking by the time he comes up with the right cards, and he drops them into the footwell, cursing viciously as he chases after them.
Once he's got them inserted into his wallet and Dean's -- which he'd thought to lift at the same time he took Dean's gun -- he launches himself out of the car and sprints across the parking lot to the emergency entrance.
A burly security guard meets him just inside the doors, telling him to slow down and put his name in at the desk.
"They just brought my brother in," Sam blurts. "Where is he?"
"Sit yourself down. Sir."
"Bullshit," Sam says. "He just collapsed out of the blue. I need to know what's going on."
"It's all right," a woman at the intake desk says. She's young and pretty and reminds him of Cassie, but with her hair cut short. "I need to get some information from you."
This is the part he hasn't done one hundred times over. Just the twice -- when Dean's heart gave out on him (ironic -- his heart is the one thing about Dean that never quits, though he'd probably deny it), and after the wreck. Those other times it had been quick and horrifying, but Sam had always been right there at his side.
"Look, I need to be with him."
"Then the sooner we finish this, the sooner you can do that," she says, not unkindly.
The EMT stops by after finishing her own paperwork. "Your brother's stable. They'll be taking him down for some tests soon."
"Thanks."
"You're almost done here," the admin says before Sam can plead to see Dean.
He commits twenty-seven varieties of fraud before he's done, plus signs off on any diagnostic tests and treatment Dean might need. By the time he's slashed his phony signature across the last of the consent forms, there's a guy in scrubs waiting to walk him back to the treatment area where they're taking care of Dean. There's no change, except for gauze encircling his hand where, Sam guesses, he'd skinned it against the bark of the meteor tree. He's completely still, so deathly pale that his freckles stand out in stark relief.
"You should get that cut on your face looked after," an ER nurse says.
"Sure. Later." Sam touches Dean's other hand. "Dean, I'm right here. The doctors are going to run a few tests, find out what's going on. It's gonna be all right."
The doctor looks at a clipboard of information the admin gathered. "His name's Robert?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "His family nickname is Dean, though. He's maybe more likely to respond to that."
The doctor nods and makes a note. "I'm Dr. Mehta. They're going to get the tests started, and you and I can fill each other in."
They step aside as an orderly wheels Dean's gurney through a pair of double doors. Sam watches the doors swing gently behind them, feeling numb.
***
The cell phone is just a weight in Sam's pocket. Bobby hasn't called back, and Sam can't think who else to try. If he's hunting, Ellen might have known, if the road house were still standing.
Sam remembers that time after the rawhead, when the doctors gave Dean a month at most and he looked worse than a great many of the ghosts he and Sam had laid to rest. The call Sam had made to Dad, choked and deperate and frightened. Like talking into the void, for all the response it got. Even then he'd had other hunters he could call, but after they'd uncorked the entrance to hell, they'd lost a lot of the friends they'd had.
He waits for test results to come back, hunched in a chair in the waiting area. Sam's not alone in this; in the time he's been here, he's been joined by a couple awaiting word on their child, an elderly woman and her daughter worrying about the woman's husband, and now a large family and their minister praying for the teenaged boy who was in a car crash.
Sam tries not to make anything of the fact that he's the only one here who's waiting alone. He drinks way too much of the bitter coffee from the push-top thermal dispensers on a table under the overhead TV set. All the waiting room time he'd put in as a kid, he'd longed for the distraction of a TV, but now that they're inescapable, he wishes he could put a few rounds in the fucking screen.
He flips through every magazine in the room, registering nothing, gazes at the bland landscape paintings as if they're as impenetrable as a Pollock. Tries to imagine not being so alone, but the brief flash he conjures of Jess holding his hand and murmuring reassurance is more painful than isolation.
Dr. Mehta finds him and sits with him. "We're in the process of admitting your brother now, and our chief neurologist will be taking over his case in the morning."
"Have you found something?" His heart hammers as he waits for the answer.
"We've ruled out some things, including stroke and aneurism. There's no swelling, which is a huge thing in his favor. But we're not sure yet what is going on."
"Has he been conscious at all?"
"No. We've evaluated his level of consciousness, which we measure using the Glasgow Coma Scale."
Coma. Sam's breath gusts out as if he's been kicked in the gut.
"At present, Dean falls at 7 on a scale of 3 to 15. His eyes will open at pain, and he withdraws his limbs from pain. But verbally, he's completely unresponsive."
"Is 3 the good end of the scale, or the bad?" Sam thinks he knows the answer already.
Dr. Mehta regards him with compassion. "It's on the serious end of the scale. But he is breathing on his own, and he's holding steady."
"Have there been any more seizures?"
"No. We'll give him a night's rest and keep a close watch, and see what the morning brings."
"Yeah. Thanks, Doctor."
"We'll let you look in on him as soon as he's settled in the ICU."
When the doctor's gone, Sam suddenly becomes aware that the waiting room is quiet, except for the drone of the television. The big family has departed, down to the last cranky toddler. He can't imagine how they could have vanished without pulling his attention toward them, even briefly.
Their minister has stuck around, approaching now that Sam's aware of him. "I see you were having a talk with one of the ER doctors," he says. "Is there any way I can help -- call someone, or anything else?"
Sam shakes his head. "Thank you, Reverend, but no. The only family I have is in there. My brother, he's -- well, we don't know yet."
"I can pray, if you like."
Sam chokes back the urge to snarl, "Go right ahead, if you think anyone's listening." Sam prayed. One hundred and one times he prayed for Dean's life to be restored. What looked like an answer was merely a cruel joke. The only god who ever responded was a capricious bastard with a sick sense of humor, who reset the pins of Sam's universe so he could knock them down again. Sam's done with prayer. He looks into the man's dark eyes, forcing himself to be polite. "You're welcome to if you like. I can't."
Excusing himself, Sam finds the restroom, where he relieves himself and splashes his face. He looks in the mirror to find the same haunted man he'd spent hundreds of days gazing at.
Whatever's done this to Dean, he's going to find it and kill it.
***
"Hey. It's Sam, I'm here," he says, but he can barely hear himself over the sound of the monitors. He clears his throat and repeats himself, taking Dean's hand in his own. It's like holding a dead leaf in his palm, for all the responsiveness there. This, he knows, should be on Dean's personal coma scale: Does not withdraw from chick flick moments. This is bad.
"The doctor said they're going to give you a break from tests for a little while, let you get some rack time. I've got a call in to Bobby. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can."
A nurse bustles around Dean's bed, adjusting the IV drip, straightening the sheets. She's pretty, dark-haired and petite, just Dean's type. Sam can practically hear him crack one of his favorite jokes -- Did you hear about the nurse who was so good she could make the patient without disturbing the bed? -- which has yet to meet with any degree of amusement from his audiences. (Not that this has prevented him from getting laid on occasion; Sam's still not sure how that works.)
"They're going to kick me out in a couple more minutes," he tells Dean. I'm going to head back to the diner, see if I can talk to the waitress you talked to this morning. I guess that's yesterday morning, now. Maybe she's heard about things like this happening before."
Nothing but the sound of machines and the rustle of crisp linens.
"We are going to get this figured out." Sam's voice rings with a lot more certainty than he's feeling right now, but he's grateful for that.
The nurse signals him that it's time to leave. "I'll let you get some rest now, Dean. I'll be back soon." Sam tightens his grip on Dean's hand just a fraction, then releases it. "Thanks," he says to the nurse, his voice sounding raspy and strange to his own ear. He turns on his heel and leaves the ICU.
When Sam reaches the Impala, he settles behind the wheel -- always 180 degrees off normal, even after those months when he was the car's sole occupant -- and starts the engine, blasts the heater. He jerks out his phone and calls Bobby's number again.
"Goddammit, Bobby, where are you?" he snarls when his voice mail gives the signal to record a message. "It's Sam. I need some help here, all right? Dean needs help. They're using the word coma. I'm trying to figure this out, but I need help." Sam snaps the phone shut, tosses it on the dash. His head's throbbing, and the topical anesthetic has worn off where he got the stitch put in his cheek.
He pushes his hair out of his eyes and puts the Impala in gear.
***
The diner's right at the peak of morning rush when Sam walks in. All the tables are occupied, so he settles onto a stool at the counter and orders a coffee, eavesdropping on the talk around him.
The pharmacy fire is the main topic of conversation, and already the theories are flying. The pharmacist had a drug problem and knew those guys from the state board were on their way to look into things. No, it was trouble with the IRS. A few theories border on the far-fetched, but nothing as crazy as what Sam suspects is the truth.
He's practically nodding into his coffee by the time the place starts to thin out. The waitress tears a check from her order pad, thumping it on the counter by him. "That everything for you?" she asks, her tone indicating she thinks it ought to be. God only knows what he looks like, unshaven, unwashed as he is.
"Warm me up, if you would," Sam says, touching a finger to his cup. He ignores the irritation she projects as she pours and says, "My brother and I were in here yesterday. I think he talked to you about the meteor tree?"
She defrosts slightly. "Oh sure. I remember him."
"I have a question which might seem a little strange," Sam continues. "Have you ever heard of anything strange happening out there? Strange events, unexplained illness, anything?"
The waitress frowns. "Nothing I can think of offhand. Well, except there's one of the farmhands. He said he carved his initials into it one day when he was working there in that field. Said the next day when he went back, they were gone, like he'd never done it. But to tell you the truth, he is so full of crap you can smell it clear from Florence. What makes you ask?"
"My brother and I went out there last night. He got sick suddenly. I wondered if you'd heard anything like that."
"No, can't say I have. How is he?"
"We don't know yet. He's having tests run."
"That's too bad," she says. "He seems like a nice kid."
Sam can imagine Dean's snort at that. He's a charmer and a flirt, but nice is not a word he'd probably use for himself. "Yeah, he is. Oh hey -- one more thing. Have you seen or heard anything about flashes of light out there. Or lightning striking in the area when the sky's perfectly clear?"
"Nothing like that, no."
Sam nods, slips a five under the rim of his coffee cup. "Thanks, I appreciate it."
He steps out into the bone-aching cold, as damp and gloomy as yesterday was clear and bright. He heads back to the motel to extend their stay and have a quick shower. By the time he makes it back to the hospital, Dean's been whisked off for more tests.
***
Sam is weaving on his feet, so a nurse directs him to the gourmet coffee cart on the ground floor. She gives him a flying saucer-shaped pager and a promise that she'll alert him the moment Dean's back from his test.
There's an atrium with cafe tables and two-story high windows, though the sunroom effect lacks any kind of sun. The sky's an especially Midwest brand of February gloom, just grayed over into one giant mass of cloud. He prefers the cloud cover you get in the West, charcoal formations piled one on the other, reminding you of that Big Sky, even when it's obscured. Dean disagrees. More accurately, Dean thinks Sam's full of shit. He --
Sam pushes back the wave of panic and grief that wells within him. As long as Dean's on this earth, Sam's going to fight for him tooth and claw. Fuck that. He'll keep it up if Dean does die, because Dean's all he has left.
Before he finishes his triple shot latte (which shows no signs of breaking through the exhaustion clouding over his brain), his cell rings. Sam's so focused on the pager that he's out of his chair before he realizes it's not the signal he's waiting for. "Yeah," he says once he's sorted out which piece of electronics to respond to.
"It's Bobby."
Relief floods through Sam so strongly it knocks his knees out from under him, dumping him back in the chair.
"I'm on my way to you now. Just tell me exactly where I'm going."
Sam offers up the specifics.
"Anything new on Dean?"
"They're doing more tests. So far they don't know a thing. He's not totally unresponsive, but it's close. I've got nothing to go on, but I'm thinking it has something to do with that tree. Which doesn't fit in with the wampus cat theory at all."
"Doesn't mean you couldn't have two unrelated things going on."
"Yeah, I guess."
"I should be there in about ten hours, give or take." It'll be take, knowing Bobby's lead foot when there's a reason to move. "Try to get some sleep. You sound like shit."
"Sure," Sam says, and they both know he's lying. The pager vibrates, clattering on the table top. "I've gotta go, Bobby. He's back from his test. See you when you get here."
Tossing his coffee cup in the trash, Sam rises and heads back to the nurse's station, hoping for good news, bracing for bad.
***
The doctors have decided Dean's stable enough to be in a room instead of the ICU, which means Sam can actually watch over him instead of wait for his five minutes per hour (if Dean's not off having another test).
Sam supposes he should be encouraged, but seeing Dean as still as before, hair spiky with grease and almost as pale as the faded hospital gown he wears -- it's hard to take. He makes an effort to keep his voice light. "Hey Dean. I'm right here. I talked to Bobby. He's on his way."
He should keep talking, he's heard that a million times. Somewhere in that unmoving shell, there's a piece of Dean that can hear what's going on. It's just more than he can handle right now.
"Now that you're settled in, I'm going to try to catch a little sleep. I'll be right here in this chair, Dean. If you need anything, just --" Sam's hands clench around the bed railing. "Just speak up, I'm right here."
He settles in, but sleep is beyond his reach for a long while. Three shots of espresso might not do much for the mental fog, but it has its effect, and each sound from the hallway or nurse who comes in to check on Dean rockets Sam to wakefulness again.
He's had a little bit of unbroken sleep when the doctor comes in, enough that Sam's neck and back feel permanently stoved up when he straightens in the chair. A tall, black man with some gray theaded through his close-cropped hair, he reaches Sam by the time he's managed to unfold himself from the chair.
He offers his hand. "I'm Dr. Moultrie, the chief neurologist. You're Mr. Plant's brother?"
"Yes. I'm Sam." He knows Sam Plant has to be the stupidest sounding name he's ever adopted, but if Dean's ever going to come around and call out for him, he wants no confusion. "Have you found anything that tells you what's going on?"
"We're still working on that. I'd like to do a quick exam here, and then we can talk."
"Sure."
The doctor leans over the bed. "Mr. Plant? Dean? It's Dr. Moultrie. Can you open your eyes for me? Your brother Sam's right here too. You want to open those eyes?"
"I'm right here, Dean," Sam says at Dr. Moultrie's encouraging look. "You should think about waking up. There are some seriously good-looking nurses in this hospital." He flicks a glance up at the doctor. "Sorry."
Dr. Moultrie grins. "You know the patient. Whatever works."
But it doesn't, so the doctor thumbs Dean's eyelids open in turn, shining a small flashlight into them. He runs through a few other quick assessments, finally taking Dean's hand and pinching the bed of his thumbnail hard.
Dean's eyes flutter and he jerks his hand away with a low grunt.
"That's good," Dr. Moultrie exclaims softly, surprise coloring his voice. He looks up at Sam. "That's the first verbal response we've had. That puts him a little farther up the scale." He releases Dean's hand, setting it gently on the covers at Dean's side, then makes some notes in the chart.
"So there's improvement?" Sam asks.
"Yes." He gestures Sam back toward his chair and brings another over from beside the next bed, currently unoccupied. "He's no longer at the bottom of the verbal response scale." Dr. Moultrie settles into his chair, facing Sam.
"What else have you found?"
"So far we're not sure what's going on. We've done an EEG, which records the electrical activity of the brain. In many coma patients, the most predominant brainwaves are the delta waves, the slow waves that normally appear in sleep. But in your brother's case we found a great deal of electrical activity in his brain, with a type of wave pattern that I've never seen before. I'd like to do some further studies, and repeat this one. To be honest, these results are baffling."
Sam likes his honesty. "But what's happening is abnormal."
"The wave patterns are not disordered. They're just ... nothing I've ever seen before. We'll keep running tests until we find out what's going on." He rises and Sam gets to his feet too. "I'm going to do some research, and I'll be back by in a couple of hours."
"Thanks, Doctor."
Moultrie offers another handshake, and then Sam's alone again with Dean.
***
Once the doctor leaves, Sam finds himself wide awake. He perches on the edge of Dean's bed, down by the foot where there's no railing. "I think you'd like this guy, Dr. Moultrie. Did you hear what he said? Some of the signs are improving. Just keep it up. You know the thing about talking to coma patients, right? The longer you lie there on your ass, the longer you've gotta listen to me. I am not, repeat not going to be reading Busty Asian Beauties at your bedside, not even the letters column. Keep lounging around, and I'm gonna read you the Wall Street Journal and play the most emo alt rock I can find. Then when I need a break, Bobby'll take over, and it'll be country music and the sound of him riding your ass until you wake the fuck up."
Sam is no good at this sort of bullshit threat. Dean, on the other hand, is a master at issuing them and making them sound like iron-clad promises.
Sam wishes he could do what they do in the sappy movies on what Dean calls "Chick Flick Network," which he occasionally watches so he can mock them. He wishes there were happy memories to talk about, childhood games and pets and old girlfriends. But he's drawing a blank. Every memory he can think of is dark, dark. Dean, remember that time you offered to shoot that girl I fell for, so I wouldn't have to? Yeah. Right.
It's about an hour shy of the time Dr. Moultrie said he'd be back when the door opens and a man in a white coat enters. Sam's instant impression is that everything about this guy is the polar opposite of Moultrie: white skin, pale eyes, a distinct lack of warmth. He offers neither a handshake or a name, and Sam takes an immediate dislike to him.
"I would like to ask you a few questions about Mr. --" he consults a piece of official-looking paper. "Plant."
"Are you an associate of Dr. Moultrie's?" Not because he doubts this, but he figures it might at least prompt a name.
"Yes. You are the patient's brother?"
"Yes." Two can play the one syllable/zero information game.
"This happened yesterday? At what time?"
"I didn't happen to pull out a watch," Sam retorts. "It was before dark, but not that much before."
Dr. Warmth nods. "You were present when he became ill."
"Yes."
"Where were you?"
Didn't this asshole bother to read the chart? Everything he was asking Sam had told EMTs, nurses, doctors. All but the EMTs seemed to be transcribing furiously.
"We were a mile or two out of town. There's a tree in the middle of the field. There's a story surrounding it, so we went out to see it."
"And he fell ill while you were there. Can you describe what happened?" He sounds just like that buzz-cut cop on Dragnet.
"Just the facts?"
The snark flies right over his not-so-buzz-cut head. "Yes, that would be valuable."
"I thought Dr. Moultrie was going to come and take this history."
"He was delayed."
"He's not even due yet."
The arrogance rolls off this guy, who's clearly accustomed to deference. "Every person on this staff wishes to help your brother," he says in reproach.
Sam makes himself relax his hands. "I'm sorry. I know that. This is ... hard."
"Take your time," the doctor says, but his manner conveys the opposite.
"We were out there by the tree. There was a flash. He went down, lost consciousness. At first he didn't move at all, then he had a grand mal seizure. When it was over, he was like this."
The doctor frowns. "Was he touching the tree?"
"I had my back turned. The wind was really cold. But he was close enough that he could have."
"Thank you for your cooperation," he says, still sounding for all the world like Joe Friday. Something about that pings some instinct in Sam, but he's out the door before Sam can respond.
Hunter? If so, he's no one Sam's heard about. Another thing he'll have to ask Bobby about when he arrives.
***
Dr. Moultrie arrives with Dean's fat chart under his arm and goes through every piece of it with Sam, including a review of the same information Sam gave Dr. Warmth. "I've made some calls to some of the best clinics and specialists there are," Dr. Moultrie adds, "so I'm hoping it connects with something they've seen."
Some doctors might give off the impression that they were hot on the trail of their next important JAMA article, but with Moultrie it reads as geniuine concern.
"I've even called some neurologists I know who are retired, but are whip-smart."
"Thank you. We appreciate this."
"Have you had any rest at all since this happened?"
Sam shrugs. "A little sleep in the chair here."
Dr. Moultrie lets out an even breath, seemingly weighing a decision. "Mr. Plant."
"Sam."
"Okay, Sam. I'm not brushing aside any prospect of hope, I want to make that clear. But this could go on for a while. You won't be doing your brother any good by running yourself into the ground at the very start. You need a night's sleep, and frankly you could start any time now."
Sam pushes his hand through his hair. "I know. But we've got family coming. When my uncle gets here, I'll get some sleep, I promise."
The doctor claps him on the arm and says, "See that you do." After another quick check of Dean's vitals, he leaves Sam to slouch back into the chair by Dean's side. Eventually he falls into a fitful sleep, punctuated by sudden muscle twangs from his position, or weird dreams woven from the sounds of the hospital.
When the phone pulls him out of yet another unpleasant dream, the windows are blank, black rectangles. He flips open the cell -- against regs, Dr. Moultrie had told him, before adding the evidence that they interfered with medical equipment wasn't that convincing, winding up with Just don't get caught. "Yeah."
"I need you to come down here and vouch for your uncle Bobby," and at this moment that road-roughened growl qualifies as the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.
"Be right down." He launches out of his chair so fast it gives him a headrush, and he grabs at the railing on Dean's bed until he regains his balance. "It's Bobby, Dean. He's here. I'm going to go clear him with the desk downstairs, and then we'll be right up."
There's no answer but the sound of monitors, but Sam still feels like things could turn out all right.
Sam takes the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, the clatter of his boot soles echoing off the concrete walls. When he bursts out of the stairwell and spots Bobby at the desk, he expects to feel an uncomplicated surge of relief and hope.
But the sight of him fills Sam with such a complex, uneasy mixture of feelings that it makes him reel worse than the headrush. Last time he saw Bobby -- last time he saw what looked like Bobby -- Sam had been forced to confront what he was willing to do for the slightest hope of bringing Dean back. He remembers ramming the stake through the body that looked just like Bobby's, and that sickening moment when he believed he'd killed him and not the Trickster. Sam's staggered by a wave of guilt and sorrow and self-loathing and utter certainty that he'd do the same thing again in the same circumstances.
Bobby catches the look on Sam's face and his own reflects rising dread. "Sam? He's not--"
"No, no, Jesus, no. He's about the same." He manages to unfreeze his feet and go to Bobby then, gathered up into a bone-crunching hug.
"Jesus, boy, you scared me there."
"Sorry, Bobby. God, I'm sorry. I'm just so --" Lost, is what he wants to say, but the word gets stuck sideways in his throat.
"Tired," Bobby says. "You're runnin' on next to no sleep, if that, and that rubs a man's emotions raw. Once you've had a chance to sleep, it'll be better."
"Yeah," Sam says, but he's not sure he believes it, and the worried look Bobby's wearing doesn't change that.
"C'mon," Bobby says. "Let's go see Dean, and you can tell me the whole story."
***
It's almost too painful to stand there and watch Bobby lean over the ghost lying in the hospital bed, calling Dean "Kid" and promising to get to the bottom of this.
All Sam can register is the memory of the last time Bobby's back had been presented this way. As a target. Every physical sensation of that moment is so clear in his head. If Bobby knew, he'd never turn his back on Sam again.
Hold it together. Might as well say Stop the moon from rising. He turns toward the window and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes.
"So fill me in," Bobby says as he turns from Dean's bedside. "What do the -- Sam?"
"I can't do this."
Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder. It's not gentle or comforting, it's the patented Bobby Singer This is what getting a grip feels like grab. "What, son?"
"I can't do it again. I said I would fight, Bobby, but I might just put a bullet in my brain."
Bobby shakes him, hard. "You're not making any sense. And this is not the place for this kind of talk. What can't you do again?"
Sam looks over at Dean. Take away the machines and put him in a suit, and he could be laid out for his own funeral. "Not here."
Following his gaze, Bobby nods. "Is your motel far?"
"Someone has to be with Dean."
"I'm a helluva lot more worried about you than him right now. Dean's stable. You're comin' unglued. I'll drive you to the motel, you can fill me in, then I'll come back and sit with Dean."
"Too far away." The nearest hospital with a neurology department from Union is, of course, on the outskirts of Cincinnati.
"Then we get a room at the hotel across the street. Problem solved." And Bobby actually starts to steer him across the room.
Sam tenses to resist, but he cannot fight Bobby, not after what happened. What, to be more accurate, didn't happen.
All he can concentrate on is keeping himself from flying apart while Bobby takes care of the details. He herds Sam into the elevator like a farm dog, ordering him around with monosyllabic equivalents of barks, guiding him to the room.
When they're inside, Bobby says, "Sit down, Sam."
Sam obeys without taking off his coat. Bobby rummages in the mini-bar and pours a stiff drink, which he passes over to Sam, who wraps his fingers around the glass but doesn't lift it. "Someone should be with Dean."
"I set some wards. He'll be safe enough until I get back. Tell me what's going on."
"The doctor --"
"That's not what I'm talking about. And drink that, dammit. It'll cost enough."
Sam dutifully takes a sip.
"This ain't a sorority tea. Lower your damn pinkie and drink." When he's satisfied, he perches on the bed nearest Sam's chair. "What did you mean, you can't do this again? Do what?"
Warmth spreads through him as the whiskey hits his system. "Watch Dean die."
"'Die'? 'Again'? The hell are you talking about, boy?"
Sam rubs his hand across his mouth, looks at the streak of moisture on his fingers. Blood's smeared there; he has chewed his lips raw. "We ran into the Trickster god we thought we'd killed. Down in Florida."
"Christ." Bobby readjusts his hat. "This can't be good."
"I didn't know he was the cause of it, not right away. Dean died."
"Sonofabitch," Bobby says softly.
"And then I woke up, and it was the same day again. And we went through the same motions, except I tried to change things. And he died again, only in a different way. And then wham, Groundhog Day again. Starts the same way, ends the same way, just with variations on how."
"Jesus. How many times?"
"A hundred, I'd guess. Then we found the Trickster, and he said he was getting bored anyway. So the next day, there's actually a next day. Loop over. And Dean -- he dies again. I don't wake up, he doesn't come back.. He's gone."
All the air goes out of Bobby then; he's at a loss for even a curse word.
"And then I'm alone. Each morning I wake up, and I'm still alone. Hunting. Trying to find the Trickster."
"How long?"
"Months, Bobby. It was the worst --"
"Shit, son." The hand on his shoulder this time is fatherly. "How did you make it end?"
This he cannot ever -- will not ever -- say. "Summoned the Trickster. Begged. Pleaded. He decided he was bored with that one too. And then I was back where I was the day the loop ended."
"When was this?"
Sam shakes his head. "A week, ten days ago."
"Damn, son." Bobby clumsily pats his shoulder.
"I'm not lying, Bobby. If he dies, I will shoot myself and go to hell with him."
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