Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ Good Connections ( Chapter 9 )

Chapter 9

 

Dean was strategizing before he even started moving, but he wasn't thinking about the still body lying on the floor with the three bullet holes in its back. God knew it would cause enough trouble later, but trouble with the law they could deal with.

 

But if Sam had gone crazy on him again…

 

No, no, no, God, please, no…

 

By the time he reached Sam, he was already mentally listing the pros and cons of calling on Cal and Niko's contacts again, so deep in disaster mode that he didn't even notice Sam staring at him. Moving as gingerly as if Sam were a ticking bomb, Dean gently disentangled the gun from Sam's grip and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans, all the while murmuring quietly.

 

“It's okay, Sam, it's gonna be fine, we'll be okay, you'll see, just…”

 

“Dean.”

 

Sam's voice was quiet, but it cut through Dean's rambling easier than any knife and he fell abruptly silent and raised his eyes to meet his brother's.

 

“Dean,” Sam repeated, gently, like Dean was the one who needed comforting. “I'm fine.”

 

And then he proceeded to very eloquently prove his point by fainting dead away, and wasn't Dean going to mock that later?

 

XXX

 

Dean's back would not forgive him for this quickly, he knew, but as he deposited Sam in the passenger's seat, he couldn't bring himself to care. Sam started to stir as Dean maneuvered him into a more comfortable position, and Dean ran a hand over his hair before closing the door and darting around to the driver's side.

 

In the back, Niko was holding onto Cal as if the younger man would disappear if he let go, but Cal seemed too out of it to notice, drifting and out of consciousness.

 

“Where were you?” Niko asked sharply, though quietly. Beside him, Cal shifted, his brow furrowing in apparent reaction to the tension, and Niko patted his arm soothingly.

 

“It's been sixty seconds,” Dean replied, already pulling out of the motel lot and digging for his cell phone.

 

“Who are you calling?” Niko asked.

 

“Hospital.”

 

“I can't take him to a hospital,” Niko said. His voice was calm, his eyes anything but.

 

“I figured,” Dean replied, with every attempt at the soothing voice he was only really used to applying to Sam. “Different hospital.”

 

“That does nothing to solve my problem.”

 

Dean turned down the street to his and Sam's motel and said, “Look, I know it's not safe to take Cal to a hospital, and the kid may bug me, but I'm not gonna cause him to get locked up in a lab somewhere. I'm calling someone who'll help, okay?”

 

Something in his tone seemed to rankle Niko, but before he could say another word Dean was being transferred and—finally—talking to the person he'd actually called.

 

“Hey, Doc, it's Dean Samuels. Listen, I need your help again, but it has to be a secret. Again.”

 

XXX

 

“No.”

 

Niko's voice was flat, but it promised retribution. Dean sighed inwardly and straightened up from where he'd been leaning over Sam.

 

“Niko, come on.”

 

“No.”

 

“What other choice do you have?” Dean pressed, sitting down on the edge of Sam's bed. “You already said no hospitals, so unless you're gonna tell me you're close personal friends with a doctor who happens to know about supernatural creatures and won't mind that your brother is set up differently, I don't see another option.”

 

Niko was silent for a moment. Then he said, “If I find you've put Cal in any danger at all, I will kill you, and this doctor.”

 

As usual, his threat was more a cool promise, and Dean felt his muscles tense a little in automatic reaction. He managed to keep his voice down, though, in deference to the little brothers currently present.

 

“Duly noted. Will you sit down already?”

 

Niko stood utterly still for a moment, and then almost whispered, as if to himself, “I'm glad he's dead. It saves me from having to kill him myself.”

 

Dean really wasn't sure how to answer that, because truthfully, he knew the feeling.

 

XXX

 

“I'm really not comfortable with this.”

 

Niko quirked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly and said, “I can't begin to think why.”

 

Dr. Thornton smiled a little at that. “That's true. But I was actually talking about doing surgery in an unsterilized motel room without a chart or a medical history to work with. Feels a little too much like violating the Hippocratic Oath, especially if something goes wrong.”

 

“Nothing will go wrong,” Niko informed him, but it wasn't a reassurance.

 

“Look,” the doctor said, sounding unaffected. “I'm authorized as a psychologist and a surgeon, one of the few people who can claim such. I'm good at what I do and I can keep a secret. If there's anyone you want to do this for you, I'm a pretty good pick. But I refuse to promise you that this will go perfectly, because this kind of surgery sucks under the best of conditions—which these are not. But I'll still do it, because Dean asked me to. I'd just prefer not to do it with threats over my head.” He barely paused to let his speech sink in before asking, “So are you all staying for this, or are you going?”

 

“I'm staying,” Niko said.

 

“It'll be messy.”

 

“I'm staying.”

 

“And we're going,” Dean broke in. “I need to take Sam to get his arm taken care of.” He leaned over Sam as he spoke and said quietly, “Sammy? Hey, I need you to wake up, kiddo.”

 

“`M awake,” Sam mumbled. “Why `m I awake?”

 

Dean chuckled. “You're awake because we need to get you to a doctor.”

 

“But you called a doctor. Still don't know why you did that…”

 

“Yeah, but see, that doctor doesn't have the nice cast to keep your bones from poking through your skin. And if we go to the hospital, you can have morphine. You like morphine, remember?”

 

“Yeah…morphine feels good…” Sam said, already pushing himself up gingerly with his good hand. Dean slid an arm around him to help, and once they were vertical, he turned to Dr. Thornton and said, “We'll be back in a few hours. And…thanks. He'll tell you that, too,” he added, jerking his head at Niko, “as soon as you finish saving his brother.”

 

“And then I get an explanation. At least part of one?”

 

“Uh…sure,” Dean lied, and then started carting Sam out of the motel room.

 

XXX

 

As a hunter, Dean had been in a lot of surreal situations, situations others would relegate strictly to the “unbelievable stories” category. He was used to them and rarely did they make him so much as bat an eye.

 

But he had never been in such a string of weird occurrences as he'd been living in the last couple weeks. First, he'd gone to pseudo-hell. Then he'd come back to an insane and homicidal brother, and had to team up with a half-monster and his ninja of a brother to contain the disaster. And then he'd gotten Sam back, only he was less Sam-like, and he'd apparently killed four people. And then he'd actually talked to a psychologist who was most certainly not a hunter on the side, gone on a hunt with someone who wasn't Sam or Bobby, and lost Sam a second time.

 

And now he was sitting in a hospital waiting room while back at his motel, a doctor he'd called on a whim and a prayer was doing emergency surgery on a stripped bed, which was as close to sterile as they could get.

 

And later, he got to look forward to trying to explain to Dr. Thornton that which…really couldn't be explained.

 

He needed a plan. He knew he needed a plan, and a backup plan, and a backup plan for the backup plan, and a way to get the hell out of Dodge, if need be.

 

And he needed to figure out what was up with Sam. Was he…back to normal now? He'd looked normal earlier, before he'd face-planted. His eyes hadn't been cloudy or empty anymore, and neither had his face. But he hadn't exactly been nailing down the verbal skills since then, so Dean really didn't know what to think.

 

It was all so insane, on a whole new level of insane, and Dean really wanted to the roller coaster to just stop now.

 

XXX

 

Sam was flying high by the time Dean was finally allowed to see him. They'd done up his arm in a serious way—it was covered hand to elbow in a plaster cast and even stuck in a sling for good measure. He didn't seem to mind, though—he was sitting on one of the hospital beds, long legs dangling over the side, grinning like a fool.

 

“Hi, Dean,” he said, raising his good arm in a wave.

 

“Hey, Sammy. How're you feeling?” Dean asked, taking a seat next to his brother.

 

“I feel good,” Sam said, still smiling. “I always forget how much fun morphine is.”

 

“Yeah, me, too, especially when it's in you,” Dean said with a laugh. “So your arm's not hurting you?”

 

Sam appeared to be thinking about it, then said, “Probably. But I don't feel it. So it's okay.” Suddenly he reached out and grabbed Dean's wrist and said seriously, “We're gonna have to fill me in later.”

 

“About…what, exactly?” Dean asked slowly.

 

Sam though again. “I don't remember. It's important, though. I think.” Then his grin reappeared. “I feel good.”

 

“Uh…yeah, you said that already,” Dean said, placing a hand under Sam's good arm. “Time to go home, Sammy. Step up.”

 

“Can we take the morphine?”

 

“Um…no. But the doc gave me some of the good stuff.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Dean, is Cal dead?”

 

The question was voiced in the same drunken reel of a tone as everything else Sam had said in this conversation, and as such it took Dean a second to even realize what he'd asked. When he did, though, his reply was instantaneous.

 

“No, Sammy, he's alive.”

 

“Is he gonna stay alive?”

 

Not seeing any other option, Dean replied in the affirmative and sincerely hoped he wasn't lying.

 

XXX

 

Sam felt good. Everything was pleasantly fuzzy, but not in the way it had been for the last week since Dean had returned. That fuzziness had felt completely wrong, like a hastily-constructed wall that nevertheless could not be torn down by mere human hands.

 

But this fuzziness—well, he was used to it, sick as that was, and even more, it kept him from thinking. It made it easier to lock away the night's events in the back of his mind, to ignore what had happened and what he'd done.

 

And he needed to forget all that almost as much as he needed to sleep. He'd forgotten how exhausting any emergency room visit was. Dean had to practically carry him to the Impale—and oh, he'd missed being in the Impala, more than he'd ever expected to—and by the time it started up, Sam was dozing, his head resting against the window and Metallica blaring around him.

 

He lost track of time, and the next thing he knew the door under his head was swinging away and he was listing off to the side before Dean pulled him back and up out of the car.

 

“D'n?” he mumbled, trying to get his wobbly legs steady.

 

“Yeah,” Dean replied, sounding distracted.

 

“Hi,” Sam said, feeling himself begin to grin. He was gonna feel so stupid tomorrow…

 

He heard Dean laugh a little. “Hi.”

 

“`Re we home?”

 

“Yeah. Well, close enough, anyway.” They stepped and Sam heard Dean fumbling with his keys. Then they were entering the motel room, and Dean was talking to someone, and Sam felt that he should open his eyes and see what was going on but his eyelids felt too heavy, so he kept them closed.

 

Dean kept on talking as he lowered Sam to the bed. Sam muttered something that was supposed to be “Thanks,” but probably sounded more like an incoherent blubber, as he turned over and buried his face in the pillow, his arm stretched out next to him.

 

And then he was falling asleep, Dean's soft chuckle following along.

 

XXX

 

“Is he gonna be okay?”

 

For some reason, Dean felt strange asking the question, and evidently Niko felt a little strange receiving it, if the way his eyes flicked over from Cal's face to Dean's before going back was any indication. But then he said, “He will.” He sounded absolutely sure, and determined that if Cal somehow wasn't okay, he would somehow change that. Then suddenly he looked over at Dean and said, as sincerely as if it had actually been his idea, “I apologize for our intrusion. I'll call Robin for a car if you'll just pass me my phone.”

 

Dean shrugged. “Whatever. Don't bother if you don't want to. I'm probably gonna sleep over here tonight anyway.”

 

Niko's eyes were trained on Cal's face again, but Dean heard the quietly spoken, “Thank you,” all the same.

 

He seemed to be done talking after that, though, so Dean was out of excuses or distractions. He had no choice but to turn to Dr. Thornton, who had been waiting with admirable patience, and say, “Thanks for this, doc.”

 

The doctor just kept staring at him.

 

“Um…it was really nice of you.”

 

Dr. Thornton didn't even blink.

 

“And not saying anything or charging us or anything—we appreciate it.”

 

Still no reply. Apparently the guy was waiting for something specific.

 

“Seriously. It was really great of you. Above and beyond and all that.”

 

And apparently, whatever he was waiting for, the small talk wasn't distracting him from it. Dean sighed heavily and said, “Okay, fine, let's go outside.”

 

“I think that'd be best,” Dr. Thornton agreed. He sounded polite, but determined, and Dean was wondering how on earth he'd though Cal and Niko were worth it. They were hardly close friends, let alone people for whom Dean would've willingly gone through what he was going to go through as soon as he stepped out that door.

 

But as he got up to follow the doctor, Dean glanced over at Niko, and catching the look on his face—one that Dean had worn on his own face more than once—he suddenly remembered.

 

Well, partly, at least.

 

XXX

 

“So.”

 

Dean adopted his customary pose of leaning against the door and repeated the single word. “So.”

 

“Quite a night,” Dr. Thornton continued casually.

 

“Wouldn't wanna repeat it,” Dean agreed absently. “So is…uh….is Cal really gonna be okay?”

 

“Well, I got the bullet out and sewed him up,” Dr. Thornton said. “Pretty much up to him now. Interesting thing, though,” he continued, still light and friendly. “He shouldn't be okay. He should be dead right now, actually.”

 

“What're you talking about?”

 

“I'm talking about bleeders, Dean, and how I had a ton of them. The kid should've bled out at least half a dozen times while I was working. And he did bleed a lot, but I didn't even have to give him saline.”

 

“I…really don't know what that means.”

 

“Long story short, he can apparently survive with about a quarter of the blood people usually need. Not healthily, but still.”

 

Dean had seen something like this coming, naturally, but that didn't mean he had a clue how to respond.

 

Dr. Thornton came over to lean next to him, and a moment later, he said casually, “So you want to tell me what he is, or do you know?”

 

Dean started and turned abruptly to the doctor. “What?”

 

Dr. Thornton smiled. “So I'm guessing you know.”

 

“Dude,” Dean said slowly. “Who the hell are you?”

 

That drew a laugh. “Relax, Dean. I was telling the truth about my job. I really am just an M.D. slash psychologist who spent most of his life in med school. But this is New York City—you probably know what a supernatural cesspool it is. We need a lot of hunters coming through here, especially at the hospital, and as a therapist I get weird stories to go with the weird injuries, so I have a better chance of figuring it out than most.”

 

“So…how much do you know, exactly?” Dean asked, trying to keep his voice level.

 

Dr. Thornton shrugged. “Well, about…probably at least fifteen years ago now…we got a guy in with some serious crap done to him. I'd just started trying to decode all the weird stuff that happens around here, and he was one of the people with weird injuries. So I, uh…” Here, the doctor looked a little embarrassed. “I waited until eh was doped up in recovery and then I asked him about it, told him I'd noticed weird stuff. It took forever, and two more doses of morphine, but I got the headlines out of him.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Nice methods. You use that with everyone?”

 

“Anyway. He told me he hunted supernatural stuff—ghosts, werewolves, all that. Then he started rambling about these kids of his, how he really needed to call and make sure they'd called the pastor, and after that he started coming out of it a little and he looked really mad, so I skedaddled, because I figured he could probably kill me with his bedpan if he wanted to. Never saw him again. I remember his name, though—John Winters, or something like that.”

 

Dean felt a sudden bitterness rising up in him, and tried desperately to keep it from showing on his face. Well, guess that's one more thing my daddy never told me. Man, that list is getting long.

 

The doctor evidently took his silence as concern, because he said, “You don't have to worry, you know. I haven't said a word about all this to anyone in over fifteen years, and I'm not going to start now.”

 

“Yeah. Thanks for that. And…everything else. God, I've never said that word so many times in one day.”

 

“Well, I suggest you don't say it again, then.”

 

Dean smiled at that, and this time the silence that fell was more comfortable. For a few minutes they stood quietly, and then Dr. Thornton said, “Well, I guess I should get going. Gotta sneak the surgical stuff back into the hospital and whatnot.”

 

“Yeah, okay. Th—I mean, I'll see—g'night,” Dean said, finally landing on a phrase that actually worked.

 

“Good night. Oh, by the way, I left my number in your drawer, in case Cal takes a turn for the worse or pulls his stitches or something.”

 

“Th—”

 

“Don't finish that sentence.”

 

“Right. Uh…bye, then.”

 

Dr. Thornton was already walking away by then, but as Dean spoke he stopped and turned. “Oh, and one more thing. You should probably be a little more careful about your aliases.”

 

“…Huh?”

 

“You used a different name every time you talked to me.”

 

Dean felt himself blushing red. “Damn it. I'm usually so good at that.”

 

“I'd guess so. I believe that's what we call a Freudian slip. Good luck, Dean.”

 

He winked, and then he got in his car and drove away.

 

--

 

Author's Note: Okay, I admit it. I took a lot of liberties with the medical world here. I know nothing about surgical stuff and I have no clue where to find information on it. That's why I usually avoid chapters exactly like this one, but in this case that turned out to be pretty impossible.

 

Anyway, a friend gave me a little information, so I went on pure faith and used it, and if it's all wrong, and you find you can't ignore it, go ahead and throw things at me, `cause it's completely my fault. And here's hoping no medical professionals are reading this…

 

But whether you liked it or had issues with it, I'd appreciate any and all reviews!