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hoodie_timeTitle: The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R (probable)
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.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, pyschosis
Previous parts are here.
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.
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R (probable)
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.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, pyschosis
Previous parts are here.
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.
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