A/N: I wanted to try writing something in first person and then I figured why not post finale, first person? Why not comatose Dean post finale first person? So here it is. I kind of figured this out in my head at work, where it's sweltering. The thermorstat there constantly reads ninety degrees. The thermostat does not go any higher than ninety degrees, to give you some idea. So if it's a little scattered, that may be why.Title comes from the song of the band mentioned, ELO. This may be utter garbage (unbetaed), but it's my garbage so I'd love to hear what you think of it. Thanks.
Doctors are always saying how you should talk to people that are in comas, because they can hear you and stuff. But, I have to say I never did believe that load of bull before now.
Someone must have reminded Sam of that little fact too, because I swear he's been sitting here rambling on and on like I have never heard him before. Give it a break already, Sammy. Let a guy rest in peace.
I'm guessing on that coma bit too, because while I haven't heard anyone say it, the only other option would be that I am blind, dumb, and paralyzed. And how much would that suck? Plus, it would be unusually cruel of Sam to tell someone in that condition to wake up all the time.
The kid is holding my hand again.
I guess I'll let him.
Everything's kind of numb anyway, tingly and real heavy. Sort of like that time, after the poltergeist in PA, when Dad practically OD'd me on vicodin. Man forgot to consider the weight difference and handed me five pills with the promise that they would knock me right out.
I was fifteen. I think.
It's sort of fuzzy.
"Sun's out today," Sam's saying. "It's real nice and warm."
Thank you weatherman Sam. Like I care. Comatose. Concussed. Not moving. Therefore, really not caring about the weather. Give me something I can work with here college boy.
"They might discharge Dad later this week," he says, playing with my hand, holding it up between his two, larger hands.
In what skewed world is it okay for the younger brother to be the bigger brother anyway? I should have made him drink more coffee when we were kids. Stunted his growth.
"Or they might wait until next week. He'll come down to see you then. I hope. He feels really guilty," Sam goes on. "He doesn't say it, you know, but I can tell." Then Sammy sniffs a little bit and wipes his snot on the back of his hand.
It's sick that I can tell these things by sound alone.
"It's all so messed up, Dean."
Sammy, you had better not cry. Damn it. And he is.
"But I think we can fix this, I mean, not fix it. But it'll be better, I think. I don't know. You just have to wake up."
Oh, right. It's that easy. Sam wipes his eyes on our hands without letting go of me and ends up getting his tears and slime all over the place.
"We're getting along a lot better though," he says. Dad gets possessed by the thing that killed mom, nearly kills me, if I don't die yet, my sweet Impala is mutilated, and all three of us have been hospitalized for a length of time I can't figure. This is what it takes for those two to bond. Do you see the issues here?
"You'll be happy about that."
And he's right. Even through all the crap if this is what it's taken for them to be family again, it's worth it. And to know that they have each other? Yea, that's enough.
You practically have to lose everything just to realize what you have all over again. That's like, irony, isn't it?
I used to call Sam when he first left for school, the first few months anyway. And this one time, after all the small talk, he goes, all random:
"Did you know that real good poker players are called zombies?"
I'm the one that told him that. So in my head I'm saying 'Why the hell are you telling me this?' while out loud I say: "Yea, we killed some of those last week."
Except I mean the real kind.
"Dean?" Sam's voice is close. Too close. Definitely invading the personal space there, dude. "Hey Dean?" He's still crying. Probably worse than before. Damn it. He must have let go of my hand cause now he's got one hand on my forehead and one my chest and he's like, shaking. Calm the hell down, Sam. There's something there…
Right. That. Forgot again. It happens sometimes.
I inhale deeply and he relaxes, shifts away from me.
"Quit doing that," he says.
Quit…breathing? Quit…stopping breathing? Quit smoking. That's healthy. Never touched those things myself. Can't mess with the lung capacity. Plus, yellow teeth, gross and seriously unattractive.
Oh brain damage. Sam's still crying. On me. He's crying, on me.
God, I'm thirsty. Really thirsty. Like, dehydrated. Like a desert. Like a…brain damaged comatose freak.
I really hope my brain isn't damaged. I mean, it doesn't feel like it is. And girls really don't care for guys with damaged brains. Unless they're those dumb blonde types that think you're being funny when you 're really just being stupid. I could go for one of those I guess.
Play the pity card. Smile real slow. If I don't say much, they probably won't even notice.
I think Sam's quit crying now. Quit being such a girl and gone back to talking about the weather, which really, is not all that much better.
The upside to this coma gig? I can do my recuperating thing, not have to deal with anybody, and still know that Sam and Dad are okay. The downside? I'm in a friggin' coma.
I kind of wish I could see them though. So I could really see that Sam is okay. I'm not used to having to listen so closely to him, trying to figure it out. You can tell he's good just by the way he's standing there, or if his eyes are all crinkly, or if he bothered to straighten his hair out that day.
He's told me lots of times that Dad's okay, but I guess it'd be nice to see him too, or even just hear him if he ever bothers to visit. You know, just to be sure Sam isn't lying to me.
It was a few years ago, I think. Dad got scratched up pretty good by this ghost out in Washington State. It wasn't all that bad, just real thin lines up one arm, but they were sort of bleeding a lot so we had to bandage it up. Back at the motel, he was sitting on the one bed and I was wrapping the gauze around his arm when he sort of glares at the scratches and goes:
It was enough to make me pause. Thought I heard him wrong, so just to clarify I asked:
"Gooks?" As in, you mean ghosts? But he just nodded, like I got what he was saying.
"Damn," he says again, like I forgot that part. He had this look in his eyes too. Spacey, unfocused. I'm not sure he knew who I was, so I just finished wrapping his arm up real fast and went to sleep and didn't mention anything the next day.
Point is, someone can seem okay, sound it even, and not really be okay. See, Dad functions really well, considering, but he's got all these scars underneath, some of them not even having anything to do with Mom or demons. Stuff he never dealt with. And I just, I really don't want Sam to be like that. All scarred up inside.
I'd do anything to make Sam be okay.
Little Sammy, the great white hope of the Winchester clan. He's probably the only one to come out of this thing with half his brain intact.
I think I mean that literally.
Once I'm done with this coma thing, I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure Sam stays okay. If he wants to go kill the damn demon or if he wants to go back to school, whatever, I'm there. It's the best thing I can do for both of us.
I already know what Dad will be itching to do. Thing is, I'm not sure I can follow him anymore. The guy can't even come sit by his comatose son, but I'm supposed to do whatever he says, right? Yea, that's not working so well for me anymore. They are more important things I guess.
More important things than hunting. Yea, right.
I'll still hunt with Dad, of course, just not for him. I have my own reasons. I have my own life.
"Hey Dean," Sam says. I can hear him smiling. "Recognize this?"
Funny. Mock the coma guy Sammy. Really nice of you.
"It's the steering wheel," he goes on. "From the Impala. I got it off Bobby yesterday. He said it was basically the only part worth saving. Everything else was pretty much, you know, scrap metal."
Excuse me, did he just call my baby scrap metal?
The kid's a real comedian.
"The thing's basically worn to fit your hands, so I figured we could put it in the new car, once we get one anyway. Kind of like having part of her with us, you know?"
That is a humongous pile of sentimental bull product, but I guess it sounds okay. Only since it's Sam's idea.
"Got something else too," he says. He's moving around, picking something up and then there's an unmistakable rattle that could only be plastic cassettes shifting in a cardboard box.
Sammy is my favorite brother after all.
"Your tapes. Some of them were trashed, but your handy carrying case," he taps the worn cardboard box. "Saved the rest." He laughs a little and then sniffles and lord if he starts crying again I might have to kill something. Might have to kill something anyway.
"What do you, what do you want to listen to?" he asks hesitantly.
"Golly Sam," I say. "I'm really in the mood for some Skynard." Sam stares at me in awe of my miraculous awakening. The entire hospital flocks to my bedside. Pretty girls line up out the door to give the miracle boy sponge baths. The original Zeppelin reunites for a one time only show in the lobby, just for me.
Okay, you don't believe any of that, do you?
It's too bad his telekinesis, telepathy, shining thing is so wonky, cause otherwise he'd know what I want to listen to. More to the point, he'd know that I do not want to listen to ELO. Of all things Sam, come on. I haven't pulled this one out in years, forgot I even had it. Why do I have this anyway?
Sam puts the cassette into a stereo he must have brought in, but he's playing it so quiet, I can hear the humming of the winding tape over the music. Hello, you aren't going to wake me up or anything.
I guess it's not that bad. Anything is better than nothing.
The bed sinks a little as he sits on the edge next to my hip. He takes this weird sort of hissing breath, which I know by now equals Sammy in pain. Looks like furrowed brow, slouched posture, hands waving me off. Sounds like this.
It's not like he ever gave me the rundown on his injuries, but I can assume it's pretty ugly. You don't get hit like we did without a few scratches. Of course, I've seen people walk away from worse. It's all about speed and angles. Physics.
Maybe it wasn't that bad.
Maybe it was.
"Things really suck right now, Dean," Sam says and I can tell by the sound of his voice that he isn't looking at me. "But I really think, I mean, it feels like things are changing, you know? For the better." He shifts on the bed and then he's looking right at me when he says: "You'll be okay Dean."
As long as you are, Sammy. As long as you are.