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Dean sat in the waiting room of Saving Grace Hospital, Sioux Falls.
It had been two hours since he had arrived in the ER with a bloodied Sam in his arms. Doctor Karl had taken it from there, and it took all Dean’s strength not to fight the nurses when they took Sammy away.
It had been half an hour since Doctor Karl had come out and said that Sam had stabilized, but would need immediate surgery to prevent further complications from the bullet embedded in his ribs.
Dean tried to stay calm, he tried to stop the shaking in his hands. He bought a bagel, but was too nauseated to eat it. He walked outside but was too agoraphobic to stand the wide Iowa sky. He sat in the Impala and listened to Metallica, but his heart rate sped up with the beat until he felt like he was suffocating. Finally, he drove to the CVS down the road, got himself a sketchpad and pencil, and settled himself down in the waiting room.
He tried sketching Sammy-- sometimes drawing out a situation was the only way for Dean to wrap his head around it. But the constricting in his chest when he thought about Sammy’s bloody body was too much to bear. Dean forced himself to be gentle, turning the page carefully and starting afresh. He sat up straight, ran his hands over his face and took a breath. In and out. Focus on something. Use your eye.
That man there. Dean watched the sleeping man across from him for a moment, studying his bedhead, the way his cheek scrunched up against his palm, the way his legs were tucked up in front of him and his trench coat hung on him like a cloak. Yeah, Dean could draw that.
He let himself sink into the scratching of the pencil, relaxing his hand and letting the sketch come out however it did. It didn’t need to be perfect, it just needed to be. The paper became a safe space, and the hospital melted away as Dean’s eyes flitted from the sleeping man to the paper, and back again.
It was during Dean’s ninth sketch of the sleeping man that Doctor Karl interrupted with news of Sam. He was doing okay. The surgery had worked fine, and they had put Sam under so he could sleep off the worst of the pain. Dean could come see him when he woke up. Maybe a few hours, maybe tomorrow. Dean nodded. Was Doctor Karl sure Sammy would be okay overnight? Positive. Dean should go home and get some rest. Sam would still be here when he came back.
Again, Dean nodded, more to himself than to the Doctor. He would find a motel, then come back in a few hours. Or he could just sleep in the car. Dean could almost hear Sammy’s voice in his head telling him that was ridiculous. Go to the motel. Give yourself a break.
Or he could just sleep here. In the waiting room. Like the man across from him. Dean had slept in worse places; this couldn’t be that bad. And without further ado, he curled up and went to sleep.
Dean awoke to sunlight in his eyes and a nurse chattering away on the phone. He had a crick in his back and his neck ached like hell. He also had a trenchcoat as a blanket. Dean sat up and yawned in spite of himself, brushing off the trenchcoat. It’s owner was staring at Dean and smiling slightly.
“Good morning,” he said. His voice was like gravel. Dean guessed his own wasn’t much better.
“‘Mornin’,” Dean replied. “Um... thanks. For the coat. Blanket.”
“No problem,” the man smiled. “I’m Cas. You’re Dean Winchester, right?”
“Uh, yeah. How did you--”
“The doctor came by while you were sleeping,” Cas explained.
That got Dean’s attention. “Yeah? What’d he say? Is Sammy okay? I should go--”
“Your brother’s fine, Dean. He’s awake but still resting. He says you better get something to eat, bitch, before you come in on him all cranky and self-hating.”
Dean stared at Cas.
“His words, not mine,” Cas smiled apologetically, “But I suggest you take the advice.”
“Right,” Dean said, not quite knowing how to respond. “Um, breakfast. You wanna come?”
“Sure.”