Part of the Plan

Everything is too LOUD and all it brings is PAIN and he can't get away, can't get away from it, can't get away from the PAIN and the LOUD and the—

"Dean."

He jerks. It's a spasm than runs from head to toe, that seizes him like a dog toy and SHAKES him, like a terrier with a rat only this time he's the rat, not the terrier.

But he's always the terrier.

Isn't he?

"Dean. Hey. You hear me?"

How can he NOT hear the LOUD?

Beeping, buzzing, whooshing.

Voices outside.

Voices inside.

He twitches. Scrapes. Tries to assemble limbs into a coordinated attack, into coordinated defense, because sometimes defense is all he can manage even if attack is his preference.

It's all too LOUD.

StopItStopItStopIt.

His belly clenches in a massive spasm. He rolls onto hip and shoulder in a reflexive motion, something apart from coherent decision-making. He feels a hand on his head guiding him, the basin at his face.

"Easy. Easy."

Ee. Zee. Two syllables. Neither means anything.

Fingers thread his hair.

PAIN.

He jerks, pulls his head away. His gut rolls again.

"Easy. Hey."

There is nothing easy about it.

Tears. Not because he wants to cry. Because he can't help it. It isn't sadness. It isn't grief. It isn't even pain. It's a body gone rogue.

The voice he knows in his heart, but not in his head.

"You're okay. You'll be okay. CT scan is clear. Doc says they don't actually grade concussions anymore, just treat symptomatically . . . and you've got a whole raft of symptoms. I know you hate hospitals, but man, that was a bad hit you took. When you came to, you wouldn't stay there. Kept going out on me. And when you couldn't get beyond A-B-C . . . well hell, I don't know. Maybe in your normal brain you don't realize D comes next. But you scared me, man. Really, really scared me."

A-B-C-D . . . D comes next. D always comes next.

After that?

Too LOUD.

He can hear the river of letters in his head. All of them scream at him.

Alphabet soup. Alphabet ocean.

Letters meaning nothing.

"Hey . . . hey, easy . . ."

And only then does he realize he's moving, does he realize he's attempting to employ hands and arms to depart the bed, except that he can't. That nothing works. That an idea occurs, but slides away. And he lies trapped with limbs tensed to leave, with fingers clamped around bed-rails, except he can't leave because he can't remember how to do it, can't remember how his hands work, and his fingers, and what his body wants to do.

NOISE.

Pressure. A hand. Two hands. They're unhooking his hands from the bed-rails, rearranging them, folding arms across his chest.

Too LOUD.

He wants to rise. Wants to get up. He tries, and the hands return. Pressure again. Holding him down.

He scrapes, shifts, twists. Attempts to rise.

Always move, kiddo. Never keep still unless you have to, unless it's part of the plan. You keep still when it's not part of the plan, they can catch you.

"Hey. Keep still."

He flails, because it's something. It's defense. It's offense. It's not keeping still.

Hands holding him down.

He thinks: I can get away. I always get away.

"Dean. Keep still."

Always move.

And he's talking, trying to explain, saying something about Dad, and Dad's orders, and his job, and what he's supposed to do, and Sammy.

"Dean. I'm here. I'm here, okay? Just relax. I don't know where you are in your head, but you've got to relax. Let the meds work."

Listen to me, kiddo. You've got to be faster, you've got to be stronger; and if you can't do that, you've got to be smarter. Don't let 'em win, Dean. You let 'em win, you're dead. Or Sammy is.

NOISE. LOUDNESS.

And footsteps, and another voice, and the voice he knows in his heart if not in his head is saying something about hating hospitals, and a bad experience with a hospital, and he'll be okay, and I'll keep him quiet and sorry about the alarms, but you can turn them off now.

Turn them off.

Off.

OFF.

And the alarms stop, but not the beep and buzz and whoosh.

The hand is on his arm, the hand he kind of knows, as the second voice, the one neither his heart nor his head knows, says something about bumping the dosage because he's too agitated and they need him to keep still.

Always move.

The hand he kind of knows pats his chest. It's fond, and it's friendly, and familiar.

"Dude, you've got to chill. I'm here, okay? I'm safe. You're safe."

No. Never safe.

If you're down, kiddo, you've got to get up. Never stay down unless it's part of the plan.

He twitches. Shifts. Attempts to rise.

Is weighed down by sheet, by blanket, by tubes and wires, by the beep and buzz and whoosh. By the hand upon his chest.

"—can't," he says, and tries to explain. The words make sense now, he can put them together. The alphabet river is running in the same direction. "You said—you said . . . always get up—"

"Dean, no. No, I didn't say that. I said you need to stay down. Keep still. Otherwise they're going to bump the meds, and you know how you hate that."

"—never stay down—"

"Dean."

"—not part of the plan—"

"Dean. Dude."

"You said, 'Don't let 'em win. You let 'em win, you're dead. Or Sammy is.'"

"Dean, I am Sam. I'm here. I'm safe."

"—said 'Always look after Sammy' . . . you know I will, Dad. You know I do."

"Dean—" And then the voice hitches. Pauses.

When it continues, it's different. It's deeper. But it's the same. And he knows it.

An echo from the past. A part of the present. And what he needs to hear.

"Stand down, son. Stand down, kiddo. Nothing's after us. Nothing's after Sammy. You killed it. You did your job."

His body eases.

He stands down.

Because now he can.

~ end ~