Untitled, written for the following prompt from madebyme_x
1. The bunker (maybe a newly discovered part?)
Dean waits until Cas leaves to resume working on the lock to the newly discovered closet in storeroom five. It's bad enough listening to Sam yammer on about the Men of Letters knew what they were doing and if they locked it up that tight, they must have a reason and didn't you learn anything from the fucking Werther Box, Dean? He doesn't want to deal with Cas's crap too. But now Cas has been gone for at least half an hour, Sam's somewhere doing Sam stuff, and Dean's free to explore this closet, as soon as he figures out the puzzle keeping it shut. And he's SO close.
He's concentrating so hard that he doesn't hear the door to the storeroom open and close, and then it all happens in an instant - a final twist of the lock mechanism, Sam's "what the hell, Dean?", a bang, a whoosh, the sound of splintering wood and something heavy hitting the storeroom door. When he looks up, he has to stare at the scene in front of him for a minute, because it doesn't make any sense. Because Sam's up against the door, and it looks like... it looks like something is sticking out of him. Pinning him to the door.
Oh, Jesus fuck.
"Sam!" He sprints across the room. "Sam? You okay?" And no, of course Sam's not okay. He's flat against the door, eyes wide in shock and confusion, and a foot-long barbed bolt is sticking out of his abdomen. A foot long on this side, anyway. God knows how much there is on the other side of the door; how much already went through Sam's gut. Sam's very, very not okay.
He can tell the second the pain hits; Sam tries to fold in on himself, tries to collapse, but he can't. His hands grope for the source and he grabs the end of the bolt and starts to pull. "Oh, God, Dean. Get it out. Get it out."
Dean quickly yanks his hands away - not quickly enough, he managed to move the bolt an inch or so. "No, Sam, no, don't." He clutches Sam's wrists. "It's barbed, man. You're gonna do more damage. And you'll bleed out. Leave it alone. You hear me? You understand?"
Sam's eyes widen even more as he realizes the severity of his situation, and for a second or two he starts to panic. Then he closes his eyes, tries to take a deep breath, shudders in pain, and settles for a few shallow breaths. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I got it. I'm okay."
Dean releases Sam's wrists and reaches for his phone. "I'm gonna call Cas, okay? We need him here to do some angel mojo when we..." (When we shove this thing the rest of the way through your gut. When we pop the cork that's keeping you from bleeding out.) "When we fix this."
Cas answers on the first ring, thank God. "Cas! I need you back at the bunker, fast as you can. Sam's hurt."
"I'm on my way. What happened?"
(I happened.) "Just get here, okay? I'll explain it when you get here."
"I'll be there in 45 minutes."
"Make it 30." Dean shoves the phone back in his pocket and turns back to Sam. "It's gonna be okay. Cas is on his way. He'll fix it. Just hang in there."
Blood is oozing around the wound. Blood and maybe something else, something Dean doesn't want to think about, but he has to, because if it's viscera, he needs to keep it wet. But water is on the other side of this door, the door that Sam is pinned to, and, well. He's not moving him. So it needs to not be viscera.
Sam is frighteningly pale. His eyes are tightly closed, his hands scrabbling at the door, fingertips pressing against it like he's trying to claw his way through it. His legs are trembling with the effort of holding himself upright. Dean edges close to him on his left side, carefully avoiding the bolt. He picks up Sam's arm and drapes it over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, buddy. I'll hold you up." He shifts closer, right up against him, so Sam can lean his head on him. Sam coughs weakly, and Dean tries to ignore the small dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Dean knows he's supporting most of Sam's weight, but after a few minutes, his brother is still trembling, still spitting blood with each feeble cough, and now standing in a puddle of blood. "Cold," he whispers.
"I'm sorry, man." Dean wants to take off his own shirt and wrap it around Sam, but he's afraid to let go of him. He unbuttons his flannel with one hand and tries to cover as much of Sam as possible. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I should have listened to you. I should have left the goddamn lock alone."
Sam's still for a few minutes, then he sighs and slumps harder into Dean, gasping a little bit as he puts pressure on the bolt, the bolt that's fucking impaling him. "I know you're not him, you know."
"Not who, Sam?" He's probably delirious, but keeping him talking seems like a good idea.
"I know you're not Dean," he mumbles. "You always do this, trying to make me think Dean's hurting me."
Well, fuck. Sam's cold and he's in excruciating pain so naturally he's going to flash back to Hell, and suddenly keeping him talking doesn't seem like a good idea after all. Because Dean doesn't know if he can listen to it.
"Sammy, no. You're not in Hell. You're just hurt. But you're gonna be okay. I promise, you're gonna be okay."
Suddenly Sam shifts position and Dean looses his footing, slipping in the blood puddled around his feet. He keeps himself upright but the movement causes Sam to cry out in pain. "I told you, I know it's you, you stupid fuck," he groans. "Wear your own goddamn face."
Well, that's interesting. Is that how Sam spoke to the Devil when he was really in Hell?
Before he can follow that train of thought very far, he hears Cas calling his name. "We're in storeroom five!" he shouts. Soon he hears Cas's footsteps right outside the door. "Stop," he says. "Don't try to open it yet." He pats Sam's face. "Sammy? Can you hear me? We're gonna take baby steps, all right?" He slides his feet under Sam's. "Okay, Cas. Slow. As Dean shuffles backward, Cas cautiously pushes the door open, just enough to squeeze himself through.
Dean can tell from Cas's expression that the other side of the door looks pretty goddamn awful, but this side is even worse. Sam's shaking and panting, his blood smeared across the floor. "We'll have to push it all the way through him," the angel says.
"I know. But can you knock him out first?"
Cas places two fingers against Sam's temple and he lolls unconscious in Dean's arms. Then he goes to the other side of the door. "Are you ready?"
No, Dean's never going to be ready for this. "Do it," he says. He holds Sam as motionless as possible and tries not to hear the sickening sound of the bolt being pulled through his brother's body. Then it's done, and Sam's free, limp in Dean's arms. Cas comes back through the door, holding a three-foot long barbed metal shaft, trailing blood and tissue. He drops it to the floor with a clatter and quickly places his hand on Sam's back, over the wound. Dean feels his brother's body grow warmer as the healing process begins.
"It's okay, Dean," Cas says as they carry him back to his room. Dean's not sure why Cas feels like he needs reassurance, until he realizes tears are streaming down his face.
(But he wasn't okay. I hurt him so bad he thought he was back in Hell. And apparently he not only dragged the Devil back to Hell, but he snarked right at his face when he was down there. And he's gonna forgive me for this even though I don't deserve it.)
"I know," he says. "I know it's okay."
Stone number one, written for the following prompt from tarotgal
3. Psychotic episode that doesn't seem to want to end
(Bonus points for Sam really hurting his hand by pressing on the wound there too hard/too much/with something sharp and Dean patching him up when it's finally all over)
The chain whips around Sam's ankles, jerking him off his feet, dragging him backward.
I missed you, Sammy.
Sam reaches for furniture but it disintegrates as his fingers brush against it. He tries to grab the carpet, but Bobby's threadbare rug has been replaced by glass that shatters as he clutches it, shards of glass leaving his hands slippery with blood.
C'mon and play.
It's not real, this isn't real. Sam presses his injured hand but nothing happens - the Devil's imaginary pain is so much stronger, he can't even feel the real pain of his hand. The glass carpet is cracking under his body now, pushing spears into his legs, his torso, his arms.
It'll be just like old times.
Dean, he gasps, please. I can't do this. I can't stop this one on my own. Please.
No one's here, Sammy. Just you and me.
Glass shards plunge into his face, his throat. His screams are soundless, his vocal cord severed.
Cat got your tongue?
A booted foot kicks mercilessly at his side, rolling him onto his back. He blinks the blood from his eyes and sees Lucifer laughing above him. Oh god, Dean, please, he begs silently, please make it stop.
Big brother can't do anything, Sam. He's topside, and you're back in the cage with me. Can't you tell? Didn't you notice your little trick isn't working any more? Didn't you wonder why?
No no no no no. Sam pushes his fingernail into the scarred hand, feels the skin break, but there's no pain, not enough to compete with the long shards of glass slicing into his flesh.
Lucifer grabs his shoulders and hauls him to his feet. Time to go, buddy. I've got a rack with your name on it. He wraps one of the chains tightly around Sam's neck, grabbing one end as a leash.
Sam grabs the largest glass blade shoved into his chest and yanks hard, harder, finally dislodging it with a gush of blood. He plunges the glass into his hand and yes, it hurts, god, it hurts. Thank god, it hurts.
Sam! Lucifer yells in anger. Stop it!
Sam ignores him and thrusts the shard further into his hand. Lucifer grabs his wrist and tries to pull his hand away. Stop, Sam! Stop it! He sounds more frightened than angry now, and suddenly Lucifer's voice doesn't sound like Lucifer, and the hand latched around his wrist isn't icy cold. "Stop, Sam. Stop! You're okay!"
Sam looks up from his bloody palm into his brother's terrified face. "Dean?"
"Shit, Sam. What the fuck?"
Sam looks around. He's standing in Bobby's kitchen, and the floor isn't shattered glass and he's not covered in blood. And there's an icepick shoved through his hand. A wave of nausea rushes over him, and he collapses into a kitchen chair.
Dean kneels in front of him. "You okay? You back with me?" He gently pulls Sam's injured hand toward him. "I've gotta get this out. Can you do this? Are you ready?"
Sam can't speak, but he can nod. Dean says "on three" and then pulls the icepick out at two. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know it would get like that. I shoulda..."
"Should have what? Hidden the pointy things from me?" Sam laughs humorlessly as Dean retrieves Bobby's first aid kit from under the sink. "I'd be kind of a crap hunter if you had to hide all the weapons."
"Still," Dean says, as he preps Sam's hand for stitches, "An icepick through your own hand? Gotta be a way we can avoid that."
Sam shrugs. "Not like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
Dean looks up at him for a few seconds. "Can't argue with that," he finally says, as he bends over Sam's hand and begins stitching.
Like a rock, written for the following prompt from cowboyguy
1.) middle of nowhere
3.) dislocated shoulder
(Impala POV, perhaps?)
Something feels different. Something's wrong.
Sam's in the driver's seat, but that's not different. Not different enough to be weird, anyway. No, the weirdness is the way he's driving. It's not unusual for him to grunt in pain when he slides behind the wheel, or to need a minute to steady his breathing before he puts the key in her ignition. But the way he's leaning over to reach the ignition with his left hand, struggling with the key, stopping to put the keys down on the seat and wipe blood away from his eyes, again with his left hand. That's different. The way he finally gets the engine started and collapses across the seat, suddenly crying out in pain when he lands on his right arm, then pulls himself up and reaches over to the gearshift with his left arm. That's different.
But the most uncomfortable thing, the thing that screams wrong to her, is that he's by himself, that no one is stitching him up or cleaning the blood off his face or just saying it's gonna be okay, and that's not how it's supposed to be. She doesn't like it. (She remembers a long stretch of it. She doesn't like it at all.)
He takes her on a long slow loop through the empty cornfield instead of backing out onto the gravel road, and given his difficulty with the gearshift, she's not going to complain about off-roading. (She wouldn't complain anyway. She'd do anything for him.)
As he points her toward the highway, she feels his hand trembling on her wheel, his foot unsteady on her pedals. She gradually moves a vent so it blows cool air on his pale, sweaty forehead. Outside air, not the A/C, because she's low on fuel and she doesn't think he's noticed. He wipes his face again and then scrubs his bloody hand on his jeans, but there's still enough blood for her to feel it, slick and then sticky on the wheel.
When his phone rings, he pats his left pocket and groans in defeat. He tries to reach into his right pocket with his left hand, but her steering wheel is in the way. (She's so sorry.) He pulls to the side of the road and she slows down as quickly and gently as she can. He barely gets her into park, but she gives the gearshift the extra little nudge it needs as he slowly opens the door. He hauls himself out and leans wearily against her as he retrieves his phone. She can tell he's speaking to Dean, and her uneasiness fades a little, because wherever they're going, Dean will be able to take care of him. (She does all she can, but there's only so much.)
He slides back into his seat and awkwardly puts her in drive again, and she wishes she could do this for him. Wishes she could just deposit him safely somewhere, without any effort on his part. His breathing sounds shallow and pained, and his eyes are getting glassy. She feels his hand slipping off the wheel, and she subtly veers toward a pothole. He cries out in pain again, but he's awake and alert.
They're finally back in town and stopped at a traffic light when he notices her gas gauge. Oh, fuck me, he mutters. He places his hand, large, warm, and gentle, on her dash. Please, he says. Please get me back to the hotel. (He doesn't need to worry. She'll take care of him.) She makes the necessary adjustments. Dean would be disappointed in the lack of power, but right now, Dean's enjoyment is not her priority. She's got to get Sam home.
When they pull to a stop at the motel, he gasps in pain as he reaches over to turn her off, then lays his head back against the seat for a minute. Just before she starts to worry, he groans, sits up, and pats her dash. Thanks, he says. She watches him pull himself out of the seat and stumble into the motel room, clutching his right arm against his chest.
(You're welcome, my boy.)
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly, written for the following prompt from chellexxx
1) Coffee shop or Diner
2) Employee of said establishment
3) Gun shot wound
It all happens so fast. One minute she's flirting with the lone customer in the coffee shop, a cute tall guy who ordered a latte to go, and trying to figure out if he's reading her nametag or looking down her shirt. The next minute, a creepy guy with flat, dead eyes is standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at her.
Tall Guy immediately moves in front of her, positioning himself between her and Dead Eyes. "Drop the gun," he says calmly.
It's a robbery, she tries to say, just stand back and I'll open the register. But all that comes out is a squeaky "robbery."
Tall Guy and Dead Eyes both shake their heads. "I don't care about the money," Dead Eyes tells her, eerily calm. "All I wanna do is blow your head off."
"You don't want to do that," says Tall Guy, just as calmly.
"No, I do," says Dead Eyes. "I've always wanted to. And now I finally can."
"Okay," says Tall Guy. "But it's gonna be me, not her." He extends his arms, palms facing out, like he's trying to make himself bigger, more of a shield. "Carrie?" he says, without looking away from Dead Eyes. "Is there a back door in the kitchen?"
She nods, then realizes he can't see her. "Yes," she says, her throat almost too dry to make a sound.
"Get out of here," he says. "Go out the back door." But she can't move; she's frozen to the spot and she doesn't want to leave him. "Go," he barks, still maintaining eye contact with Dead Eyes. "Now."
Carrie scurries into the kitchen, even opens the back door and lets it slam shut, but she doesn't leave. She hides behind the walk-in and peeks around the corner. He saved her, he made himself a fucking human shield and saved her, and she can't abandon him.
"Look," Tall Guy says, quietly. "I know what's going on. I know what you're feeling. There's nothing stopping you now. All those inhibitions, that little voice that said don't, that's all gone. But you know what's gonna happen, don't you? Carrie probably already called the cops." (Oh, crap. She should have, she should have run outside and called the cops, and now she can't get to a phone without Dead Eyes seeing her.) "Is it really worth spending the rest of your life in jail just to scratch that one little itch?"
"You don't know jack shit about what I'm feeling," Dead Eyes moans. "It's not a fucking itch. It's all I want. It's all I can fucking think about!"
The gunshot is loud, so loud. Carrie covers her ears and shrieks, but Dead Eyes is still yelling and can't hear her. Tall Guy spins to the side and then slams against the wall, clutching his left arm. He stumbles a little but stays upright, leaning on the wall. "Okay," he says, and he really sounds a lot calmer than anyone in this situation should be. "Got it out of your system now?"
Dead Eyes laughs and shoots again, this time hitting Tall Guy in the leg, and now he collapses to his knees. He's grabbing at his leg now, but down by his boot, lower than the gunshot wound. As Dead Eyes looms over him, pointing the gun at his forehead, she sees a flash of metal. Tall Guy whips a knife out of his boot and lunges at Dead Eyes. There's a scream and a gunshot and a lot more screaming, and Carrie realizes it's her. She clamps her hands over her mouth until she can stop, and then runs over to Tall Guy, who's sprawled on the floor with blood on his chest.
"Oh god," she says, pulling away his jacket. "Oh god, oh god." The wound is bleeding heavily, but it's a steady flow, not pulsing. She jumps when Tall Guy grabs her wrist.
"Go check on him," he gasps.
She glances over to Dead Eyes, who has a big-ass knife embedded in his chest and doesn't look like he's going anywhere. "He's dead, I think."
"Crap." Tall Guy says quietly, and yeah, that's an understatement. "Okay. I need you to get me a towel." She hurries into the kitchen, and glares at Dead Eyes' carcass on her way back out. "It's not his fault," Tall Guy says quietly, as she kneels next to him. "Can you fold that up and put pressure on the wound?"
"He fucking shot you," she mutters, putting the towel over his wound and pressing down gently. "How is it not his fault?"
He looks impossibly sad over Dead Eyes' fate. "He lost his soul. It wasn't his fault." Okay, Tall Guy's losing it here, getting a little delirious. Or he's getting religious, and does that mean he's dying? No no no no no. The towel is already soaked in blood and oh, god, don't die, please don't die.
"Listen," she says, "I need to go to the phone. I need to call an ambulance."
"No, wait," he says, and his voice is suddenly very weak, his face so pale. "Mine's in my pocket. Can you get it?" He nods toward his left pocket, and she's suddenly very aware of his arm and leg, also bleeding, and the growing puddle of blood surrounding him, and again she silently pleads, please don't die. He winces in pain when she digs the phone out of his pocket, and by the time she's given the dispatcher the address of the coffee shop, he's even more pale, and his lips are turning blue.
"Hey," she says, suddenly desperate to keep him awake. "I'm disappointed. I thought you were checking me out earlier, but you were obviously just reading my nametag. So you know my name but I don't know yours."
"Pink," he mumbles.
"Pink? Your name is Pink?"
He smiles a tiny ghost of a smile. "My name is Sam. Your bra is pink." Suddenly he starts coughing, blood bubbling out of the corner of his mouth. "Need to sit up," he wheezes. "Can't breathe." There's nowhere she can grab him where it won't hurt, so she puts her arms under his and pulls him upright, leaning him against the wall, and tries not to hear his brief cry of pain.
"One more thing," he says, and more blood dribbles out of his mouth as he speaks. "Need you... call my brother." He stops and gasps for breath. "Dean. My phone. Tell him I'm okay. Tell him I'm going to the hospital but I'm okay."
"But you're..." She doesn't want to tell him he's not okay, but she also thinks his brother needs to know how seriously he's been wounded.
"Tell him I'm okay," he says, more firmly. "Don't want him to freak out." He closes his eyes and slumps to the side, and her heart leaps into her throat, but she sees his chest still rising and falling.
She finds the entry for Dean and is relieved when he doesn't answer, because she doesn't really want to talk to the guy. Doesn't want to tell him she's afraid his brother is dying. She leaves a message, tells him his brother's been shot but he's okay, and they're waiting for an ambulance (doesn't say I'm waiting, I'm not entirely sure he's even going to be alive when I hang up the phone) and he should meet him at the hospital. Then she sits there and quietly presses one hand against Tall Guy's (Sam, his name is Sam) bloody chest wound while she strokes his uninjured arm with the other and tells him he's going to be okay.
When she hears the sirens, she suddenly realizes she forgot something important. She picks up Sam's phone again and leaves another message for Dean. "He saved my life. Tell him I said thank you."
Play it again, Sam, written for the following prompt from themegalosaurus
1) A hospital
2) Dr Cara Roberts
3) Axe wound(s) to the upper body
(Warning: All of the medical info in here is most likely completely wrong, since I did no research at all other than watching ER. Sorry about that. Also, Dr. Cara cusses like a sailor. I don't apologize for that.)
She's going to fucking kill Garcia. It's like the guy's a psychic. Like he knows it's gonna get weird. Every time she agrees to cover his ER shift - every single goddamn time - some kind of bizarre shit goes down. People chopping each other up with axes? Really?
I didn't even want to be an ER doctor, she mutters, as she washes her hands. But she is right now, and she's waiting for white male, late 20s, multiple ax wounds, unresponsive, pupils equal and reactive. He's a bloody mess when he shows up, his shirt already cut off, and she appraises him quickly. The arm - defensive wound, most likely - is the worst, and he'll need surgery for that one. His fingers are sliced to hell, but none of them seem to be in danger of falling off. Guy must have fought like a son of a bitch. He's not only cut up, but also bruised and scraped. His BP is low but not scary low, but he looks like he's lost a lot of blood; there's probably a pint on his face and chest alone, and God knows how much the missing shirt soaked up. She tells David to hang a bag of O neg and some saline and sends Destiny (dear God, what a stupid name for a nurse, especially in the ER; who wants to think about their destiny in the ER?) to alert the surgical team. The wounds on his chest are comparatively minor, which in this case means they look like someone just wanted to hurt him really really bad instead of turn him into steaks, and she can stitch them up while he stabilizes enough for surgery. If she's fast enough, she can get it done before he comes around.
She flushes a chest wound on his left side with saline while David cleans off the right side of his chest and then wipes his face. Looks familiar, David says, and "that's because you hang out with a bad fucking crowd, Dave, and we might want to have a talk about that later," she laughs. She stitches that one up and feels kind of bad that it's on the sloppy side until she notices another one on his shoulder that looks like some moron used dental floss and a crochet needle, so clearly she's not the worst doc he's ever seen. If that one was even done by a doctor. (Seriously. Axes and back-room dental floss stitches. Bad fucking crowd.)
She stretches her back, works the crick out of her neck, and gets ready to work on the other side. David's got him completely cleaned up now, and she looks across a wide expanse of tanned muscle and suddenly stops cold. That tattoo. She knows that tattoo. She looks at his face (and Jesus, how has she not even looked at his face until now?) and there's the long silky brown hair her hands were buried in, the distracting lips, and the pretty hazel eyes, closed now but still unmistakeable.
"Agent Stiles?" she says. "Sam?"
"Oh, crap, that's why he looks familiar!" Dave says. "He's one of those FBI guys from yesterday!"
One of those FBI guys. And she really, really shouldn't be working on him. She just (reluctantly) showered the scent of him off her skin a couple of hours ago. But it's not like she can say Hey, I just banged this guy, so it's really not appropriate for me to be treating him. And also, she kinda doesn't want to hand him over to anyone else. She kinda wants to wrap him up in something soft and warm and take care of him right now.
"Agent Stiles?" she repeats. His brow furrows and his eyes flutter a little bit. "Agent Stiles, you're in the hospital. You're going to be okay, but you've been cut up pretty badly."
He opens his eyes all the way and takes in his surroundings, then squints at her in confusion. "Care..."
"Yes, it's Dr. Roberts. You remember we met yesterday?"
Maybe he gets the hint and knows to keep it professional, or maybe he doesn't even remember. "Dr. Roberts. I'm..." He frowns and looks around some more. "I'm in the hospital? What happened?"
"A lunatic with an ax, apparently." She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "You're going to need surgery on your left arm, but I'm pretty sure you'll be okay. I'm just stitching up the smaller wounds right now." Now that he's awake, she injects lidocaine around the wound, and she can't help noticing he doesn't wince at all. "I'll finish this one as soon as you're a little numb." And with the blood cleaned off, she can see he has a small cut on his throat, but that one can be closed up with a butterfly bandage. (His throat is really distracting too, come to think of it.) "You need me to notify anyone?" she ask. "Call your partner?"
"My partner." He huffs a dry little laugh. "No, I remember what happened now. He knows. He was there. He'll be here as soon as he, ah, cleans up the scene."
"M'kay." Cara pokes around his wound (it's not just an excuse to touch him; it's not) and, convinced he's good and numb, begins her stitches. "So, what does the other guy look like? The guy who did this to you?"
"He's fine." He sighs and looks desperately sad for a second. "No. I mean. The perp's dead."
He's silent as she continues stitching him up. She sneaks glances between stitches, but all he does is stare sadly at the ceiling. "You doing okay?" she asks, as she ties off the last stitch.
He puts on a weak, fake little smile. "I'm good. Arm hurts, but I'm good."
"I bet it does," she says remorsefully. He's actually been weirdly stoic about the arm. Guy must have a pretty high pain threshold, or lots of experience with fairly gruesome injuries. She stays seated on the stool next to him and puts a hand on his chest... not as an excuse to touch him (no, not really) but because it helps patients feel calm sometimes. And so she can monitor his respirations. Not just to touch him. "So, I think you're stable enough to go into surgery. They'll be down to pick you up soon. Are you sure there's no one you want notified?"
Suddenly Dave pokes his head in the door. "This is Stiles, right? His partner's here. Want me to send him back?"
She looks at Sam, who sighs and closes his eyes and looks even more miserable, if that's possible. "I don't think my patient's ready for a visitor. I'll talk to his partner." He opens those pretty hazel eyes and briefly smiles gratefully at her and, well, that was worth it.
The partner is agitated, pacing back and forth, and he practically pounces on her as soon as she opens the waiting room door. "How's he doing? I need to see him."
He starts to walk around her, but she plants a hand against his chest. "I'm Dr. Roberts. Your partner is stable and resting comfortably. He's heading into surgery soon to repair a pretty nasty wound to his arm, but none of his injuries are life-threatening."
He looks at her like he's noticing her for the first time. "Dr. Roberts. We met yesterday." He gives her a slow smile that probably has most people he meets dropping their guard - or their pants - in a heartbeat. "All I need is one minute with him."
But she's not most people. Just the thought of him made Sam pretty uncomfortable, and she's not letting him pass. "I'm afraid that's not possible. He's probably on his way to surgery right now. Someone really did a number on him. He's lucky to be alive. Any one of those chest wounds could have killed him if they'd been a little deeper."
The smile disappears, replaced by a look of... regret? Guilt? "Yeah," he says, not meeting her eyes. "It was, ah, it was bad. Shouldn't have happened. But he's gonna be okay? You're sure?"
"He'll be fine," she says, putting a hand on his back and steering him back to the seating area. "I'll make sure someone comes for you when he's out of surgery." He sits back down next to an older man wearing a trucker hat, and soon their heads are bent together in quiet conversation, and that's interesting, but at least he's not alone. Not that Agent Murdock's support system is her biggest priority right now.
She spins on her heel and steps quickly back into the ER, just to see Sam's gurney disappear into the elevator. "Wait!" she cries, running to catch him. He looks drawn and pale. (And maybe, just maybe, she has to restrain herself from giving him an affectionate kiss on the forehead.) "I'll come see you after surgery," she says, "if that's okay."
He smiles weakly again, but this one doesn't look fake. "That would be nice. Thanks."
(Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he walks into mine.) But she's not complaining. She's still thinking about wrapping him up in something warm and soft.