I found this in the deep dark recesses of my computer last week when I decided it would be a good idea to unclog my system, and until then had forgotten all about it. This oneshot covers the time in the episode Faith between Dean being in the hospital and checking himself out before arriving at Sam's motel. This is only my second attempt at a SPN fic, so please be nice. No flames please.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue ;)

This is for my beautiful beta Laura - aka CowboySteel - I'm gonna miss you like crazy when we both leave for uni, but I wish you all the best and love ya to pieces. Thanks for putting up with all my crap over the years and thanks for helping me when I needed a friend. I couldn't have made it through the last few years without you. So after months of pleading, I finally made do on my promise. Hope he's hurt enough for ya ;) xxx

Dean lay there in the hospital bed, becoming more and more bored by the second. He could do a lot of things: shooting, knife throwing, annoying the hell outta Sam, flirting - but sitting around waiting was not one of them. Especially seeing as this time it wasn't even as if he was going to recover. He was just lying there waiting to die. And there was nothing that he or Sam, or even the specially trained doctors, could do about it.

It had been three days since the accident, and ever since he'd woken up, he'd managed to memorise every single detail of the white-washed hospital room, from the suspicious looking brown stain just below the windowsill right down to the serial number of the heart monitor beside him. The heart monitor that was slowly driving him insane with the steady beep--beep--beep. It was if the machine was taunting him, making him count his last moments by counting down the last remaining beats of his damaged beyond repair heart.

Hell he knew for a fact that demons came with warning labels and basic science told him that water and electricity equalled something very bad. Shame he didn't quite put two and two together until the split second between when the Rawhead got cremated and he got zapped with 1000V of straight electricity that went through his body, jolting everything that it passed until it reached his heart. What happened after that, well he couldn't tell. Sam had told him earlier that he'd found him on the floor unconscious. The doctor told him he'd sustained a massive heart attack that would have killed anyone who hadn't been as athletic as he was outright.

It was still going to kill him though. Maybe dying outright would have been better. At least that way he wouldn't have to lie around, eating shitty hospital food, watching shitty daytime TV, and being surrounded by fugly nurses that could have taken on Medusa.

They saved the kids though. That had to count for something.

Trying to ignore the dull pain that had settled in the back of his head, and the occasional spasm of pain shooting up his spine, he turned towards the small crappy TV. Some stupid infomercial about hair dye was currently plastered on the screen. Man, I hate daytime TV, he thought. More to the point, no way would any self-respecting man dye his hair to match the colour of his sneakers.

Flicking the TV off once more, he stared out of the window, scowling at the sun that was shining brightly in the sky, mocking him that the only time the weather was going to be nice was when he was too incapacitated to do anything about it.

Well, two can play at that game.

"You know what, screw this." Pushing back the covers, Dean hauled himself into an upright position, gritting his teeth against the shooting pains running through his chest. He had to pause briefly for an intense wave of dizziness to pass, but when the world eventually stopped spinning, he swung his legs off the side of the bed, knocking the IV stand over, which clattered to the floor, taking the IV line in Dean's hand with it.

"Son of a bitch!"

He glanced down at his hand, seeing a thin rivulet of blood trickling across the skin, but decided that a bleeding hand was hardly anything to complain about when his heart was beating its last beats. His head began spinning again as the dizziness took over, and he had to fight with all of the will he had to push back the black spots that were fighting to take him down with them. He panted from the effort of it, which made his chest ache more than it already did, but slowly, with each pained breath he took, the darkness receded. He could have sworn he heard their hissing in his ears, hissing at his refusal to be absorbed by unconsciousness.

Grabbing onto the bedrail for support, he stood, as if daring the darkness to come back. When he was finally standing on two feet, he shuffled awkwardly over to the door, as if he was just learning to walk. Kinda like some red-haired mermaid out of some film. Hell, Sam would know what it was. Dean didn't particularly care either way - it wasn't like it would teach him anything meaningful that he could use in whatever the hell type of afterlife he went to.

When he reached the door, he had to grasp the door frame to regain his balance. He felt exhausted - since when had walking taken so much energy? He didn't know whether his legs would be able to support him all the way to Sam's motel room. The motel was just around the corner, but the way it was going, it would take him the rest of his life to get there. Sam had the car - not that Dean would have been able to drive anyway with his condition - and he had no other means of getting to the motel other than walking. And he was too stubborn to ring Sam up and ask him to come and get him. Sam would probably try and make him stay in the hospital anyway. Which was just not an option.

It was only then that he realised he was still wearing the hospital johnny. Dean grimaced, feeling heavily exposed, even though there was no one else in the room. Where the hell were his clothes? No way was he going to attempt to leave the hospital looking like this. He still had his dignity. And his pride. After an initial visual sweep of the room, he spotted some clothes folded neatly on the chair next to the window. Why Sam had bothered to bring then Dean wasn't sure. The doctors didn't expect him to live long enough to wear them, but at that point Dean just didn't care. He was just thankful Sam had thought ahead. Had probably been planning on springing him out of this joint anyway.

Getting dressed took much longer than Dean had anticipated. He'd know that his movements were restricted now but this was just ridiculous. Taking twenty odd minutes to put on a pair of jeans was just plain stupid. It was a good thing that no one was around, he'd never be able to live it down. The sweatshirt was the hardest part. Even raising his arms a little above his head sent shooting pains through his chest and the black spots appeared again, dancing around in his peripheral vision. His head swam, and he struggled to keep his balance. After taking a few deep, painful breaths that seemed to rattle in his chest, he carried on pulling the shirt above his head, taking it much slower than before.

Having finally got all of his clothes back on, he slumped back onto the bed, clutching at the blanket whilst he tried to recover his energy. He stayed there for a short while, not really measuring the time as it passed, but all the while trying to argue with himself to just get up and get out. The strong stubborn streak that Dean possessed held firmly to the belief that he wasn't going to die in a hospital, whilst his body craved to just fall back onto the bed and stay there as it tried to fight the inevitable. Eventually, Dean managed to gather the energy to get back onto his feet, and using the wall, made his way towards the door again, grasping the doorknob as if it were a lifeline that he so desperately needed to cling to.

Pausing again, this time only briefly, he turned the handle and peered into the dingy hallway beyond. From his unfortunate vantage point, he couldn't see anything or anyone around, but that didn't mean there wasn't. After all these years as a hunter, even on his way out of the world, he was still cautious enough to check for anything that wanted to end him before his time. Opening the door further, he checked again, this time satisfied that no one, or no one human at least, was around. Taking his chance, he slipped through the door, sticking close to the wall for support as he wandered down the corridor, peering upwards periodically to check he was going in the right direction as the exit.

Rounding the corner, he saw a cluster of nurses gathered around the main reception desk. A few colourful words flew through his mind, but he bit his tongue, determined not to make his presence known. He stumbled towards the exit, hoping that he'd sneak by undetected. He didn't even bother to check himself out: if the nurses knew his about condition, then they'd be the first to escort him back into the dingy room he'd just got out of.

Once outside, he breathed a sigh of relief, wincing in pain as the air filled his lungs. Walking outside into the cool air helped him clear his head a little. He must have been in the hospital room longer than he'd though: in the time it had taken him to get out of bed, change and escape that joint, the sun that had been shining so brightly and so mockingly had sunk low into the sky. Whilst the sun was still out, the bright red streaks across the distant horizon made it very clear to Dean that night was falling.

He shuffled forwards, taking every step slowly, each time cursing at the pain that a single step seemed to take. The pain in his chest was weighing heavily on him now, and even the slightest movement demanded so much energy, energy he wasn't sure he had. By the time he made it to the corner, he was panting from the sheer amount of exhaustion his trip had cost him. It had been sheer determination alone that had got him this far - his body was begging for him to stop moving, each cell crying out in protest as he continued his walk.

His body sagged as he walked past the bench, his energy spent, and he collapsed onto the bench, gripping the back of it with his hand as he fought to keep himself conscious. The only good thing that the hospital had offered had been the painkillers - they didn't take the pain away, just dulled it to a level that was acceptable and manageable. He'd missed his last dose, and the effects of the drugs had long since worn off.

As he tried to get his breath back, his mind wandered. Dean would never admit it aloud, especially not to Sam, but he was afraid. Afraid of where he was going, afraid of what he was leaving behind. He was afraid that he would be all alone. He shook his head in disgust at that thought - if fate played out, then Dean wouldn't be the one left alone. Sam would be the one left behind to pick up the remaining pieces of what was left of his family. The guilt this realisation caused was almost as much as the physical pain. And while Dean accepted this as the way things were supposed to be, that didn't make it any easier to deal with. He could only hope that if there was any kind of afterlife, then his mother would be waiting for him. He'd always wanted to see her again. Shame he'd have to die for that to happen.

A sharp spasm of pain through his chest brought him back to reality. He grunted, agony working its way through his body in waves. Just when he thought the pain was subsiding, another wave crippled him. After countless waves of pain, he finally came back to himself, the pain receding to another dull sensation weighing heavily over him. Noting how dark it was getting, he gritted his teeth and forced himself onto his feet. Using the bench to steady himself, he held on tightly, knuckles turning white, whilst he gained his balance. Staggering forwards, exhaustion making him become unsteady on his feet, he made the final few steps towards the motel. Pushing the door open, he wracked his brain, trying to remember Sam's room number. Sam had told him, just in case. 23. Ignoring the male attendant at the counter, he took a left, making his way down the hall as he mentally counted down the numbers in his head. The artificial fluorescent light reflecting off of the dingy whitewashed walls was giving him a headache, and he used one hand to guide himself along the wall as he used his other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It helped, but not much.

He fought an audible sigh of relief as he finally reached Sam's room. Steeling himself for Sam's lecture, he put on the mask he'd adopted since he was a small kid, the mask that didn't let anybody see what he was actually feeling. Confident that the mask was fully in place, he knocked on the door, a little lighter than he would have liked, but he just didn't have the strength to knock any harder. He knew Sam would have the heard the knock anyway, so there was no real need to knock any harder other than his own misplaced sense of determination to carry on as normal.

"What are you doing here?" Sam's face was an expression of concern

"Checked myself out. I'm not going to die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot." He was putting on a brave face for Sam, and he knew it. But he couldn't bring himself to care - soon enough, Sam would be in enough pain. Dean didn't need to add to it the knowledge of how much pain he was actually in. He could never let Sam know that. Sam would no doubt blame himself for not being fast enough to stop Dean cremating the sucker whilst he was still in the water.

He knew that Sam hadn't bought his smart-ass remark, but still he clung onto the idea of normality. The craving to pretend everything was normal was just too much for Dean to overlook. Well, as normal life for them could ever be.

He listened patiently as Sam talked about specialists and the research he'd been doing in an attempt to save Dean's life. Dean felt oddly detached from the situation: he could hear what Sam was saying, but at the same time, felt pity for his younger brother - Sam was refusing to accept the reality that Dean's time was up, that his clock had almost stopped ticking. And in the end, it was only going to make it harder for him to let go.

But still Dean listened. He pretended to go along with Sam's plan, pretended that maybe there was still some small shred of hope left. Because, at the end of the day, Dean wouldn't force his little brother to face the truth of the situation. If trying to find an impossible cure made Sam happy, then Dean was all too willing to go along with it. He was making sure his little brother would be ok for the last time.

Well I hope you liked it. Please r'n'r :D

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