This story has been written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang. The cover (and three other brilliant pictures) were drawn by my amazing artist, DREYM. If you want to check out the rest of her artwork (and you definitely do), then you can click the link in my profile. (Warning: the art masterpost contains spoilers for this story.)

Thanks to the awesome the-dramaqueen-fallen-angel for beta reading this story.

Pairings: Destiel, with very brief mentions of Dean/one night stands.

Warnings: canon-level violence and torture, multiple minor/side characters dying gruesome deaths, strong language, angst, not exactly John Winchester friendly


PROLOGUE

Dad was busy talking to the doctor when Sam slipped into the room. Sam didn't say a word, just entered as quietly as he could and headed for the chair in the corner. He hadn't expected his dad to notice him at all, but to his surprise, Dad instantly turned and glanced over at him as he dropped into his seat.

Or, specifically, Dad glanced at the plastic bag hanging loosely from Sam's fingertips. He nodded approvingly, then turned his attention back to the doctor.

Sam slouched in his chair, his arms flopping over the armrests, not even trying to hide how tired he felt. He let the bag continue to dangle from his fingers, even though he mostly just wanted to smash it against the wall, to destroy the oils and herbs and candles that Bobby had gotten for them instead of being the good son for once and bringing them to Dad.

But causing a scene like that in the middle of a hospital room was definitely a bad idea, unless Sam wanted to get himself kicked out. And there was no way in hell that he was going to let that happen.

Besides, Dean would've gotten Dad whatever he wanted, no matter how much he disagreed. And there were times that Sam wanted to kick Dean's ass for the way that his older brother always kissed their dad's shoes, but right now, Sam figured that Dean needed someone to look out for what he'd want. And it was looking more and more like Sam would have to be the one to do it, because Dean didn't have anyone else on his side anymore.

That was why Sam was able to keep himself calm.

Barely.

"Dean doesn't show any signs of improvement," the doctor said, and Sam instantly stiffened and sat up, completely on alert.

"And what exactly does that mean?" Dad asked, sounding way calmer than he had any right to be.

"I'm sorry, Mr. McGillicutty, but we're reaching the point where we have to start considering the possibility that Dean will never wake up," the doctor said, his voice gentle, for all the help that that was. As if talking in a nice voice was supposed to make it better that he was basically saying that Dean was going to die. "It might be for the best to turn off the machines-"

Sam's hands clenched around the arms of his chair, and he watched his dad and the doctor with narrowed eyes.

He'd known that Dean was in bad shape. He'd known it from the moment that the truck had collided with the Impala, when he'd been screaming Dean's name and hadn't gotten an answer. And hell, you couldn't look at Dean, at all the tubes and wires and machines hooked up to his body, without figuring that one out. The doctors had already talked about brain damage, about the possibility of Dean never waking up, the fact that even if Dean did wake, it didn't mean that the damage would just magically heal, or that Dean would ever be okay again. And Sam had known all that, but still, he hadn't realized that it was this bad. Bad enough that the doctors were talking about turning the freakin' machines off, that they thought that it would be for the best if Dean just died.

Sam's hands tightened around the arm rests, until he was certain that he was going to break either the chair or himself, whichever came first. But he knew one thing for sure: he wasn't letting them turn off those machines. He was going to keep Dean alive, and find a way to fix him, even if he had to do it by himself.

"Not going to happen," Dad said, before the doctor had ever finished speaking. So there was that, at least.

"I know that this is a difficult decision," the doctor said, and the sympathy in her voice only made Sam want to gag. Like the doctor knew anything about what was going on. "It definitely isn't a decision that you should make lightly. Take some time to think it over. Though, you should know that this is likely the best thing that you can do for your son, especially in light of what happened earlier this afternoon-"

Sam frowned. "Wait," he said. "What happened earlier this afternoon?"

"Nothing," Dad said, almost absently.

Sam's hands clenched harder on the arms of his chairs. "Did something happen to Dean when I was out getting your stuff?" he demanded, his voice getting lower and harder.

"We can discuss this later," Dad said, in the voice he used when the discussion was closed, no arguments. Sam just narrowed his eyes. That tone always worked on Dean – Dean never even thought about disobeying when Dad sounded like that. For Sam, though, it had always been an invitation to fight back even harder, and there was no way in hell that that was going to change now.

"Thanks, doc," Dad added, an obvious dismissal in his voice – he couldn't have made it clearer that he was done talking to the doctor. The doctor nodded and left. Dad barely waited until the man was out of the room before he turned to Sam and asked, "Did you get what I need?"

Sam glanced down at the plastic bag dangling from his fingers, and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I got it," he said, lifting his arm to show Dad.

Dad nodded. "Hand it here."

Sam didn't move. "What happened with Dean earlier?"

"He was in a rough spot for a bit," Dad said, and again, Sam knew instantly that Dad wasn't going to elaborate any further. Not unless someone dragged the information out of him.

So that was exactly what Sam was going to do, then. "How rough?" he demanded, copying Dad's tone exactly. Dad wasn't the only one who could be a stubborn bastard when he wanted to be, and there was no fucking way that Sam was going to back down on this one.

"It doesn't matter, he's fine now," Dad said, then held out one hand. "Give me the bag."

Sam shook his head before Dad had even finished speaking. "Not until you tell me what happened with Dean," he said. Dad was going to say something more, but Sam cut him off before he could. "Tell me, or I'll head down from the nurses' station and find out from them, and I'm taking the bag with me. You don't tell me, and I'm never giving this stuff to you. You'll have to call Bobby to get more oil and candles and whatever the fuck else you have in here."

Dad glared, and Sam was already bracing himself for the explosion – and bracing himself to walk away, because he was serious about not handing over the bag if he didn't get the answers he needed, even if it meant that Dad would never welcome him back.

That was fine. It wouldn't be the first time that Sam had gotten himself cut off, and Dean was infinitely more important than Stanford had been.

After a few seconds, though, Dad's face softened slightly, replaced by a scared look that Sam wasn't used to seeing on his dad's face. Dad was the one who never wavered. Hell, even Dean got freaked out sometimes, but Dad never did. Not before now, at least.

It only lasted a second, and then Dad composed his face, making it sad, but completely calm, without a trace of fear. It was enough to make Sam wonder if he had even seen the fear at all.

"His heart stopped for a bit," Dad said, as if he were describing any other injury that Dean had gotten over the years. Dean got a little bruised from wrestling that shapeshifter. Dean got thrown into a wall by a pissed-off spirit and cracked his ribs. Dean died for a minute or two because a demon hurt him badly enough to stop his heart. Standard practice, typical hunter consequences. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about.

"They got it beating again," Dad added, but Sam barely heard him.

His hands were shaking. Honestly, in that moment, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear anything that anybody said to him.

"You weren't going to tell me," Sam said, and somehow, his voice came out low, almost calm. "Dean died, and you weren't going to tell me?"

"You don't need one more thing to worry about," Dad said. "And anyway, it's not going to matter soon. Now give me the stuff."

"Doesn't matter?" Sam repeated. In an instant, he was on his feet. He didn't even remember moving, but one second he was slumped in his seat, and then he was towering over Dad, the bag swinging wildly in his grip. "Dean died, and it doesn't matter? His heart stopped once, and it could happen again. And even if it doesn't, the doctors are trying to turn off the machines because they say he's brain dead and will never recover. We don't have any time left now. You're supposed to be helping me save him."

"That's exactly why I sent you to get supplies-" Dad began.

"Don't even pretend," Sam snapped, his voice rising. The sensible part of his mind reminded him that he was getting too loud, that they were talking about things that normal people couldn't know about. And even if they weren't, he didn't want to get himself kicked out of the hospital for causing a disturbance. That was the whole reason why he'd stayed calm for so long, and he wasn't going to ruin it now.

He had a hard time trying to care, though.

"What are you talking about?" Dad asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I talked to Bobby," Sam said. He didn't shout, not this time, but it was a near thing. "He told me that he knows what these-" he made a random, sweeping gesture with his right arm, sending the bag swinging back and forth in his grip "-are for, and it's not protection."

Dad's eyes narrowed further. "And what are you implying?"

"Dean's dying," Sam snapped. "Hell, he's practically dead already, and instead of trying to do something to save him, you're sending me for ingredients to a summoning spell."

"I'm doing what needs to be done," Dad said.

Of course he was. Because killing the demon was much more important than finding a spell that could save Dean. Because avenging his wife was more important that making sure that his son didn't become another casualty.

"Save it," Sam said.

His hands were shaking harder now, balling into fists completely without any conscious effort on his part. His entire body was practically trembling, and he had to remind himself, Dean Dean Dean. Dean needed him to stay here, to stay with him and find some way to fix this. Sam couldn't lose control. Not here.

He'd be pissed once Dean was awake and recovering. Until then, his anger could wait.

He turned and started to storm out of the room.

"Sam, wait," Dad called.

Sam didn't slow down. He might be keeping his calm now, but there was no reason to tempt himself – and being around Dad always tempted Sam to lose his temper. It had been that way for as long as Sam could remember, even back when Sam didn't have half as much reason to be angry. Now, Sam would be surprised if he could stay in this room for even another minute without shouting at Dad, demanding to know why he was going to let his son die, demanding to know why he didn't care at all that Dean barely had any time left.

Yeah, it would definitely be better to get out of the room as fast as he could. Whatever Dad wanted to say, it could wait for later.

Then-

"Leave the bag," Dad said.

Sam froze, halfway out the doorway already. He slowly looked down at the bag. The was a single candle sticking out of the top, and Sam could make out the shapes of the other candles inside, the bowl for mixing ingredients, the various herbs and oils that Bobby had gotten them. And finally, the Colt, with its single remaining bullet.

Sam took a deep breath, and lowered the bag to the ground. Then he left.

He headed straight for Dean's room, of course. It was just down the hallway, not too far from where Dad was staying. It only took a minute for Sam to get there, walking as fast as he was.

He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, the way that he had when he'd first seen Dean's broken body earlier that morning. And for a second, it was like he was seeing Dean for the first time all over again, because now, Sam was picturing what it must have looked like when Dean's heart had stopped. The doctors and nurses all swarming around his brother, fighting to keep him alive. The panic, the chest compressions, the machines going wild. And Sam hadn't been there for it, because he'd been off on some stupid errand for Dad, getting the ingredients to summon the demon that was apparently more important than Dean.

Sam's throat felt way too tight. He shook his head and cleared his throat, then stepped into the room.

"Hey," he said softly as he approached. Earlier that day, he'd pulled a chair up right next to the bed, as close to Dean as he could get. Now, the chair was shoved randomly to the side of the room, like someone had pushed it there in a hurry. Sam grabbed it and dragged it back into place, then dropped into it, his knees pressed against the side of Dean's mattress.

"Big scare today, huh?" he asked, then added, "Don't worry, though. I could've told them that you'd be too stubborn to die for real. They probably didn't even have to use the machines, right? You just gave death the old 'fuck you' and restarted your own heart."

There were times when Sam was sure that Dean could hear him. Maybe it was a psychic thing, or maybe it was just pure hope, but he swore that he could sense Dean's presence. Everywhere he went, he'd been watching for any signs that he was right – glass breaking, curtains blowing in a nonexistent breeze, anything that might indicate that there was a spirit around. So far, Sam hadn't seen a single sign, but he didn't give up. Because no matter how irrational it seemed, sometimes Sam just knew that Dean had to be around, even if there wasn't any actual proof.

Now wasn't one of those times. Sam didn't think he'd ever been more acutely aware of the fact that he was completely alone.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from talking to Dean, just in case.

"Let's not let that happen again, though," he continued, and reached for Dean's bedside table. It had been moved to the side to make room for equipment, but it was still easily within reach. From the top drawer, Sam pulled out Dad's journal. He'd left it there that morning while he went to go check out the Impala, which was probably a mistake – Dean would never forgive him if he was careless with the journal and it got lost or stolen. But Sam had had more important things on his mind than where to put the journal, and anyway, it was still right where he'd left it, so no harm done.

Sam opened the front cover and flipped through the first few pages. He hadn't read the journal as many times as Dean had, but he still knew enough to know that there wouldn't be anything useful until about a dozen pages in, at least.

He also knew that there probably wouldn't be anything useful at all. Especially since Sam had poured through it a few months ago, after Dean had been electrocuted and given just a few months to live. He'd had hours to sit in the waiting room, not even allowed to see his brother yet, and he'd spent the time reading every single word of Dad's journal, searching for anything that could help Dean.

There was nothing. Reading it again wasn't going to change that, but still, Sam couldn't help but hold onto hope that maybe he'd find something he'd missed the first few times, that there would magically be some perfect piece of information to tell him exactly what to do to make Dean okay.

"I'm not giving up," Sam continued. One hand reached up to tug at the amulet he was wearing. Dean's amulet. The nurses had given it back to him this morning, and Sam was wearing it now. Keeping it safe, until Dean was awake and could put it back on himself. "We'll find a way to fix this. I promise." At this point, he wasn't entirely sure if he was talking to Dean or to himself, but it didn't really matter.

One more time. He'd look through the journal one more time, and if that failed, he'd call Bobby. Right now, Bobby was towing the Impala back to his house, to keep it safe for Dean. But he had more books than anyone that Sam had ever met – there had to be something buried in one of them, and Bobby would be the best person to track it down.

Dean would be fine. He had to be.

"I'm not giving up," Sam said again as he flipped to the next page of the journal. "Don't go anywhere yet, okay? Just stay alive long enough for me to find something, that's all I need you to do. Just stay alive."

That was when Sam felt it.

There was definitely a presence somewhere in the room. Sam had felt that way before, but it had been a vague feeling, just weak enough to make him wonder whether he was just making it up in his mind. This, though, this was different. Sam felt that there was someone else in the room, the same way that he felt the floor beneath his feet or the bruises across his chest.

Sam swallowed hard, and slowly set the journal onto the end of the bed. "Dean," he said, and stood, then turned in a slow circle.

There was no response. The room was just as empty as it had been before. Absolutely nothing moved. The curtains didn't tremble, the door didn't open or close, the plastic cup left over from the breakfast that Sam had eaten in Dean's room didn't budge a centimeter. Still, though, Sam knew that he wasn't alone.

Sam waited, not moving, not saying a word, wondering if the presence would disappear. It didn't. If anything, it grew stronger.

"Dean?" Sam repeated. This time, his voice wasn't even remotely certain.

The presence was overwhelming now. Sam's arms shook, and his legs had gone weak. He stumbled and dropped back into his chair, just in time to avoid crumpling to a heap on the floor.

This wasn't Dean.

There was a low buzz in the background, starting soft but growing louder and louder. His head felt like it was filled with static, like he could actually feel the noise buzzing against the inside of his brain. He cried out, his hands flying up to cover his ears, but it wasn't enough – not even close to enough. The noise, whatever it was, had wormed its way inside of him. He could feel it vibrating through his bones, like his entire body was priming to explode. His body could disintegrate that moment, and Sam wouldn't be surprised.

Shit. The noise almost drowned out all thought completely, but there was one thing that stood out clearly in his mind: he couldn't let this… this thing – whatever it was – hurt Dean. And it must be. Dean didn't show any signs of it, but then, he wouldn't be able to. That didn't mean that the noise wasn't damaging him the way that Sam could feel it damaging him.

Sam didn't know a way to stop it, though. He didn't even know what was happening, let alone how he was supposed to keep Dean safe. He could try to escape, but Dean was only breathing because the machines forced him to – there was no way that Sam could move him.

Dad. He needed to get dad.

Sam was slumped in the chair. It was like he was drugged. His limbs wouldn't work the way that he told them to. He couldn't even stand up, but after a second of struggling, he managed to push his elbow against the arm of the chair, trying to use it to prop himself up without uncovering his ears.

It was hard, and awkward, and horribly painful, but he did manage to shove himself to his feet and stumble toward the door.

He only made it a couple steps before he fell.

He hit the ground hard, his head slamming against the floor, adding one more pain that he barely noticed because his entire body was throbbing so hard. Sam groaned but tried to push himself up. He couldn't just wait here. Dean needed help. Sam needed to get help.

He couldn't push himself up, though. He could barely even move.

There was a light shining above Dean's bed now, growing brighter and brighter by the second. Sam's eyes burned, and he turned away, tucking his head down against his chest and curling into the fetal position, hands still covering his ears, just waiting for it to be over.

Then, suddenly, it was.

The sound disappeared in an instant, there one second and gone the next. Sam pushed himself up – his body worked fine now, as if there had never been anything wrong with it – and looked around.

The room was destroyed. Broken glass was scattered across every inch of the floor, and after half a second of looking, Sam realized why. The lights had exploded – absolutely nothing remained of the bulbs. The window was shattered, though stray pieces of glass still clung to the frames.

But that wasn't all that was broken.

Every single machine was cracked to pieces.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, scrambling to his feet. The room was already flooding with nurses, and one of them grabbed Sam's arm, trying to stop him from running to the bed.

"Calm down," she said, tightening her grip on Sam and trying to push him toward the hall.

Sam shook himself free easily. He was used to breaking free from demons and monsters – a human nurse didn't give him any trouble. Instead of running to Dean, though, he spun to face her, grabbing her shoulders and practically shaking her. "Those machines," he said, his voice low and urgent. "He needs those machines. They're the only thing keeping him alive. You have to-"

Sam's voice cut off, and not because of the nurse's continued urges for him to calm himself. It was because – for the first time – Sam had gotten a look at Dean.

Dean's eyes were open. He was thrashing on the bed, choked by the tube shoved down his throat. The nurses were all surrounding him, half of them trying to disconnect him from the variety of machines, the rest of them trying to hold him in down. It wasn't working. Dean was fighting like crazy, shoving everyone away, throwing weak punches at anyone who tried to get close. Sam could see the terror in every move that Dean made. Dean had just woken up in a strange place, and he didn't know what was going on yet, and he was going into a panic, reacting defensively, trying to protect himself. But he was awake and alive and he was moving and he was even strong enough to fight.

"Dean," Sam said, letting go of the nurse and running to Dean's bed. Dean was still panicking, and didn't even respond to Sam calling his name. Sam quickly dropped to his knees beside Dean's head, reaching out to grab any part of Dean that he could reach and squeeze. "Dean, it's okay," he said, tightening his hand around Dean's upper arm. "You're in the hospital. They're trying to help you. Just stop fighting them, it's okay."

Dean stiffened, his head instantly turning to look at Sam. His eyes were wide. His breath was coming fast and erratic, and his entire body was rigid. Sam could still feel the terror radiating off his brother, but at least he was staying still.

One of the nurses got the tube out of Dean's throat. Dean gasped for breath, and the first word he said was, "Sammy!"

"It's okay," Sam repeated, squeezing Dean's arm again. "Don't try to say anything else yet, okay? Just let the nurses do their job, it'll be okay."

"Sir," a nurse said, touching Sam's shoulder. Sam ignored her, continuing to repeat assurances to Dean, who was watching Sam's face like it was a lifeline, and the only thing he had to hold onto.

"Sir," the nurse repeated. "You need to stay out in the hall."

Sam shook his head, not even bothering to look up at her. "I'm not leaving him."

"We're doing everything we can to help your brother," she said, and gave another tug on his shoulder, firmer this time. "But we need room to work. I'm sorry, all family has to wait outside."

Sam didn't want to go. Really didn't want to go, but after a second, he looked down at Dean. "I'll be right out there," he promised. "I'll be back the second that they let people in to see you, okay?" The nurse was still trying to urge him out, but Sam stayed where he was for another few seconds longer, watching Dean's face. Dean still looked dazed, and obviously still hadn't quite figured out where he was or what had happened, but he met Sam's eyes and managed to nod. Only then did Sam allow himself to be pulled from the room.

"What the hell is going on?" a voice demanded, and Sam looked up to see Dad rushing down the hall. He must have heard the noise, or sensed that there was a commotion going on.

"I don't know," Sam said truthfully. He didn't have a clue what had just happened, and he knew that that would worry him soon, make him panic about what could have caused this. But for now, though, there was only one thing he cared about.

"Dean's awake," Sam said, and despite everything, he couldn't help but smile. "Dean's awake. He's going to be okay."


"So, you're saying that there's no sign of any damage at all?" Sam asked, looking up at the doctor from his seat by Dean's bedside. "I mean, he's completely fine?"

The doctor nodded, though it was hard to tell how much she was really listening. She looked frazzled, like all of the hospital staff did. The whole afternoon had been a blur of activity – moving Dean to a new room, calling the police to try to investigate whatever had made the machines explode, even talk of evacuating the hospital until a cause was found. He could tell that it was getting to her, like her mind was on a million different things at once. Still, though, she must have heard his question, because she amended, "Or, it doesn't look as though there is any type of damage. We'll know more once we've gotten the chance to run some tests, but it appears as if Dean is in full health."

Dean nodded back, raising one hand and looking at it like he had never seen it before. "And you don't know what could've caused this?" he asked, his eyes flickering up to the nurse.

It was a trick question, and they both knew it. There was no way that Dean was actually expecting an answer. Even Sam didn't have a clue – there was no way that the doctor could figure it out, not unless she had some hidden history with the supernatural that they didn't know about. Sam doubted it.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then said, "No, we're not sure. I've never heard of anything like this." She shook her head ruefully, and for a split second, her professional persona slipped as she said, "Call it a miracle, or some angel watching over you. It makes as much sense as anything that we could come up with."

Dean nodded again, his gaze returning to his hand, stretching his fingers out wider as he examined them. "Thanks, doc," he said.

She left almost immediately after that. Sam figured she had to have a lot more work to be done, especially considering what had happened today. And after all, there was no sense worrying about a patient who was somehow completely healthy.

"So," Dean said, as soon as she was gone. "You have any ideas?"

Sam shrugged and spread his hands. "Pretty much what she said," he told Dean. "Call it a miracle."

Dean made a face. "No such thing."

Yeah, Sam had been expecting that reaction. And, well, he and Dean disagreed about the "God" thing, but he did know that there was probably a more likely explanation for whatever the hell had happened in that hospital room. He didn't know what, though. Couldn't even make a guess.

"Whatever this was, we're dealing with something we've never even heard of," Sam said. "Something strong enough to heal you from the brink of death. That's powerful stuff, man."

"Not just that," Dean said, and held out his hand to Sam. "Check this out." Sam looked at it, but didn't understand what Dean was getting at. Not until Dean used his left hand to point to a spot at the base of his pointer finger, and said, "I tried to teach you how to use Dad's blade when I was eleven, remember? Cut my finger wide open, had to get like half a dozen stitches."

Sam made a face. He remembered that now. The stitches had been administered by Dad, in the bathroom of the crappy motel room where they'd been staying that week, while Sam curled up in the bed and tried not to listen to Dad telling Dean not to cry. All in all, it wasn't one of his better memories.

He understood what Dean was getting at now, though. The skin of his hand was completely smooth, with no sign that the cut had ever been there to begin with.

"See that?" Dean asked, and dropped his hand. "Haven't gotten the chance to check yet, but I'd bet you anything that the rest of me is the same. All the hunting scars- gone. And it's honestly starting to freak me out, so one of us had better come up with a way to fucking figure this out."

Sam frowned, and shook his head. "I don't have a clue what could have caused this," he admitted. "Hell, I'm wishing that I even had an idea where to start looking."

"So do I."

The words came from the doorway this time, and Sam turned to see Dad standing there, frowning at Dean with a look that almost looked like concern.

Instantly, Sam stiffened, and had to remind himself of all the reasons why he had to keep his mouth shut – the same ones he'd recited to himself earlier, and they weren't working much better now than they had earlier. Dean didn't seem to notice, though, because he just said, "So you've never heard of anything like this, either?"

"No," Dad said, stepping into the room and settling down into the second chair, on the opposite side of the bed than Sam. "I've never come across anything even close. We'll look, though."

"When?" Sam asked. "After we've finished hunting Azazel, or do you think you'll manage to squeeze in some time to figure out what happened to your son before that?"

Dad narrowed his eyes. "Don't start," he said sharply.

Dean just glanced back and forth between the two of them, his face torn between confusion and the longsuffering look that he always wore when Sam and Dad had a fight. Just seeing that was enough to make Sam feel guilty. He knew that Dean absolutely hated the fighting, that it made him miserable in a way that absolutely nothing else did. And Sam knew that he should try to cut it out, for Dean's sake if nothing else. But he couldn't make himself stop.

This time, though, Dad apparently didn't want to take it that far. "Would you mind getting me some coffee?" he abruptly asked, turning to Sam with his obey-or-else face plastered on. "There's a station down the hall. I saw it when I was walking here. Just grab me something caffeinated, will you?"

Sam scowled. "Why?"

John scowled right back, but all he said was, "Just do it, Sam."

Dean cleared his throat. "It'll just take a minute, Sam," he said, and Sam could hear the unspoken message. It was obvious that Dean wanted Sam to just do it, to not make this into a big deal and not piss Dad off. And considering that Dean had been dying just a few hours earlier, Sam really didn't want to do anything to make his brother and more freaked out or upset than he already was. That was really the only reason why he stood and nodded.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, and hell, even he wasn't sure if it was a message to Dean or a warning to Dad. He took one last long look at the two of them, then turned and left the room.

The coffee machine was farther than Dad had said that it would be. Sam had to walk down a few different hallways, until a nurse finally pointed him toward a waiting room at the front of the ward. Sam scowled down at the cup as he watched the coffee pour into it. He was pretty damn sure that Dad had purposely lied about there being a machine just down the hall because he knew that it would get Sam out of the room easier. He probably hadn't even had a clue where the nearest machine was.

Sam wasn't going to say anything, because he was going to be the bigger person for Dean's sake and all that. But that didn't mean that he couldn't be pissed about it.

Even so, it couldn't be more than ten minutes before Sam made it back to the room, coffee in hand. And apparently that was more than enough time, because when he got there, Dad was gone, and Dean was lying back with his eyes closed, looking like he'd been sitting that way for a while now.

"Dad's done talking with you?" Sam asked, setting the coffee onto Dean's bedside table.

Dean opened his eyes and shuffled until he was sitting more upright, not quite so slumped against the pillows. "Yeah," he said, and reached over to snag the coffee off the table. He took one sip, then grimaced and set it back down. "Man, this hospital shit is nasty."

"Sorry," Sam said. "Could've gotten you some sugar or something." He actually would've, if he'd known that Dean would be the one drinking it. Dean just shrugged, and pushed the cup farther away.

"So," Sam said slowly, "what did Dad want to talk to you about?"

Dean stiffened, and shook his head. Which was pretty much exactly what Sam had expected, really. "Nothing," Dean said, then amended, "Nothing important. Said he was glad I wasn't dead, stuff like that."

Sam nodded slowly. That was also pretty typical. It wasn't like he had expected Dad to confess that he'd been planning on going after Azazel instead of saving Dean's life, and Sam didn't plan on saying it, either – he wasn't cruel enough to hurt Dean like that, especially not while they were still in the hospital with no clue what had just happened. Dean didn't need that shit right now.

Instead, Sam asked, "Did you talk at all about- you know, before the accident? With Azazel?"

Dad had brought that up with Sam already, but only to throw it in his face that Dean would be awake and healthy if Sam had just shot Azazel while he had the chance. As if Sam hadn't already been thinking that same thing. As if he could think about anything else.

He really didn't want to have to decide whether he should have murdered his dad to save his brother's life. At least now Dean was awake and alive, so Sam didn't have to worry anymore about whether he'd done the right thing.

Dean stiffened, and his face closed off even more, until Sam was sure that he wasn't going to say anything about what they'd talked about. And sure enough, when Dean spoke, his tone was guarded. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I mean, we talked about it a little. Dad still says you should have done it." Sam didn't have to ask if Dean agreed. One look at his brother was enough to make it clear that even just thinking about their Dad dying was tearing him up. "And he says that I should've realized that he was possessed a whole lot sooner. That one, he's right about."

"At least you figured it out before Azazel got the Colt," Sam pointed out quickly, before Dean could start feeling bad about all of this. "That's something, right?" Dean just shrugged, not looking convinced. And when Sam thought back on the Dean's words last night – He wouldn't be proud of me – he couldn't help but ask, "Did he say anything about how you figured it out?"

Dean probably didn't know that Sam had heard that part. And he knew that Dean thought that – Dad wasn't exactly the type to say stuff like that to anyone, but especially not to Dean. But that was another thing that he had better have made right, while he and Dean were talking. He'd better have told Dean that it wasn't true.

"He mentioned it," Dean said shortly, his voice clipped, obviously not inviting any more discussion of the subject.

Sam asked anyway, though. "And? Did he say anything more about it? Or, tell you anything else?"

Dean looked away.

"No," he said. "No, he didn't really say anything about it."


"Seriously?" Dean bitched a few hours later. "Can't we bust this place now? I'll walk right out of here like nothing's wrong. Nobody will even stop me!"

Sam shook his head. This was the dozenth time that Dean had said this, so by now, he really should know the answer. "Bobby's on his way down here," he said. "Just give it another couple hours for him to get here, then he can give us a ride back to his place." That's where they were going to head next, so that they could get to work rebuilding the Impala, and stay there while they tried to research whatever it was that had healed Dean.

"Besides," Sam added with a grin, "all of your clothes are in the trunk of the Impala, remember? You really want to go hitchhiking in a hospital gown? That thing doesn't even have a back, does it?"

Dean scowled. "Shut up," he said, and reached over to punch Sam in the shoulder. Then, "What kind of shape is my baby in, anyway?"

Sam hesitated. "It's pretty bad," he said carefully, "but I'm sure you'll be able to fix it."

Dean frowned, his anger transforming to worry instantly. "What-"

A nurse entered the room before Dean got the chance to say anything else.

"Yes?" Sam said, looking up at her. Then he immediately frowned, noticing the worry etched on her face, and the way that she was biting her lip. "Is something wrong?"

"It's your father," she said, and Sam had just long enough for a bolt of worry to run through him before she continued, "He's missing. He's not in his room, and nobody has seen him in hours."

Sam jumped to his feet, ready to hurry down to the room to see what was going on. Dean did the exact same thing. "You sure you're good to be out of bed?" Sam asked, because he knew that Dean would get pissed over that, especially since he'd already been getting antsy about having to stay in the hospital for so long. But, well, Sam couldn't help but worry. Dean had nearly died that morning, after all. Sam didn't think he was going to be getting over that one any time soon. "Maybe you should stay here."

"Fuck that," Dean said at once, reaching behind him to make sure that his gown was tied in the back. "You know I'm fine. And this is Dad. I gotta come."

Sam didn't argue after that.

The room was empty when they got there. The bed was unmade, but the chairs were still exactly where Sam had left them earlier, and nothing was broken. No signs of struggle at all. Which meant that wherever Dad had gone, he'd gone willingly. Dad was too good of a hunter to get taken by surprised and not be able to fight back at all. If he'd been attacked, they would be able to tell.

Sam checked the drawer of the bedside table, and the little cabinet in the corner meant for storing their things, just to be sure. They were all empty. Sam had known that they would be.

Wherever Dad had gone, he'd taken the Colt with him.

"You think he just went out somewhere?" Dean asked, glancing over at Sam. There was a strange tone in his voice, and it only took Sam a second to realize what it was. He sounded hopeful, like he was actually thinking that Sam would say yes, Dad just popped out to get some food, he'd be back in a little bit and the three of them could keep hunting together, just like he'd wanted.

Dean almost sounded like a kid on Christmas – or, specifically, he sounded exactly like he had back on that Christmas when Sam had first found out about Dad hunting monsters, and he'd kept insisting that Dad was going to show up for Christmas, even though Sam had known the whole time that it wouldn't happen, even when he'd gone along with it to keep Dean happy. Even then, he knew what to expect from Dad. It was the same thing that they could expect from him now.

Sam took another long look around the room, then slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he said softly, trying to break it to Dean easy, even though he knew that the volume wasn't going to make a difference. "No, Dean. I don't think Dad's coming back."