I do not own Supernatural. Or the CW. Or Sam and Dean. Or J2. You know, all the good stuff.

SPOILERS FOR ALL SEASONS, ESPECIALLY 8 AND BITS OF 9.

I've rewritten the first 5-6 chapters to match up with some of the changes I made to the story line later on. Please leave a review at the sound of the tone, thanks.

Love, Audrey

Sam sank further back into his chair in the ER waiting room, barely noticing the intensity of the seat's stiffness in his anxiety. His fingers beat out an intensely rapid rhythm that was quickly drowned out by similar percussion that filled the emergency waiting room.

Dean had to be okay. Breathe in. He would be okay. Breathe out.

The words became a meditation routine that quickly proved itself utterly useless, so Sam gave them up and studied the other worried faces that had been his company for the last hour or so. An anxious mother who had come in moments after he'd brought Dean in, pale and green with terror. Her daughter Emily had drunk nail polish. Susan, an older woman whose knitting needles had fallen silent forty five minutes ago as she stared off into space. Her husband had fallen asleep behind the wheel on his way home from work and was in surgery. A high school girlfriend named Della who kept muttering to herself that 'he didn't overdose, it's not possible' as she picked at her Nine Inch Nail tattoo, as if the ink would come off in pieces in her hand. She would occasionally lift her small, darkly painted eyes to gaze at Sam. Every time she did, he would just nod at her. Sometimes mouth that it would be okay. If only he believed his own silent promises.

A new man walked into the room, slowly sinking into the chair across from Sam's as if he was in a daze. Sam wondered what his story was.

Whatever disaster had forced this man to wait in agonized fear, Sam could almost guarantee that it wasn't the knowledge that his brother had just been ripped into by a couple of shape shifters. That was his and Dean's story uniquely. When he'd talked to the others in the room, they'd all politely returned his question.

What are you doing here?

My brother was attacked by someone.

That was a lie. Shifters weren't worthy of the title of "someones". They were things.

Sam winced as he shifted in his chair; his own injuries had been forgotten as he had worked in save-Dean mode, but now that he was simply sitting around, his body was reminding him that he had also been thrown into a tree, stabbed, and repeatedly punched and kicked by not one, but two shape shifters.

He brushed his hand over right leg, biting back a moan. Della looked at him curiously, but he covered the bloody hole in his jeans and smiled at her.

The wound was pretty deep; he was fortunate that the blade had missed the artery. He would definitely need stitches. Maybe he should go get a nurse and ask them to do it while he waited.

He was starting stand when a doctor walked into the room, obviously searching for someone.

"Jeanie Martin?"

Emily's mother stood up quickly. "Is she?"
"She's in recovery." the doctor smiled warmly. "She wants to see you."

Jeanie rushed out of the room, and the doctor turned back towards the rows of chairs.

"Sam Porter?"

Sam finished standing, leaning to the left to avoid putting too much weight on his injury.

"Mr. Porter. I'm Doctor Lewis." the doctor smiled and extended his hand. Sam quickly wiped the blood on his hand on his jeans before extending his own.

"How's my brother?"

"Still in surgery. A couple of his wounds were pretty deep, and they believe there's some bleeding in his liver. I came out here because one of the nurses informed me that she thought you were injured as well. I apologize that it wasn't addressed immediately; I would like to offer to personally tend to you at once."

The gears in Sam's brain shifted quickly. "Um, sure."

"Can you walk?" Lewis queried. He reached out a hand to steady Sam's elbow, the movement causing his tall blonde spikes to bob unceremoniously. As Sam shifted his weight, the doctor extended his other hand and pressed it firmly against Sam's back. "You're good, I've got you."

"I've got it." Sam replied quickly. Already, the doctor's level of concern and attention was making him a little uncomfortable. However, when he took a step forward, the leg gave out under him, and he barely avoided the embarrassment of hitting the floor butt-first by grabbing the wall for support. Susan gave a little gasp, clucking her tongue sympathetically. Della squeaked and stood up, her toothpick legs moving towards Sam, but she was blocked by Lewis' broad back.

"Here, sit down. We'll grab a wheelchair for you." Lewis crooned to Sam.

"That's really not..." Sam began.

Della was sitting down uncertainly, and Susan had gone back to her knitting...sort of.

"Forbes General Hospital places the well being of our patients in top priority." the other man recited.

"No, really. I'm fine..."

Lewis gently but firmly pushed Sam down into the chair. "Sir, I am attempting to avoid a hailstorm of lawsuits and possible insurance issues that you could rain on us by not letting me take care of you. Sit."

Sam shut up and sat.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a small room, biting his lip to avoid exclaiming in pain as Dr. Lewis dug the suture needle into his thigh again. The pain of the severed nerves and muscle was dimming the pain of the shoulder that the doctor had just relocated moments earlier.

"This is pretty deep." Lewis said. "You're going to have a pretty decent scar. Won't that be nice?"

Sam was silent. If he talked, his voice was going to crack like a junior high boy.

"I'll finish this up quickly; your brother will be out of surgery soon." Lewis continued. "It's just the two of you, then? You and your brother. You're hunters, right? That sounds like quite an exciting life."

Sam smiled a little. Dean always disagreed with the idea to fill out paperwork with such a big piece of truth, but Sam always argued that it was more moral. A truth that was actually a lie no one would ever see through. Of course, that wasn't how he'd convinced Dean that it was okay. He said it could be like an inside joke, when in reality it just seemed like one less like to tell. One less blot on their tarnished record.

Sam smiled. "Yes sir. Like our dad before us."

And there it was again.
"Must be a lonely life. I mean, you have a brother, sure, but it must be hard to keep friends. Besides a few dead deer." he grinned at his own joke. "And I hear they aren't too talkative...the deer."

A lonely life. Hard to keep friends.

This man had no idea.

He realized Lewis was waiting for an answer, and frantically tried to recall what the question had been.

"Yeah, it's pretty lonely. We really only have each other."

"You must really love what you do, to sacrifice a social life like that."

Rude.

Lewis continued. "I was wondering though, is there any one else? Anyone at all? We were hoping for an additional emergency contact, since it seems likely that putting you as Dean's contact would be, I don't know...redundant."

Sam tried to process whether or not this claim was even logical. "Uh...no." he decided. "There's just us. Our parents both passed, and we don't really have any extended family. Uh...or friends." he decided to humor the doctor for a moment. "Unless you want a dead deer's contact info."

"No, that's alright." Lewis laughed.

Sam resisted the urge to shove the man away from him as the doctor finished bandaging his leg. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the level of flirtatious interrogation and the uncomfortably long periods of the doctor touching his leg over the bandage.

Sam tried to indicate his discomfort by clearing his throat and pulling away his leg, fully ready to do something more drastic if he needed to. Fortunately, the doctor seemed to get the drift and finished the bandage with a little more speed.

"Ok, I'm going to put you on a drip IV with some antibiotics for a little bit. You have no listed allergies of medication. Is that information correct?"

Sam nodded. Soon he was lying on his back, lazily watching a clear liquid fall in big drops, running down to the tube in his arm.

"Okay, while you're getting all disinfected there, I'm going to write a prescription for some ointment for your leg. And I'll grab a sling...you should keep that arm immobile for a while."

"Thanks."

At last, his creeper doctor was gone. Sam shuddered. He needed a decontamination shower. Maybe two.

The thoughts in his head whirled around him. Breathe in. Dean's okay. Breathe out. He's going to be okay.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Kidnapped. That was Sam's first thought when he woke up. He was on an uncomfortable bed, he hurt all over, and the room smelled oddly of antiseptic.

He'd fallen asleep. Or been drugged.

Drugged. Definitely.

Lewis.

He wasn't kidnapped.

He had fallen asleep after getting stitched up. And there was the iv pole to prove it. Here were the stitches.

Dean.

Sam moved to sit up, but a weight pressed against his chest, restraining him. He lifted his hands to push whatever it was away, but his hands wouldn't move either. He was bound to the table.

His first instinct must have been right. But how?

He shouted, straining to free himself, and then he saw her.

Bony. Red head. Small.

The girl jumped as he called to her, begging her for help.

"He's awake...have to tell him." She stared at Sam, her skin almost as pasty and thin as the white nurse's uniform she was wearing. Her nails raked in mouse-like frenzy over the back of her hand, decorating it in thin, nervous scratches that bled darkly.

"I'm so sorry." she whispered, reaching out and gingerly brushing her hand against his. Her breath was cold. Smelled like a funeral home. Flowers, death. Sickness.

She was a sick flower.

Sam didn't know as he stared into her eyes. His brain was a word fog. Thick.

Turning, the girl scampered out of the room, her knotted ginger locks flopping behind her.

Her bloody fingernails left funny lines on the back of his hand. Streaks.

Sam cried for her to come back, but there was no response. Panicked, he fought against his restraints again, his injured leg and shoulder protesting the movement.

Lewis.

The creeper doctor walked in. No. He strutted in. Like something from a parade. Proud. Majestic. Terrifying.

The mouse-flower-sick-thing trailed him, her head bowed, her eyes darting back and forth as she breathed heavily.

Lewis' blonde hair bobbed again as he spoke. "Good thing I knocked you out when I did. I got the feeling that you were figuring me out. You know...figured out that I'm a little off my rocker." He walked around Sam, tiptoeing his fingers over Sam's head, shoulders, hips.

"I've never like that analogy, you know. I think my ass is planted firmly in my rocker." he monologued." You know what I think the difference is?" he pulled a syringe out of a drawer and filled it with a liquid from a small bottle. "I'm in my rocker, but my rocker is no longer on the porch. It's off in the woods somewhere. Lovely out here in the woods, you know? Quiet, solitary, but full of strange wonders that are enough to make you lose your mind. A strange wonder...like you, Sam."

Sam tried to process what he was hearing. "I'm still in the hospital. You're going to get caught." he challenged.

"You're not in the hospital." Lewis paused and reconsidered. "Well, you are. But not the hospital you fell asleep in. This one's abandoned. It's another one of those strange wonders. Something no one bothered with when it was damaged in a storm. This is my...evil lair. Or something. Family business. I just perfected it."

"Who are you?" Sam demanded.

"I know you, Sam Winchester. The question you should be asking is what am I?"

So, monster.

"Is my brother okay?"

Lewis looked at him funny. "Dean? I didn't touch him. He'll be panicked when he finds you're gone. Of course. But beyond that...do you think I'm a real doctor? I don't know if he's going to survive that surgery or not. I must say, my brothers did some impressive damage to both of you."

"You're a shape shifter." Sam growled.

"Duh." Lewis laughed.

"What do you want from me?" his captive demanded.

Leering, Lewis leaned in until Sam could feel his breath on his skin.

"Everything." the shape shifter hissed.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Dean woke up to blissful numbness and disturbing silence.

Actually, it wasn't so much silence as it was the noticeable absence of one Sasquatch-moose brother. Dean laid still for a few more moments, slowly letting the anesthesia wear off as he studied the odd water stain on the ceiling. After concluding that it was shaped like Texas -and when weren't these stains shaped like Texas?- he hit the nurse call button beside him and waited.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Porter?" the nurse asked cheerfully.

Dean wasn't too groggy to recognize intense hotness when he saw it. Gorgeous brown hair, perfect body, sexy, intense eyes.

"All the better for seeing you." he smiled.

She giggled. "Well, thanks. Let's check your vitals and make sure that your body agrees with your brain."

He grinned at her. "Hey..." he groped for a name.

She supplied it for him. "Chelsea."

"Chelsea, you wouldn't happen to know if my brother knows I'm awake?"

"I'll let him know as soon as I finish checking you out...I mean your vitals." she blushed.

Dean winked at her. "I wouldn't mind if you were checking me out." he watched her lazily as she took his blood pressure. "It's just that he's usually around when I wake up. He's got a pretty anxious form of bedside manner."

"That makes it sound like you're in the hospital a lot." Chelsea commented.

"We're accident prone." Dean covered.

"Apparently." Her face took on a somber expression. "The guy who did this to you...could you see his face? Did you know him?"

"No." Dean answered. "But he was a two-faced dirty scoundrel." he added emphatically.

She tossed her hair. "I don't understand how some people are. What makes a person do that?"

"They're just evil." Dean shrugged.

Shaking her head, Chelsea sank into the chair, chewing on her nails. "I don't believe that. People react and mold to their circumstances. No one's really evil."

Dean sighed. "I wish that was true. I've been around enough to know that some people are just jerks. A lot of people, actually. No amount of bunnies and charity events is gonna change that."

"What have you seen? What do you mean?"

Dean shook his head. "Dark stuff. My job runs me...ran me...into a lot of nasty stuff." he corrected himself quickly

"Did you serve?"

He went for the lie. "Marines. Just like my dad."

"Well, thank you for your service."

He smiled and nodded at her, then winced.

"Chelsea, would it be too much to ask to see if I can get some more happy juice?"

Chelsea smiled. "I'll go ask the doctor if you can have more morphine, Dean."

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean leaned back as she left the room. Maybe he could get this one's phone number.

He couldn't wait to see Sam, poor kid must be worried sick when here he was, perfectly alright.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"What do you mean, he's not here?" Dean demanded.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Porter, but when I asked the receptionist, she said that one of our doctors gave him treatment for minor injuries, and then he signed himself out and left about two hours ago."

"No, no, something's wrong. Sam wouldn't just leave me."

"I'm sorry." Dean's doctor repeated. I don't know what to tell you. I'll check the security footage, but don't you think if he'd been forced to leave, or had been acting strangely, someone would have noticed?"

"I don't know which morons saw what, but I know my brother. He wouldn't leave me."

Chelsea approached from behind the doctor and gently touched Dean's arm. "Dean, is it possible he had a reason to leave? Did he have somewhere to be? Or maybe he's mad at you? Did you guys fight or something?"

"NO." Dean said vehemently.

"I'll ask the people in the waiting room and a couple of the nurses if they saw anything." she reassured. "We'll find him."

"Thank you."

"You better not be thinking about getting up and looking for him." the doctor warned.

"I'll stay put as long as you guys stinkin' do your job." he growled. "Find Sammy."

The burning pain in his side flared up, hating him for the exertion he'd just put on it. He told it to shut up through gritted teeth; he hadn't even gotten out of bed. He was exhausted, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to really rest until Sammy was there, safe.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Sam's eyes watered as the girl stuck the needle into his arm and emptied the contents into it.

"What's going on?" he whispered hoarsely.

She didn't answer.

Sam tried another tactic. "Who are you?"
She licked her cracked lips. "Victim."

"Of what? What does he do to you?"

One of her tears hit his forehead.

"Shhh." she whispered back. "Shhh."

Her red hair blurred into her face as the sedative did its work.

Then he woke up.

He couldn't see. Red flooded his vision, accompanied by hot whit light that flashed like firecrackers behind his eyes.

Pain.

He didn't hear his own scream until it echoed off the walls and bounced back into his ears.

And he was alone. The girl was gone. And he was icy cold.

Sam moved cautiously, whimpering as he inched his arms around his torso to create some sort of warmth. He almost wished that he could be tied to that hospital cot again instead of tossed here. His body heat was leaking away into the yellowy urine-scented cement floor that made his eyes and mouth water at its metallic rottenness.

Something was very wrong. Wrong beyond the fact that he'd been kidnapped by a psychopath. He remembered getting stabbed in the leg.

He didn't remember getting a hole in his gut.

Trembling, he looked down, crying out as he saw the blood splattering his right side.

Was he bleeding out?

The wound was almost unbearably agonizing as he reached down to lift the stained gown that barely covered any of his oversized body.

Blood was lazily leaking from his side, in between the stitches that were too far apart. He wondered if the girl had tried to sew him up.

But what was the wound from?

He moaned, wiping the slick red substance on his fingers against a bit of the gown. He would kill for a big dose of morphine. He needed a blanket, though. Maybe more than morphine. Definitely more. How was he so cold?

He was trembling so badly that it was jogging the injury. He would never stop bleeding at this rate.