Fragments

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me - I'm just playing with the characters, I promise to give them back :)

Spoiler: Season 2, it takes places before "The Usual Suspects"

Summary: Four years separated - what will you do, when you have no other choice then facing your past? Will you tell your brother, what really happened back then?

Here it comes: a huge THANK YOU - to Lykaia for translating "Bruchstücke" into "Fragments". She did a great job - is still doing - and I am so happy that she found me and my stories :) *hugs*. We're both not native speakers, so forgive us any mistakes ;)

-s-s-s-

Last but not least some words for a very special person. A person I don't want to miss: Leila - thank you so much, Sweety. You saved the story - you are always listening, when I'm bitching about it. You believed in me - that means a lot to me and this is why this story is now dedicated to you.

Part 1

It took two attempts for Dean to open the door to the hospital room and cast a look onto the sleeping figure between the pillows.

Scratches marred the entire right side of Sam's face and the scabbed welts made him look even paler. The cast on his right forearm went up to his elbow, the other hand was resting on the blanket, wrapped in a bandage that held the IV needle in place. The too long, brown hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

For almost five hours, Dean had been waiting in front of the OR, worrying, hoping and praying. He wasn't sure if God would even want to hear anything of him after the amount of insult he had been heaping upon Him in recent years.

Slowly, he approached his little brother. They had been damn lucky.

It had been an accident – a stupid, little accident.

Sam and him had checked on an old, decrepit house, which was rumored to be haunted by a vengeful spirit. Dean gave a dry laugh. That spirit had been all but vengeful, it merely wanted to pass a message on before moving on to another, hopefully better place.

Dean had never thought them to be invincible. It had been a long time since he had been that foolish, however he never expected things to turn out that bad.

Their prey had appeared behind Sam and the younger Winchester had whirled around at Dean's warning – and stepped right on a loose floorboard which sent him flying backwards down the rotting staircase. If he had just tumbled down the stairs, Same would have been able to catch his fall or roll off. However, the brittle boards that had served as steps had given way under his weight, causing him crash into the hard-packed clay floor after 10 feet of almost free fall.

Concussion, scratches, contusions … countless bruises, compact fracture of the forearm and three broken ribs, one of which had pierced Sam's lung.

How could someone fall so badly?

Quietly, the older Winchester pulled up a chair next to the bed, keeping his eyes fixed to the gray linoleum of the floor, while running his fingers through his hair.

Just a few minutes later, and Sam wouldn't be lying here.

He'd almost lost him.

Dean tried to take a deep breath, lifted his head and carefully put a hand on Sam's shoulder. One of the few places, he dared to touch without hurting him. He just couldn't bring himself to look at his younger brother – instead, his gaze roamed the all too familiar room.

The walls were painted in just the same white as any hospital walls, the nightstands were a little discolored, curtains kept the bright sunlight out of the room. A framed art print hung on the wall across the room – the hands from Michelangelo's "Creation of Adam". Dean knew every single detail, every single nuance of it by heart. Two small closets, a table and two chairs completed the room.

He turned back to Sam with a sigh and brushed his hair off his warm forehead. "What the hell are you doin', man ...," he whispered, his voice lost in the beeping of the monitors.

He didn't need to ask what those lines and numbers meant. He wished, he would have to, to know how Sam was doing, however the answers already had formed in his mind unbidden. His vital functions were okay.

That damn spirit … friggin' hunt. Angrily, Dean bit his lower lip.

"Mr. Winchester?" a surprised voice asked from the door. Dean sat up with a start.

"Yeah?" he replied without thinking or giving the person a second glance. Why the hell had he been as stupid as to give his real name?

Wait.

Something was totally off here.

Dean's heart sank another notch. He searched through his pockets hastily and pull out the fake insurance card. Sanderson. Dean and Sam Sanderson, the embossed printing spelled out in bright letters on multicolored background.

The other man cleared his throat and Dean slowly lifted his head. Dammit.

"I didn't expect to meet you again, Dean."

The dark hair was a little longer and the lines around the blue eyes had grown deeper in the last four and a half years, but the face had remained the same.

"Dr. Connor," Dean stated, his shoulders sagged, his hand on Sam's shoulder tightened its grip slightly.

The doctor nodded and approached the other side of the bed silently to examine Sam briefly. Meanwhile, Dean tried desperately to come up with an explanation for his presence when he had been declared dead for a while now. If the police got wind of this, he would have to get the hell out of here – and he could not and would not leave Sam behind like this.

Dr. Connor interrupted the silence. "Sam's surgery went well. He'll trigger the metal detectors at airports from now on, but I don't think that will be an issue."

As much as Dean tried, he couldn't bring himself to smile. Not even the corners of his mouth twitched. Another doctor already had explained about all of this, when his little brother had been brought into ICU.

Dr. Connor's tone became serious when he realized that the younger man wouldn't react to his joke. "Dean, trust me. Your brother is young and fit. I don't doubt that he'll make a full recovery."

Dean nodded, though still worried. "When will he wake up?"

"He should start to regain consciousness over the course of the afternoon. If anything changes, please don't hesitate to call someone." Dr. Connor looked down at Sam, checking on him a last time, before turning towards the door. There he stopped, apparently unsure as to what to say.

"Look. I can understand if you would like him to be transferred to another r...," he started, but was cut off by Dean: "Won't be necessary."

"Dean."

"'s been a long time, Dr. Connor," Dean replied with his protective walls raised to avoid his emotions getting the better of him.

The dark haired doctor raised a hand in defense. "As you want, Mr. Winchester."

"Sanderson," corrected Dean soundlessly.

Dr. Connor raised an eyebrow in a way that rivaled Sam. "I assume you don't want your real name mentioned, then?"

Dean rubbed his neck and briefly shook his head.

"And you won't tell me why?"

Another shake of his head.

"Then, Mr. Sanderson, it's nice to meet you," Dr. Connor finished. He caught the whispered 'thanks' as he left the room.

Dean knew that the doctor could lose his job protecting him. He had no idea why he did it in first place. It had been an accident that ended them up in this hospital that he had been avoiding like the plague ever since he had left it more than four years ago.

With eyes closed, he slumped back in his chair.

"Sammy?" he asked, cutting through the silence to keep the beeping out of his mind. He didn't expect an answer. "Next time, you won't get out unless sandwiched between two mattresses."