CHAPTER TWO

The room was quiet. So quiet, Dean could hear his own heart like the organ was beating inside his ears. Other than Sam's steadily shortening breath, Dean couldn't hear anything. The silence was excruciating. He couldn't believe that he had actually allowed this much silence voluntarily over the past few months. Dean started rocking back and forth, still cradling Sam in his lap.

Dean pulled his face away from Sam's hair while adjusting his position and watched spit and tears pull away with his lips. He turned a little every moment or so to check how much time had passed since he had made the call. Where were they? What if they don't ... get here in time?

Dean pressed his cheek against Sam's temple, "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't believe I let you slip through my fingers."

Sam suddenly gripped the front of Dean's baggy shirt surprisingly hard and tugged as his body convulsed again, his neck stretching back over Dean's arm. Dean heard Sam's mouth close so hard that his teeth clicked together.

"Sammy, please." Dean begged, holding Sam's hand to his chest. "Please, don't go like this. You know, I can't kick your ass without you having a fighting chance. How would that be fair, huh?"

Sam's body slowly relaxed and his fingers unclenched the front of Dean's shirt but he still held his little brother's large hand there. Dean felt his brother shaking in the aftermath of that convulsion.

"Do you hurt now?" asked Dean, feeling stupid asking what would likely be a rhetorical question.

Sam peaked open his eyes and shook his trembling chin once from side to side, his mouth gaping again. He sneezed and more blood started flowing down his nose.

"Yeah, that was real'convincing." said Dean, trying to smile down at him but it probably looked more similar to a grimace to Sam.

Dean heard heavy footfalls and the sound of wheels rolling down the hallway balcony. The siren of an ambulance was ringing all through the motel. The flashing blue and red lights were dancing on Dean and Sam. Dean looked through the shads and saw that the sun was beginning to peak over the buildings across the street. How long has this been going on? Dean had lost track of time despite checking the clock every passing minute.

"IN HERE!" Dean yelled so loudly that Sam flinched tiredly at the roar.

Dean had yelled so loudly that he felt pain in his throat. He tried to clear it as he held Sam even tighter as though he would be protecting the boy from the help he had called for. He listened to a maid fumble with the door lock and salvation burst through the door ... along with a gurney.

Sam's hand weakly closed on Dean's shirt and tugged his attention, which had never left, back to him, "Stay-with-me, please. No-matter-what ... happens."

"I will," said Dean quietly, his lips still close to Sam's ear. "I won't leave you."

A female medical technician dressed in dark blue scrubs knelt down beside Sam, "How is he doing?"

"You're the lady from the 9-1-1," said Dean stupidly, thinking he recognized the voice.

"That wasn't me, sweetheart." said the 9-1-1 lady. "We all sound the same on that phone. We're going to need you to step back."

Sam's grip, which had been slackening, tightened again on Dean's shirt. His mouth had shut with an audible snap again.

"Sammy, they're going to take good care of you." said Dean reassuringly, lifting Sam's torso up. "I'm gonna be right here -"

Sam's body convulsed again but weaker this time. While his body had been as rigid as a marble statue in the times before, now his entire body trembled in pain.

"He's seizing," said a male technician to the room at large.

"What's happening to him?" growled Dean as four other male technician's gently pried Sam off of Dean.

The medical technicians started babbling to each other, barking orders, and pushing Dean aside. Dean staggered to his feet as the four men, too easily, lifted Sam onto the gurney and began strapping him down just as Sam's muscles started to unclench themselves.

"My ... brother ... I," Sam groaned. "Dean."

Dean could see Sam struggling to keep his eyes open but he was so weak that they kept sliding down. He snaked through the crowd of nurses and doctors to Sam's side, entwining his fingers in that boney hand.

"Ready? Move-out!" said the '9-1-1 lady'.

Dean's hand was, a little roughly, pulled out of Sam's weak grasp as they started wheeling him out of the motel room. Dean stood numbly in the middle of the room, watching them maneuver their way through the narrow doorframe with their giant patient. He only left the room when they had all filed out. Careful to shut the door behind him, Dean patted down the hallway barefoot after the team of doctors trying to save his brother.

"He's unconscious," Dean heard one of the men say as they gingerly carried Sam on the gurney down the two flights of stairs to the parking-lot.

Dean said through gritted teeth, "No, Sammy. Come on, you promised!"

When they managed to lift Sam into the ambulance, the '9-1-1 lady' actually tried to tell Dean to follow them in his own car. Dean gave her a look that clearly conveyed I dare you to stop me.

Dean never once thought he was being dramatic. Although, many of the families waiting in the lobby at the emergency room would disagree. It must have been alarming how much Dean fought and swore at the doctors for keeping him and Sam apart. He had promised to stay by Sam's side. He hoped Sam wasn't scared ...

How strange was it that just a few hours ago he was trying his very best to forget about his brother. Now, Sam's the only thing on his mind. Dean stomped over to an empty chair between two families in the waiting area. They seemed to lean away from him but Dean didn't notice nor would he have cared. The look on Sam's face when Dean was refused to follow him into the emergency room would not leave Dean's mind's eye. You're a brave one, Sammy, Dean told him in his head, you can do this without me.

But, could Dean do this without Sam? He tried hard not to sway into thoughts of what would happen if Sam didn't make it through. Sam was so malnourished, covered in bruises and cuts ... Dean hit his knee with his fist in a burst of anger. This made the two families on either side of him hustle to the other side of the waiting room.

Dean thought of people that he'd have to notify. Who, other than Bobby or Cas, would he need to call? Maybe Ellen and Jo, too. They'd have a right to know. He wondered, if Sam died, if Lucifer would 'save' him.

Maybe that was another reason why Sam has stopped taking care of himself ... why he lost interest in exercising and, apparently, eating, for that matter. So, whenever this infection struck, Sam's immune system was close to defenseless. Dean pulled out his cell phone and stood up out of his seat for better reception. He clicked the second button on his phone (the first was a direct line to Sam).

The person he had wanted so badly to talk to didn't answer, "Hey, Bobby. Uh, it's Dean. Listen, Sammy's not doing so well. Like, I don't know if you'll see him ... I just think you should get a ride from Cas over here. I wish that I could ... just once, call you with good news -"

"Dean McCowski?" called a nurse with a clip board by the emergency doors.

Dean froze for a moment, his phone still pushed against his ear with a shaking hand. He hung up his phone and slid it back into an inside pocket of his jacket as he made his way to the nurse.

"How's my brother?" Dean asked immediately.

The nurse seemed too bored to get into specifics, "Our surgeon recommends that you commit Mr. Sam McCowski in for psychiatric evaluation."

Dean swallowed deeply and frowned down at the old woman, "The hell would the need that for ... ma'am?"

The lady sighed, "During the physical evaluation, Mr. Sam McCowski had a few self-inflicted wounds underneath his biceps and along his calves."

Dean couldn't believe what he was being told. Maybe they had the wrong Sam McCowski. He cringed at the stupid last name he had come up with on the spot and wondered for a second where the hell he had heard it. Sam had always been a moody brooder. But, Dean would never have pegged Sam for being suicidal.

Sure, their job border-lined on that topic but never intentionally.

"How the hell do they know that they were 'self-inflicted'?" Dean demanded, his eyes wide.

The lady leaned against the door, "The hesitation marks are usually indications of these types of things."

"I can take care of him," said Dean flatly. "When can I see him? Why is he so sick?"

The lady flipped the page on her big clipboard, "Mr. McCowski had contracted an infection in the fifth self-inflicted cut on his bicep. This infection is spreading quickly because he had cut close to a major artery."

"Uh, huh," said Dean, clicking his fingers, "What else?"

"He has a fever of a hundred and seven. This high of a temperature is causing him to go in and out of consciousness. It can also explain his seizure-like episodes. It's so high that at some points he seems to be confused, complaining of feeling cold -"

Now the lady was giving too many painful details.

"Is there something wrong with his heart?" Dean interrupted pointedly.

The lady raised her eyebrows, "I was just getting to that. His low body weight in combination with his infection proved too much for his system to handle. I'm sorry to have to tell you this ... but, your brother's heart stopped."

Dean felt himself go numb, "No ... no, no, no."

"He's on a ventilator and we're trying to rehydrate him," explained the lady further.

Dean's eyes widened, "So, he's not dead? Maybes you should state that first, lady!"

The nurse seemed quite offended, "He is in critical condition and is expected to be for a day or so. His heart only stopped for a short moment so there shouldn't be any damage -"

"Shouldn't?" Dean said exasperatedly.

"Our doctor said to tell you it's lucky he woke up when he did. Your brother could have easily slipped away in his sleep."

Dean gaped at her, his self-loathing mounting.

"When can I see Sam?" Dean asked quietly, feeling his heart rate start to slow down a notch.

The nurse looked at the third page on her clip board, "We also would like to warn you that this fever can cause permanent brain damage. Memory loss is usually the first thing."

"Sam's strong," said Dean darkly, "he'll pull through good as new."

The nurse actually grinned up at him, "I'm sorry. I've been here for two days straight."

Dean nodded, "I feel 'ya. But, try to smile more." He was about to return to his seat when he swung around again, "You still haven't answered my question."

The nurse nodded as she opened the door to return to the emergency room, "Our doctor will come to get you once Sam has a room. It's a busy day so I'd have a seat if I were you."

Dean hesitated outside the window looking in to Sam's recovery room. They had been apart for only three hours. But, Dean found himself still feeling disturbed by the sight of his brother. It was as though he had been subconsciously hoping that, once he saw Sam again, Sam would be back to the way he looked two months ago. Sam's hair was damp with sweat and he was breathing with too much effort.

At least he was no longer on the ventilator. Although, judging by how much of a struggle it was for him to breathe on his own, Dean thought they should hook him back up to it. He could see that they were still trying to rehydrate Sam with the IV drip. He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and he turned slowly so that he'd have time to rub his suddenly aching eyes.

"Mr. McCowski, you can go in now." said the nurse who had brought Dean to this room.

Dean glanced over his shoulder back at Sam, who was twitching in his sleep as though he were having a nightmare.

The nurse opened the door for Dean and said to him as he passed her, "Don't try to get him to talk. He lost his voice after puking."

Dean breathed in deeply to try to relax and nodded, "No problem. Any good news?"

The nurse glanced down at her clipboard, "He's fever has gone down some and there is no sign so far of permanent brain damage. But, Mr. McCowski, I must warn you that he's still in a critical state. We're trying to control the infection still so -"

"He can go either way," Dean finished the sentence for her.

The woman nodded, gave his bicep a squeeze, and walked away. Although Dean was surrounded in this crowded emergency clinic, he realized he had never felt so alone. He turned away from the door, shook his arms and cracked his neck. Then, he pushed the door open again. Dean felt so numb while walking over to Sam's bedside.

He had forgotten to make sure the door didn't slam so it was too late when he remembered. Sam flinched, turning away from the sound. Dean had frozen where he stood mid-step. He leaned a little forward to see if Sam had awoken. Sam's shivering chest, from either feeling cold or just sheer exhaustion, was still rising and falling slowly like he had fallen back asleep. Dean thought perhaps that were best.

Sam needed to build his strength back up. Dean picked up a stool when he found that dragging it would make too much noise and set it right beside the hospital bed that cradled his giant of a little brother.

Dean rubbed his face as though he could wipe away his own exhaustion, "You know, you had me going for a while, Sam. Did you really think I'd let you just slip away?"

He hadn't expected Sam to reply. But, it would have been nice to hear that deep voice again. Even if it were to yell at Dean for neglecting him, for not taking note of the symptoms, for not caring ... Dean knew he'd deserve it and he'd take it as strong as he could. But, he still felt that strange mix of guilt and vindication. He thought for a moment that if Sam had trusted him about what he was doing with Ruby, maybe he would have been able to save him sooner.

"Well, this is a load of crap we've dug our own graves in, huh, buddy?" Dean spoke to Sam's unconscious face; his eyes fell on the bandages wrapped around Sam's left bicep. "Why did you do this to yourself? Did you think of me? Like, even once? How would this affect everyone? If you want to forget about me, that's fine. But, what about Bobby? Or Cas, Ellen, or Jo? Do you really think I hate you so much I'd rather have you dead?"

Sam squirmed in his bed. Dean's hope to finally see Sam's mood ring eyes looking up at him was dashed with Sam's sleepy, and hoarse, groan.

"Well, you'd be wrong, Mr. McCowski." said Dean darkly, "You can't die. Not now, not ever. I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to go first."

Dean gave a shuddering sigh, gripped the metal bars gated around Sam's bed, and rested his head on the tops of his hands. After peeking over his forearm one more time to make sure Sam was asleep, Dean finally let his tears spill forth when he rested his head back down on his hands. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt clammy fingertips brush his knuckles. His head skyrocketed back up and he looked over at Sam.

"Sammy?" he exclaimed, his voice thick after sobbing like a pansy girl.

Sam's eyes were open and he was looking at Dean. His mouth was gaped open and he tried to talk but it was strangled by his wretched throat.

"Don't talk," said Dean, gripping Sam's clammy hand in his own. "Doctor's orders, man."

Sam nodded slowly and made to push himself upward. But, Dean hoped to his feet, smacking the seat of the stool on the linoleum floor. The sound made Sam flinch painfully and again when Dean placed his hands on Sam's shoulders to push him back down.

"Just rest, Sammy. Don't get up, dude." said Dean.

Sam shook his head and mouthed 'thirsty'. Dean searched wildly all around the room from where he was standing.

"Water, water, water, water. Okay, there's no water. Why is there no water?" Dean said rapidly to himself. "Hang on one second! Don't fall back asleep!"

Dean had no choice but to leave the room to find a nurse. Sam waited till Dean was gone to resume struggling to sit upright. He hissed when he managed to sit up on the bed. His head was throbbing on the left side so badly. Sam frowned when he noticed the IV inserted in the bend of his elbow, the clear tube now bent with the position he was in.

Sam felt his stomach give another agonizing churn. He felt so nauseated. He blamed it on the hospital smell, he blamed it on puking his guts out ... he blamed it on himself. Sam reached up his arm to press painfully on the cuts he had inflicted on himself and was surprised to feel damp fabric instead of a scab.

Sam flinched when the door swung open, letting in a flood of glaring light. His eyes were still foggy. But, he could distinguish Dean's hazy outline anyplace, anytime. He didn't recognize the short, dark blue blob following his older brother.

"Sam!" sighed Dean, "The hell are you doing? You lay back down!"

Sam squinted at them both and flinched when Dean placed his heavy hand on Sam's shoulder.

"It's alright, Mr. McCowski." said the nurse, bending down a little to press a button underneath Sam's bed.

Sam looked quizically up at Dean and mouthed 'McCowski'. Dean shrugged, inwardly shocked that he and Sam were sharing a joke for the first time in a long time. The top of the bed began to slowly rise up and Sam leaned against it once it was almost erect. He bunched the blankets up to his chest, noticing as he did so that he must be wearing a hospital gown.

The nurse placed a tray on Sam's lap with a bottle of water and a rather big container of a thick, dark substance.

"It's chocolate pudding," the nurse answered Dean's own quizical look. "It's extra-high in calories. Make sure he eats as much as possible. Getting back to a healthy weight will strengthen his immune system and then we can kick this infection fully in the ass."

Dean raised his eyebrows, impressed at the old woman's use of language, "Copy that."

The nurse patted Sam gently on his boney back and left them alone, closing the door carefully behind her. Dean noticed his stool lying on the ground and set it back upright to sit by Sam.

Dean patted his own stomach, giving Sam a goofy look, "Mmm, Sammy. That looks tasty. Too bad it's all yours."

Dean's heart swelled when he saw Sam's lips finally pull into a small smile. With trembling, big hands, Sam tried to unscrew his water bottle but was not even strong enough to do that. Or maybe his hands were too slick with sweat. Dean could hear the desperation and frustration in Sam's congested throat.

"Here, let me take care of that." said Dean as he took the bottle away from Sam and opened it for him.

Sam raised the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, dribbling his gown and blankets with water because his arms were still shaking. He coughed hoarsely and the bottle was just about to slip down from his grip but Dean caught it in time. To try to lessen Sam's humiliation as much as he could, Dean decided to open the pudding container on the pretense of dipping his finger inside to get a taste.

"It's good, man." lied Dean; it didn't taste that spectacular but at least it didn't taste like the dirt it resembled. "Wish I was the sick one this time."

That was true. As he watched Sam pick up the metal spoon, Dean wished he could do something to make up for this. He wished he was in Sam's place. Dean frowned sympathetically when, just as Sam was about to take a bite of the hospital's high-calorie pudding, the spoon wiggled its way out of Sam's grip and landed with little splat on Sam's blanketed lap.

Dean reached forward, "It's okay, man." he wiped the pudding off with Sam's napkin. "Let's try this."

Dean picked up Sam's spoon and the container of pudding. He scooped a tiny bit out and started to drive it towards Sam's mouth. Sam bit his lips closed, frowning at Dean.

"How else do you expect to eat?" Dean exclaimed with exasperation, "Let me help you this once. Don't be a bitch about it."

Sam tried to argue back but his voice sounded like a combination of rasping and nails on a chalkboard and gave him a short coughing fit. His throat was still too sore and damaged to defend what little of his dignity he had left. His shoulders sank and he rolled his bloodshot eyes, dropping his mouth open and closing his lips around the spoon when Dean got it in there. Sam was still so thin that even with a mouth full of fattening pudding his cheeks still looked hollow. As Dean neared the bottom of the large container, Sam's appetite grew quite alarmingly.

When there was no longer enough to scoop out, Sam sighed hoarsely which gave him another short coughing-fit. Without any other means of communicating, Sam pointed at his slightly distended stomach and at the recovery room's door in turn.

"You can't still be hungry after all that," said Dean, examining how deep the container was and grinning because of Sam for the first time in a long time. "You need to pace yourself, dude."

Sam let his head drop back onto his pillow. Dean hated that Sam was still breathing shallowly. He was still so weak.

"You know what, man? We passed a Golden Corral on the way over here. Let's go when they set you free," Dean then chuckled, "You'll be back to causing mini-earthquakes in no time."

Dean's smile faltered a little. The venomous sting of Sam's betrayal was still coursing through Dean's veins. But, he had come so close to losing Sam. Maybe this whole awful ordeal was unfortunately necessary to remind Dean of how much Sam meant to him. Lesson learned, Dean thought to himself.

He wasn't going to let this happen again. If that meant his heart would still hurt whenever he looked at his younger brother, so be it. Sam's eyelids started to droop. Dean knew Sam was fighting falling asleep. Maybe time will help rebuild their bond.

Dean made a silent promise to always be there to make sure Sam had a lifetime to make up for it.