Sam wasn't entirely sure what woke him up. He registered two prominent sensations at once—sunlight streaking right along the horizon and into his face, and the puffy yet sharp pain overtaking his right cheek and eye. "Ugnnnn…"

His good eye opened blearily to find himself in a clean, white room. Fluffy pillows surrounded him, contained by molded plastic guardrails. A hospital. Damnit, he was in a hospital! However, the pain was starting to blur out his concentration, so he fumbled for the nurse button he knew would be close. After a minute or so, an attractive young woman slipped in.

"Pain," rasped Sam, waving a hand in the direction of his throbbing face. Why could he only see out of one eye?

The nurse nodded. "I'll be right back with something," she whispered.

"An' what time is it?"

"About 7:15 in the morning. You've only been here overnight." She waited a moment to see if he had any more questions, then left.

Sam rolled his head to the other side of the pillow. Semi-cracked blinds were responsible for the intrusive light, though already the angle of the sun had shifted to a less harsh angle through the strips of plastic. And to either side, like half-melted gargoyles, Dean and Bobby slumped in chairs, both deep asleep. So that's why the chick had been so quiet.

The nurse crept back in with a syringe. "This'll work faster than pills." She swabbed Sam's elbow with a cold alcohol pad, and injected the liquid relief. Sam's tense body relaxed almost immediately. The pain drained out of his face.

"Thanks."

"Sure thing. Ring if you need anything else."

The nurse left again. Sam felt his consciousness slipping, but this time it was soothing, not distracting. He vaguely recalled that being in a hospital was bad for a couple different reasons. Not that he was bothered by them right now. It just felt good to sleep…

When he was next aware, the room felt distinctly emptier. This time, his one-eyed vision behaved when he asked it to. His head felt less out of sorts in general, too.

Dean and Bobby were gone.

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, or as close to one as he could in a reclined bed. Lingering effects of the morphine dose made themselves known as soon as he started moving. He took stock of his position; no IV or any other hookup was a good sign. The fact that he was hungry was another nod in the right direction. Moving slowly and carefully, Sam tried getting out of bed.

If not for his distinctive surroundings, he might have thought this was the tail end of a wild bender. He could see, walk…just not entirely straight. He still wore his clothes from the previous day, although his feet were now bare. But he made it to the bathroom without serious incident, and there, he could assess the rest of the situation.

The sight of the bandages and bruising (thus the impediment with his right eye) shocked him even as the memories flooded back. Lucifer had been pushing him to try to shoot himself. Sam remembered the panic of finding out how little control he had. The hopelessness at getting rid of the visions, of their overall situation. And then he'd heard the voice—it was Dean's voice, but Sam couldn't seem to find him—he felt like he lost control of his body. Falling. Pain. Everything going black.

He studied the wicked line down the right side of his face. What was visible, anyway. Had he actually tried to do it? What must Dean have thought, barging in on such a scene? Dean wouldn't have been able to see or hear Lucifer. He wouldn't know the whole context. What he saw was Sam about to do the unthinkable…

A door opened and closed. "Sam? Sammy?"

"In here," he called hoarsely. The sudden noise had made him jump, throwing his head into a dizzy spell. The sink held him up. Dean busted through the not-quite-shut door.

"What the hell, dude? You can't just get up and disappear like that!" With more strength than Sam was able to fight, Dean pulled him back to the hospital bed. Bobby stood by the chairs, soot-covered, holding a bag and two large coffees.

Sam let out a huff as he was plunked on the mattress. "Geez, I'm banged up, not dying."

"Well, I can't be too careful these days," grumped Dean. Sam realized the deep circles under his brother's eyes. "For all I knew, Lucifer had you out ghost driving the car again, puttin' all kinds of shit in your head."

"Dean, I'm sorry…"

"Sorry's not going to cut it this time, Sammy. I need you to explain what's going on with that cracked egg of yours."

My head…? Sam's head was really starting to bother him. Every facial movement hurt. "Dean, I don't know how to explain it. I thought I was with you! He completely took me for a ride, man! I don't know what to about that—I can't predict it, I can't control it, damnit it's getting too hard!" Unexpected, angry tears welled up, tried to squeeze out of his swollen, gauze-covered eye. The healing gash in his face started to sting.

Whatever Dean expected, this wasn't it. Both he and Bobby just stared for a minute.

"He said…he said it stops when I can't take it anymore. What am I supposed to do?" The words were so broken and pleading. "W-What am I supposed to do?"

Something finally cracked in Dean's shell of confusion and indignation. His little brother sat there, half his face padded in bandages. Sam was exposed, raw, and terrified. And right. What were you supposed to do when the enemy was in your head? So Dean did what he always did, protect. He sat on the bed and cradled Sam like they were nine and five again. This was just another nightmare. Dean would find a way to make it better.

"It's okay, Sammy…it's okay…we'll end this, but not with weapons, alright?"

Uninjured cheek buried in Dean's flannel, Sam nodded. A soft knock sounded at the door. After a moment, Bobby's doctor friend entered.

"Janelle said there was shouting in here; everything okay?" Gentle brown eyes surveyed the odd little scene. Bobby was the first to find his voice.

"Yeah, I think so. We were sorting out a few things about last night," he explained gruffly. "And beggin' yer professional pardon, he shouldn't be any more trouble. We really should be getting scarce."

She cracked a sad smile. "You hunters are always trouble, one way or another. But I don't pretend to understand everything you do. I just know someone has to do it. Take care of each other. I'll be back with the discharge paperwork."

"Thanks," croaked Dean. He still held Sam as if the younger man was about to break into pieces. Silence reigned in the wake of all the turbulence. Then the doctor's pager went off. She read it, apparently had to re-read it, and her expression darkened.

"The front desk received a call—police at Sioux Falls General. Said they have an attack victim claiming to have seen the perpetrators heading for our facility, three men, one of them hurt. They want us to hold all patients and visitors until they can get here…I know I probably shouldn't ask, but what did you get into?"

"Aww, hell," cursed Bobby. "You get them back on the phone, tell them the only people matching that description left ten minutes ago in a classic black car. We'll lay a false trail so they don't come bustin' in here. These are some nasty sons of bitches."

The doctor flinched slightly at the swearing. "You sure you'll be okay? Sam's not exactly ready for a fight—"

"He's gonna be heading in the opposite direction. I'll drive the Impala, and Dean'll take Sam in my car."

"Hey, nobody's using my baby as a decoy—" Dean started. Bobby cuffed him around the ears.

"We don't have much of a choice, idjit. These things mean business, and if we're going to get ahead of them, we gotta buy time. Don't worry, I'll stow 'er somewhere safe. They're more interested in you, anyways, so I doubt they'll touch 'er if she's empty."

"He's right," chimed the doctor. "Between whatever the situation is and Sam's condition, your lives aren't worth keeping a car, no matter how special it is." She hurried to make that phone call.

Dean had to restrain himself inwardly to not chew the both of them out for blaspheming the Impala. Beside him, Sam winced and held his head against all the added noise. They were right, of course. The leviathans were more than enough trouble when everyone was at full capacity. Sam didn't need the stress or the physical rigors of hunting and fighting. "Fine. We'll get what we need out of the trunk and bail. But I don't have to like it."

Bobby rolled his eyes, getting a glass of water for Sam in order to keep himself from railing back. The younger Winchester accepted the drink gratefully. He seemed a little less tense. After a long awkward silence, Bobby moved toward the door.

"I'm gonna go ahead and start transferring equipment out of the Impala. Don't lose your head again, I parked in a way so as not to broadcast our possessions to the world. You get Sam ready to roll."

Sam watched their surrogate uncle/father stride out, and returned to not quite making eye contact with Dean. "Hey, listen…thanks. Thanks for finding me."

"It's my job," scoffed Dean.

"Dean, I'm 28. I've screwed up so many times, in so many crucial ways, I wouldn't blame anyone for not wanting anything to do with me, if not worse. I spend a lot of time wondering if it would be so bad to let something kill me off for good."

Dean's gaze was steady, practical. "You're my brother, Sam. Always have been, always will be. How can I claim that unless I'm willing to do anything and more to save your ass?"

Sam tried to smile with only the left side of his face. The result was comical, but honest.

"We'll get through this, just like anything else this crummy universe has thrown at us."

Forty minutes later, they were headed out to Bobby's old Chevelle. Bobby himself had gone with the Impala about ten minutes earlier. The plan was for him to lay a trail to look like they went for the woods close to the salvage yard, and Sheriff Mills would pick him up for 'trespassing,' if anyone saw him emerge. She would then get him to the car Dean had left at the warehouse.

Meanwhile, the Winchesters would make for the rendezvous point—an old cabin of Rufus' near the border with Montana. It was complicated, but no more risky than any other action they might take. They weren't dealing with any ordinary creature. The more lost they could get, the better.

"Head hangin' in there, Sam?" Dean asked as he put the key in the ignition. Sam still had patches of gauze on his face, and he was a little woozy from the last dose of morphine they had given him. He clutched prescription med slips in his right hand.

"Yeah, I'm good. No Lucifer, no Hell, no pain as long as I don't move my face."

"Good. Maybe I'll make it a couple hours without you nagging me like an old lady."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

They couldn't help smiling, however, pulling out onto the open road. The day was sunny but not too hot. They had a full tank of gas, a twelve-pack of beer on the back seat, and each other. Screw the leviathans. Screw the chaos of the supernatural civil war. Screw everything but what mattered most at this moment. They could take it on.