He didn't hear from Castiel the next day. He didn't need to. The murder of a corporate CEO with alleged mob ties was all over the news. He listened at first, then decided not to. He was slightly nauseous with fear, and he was drinking pretty heavily, which didn't help his stomach.

He speculated whether Castiel was telling the other demons that he knew exactly who'd killed Mr. Vincent, a human with demonic weapons conveniently located in San Bernardino. And at that, demons weren't his main concern. The police were examining every inch of the crime scene, every frame of security video. One slip on his part –

Time for another drink.

In the early evening he decided he really ought to eat something, put together a sandwich, felt better. He watched a couple of stupid sitcoms on TV, had a couple more drinks, and passed out on the bed.

When he woke up, Castiel was looking down at him.

"Yo," Dean said without moving.

Castiel looked at the almost-empty whiskey bottle on the floor by the bed. "I attribute your heavy drinking to the fact that I didn't follow up with you yesterday."

"Not really." Dean sat up slowly, giving his organs time to shift into place. His head hurt. "I figured you'd be busy yesterday. Demons freaking out and all of them asking you what to do."

"A fairly accurate description."

Dean put one foot on the floor, the other on the bottle. He nudged it out of the way. "I know what our deal was, and I'm not a welsher. Normally." He looked up at the demon's impassive face. "I'm not a killer, Castiel. It's not just that I don't want to. I don't think I can. Find anything else for me to do – break into the White House, steal the Crown Jewels, whatever, I'm up for it. But I literally don't think that I can do any more killing."

"Perhaps you will feel differently when I tell you that I have your brother in a devil's trap."

"Probably I will, but I still don't – "

His back straightened, his eyes went wide, he tipped up his face again. "Is that what you're telling me?"

"He is in an empty Sucro building in an office park in Riverside."

That was when Dean learned that, for him at least, adrenaline was the world's greatest hangover cure. He leaped to his feet, almost knocking Castiel over, threw back the spread and reached under the bed for the bag containing his exorcism supplies. As he straightened, he felt a sinking sensation, though. "Better grab a sandwich. And a bottle of water. Don't want to get shaky."

"A good idea."

He checked the supplies in the bag, grabbed two bottles of water. Then, as he was about to put mustard on cold cuts and bread, he stopped, the bottle upside-down in the air.

He was about to drive out to an isolated location with a demon.

He didn't want to believe this was a trap. He wanted to believe that Sam was a couple of hours away from being released from a nightmare.

But looked at from Castiel's point of view – what could be sweeter? Vincent gone, the Loyalists starting to fight with each other, and then here comes Castiel to kill the scumbag who murdered their great leader. Gratitude and glory and guess who's in charge now.

He finished the sandwich, dropped it in a paper bag. Then he went back to the bed, pulled the angel-bullet gun out from underneath the pillow, fished out two bullets from the little container and replaced the ones that had been shot. He put the gun in his waistband, put his jacket on to cover it. He'd never got around to taking off his ankle holster before passing out last night, and now he was glad. Castiel watched him the whole time.

He threw the water bottles in with the sandwich and grabbed the exorcism bag. "Who's drivin'?"

"We both are. Hannah is guarding the site in Riverside. I will lead you to a shopping center a mile away where you can park while I go ahead. I'll dismiss Hannah and then phone you with directions."

"Let's go."

His mind roiled with terror and hope all the way to Riverside. He tried to eat, but couldn't, although he knew he should.

Eventually Castiel drove his black Acura into the parking lot of a strip mall with a big grocery store. When Dean parked, Castiel drove out of the parking lot.

Dean put the angel-bullet gun on the seat next to him and threw his jacket over it. He tried chewing on the sandwich some more, swallowing some water. He pulled the exorcism ritual from the bag and read it over, his head darting around every few seconds to see if a threat was approaching, to listen for his phone.

.

The Acura pulled up in front of a plain metal door marked "Sucro," and Hannah slipped out, closing the door with a shaking hand. She leaned on the railing three steps up from the driveway as if she needed support.

Castiel didn't seem surprised, merely asking, "All is well?"

She nodded jerkily. "Andrealphus is safely contained. Castiel – did he have anything to do – to do with Mr. Vincent?"

"I don't believe so. His self-indulgent tendencies were known well before this, and everyone who knows him agrees that Andrealphus was never clever enough to arrange an attack like this." He raised an eyebrow. "If he did have anything to do with it, the interrogators will find out after his exorcism."

Hannah shifted her gaze. No one liked to talk about the infernal torturers. "Hex is – hysterical," she said. "He is certain that Edward arranged it so that he can take over. He's threatening violence in way that will surely draw human attention."

"I talked to him yesterday, and thought I had persuaded him to wait until we can prove something. Then, just before he left, he told me that he doesn't work for me, he worked for Mr. Vincent, and he now considers himself a – 'free agent.'"

All shakiness left Hannah. Her face grew cold with rage and her eyes went black. "He has never understood genuine leadership. You are a real leader, and you outrank him. How can he dare to talk to you like that?"

"Thank you, Hannah. I consider myself more of an adviser to leaders, but at certain times, Hex will say anything to anyone, and this is definitely one of those times. The exorcist is on his way, so you should take cover. I'll see you back at the house."

She nodded, went down the steps, got into her car, and drove off.

Castiel opened the door and took a look at the exhausted looking being slumped in a chair to which he was bound. There were devil's traps scorched into both the ceiling above him and the floor below him. Then Castiel closed the door, remaining outside, and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket.

Dean answered before the first ring was over. "Yeah?"

"Take Magnolia Avenue south for six blocks. . ."

.

After all of this: After six months of training and terror, torturing information from demons with holy water and devil's traps; after six months of living on the road, isolated, leaps of hope when he thought he'd found Sam and plunges of despair when he hadn't, stealing money from drug dealers to buy information from demons; after all of this, it came down to fifteen minutes, some Latin, and some holy water.

Dean pulled the gun off of the car seat and carried it in his hand when he got to the Sucro building, looping the exorcism bag over his shoulder. He met Castiel's gaze steadily as he went up the three steps to the door. "Go on ahead."

Castiel merely raised his eyebrows and went in. As the door started swinging shut behind him, Dean caught it and slammed it open with this right arm, carrying the gun in his left.

First: No trap. Second: Sam.

Dean damn near dropped the gun, rushing over to him.

"Don't," Castiel said sharply as Dean put a foot by the devil's trap.

He didn't think he'd have crossed the line, but maybe Castiel had a point. Dean hovered at the scorched border, looking at a version of his brother dressed in tight black pants and a red shirt open at the throat, revealing two gold chains. His hair was even longer than usual, lank with recent sweat. There was a bleeding cut on his cheek and the shirt was torn from when he'd been tied into a chair by demons and pushed into the devil's trap. The long poles with clamps on the end that had been used to push the chair were lying nearby.

Sam raised his head as Castiel spoke, then focused on Dean. His eyes were pleading. "Dean! It's you. You found me."

"Careful," Castiel said.

Dean nodded over his shoulder. "I know. I've done this before."

He put the gun in the back of his waistband and began opening the bag. "Sam, whether that's you talking or not, hang in there. I'm gonna get that thing out of you."

Sam's mouth gaped in a smile that bared his teeth, and his eyes went black. "Too late. Sam's dead. He died last week. You're a few days too late."

It gave Dean only one emotional moment. "If that's true, then I'm even happier doing this."

"I'm leaving now," Castiel said, "but I'll be back when I sense that Andrealphus is gone. For what it's worth, I can sense Sam's presence in there."

"Thanks," Dean said in a businesslike tone, not taking his eyes off of Sam. "See you on the flip side."

Castiel left. Dean threw a dash of holy water from one of two large bottles at Sam, and he screamed.

Andrealphus fought being exorcised ferociously, bellowing, threatening, lifting the chair up a few inches and slamming it to the ground. The back of Sam's head bounced on the floor and Dean flinched, but kept going.

"Dean, please." It was Sam's voice gasping. "Please, Dean, don't do this. You'll kill me, Dean. The demon doesn't care, but you'll kill me. Please stop."

Only then did Dean pause. "Bull. 'Cause I know Sam. And he'd rather be dead than have you inside him one more minute. Benedictus deus. Gloria patri."

Sam screamed again as a volcanic cloud of putrid black smoke jetted out of his mouth, sheeted down the invisible curved walls of the devil's trap, and disappeared by the time it hit the floor.

Dean leaped into the circle and knelt. "Sam! Sam! Talk to me!"

Sam's eyes opened wide, with a terrified expression. His jaw trembled. "Cold."

"OK," Dean said in both relief and desperation. "OK, you're cold, we can fix that."

He tipped the chair back up on its legs, pulled a pocketknife out of his jeans pocket, and cut the duct tape that bound Sam's arms to the chair. Sam seemed to collapse in on himself as Dean freed his legs. "Cold."

"OK." Dean grabbed his shoulders, sat him a little more upright, and began rubbing his hands vigorously up and down Sam's arms. "What else is going on? Do you hurt anywhere?"

Sam seemed to focus on him. "Dean," he said with a smile.

"That's me, buddy. I've been looking for you."

Sam began crying. "He said you were dead."

"He was a damn liar," Dean said, although "damn" may not have been the actual word he used. "And he's gone now. Back to Hell where he belongs. Wait."

He pulled himself away long enough to dig down into the exorcism bag for a chain with a pendant. By the time he turned around, Sam was doubled over. "Sit up just a little, Sam. Let me just put this over your head. That'll keep that from happening again. We'll get that tattooed on you, it'll never happen again. Never."

Sam looked up, his eyes still streaming with tears. "I did – I did things – "

"No you didn't. Andrealphus did."

"My hands. My teeth."

"But not your will. Remember that."

"Never be warm again."

"Yes, you will. Damn, I left my jacket in the car. Sam, can you – "

"I believe," Castiel said, and Dean jumped, "that this is more a psychological or spiritual reaction than physical. The isolation from – " he closed his eyes, drew a breath – "human or spiritual connection." He winced a little. "Hard for humans to bear."

Dean, rubbing Sam's arms again, focused on Castiel. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing." He pulled off his trench coat and handed it to Dean. "Not so much the coat, as the act of you giving it to him, will reaffirm that he is again in a realm of warmth, where beings care."

"Thanks, man." Dean didn't have time to be startled. He turned to drape the coat over Sam's shoulders and back. "I do care about you, Sam. Lots of people do. You're gonna be – "

Castiel cried out and collapsed. Dean shot an astonished look back and forth between his shivering brother and the demon on his hands and knees. "Dude, what the hell?"

Castiel looked at him, his face seeming paralyzed, his eyes flickering from human to black and back again. You'd think that'd be cool, Dean thought later, but it was just kind of revolting.

Castiel made it to his feet. He said coldly, "You still owe me the rest of our deal. I'll call you." Then he was across the room by the door, flung the door open, and left like he was escaping.

"Guess he can't go through walls," Dean mumbled, and looked back at Sam.

"Cold," Sam said, shivering.

Then one corner of his mouth lifted, the tiniest smile, but recognizably Sam's. "Sorry. Keep saying that."

"That's OK. You can keep saying it all you want. It's just great to hear you say anything. Try rubbing your chest. Man, we gotta get rid of that shirt. Get you some jeans, some real shirts – "

"One or two." Sam was earnest. "Don't think I'll live that long."

Fear shot through Dean. "Bull. You're gonna live a good long time. I didn't spend six months looking for you to lose you now."

"Six months? It's been six months?"

Dean nodded, and Sam shook his head in wonderment. "Felt like sixty years."

Dean sighed, rubbing Sam's arms, and Sam took a breath. "Shoulda known. You're not old."

"Still older than you, Sammy. I've got the Impala right outside. Remember the Impala?"

Sam nodded, with the smile of a toddler anticipating something.

"Think you can stand up?"

He was shaky, and he had to lean on Dean, but they made it out to the car.

.

"I would remind you, Hex," Castiel said, "that we are at war."

Hex, who had just slammed his fist into the wall of Castiel's quietly elegant home office, turned with a disgusted look. He was in a large meatsuit, with a forehead overhanging his eyes and a jaw jutting out beneath his lips. "Don't condescend to me. Consigliere." He said the word with contempt. "I've fought battles with Terrestrial scum while you were sitting in your mansion playing adviser."

"No condescension was meant," Castiel said calmly. The cooler he remained in the face of Hex's rage and disrespect, the more out of control Hex got, and Castiel knew that. "I just wonder why you don't think that one of our enemies killed Mr. Vincent. It would be the logical conclusion."

"They put 'Traitor to the Morning Star' on the wall. Would a Terrestrial do that?"

Castiel looked thoughtful, and Hex answered himself. "No. They'd put 'Earth Is For Enjoyment' or 'No Loyalist Dictator' or 'If You Like Hell, Go Back There' or one of their other blasphemous slogans. 'Traitor to the Morning Star' is a deliberate attempt to slander Mr. Vincent to his fellow Loyalists. And you know who did it."

"We don't – " Castiel began, and Hex barreled on, "Edward always resented it that Mr. Vincent assumed the capo's meatsuit, while he himself was just the heir apparent. And he's not just the heir now, is he? He's taken over Mr. Vincent's mantle. And he thinks he'll keep it? Not for long, he won't."

He stormed toward the door and Castiel called, "Just hold off until I've spoken to Edward. I'll find out – "

"This is no time for words." Hex flung the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

Castiel looked at the fist-sized hole in the wall and smiled, just a little.

.

"It's really important." Dean was at the apartment in San Bernardino, talking to Sam, who sat crouched on an unmade sofa bed, hands around his knees, staring at the floor.

Sam shook his head. "People die in hospitals."

"Not you. We're just going to check and see if you got a concussion yesterday, when you cracked your head on the floor."

Sam looked up at Dean. "What if there's a demon?"

"There won't be. Even if there is, you just keep that pendant in your pocket. They won't take off your pants for a head X-ray. That symbol is really effective protection. I've been dealing with demons for six months, they never even tried to possess me. I've got it tattooed on me."

Sam's voice was quiet. "I want a tattoo too."

"OK. OK, that's progress, Sam. Yesterday you wouldn't leave the apartment for anything. But I really want to make sure you haven't got a slow bleed or something first, OK? Then we'll get you a good permanent tattoo. You'll never have to be afraid – "

There was a knock on the door. Both Winchesters froze.

"Demon." Sam's eyes were wide, his voice almost soundless.

"Or cops," Dean said quietly, then yelled, "Who is it?"

"Castiel."

Dean started for the door; stopped; pulled the devil's trap gun out of his ankle holster and held it down by his side as he opened the door with his left hand. "Hey," he said in greeting, looking over Castiel's shoulder into the hall.

"I'm alone. May I come in?"

"Yeah." Dean stood aside, putting the gun in his waistband. "No offense."

"None taken. We can't be trusted. l came to tell you your assignment for tonight. I don't trust telephones for these communications."

"Tonight?" Dean said in disbelief, but Castiel was distracted by Sam, who suddenly stood and turned. He picked Castiel's neatly folded coat up from a chair and took two steps, extending it to him.

"Thank you," Sam said. "I kept it on all night. It helped the cold a lot."

Castiel looked a little startled. "You're welcome." He closed his eyes, swallowed. "I only gave it to you – the only reason – "

He began doubling over. Sam's long arms shot out, dropping the coat and grabbing Castiel's shoulders. "You're hurt." He looked with anxiety at Dean. "He's hurt."

"Seems like it." Dean's voice sounded grim. "Castiel, you and me are going to step out in the hall. Sam, we won't leave you, we'll be right outside the door. Tell you what, look up hospitals and tattoo parlors near here. We'll be right back in."

Sam nodded, then scooped the coat off the floor and gave it to Dean. "Tell him to put this on. Maybe it can help him too."

Castiel leaned against the wall in the hallway as Dean shut the door. "OK, you're going to tell me what's going on with these attacks."

"It is of no import."

"The hell you say. Look, if I'm going to go running around the demon-Mafia underworld, I need someone at my back who isn't flat on the floor. What's the deal?"

"It is a side effect of associating with humans. It's why we avoid it, unless we're victimizing them."

"Just being around humans knocks you down, unless you knock us down first?"

Castiel took his coat from Dean and put it on, and it did seem to help. He straightened and looked at Dean with his usual impassive expression. "Do you know about the origin of demons?"

"Aren't they fallen angels?"

"Only a few. The vast majority of us used to be humans, human souls."

"You're kidding."

"When a human soul goes to Hell, it is tortured remorselessly. In ways – in ways you can imagine, and in ways you cannot." Castiel was shifting his gaze. "We don't talk about it. You are reminded constantly of how much time has passed, and what a small fraction of time that is, compared to the eternity you will be tortured. Time moves differently in Hell – ten years there is only about a month here."

Dean nodded. "Andrealphus must've carried some of that feeling with him. Right after he was exorcised, Sam felt like he was in his late 80s."

"Indeed. Well, as you can imagine, a human soul breaks down quickly under that treatment. Particularly given the fact that souls who end up in Hell tend to be self-involved and spiritually weak to begin with. Eventually nothing is left of that soul but hatred, rage, and fear. It becomes demonic. It is then assigned to a lowly position in Hell, sent to Earth to make war on humans, or – " he shrugged – "kept by the torturers because it amuses them."

"OK – but – man – that's – "

"Don't worry." Castiel's eyes were slightly amused. "It is a very small percentage of humanity that goes to Hell. The worst of the worst, and weaklings who sold their souls. The rest of you – I don't know exactly what happens, if there is further correction or, or education – but it's not in Hell."

"OK. Don't be Mengele, don't sell my soul. Got it. But what does this have to do with you acting like you've been sucker-punched?"

Castiel took a breath. "If we associate with humans, in a non-predatory way, we begin to remember what it was like. What it was like to care, to have someone care about us. That, the sensation of that loss – we experience that as pain. It's like an extension of the torture."

"So there's no escape? Even on Earth?"

"There are three methods of escaping Hell's influence that I know of, but we won't discuss impossibilities. I shouldn't even be telling you this." Castiel sighed a little. "I was always weak. The torturers probably released me to Earth too soon. I seem to have developed a – fondness, a loyalty, for my fellow Terrestrialist demons. Edward said something the other day about how much he wanted to wipe out Terrestrials, and I felt a twinge of concern for them. I had to tell Mr. Vincent that I was thinking hard about something else. And if I can feel that way about demons, imagine what it's like being around humans who are as full of warmth, of altruism, as you and your brother." He shook his head. "Very weak."

"Or very strong. Even Hell couldn't break down all your humanity."

"Don't ever let anyone hear you say that. We need to discuss your next assignment."

"We do. But it's not going to be tonight. You saw Sam in there, he's like a scared six-year-old. I can't leave him alone. And, you know, that's an improvement. Last night he just shivered until he fell asleep, then he'd sleep for an hour and wake up screaming. And that's another reason I can't do a job tonight, my nerves are shredded and I've had no real sleep. If I try to do anything involving fast reflexes, I'm dead. And my target's alive."

"I see the problem."

"One thing, though." Dean looked up and down the hall. "Sam told me about some of the things Andrealphus did. He couldn't go into details without throwing up, but I got the gist. And I think, when it comes to demons, I think I can be a killer."

"Good."

"Present company excepted."

"Thank you."

"I think I've got Sam persuaded to get to a hospital, I'm worried about the way Andrealphus slammed his head. Then if he can handle that much exposure to the outside world without freaking out, we'll get the anti-possession symbol tattoed on him. Tomorrow I've got to get him some new clothes – he's wearing mine, and it's not a good fit. I don't even know what to do with Andrealphus' clothes. I'd donate them, but I'm afraid that some poor homeless person might pick up some of the demonic spiritual residue."

"Quite right. Give them to me, I'll incinerate them. Do you require money for Sam's medical expenses, or the other things?" Castiel held up a hand. "I only ask because I want your mind clear and focused."

"Not because you care, right. You know – "

Dean's eyes widened suddenly, and he smiled. "No. I don't need money. I've got plenty of it, and I don't have to worry about saving it to pay demons for information anymore. I can spend it on Sam. Hell." He laughed breathlessly. "Once our little contract is done, Sam and I can maybe go back to living a normal life. I'd given up."

He focused on Cas. "I owe you. This isn't just, you did your part of the contract so I'll do mine. I owe you for saving Sam's life."

"Well. I'm glad you feel that way. Give me Andrealphus' clothes, I'll be on my way, and we'll meet tomorrow at three p.m. at the Methodist Church in Glendora."

Dean's mouth quirked. "You're kidding."

Cas looked rueful. "It will not be comfortable, but that's why it's a good meeting place. I usually meet my Terrestrialist contacts in places of worship, and it's difficult, but no Loyalist has ever happened in."

"And Glendora because it's about halfway between San Berdoo and Bel Air?"

"Exactly."

"OK. Wait a minute."

Dean ducked back into the apartment, leaving the door open. Sam looked up from Dean's laptop, his face pinched with anxiety. "I found a hospital and a tattoo parlor. But somebody killed some children in Missouri."

"Oh, man. Sorry I took you away from the NASA website. Go back to that, OK?"

"That won't help them. Or their parents or brothers and sisters."

"No. But there's nothing you can do, Sammy. Except, you know, I guess, pray. Pray for the kids and the survivors."

"And, I know. Pray to try and help people. I know a lot about evil now, and maybe I ask how I can use that to fight against evil and maybe save other children someday."

"Good man. Great idea. Then back to the NASA website. And tomorrow we'll get you some books. What do you feel like reading?"

Sam pondered for a moment, then broke into a shy hopeful smile. "Hardy Boys."

"Hardy Boys it is. Be right back, and we'll head for the hospital."

Dean grabbed a paper bag that was sitting on the floor by the door, stepped into the hall, and closed the door.

Castiel took the bag of Andrealphus' clothes and looked at it. It went up like flash paper, gold chains included, and Dean jumped back. A few black ashes floated to the floor.

"Holy – "

Castiel smiled. "I have a talent for fire."

"Apparently."

"Your brother has great spiritual strength. He must have given Andrealphus a great deal of trouble."

"I bet he did. Hey. The three ways that a demon can escape Hell's influence – what are they?"

"I've told you more than I should. Tomorrow, three p.m."

"Methodist Church in Glendora, right."

Castiel walked down the hall toward the staircase. Dean opened the door, but looked after him. He called, "I'm gonna keep asking, you know!"

As he closed the door behind him, Sam asked, "Who is he?"

Dean really didn't think that Sam was ready to learn that Dean had interrupted a life of crime to conspire with a demon. "He's a guy who knows a lot about demons. He tricked some demons into trapping Andrealphus, so I could do the exorcism."

"You like him."

"Well, yeah, Sammy, he saved your life."

"No, I mean – " Sam's smile looked mischievous – "you like him."

"I'm gonna wash up before we hit the hospital. You." Dean pointed at the laptop. "Look at your Mars pictures."

.

Edward Vincent ran into the emergency room entrance, screaming behind closed lips. He had no jacket or tie, his shirt was open, and blood was running down his chest. As a nurse and a security guard both leaped to their feet, Edward lunged over the nurse's counter, making panicked animal sounds behind his still-closed mouth, and grabbed feverishly for a letter opener.

The security guard grabbed his arms and pulled him back. The letter opener went flying and Edward waved his hand, slamming the guard into a wall as Hex ran in with a gun. The nurse dove under the desk.

Edward waved his hand at Hex. Hex merely staggered, but it gave Edward time enough to vault the counter and run through a door behind the desk. Hex swore and followed him. The nurse waited a moment and, hearing nothing else, emerged, stabbed a button for Security, then ran to the injured guard.

Thank God the operation had just begun. Edward slammed the OR doors open and ran toward the table. He was pulled away from it as Hex ran in and waved his hand, at the same time saying, "Oculi mortui caeci sunt."

Edward turned and waved his hand at Hex. In the moment that bought him, he wrenched the scalpel out of the surgeon's hand and stabbed himself in the mouth.

Hex shot. The bullet went straight through Edward and struck a nurse, who collapsed onto the patient's legs. People screamed and hit the floor, so none of them saw the orange light that flashed in Edward's eyes as he died.

The anesthesiologist threw himself over both patient and nurse. The surgeon turned with his hands up. "Please. We're doing a medical procedure here. None of us – "

"Take off the mask," Hex demanded.

The surgeon hesitated, then pulled it off. Even though the cap hid his full head of silver hair, Hex could see the surgeon's strong features and piercing gray eyes.

"You're a good-looking fellow, aren't you?" he said, and shot.

The surgeon slammed back against the operating table and crashed to the floor, bringing down a tray of instruments. The anesthesiologist stayed curled over the patient and nurse, his arms flung over his head, making sounds in his throat.

A security guard ran in, gun drawn. Hex shot first, and the guard dropped.

Hex's jaw gaped and a fast-moving black cloud roared out of his mouth, pouring itself down the throat of the surgeon, whose fine eyes were unseeing.

When the second and third security guards ran in, there were two dead bodies on the floor and one on the table; the anesthesiologist was desperately trying to stabilize the patient; the injured security guard was fighting to stay conscious; the others in the room were just pulling themselves off the floor; and the surgeon was nowhere to be found.