Hi everyone! I intended to get this posted this morning before I left for the writing conference...but it didn't quite happen lol. I've had a long day of driving out of state, exploring, and enjoying a new place. Tomorrow is the beginning of the course I'm attending so I'm excited about that!

Happy reading!


Chapter 3

Sam thought the night would never end.

Hour after hour, the fever pressed in on him, sapping his strength until he could barely force his eyes open whenever Dean called his name. He tried to speak, tried to make Dean understand, but his mouth was so dry and he never quite was able to figure out what he needed to say. Drifting in and out of delirium, Sam found himself lost in dark, terrifying dreams where he was running but could never escape the thing chasing him.

The dreams weren't clear and he had no idea what was after him, but he knew he needed to run until he escaped and found whatever he was searching for.

Even though, whenever he was semi-awake, he remembered he was in a hospital because he'd been shot, the memory of how exactly that had happened and who had done the shooting was always hazy. Dean talked to him off and on and it helped him know what was real. It helped keep him calm when he wanted to fight off the heat that blanketed him and the memory of hands pressing down over his face.

Breathing hurt and there were times when he found himself short of breath and struggling not to panic. Dean was always there to reassure him until he could calm down. Every time, Dean reminded him to take slower breaths and focus on breathing through his nose.

Sam had no idea when the fever had broken. He only knew there had finally come a moment when he had gone from feeling too hot to feeling too cold. He hadn't been able to get his eyes open, but he'd heard Dean's voice and it had lulled him into the first dreamless sleep of the night.

Now he was awake and staring at the room, feeling groggy, headachy and exhausted. The pain in his side wasn't intolerable, but he knew once he had to move it would be. And he wanted to move. A quick peek around the room, blurry as it might have been, showed him that Dean was nowhere to be seen. Which was fine. Actually, it was better than fine because it meant Dean had finally felt comfortable enough to leave him alone for a half-second. Hopefully it meant he'd gone for food. There was brightness around the closed curtains so Sam guessed it was morning.

He wanted to get up and going, but found that he wasn't even able to move his arms without hurting. Everywhere. And as if the simple movement had awakened the pain, Sam closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He pressed one hand against the bandages and told himself he'd had worse. Which he had. Of course, it didn't make this hurt any less now.

Once he'd breathed through the initial shock of pain, Sam opened his eyes again and searched for the controls on the bed. He knew better than to attempt to sit up without assistance. The head of the bed was already slightly elevated, but he hit the button to get it a little higher. Once he had, he put both hands against the bandages and, again, tried to breathe through the pain.

He regained control and had settled as comfortably as he could a couple minutes before Dean walked into the room. He had a coffee cup in his hand, hadn't shaved, looked like he hadn't slept in a month but was smiling like he'd won the lottery as he said, "Mornin' sunshine."

Sam shot him a glare. His brother was too cheerful for this early in the morning.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean said, still smiling and seeming far too amused. He sat down in the chair next to the bed and went on, "I think I got a right to be happy this morning."

Knowing what he meant, Sam didn't comment. Because he was pretty happy himself that Dean was alive and sitting there drinking what had to be his third coffee judging by the way his hands were slightly trembling and his bloodshot eyes were just a little too wide.

And suddenly, Sam's dreams made a little more sense. He'd been running through his dreams - and through the woods in reality - to get to the thing he needed most.

His brother.

When he'd realized Corbin was a werewolf and he'd awakened on the cabin floor, completely confused as to what had happened, his next thought had been that he needed to get to Dean and warn him. He'd assumed Dean would have taken the couple to safety, or at least was attempting to, and the thought that Corbin might have killed his unsuspecting brother had provided enough motivation to keep him moving. The rest of the harried journey, he'd focused on that thought every time he'd wanted to give up and just lay there in his own blood. Hearing Dean's voice when he'd called as he'd reached the Impala and finally found cell signal had been the best thing Sam had ever heard.

"Sam?" Dean's voice drew him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, feeling a dangerous tickle in his throat. He was suddenly terrified he was going to start coughing.

Dean must have sensed it or read the fear in his eyes, because the coffee cup was on the bedside table in a heartbeat and Dean was offering him a spoonful of ice. Sam allowed it because he was that desperate to get something on his throat. Once the initial danger passed and he could breathe easier, Sam dragged a hand away from his stomach and held it out for the cup. Dean stuck the spoon into the cup and handed it over, sitting back down in the chair.

Sam held the cup against his chest because his hands were too unsteady to dare do anything different. He wanted more ice, but wasn't ready yet to let up the pressure he had against his stomach with his other hand. So, for the moment, he just savored the coolness of the first spoonful and hoped for the best.

Dean studied him for a long moment, took a sip of his coffee and settled back in the chair. "You look a little better this morning."

Sam didn't think he would agree if he looked in a mirror based on how bad he felt, but then again, he hadn't seen how bad he'd looked earlier and he had definitely felt worse before. "I feel a little better."

"Yeah?"

Sam nodded.

Dean smiled again."Good. It was another rough night."

"Time is it?"

"Close to six."

Sam frowned, trying to look at the clock, but it was too blurry. A watch was suddenly in front of his face and he could make out the numbers after a few seconds of blinking.

Close to six.

Dean pulled his arm back and sat down again. "You've been sleeping since around four. You remember anything from last night?"

"It was hot," Sam answered, the very thought driving him to take the chance on moving his arms and holding the cup of ice with his left hand while trying to get his right hand to cooperate and scoop out some ice.

"Yeah. Cuz you were running a fever of 104," Dean said dryly, but there was no disguising the undercurrent of worry.

Sam didn't reply because he was too busy trying not to spill ice all over himself. Just as he was getting frustrated, familiar hands were pushing his away and taking the cup back. Since he was already thirsty and now had several pieces of ice all over the blanket, Sam let Dean take it.

"You just gotta wake up a bit more," Dean said, offering him the spoon again, "then you'll be fine."

The ice helped ease the dryness in his mouth and Dean's words helped ease the embarrassment of needing help for such a trivial task. Dean pushed the bedside table around until it was conveniently at Sam's right side, and set the cup of ice where he could get to it without needing to stretch. Then, Dean settled back into the chair where, Sam knew, he'd spent most of the night sitting.

"You ok?" Sam asked, voice still grating and painful, but at least he could speak without coughing. He waited for Dean's glib reply, but it didn't come.

Instead, Dean sighed. "Now I am. I wasn't. But I am now."

Sam smiled a little. "Yeah me too."

"It was another very long night." Dean yawned and rubbed his eyes then took another drink of coffee. "I thought you were gonna combust. You weren't breathing right and, I dunno what your problem was, but you went nuts when they tried to put the oxygen mask on."

There was a really good reason he'd gone nuts, but Sam was loathe to explain it to his brother. Dean was not going to take it well when he found out Corbin had suffocated him.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, eyes narrowed in a way that told Sam he wasn't going to be able to avoid this discussion.

"What?"

"Don't what me." Dean shook his head, leaning forward. "You got something you wanna tell me?"

"No."

"Something you're gonna tell me?"

"Dean-"

"Don't. Just don't." Dean's tone was cold, angry. "Don't lie to me right now."

Sam knew his brother wasn't angry with him. Just scared and pissed and stressed. And probably angry. At himself. And Corbin. And a lot of other things. The problem was, if Sam told him the truth, Dean was going to be a whole lot angrier.

"Ok, but you gotta remember, I'm fine," Sam said, knowing he was already screwing everything up.

Dean's eyes widened and the coffee cup hit the bedside table. Hard. His jaw clenched a couple times, then Dean said, "Tell me now."

So much for finding a way to soften the blow. Sam sighed and figured he might as well throw it all out and hope the hospital would still be standing after Dean's inevitable explosion. He told Dean about Corbin's "solution" to the problem of his inconvenient injury. It was survival. It was madness and panic and fear and insanity all wrapped up into one big, terrifying mistake. Corbin had done it for Michelle. Because he loved her and was afraid for her.

Sam watched as Dean's face went from pale to grey. He'd tried to paint as favorable a picture as he could, while also reassuring his brother that, hey, I'm still alive so it's all good!

Dean didn't look reassured.

He didn't explode the way Sam had expected. Instead, he reached out with a shaking hand and hit the call button. Sam frowned and asked why.

"Because I need to talk to your doctor," Dean said, voice low and shaky. "He needs to know about this."

Sam disagreed, but kept his mouth shut and suffered through the next round of what he felt were unnecessary questions and tests. If he'd suffered any permanent damage, he probably wouldn't be around to talk about it, but he didn't bother to point that out either. In this case, Sam knew the best, the easiest, the kindest, thing he could do for his brother was to allow the doctor to do whatever he felt was necessary.

Dean sat rigid in the chair the entire time, breathing heavily, bloodshot eyes monitoring every single move the doctor made. Twenty-five minutes later, Sam was deemed no worse than before and the doctor left them with a medical-miracle explanation of how he'd survived. From the way his brother looked, Sam wasn't sure it had made Dean feel any better. If anything, he seemed more troubled and Sam could easily guess it was because now Dean was beating himself up for not having checked more carefully to see if his brother was dead or not.

Feeling wrung out and more than a little emotionally over-wrought, Sam closed his eyes. He didn't know how to help his brother deal with the situation and, quite frankly, he was too tired to try. After a couple silent minutes, Sam forced his eyes open again. Dean's elbows were braced on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in front of his mouth as if he were saying a prayer and he was staring at Sam like he thought he was going to vanish if he blinked.

Sam met his gaze, then reached over and clasped Dean's arm. Immediately, Dean lowered his arm and returned the grip, just below Sam's elbow. It was easy to drift to sleep knowing his brother was right there next to him and not going anywhere.

When Sam woke up an hour later, Dean was still right next to him. He was watching something on TV although the sound was off. It took less than a minute before Dean glanced at him.

"Hey, sleeping beauty awakens."

Sam smiled, but didn't feel up to bothering with a mouthy retort. He assessed his brother while his brother assessed him. Dean looked terrible, but he seemed a little better than earlier.

He returned the smile and said, "The nurses are starting to make their rounds. You're due for vitals and breakfast and a walk around the block."

Even a groan seemed like too much work. Sam figured his expression was conveying exactly how he felt about all of that when Dean's smile widened a bit. He shook his head and said, "I know, princess, this whole spend the day in bed and be waited on hand and foot thing is pretty sweet, but don't get used to it."

Sam yawned and said, "I don't want to get used to it. I want to leave."

"Yeah, well, you're not going anywhere till the doctor says you can." Dean shook his head. "So don't even think about pushing anything cuz you will lose. Small steps and we take 'em one at a time. Depending on how you do today, maybe we'll get outta here tomorrow."

"Good." Sam nodded. He wanted to leave, but he wasn't looking forward to the fact they had a long trip back to the bunker.

"We'll hole up someplace, Sammy," Dean said, apparently sensing his thoughts. "Not gonna make you sit in the car for a twenty hour drive."

"It's fine-"

"No. It's not." And the steel in Dean's voice wasn't even as convincing to Sam as the look of devastation in his eyes.

Sam had thought he'd been terrified as he'd struggled through the woods, worrying about what was happening to Dean. One look at Dean right now, though, told him that whatever he'd suffered hadn't compared to the misery and torment Dean had gone through thinking he'd died.

So Sam nodded. "Ok."

And he was glad he had because the look of relief on Dean's face was worth it and did a lot to help alleviate some of his own lingering fear and disquiet.

"Last night," Dean said, softly, "you were freaking out about...I don't know...whatever you were dreaming about-"

"You." Sam's voice was as unsteady as he felt. Dean raised an eyebrow so Sam elaborated, "Was dreaming about you. Trying to find you."

For a moment, it seemed like Dean was going to make a joke of it, then he said, "You found me. And we're ok."

"I know." And he did but it really didn't make him feel much better because he could still remember the fear as he'd done what he could to make his way to Dean; hoping against every hope that he would find his brother alive when he got to him.

"Sam. I'm ok. You got there in time, man."

Sam blinked away what he wouldn't admit had been a tear and nodded. It had been too close.

For both of them.


The next day, early afternoon

Dean rubbed his eyes and ran the rough washcloth over his face as if it would help wake him up or do anything to make him look less disheveled and dirty. He could have taken a shower, he supposed, but it hadn't seemed worth it. They were getting out of here soon and he just needed to take another quick side-stop at the clinic.

He'd slipped out yesterday afternoon when Sam had fallen asleep for what must have been the tenth time. After taking a cab to the motel they'd been staying in prior to the hunt, Dean checked them out, collected their gear then took the cab to the clinic. Intending to get the car and drive her immediately back to the hospital, his game plan had changed when he arrived at the clinic and found the Impala.

And the blood.

After spending a few too many minutes with his face in the bushes as he deposited what little he'd eaten for breakfast and lunch into the dirt, Dean had viciously worked to scrub away the blood on the door handle. The seat. The steering wheel.

Everywhere.

By the time he'd finished, he'd been shaking so badly he'd had to sit on the ground next to the car with his head between his knees for a good ten minutes. Once he'd recovered, he'd rushed back to the hospital.

Sam had still been asleep and Dean had collapsed into the recliner next to the bed, heart pounding. He had his car and his brother was still alive. Everything should have been perfect.

The only issue was that he needed to go back to the clinic.

He'd been hoping to find Michelle before she was discharged from the hospital, but she had already left by the time he'd gone looking for her. One of the nurses mentioned that she'd been on her way back to the clinic to collect the rest of her possessions. Dean warred with himself all morning whether it was that important for him to talk to her or if it would just make things worse. But he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that he needed to talk to her again. Nothing he could say to her would make her loss any less profound or painful, but he wanted to try.

Dean just wished he could have dealt with it before because he would have preferred to handle it without his brother around. Last thing he needed was for Michelle to say something about what he'd done. But he'd mentioned his plan to talk to Michelle and, now that Sam was discharged, he would be tagging along. Part of him hoped that Sam would fall asleep on the ride over there. Not an unlikely possibility, all things considered.

Sam had slept through much of the previous day. Off and on. In between medications and nightmares and the pain and the sickness. Last night hadn't been much better than the previous one. The fever had been high again, and neither of them had managed to catch much sleep.

Dropping the washcloth onto the counter, he stared at himself in the mirror.

Of course, even beyond the lack of sleep, taking a pile of pills and nearly dying had taken a toll on him. Which was one of the reasons he was afraid of allowing Sam near the clinic. They hadn't talked about anything yet, but Dean was sure Sam would want the details on everything that had happened while he'd been out playing Rambo in the woods with a hole in his side.

The thought of Sam finding out what he'd done was scary even though Dean figured Sam had a pretty decent clue already. He doubtless assumed Dean had done something stupid; which he had. But if Sam found out exactly what he'd done? The fact that he'd attempted suicide on the very slim chance that he could negotiate with a reaper for Sam's life was not going to go over well, Dean knew.

And Sam hadn't even been dead.

Dean still wasn't sure how to process any of it.

The realization that, while he'd been standing there chatting with Billie, his brother had been out there-alive and bleeding out on that cabin floor because Dean had left him there- had horrified him. A cold ball of dread had settled in his stomach, overlaid with the pressing need to get back into his (hopefully) still living body. Because Sam needed him and he'd be damned if he was going to fail him again.

The fears had waylaid the rush of relief and joy he'd felt knowing that his brother was alive. And he really hadn't been able to take a deep breath of true relief until he'd heard Sam's voice on the phone. Seeing him towering above them in the hallway after he'd just killed Corbin had been one of the best moments of his life. Followed by yet another of the worst moments as Sam had collapsed and Dean's sluggish brain had caught on to the fact that he could still lose his brother.

Shaking his head, Dean wiped his face on the dry towel and ran his hands through his hair. It didn't look great, but it was going to have to do, he decided. Stepping out from the bathroom, he found Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand white-knuckling the bedrail while the other gripped his t-shirt.

Exactly where Dean had left him five minutes ago when he'd slipped in to use the bathroom and wash his face.

"You ready to let me help now?" Dean asked. He asked nicely, without a hint of mockery or teasing in his tone because he knew that Sam was still in a lot of pain, and would be for at least a week or two.

Sam looked up at him and nodded. The brief display of strength and stubbornness from moments earlier was gone and he looked bad enough that Dean was back to wondering if they should be leaving the hospital yet or not. The doctor had given them an extensive list of instructions and signed the discharge papers, but now Dean was having his doubts. Of course, Sam wasn't going to go along with staying a moment longer but maybe he didn't deserve a vote on the subject.

Dean stepped closer and held out a hand for the t-shirt. Sam didn't hand it to him, merely let go of his grip on the shirt, freeing up that hand to press against his abdomen. Dean waited for a second; still weighing his options. They weren't necessarily in a hurry anyway. Yes, Sam had been discharged, but the only thing Dean had on the agenda was getting his brother into another bed and doping him up.

The clinic visit was something he wanted to scrap and wished he'd never mentioned because now that Sam had heard about it, there would be no getting around the trip. Sam's bleeding heart was all over the idea of trying to be supportive to the grieving widow.

"Ok," Sam said softly. He kept his right hand holding onto the bed rail and reached up with his left to loosen the ties of the hospital gown.

His arms looked like pincushions, Dean thought as he eased the t-shirt over his brother's head. From the IVs to the blood draws, there were at least three places on each arm that he'd been stabbed with a needle. Losing so much blood hadn't exactly made him an easy IV stick, Dean had heard from one of the nurses.

Ignoring the still present fear, Dean waited patiently as Sam lifted one arm and then the other into the shirt. When he let go of the bed rail, he wavered a little and Dean kept one hand on his shoulder as Sam closed his eyes and fought to remain upright.

"Still with me?" he asked quietly, hand not leaving Sam's shoulder as he used his other hand to pull the t-shirt down in the back.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, gripping the bed rail again and using his free hand to smooth the t-shirt over the bulky bandages around his middle.

He forced his eyes open and looked up and Dean could see how hard he was fighting to manage the pain and not look like he was hurting as much as he was.

Sam waved a hand. "Stop staring at me. Let's get this over with and get out of here."

"Sure." Dean let go of his shoulder when he thought Sam was steady enough, then picked up the long sleeved shirt from next to him on the bed.

Getting it on was easier than the t-shirt had been because Sam didn't really have to lift his arms as much and Dean could pull it up over his shoulders without Sam needing to assist. He started to button the shirt up, but Sam batted his hand away.

"Leave it." He sounded tense and like he might not be able to continue to put on the brave front much longer.

Because he'd been shot a few days before, Dean didn't take offense at the snippy remark. He just left the shirt alone and grabbed the fresh jeans from off the foot of the bed. Everything Sam had been wearing when he'd been brought to the hospital had been a complete loss and Dean couldn't have cared less that the staff had cut it all off and thrown it away.

Personally, he never wanted to see those clothes again or deal with trying to wash the blood stains out. They'd washed plenty of blood stains out over the years, but this had been more blood than usual and it still made him sick.

"Dean?"

He blinked and looked up in confusion. "What?"

"Are you ok?"

"Fine."

Sam frowned. "You kind of zoned out. Stop thinking so much. I'm ok."

Dean couldn't help but smile. Sam couldn't get his shirt on by himself but he was ok. And, as usual, they had to be ok. And, as usual, they really were ok.

Something relaxed behind his ribs and Dean nodded. "Alright, Mr. I'm-ok...how do you wanna do this?"

He held up the jeans and watched with only a hint of amusement as Sam's expression changed and he realized what Dean meant. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to help him get his pants on and, given their line of work, it probably wouldn't be the last. And Sam had done it for him on plenty of occasions so it had all sort of lost the level of embarrassment that the process had once held. Didn't mean the one needing the help didn't still dislike needing the help.

Sam sighed and shrugged, his free hand settling against his side again. Dean took it as permission and worked quickly to get Sam dressed. He helped without being asked to when Sam started to stand so he could pull the jeans up. Sam sank down just as fast after and, again, batted Dean's hands away and took care of zipping up even though his hands were shaking.

Leaving him to it, Dean moved on to getting Sam's socks and boots on, then dragged himself to his feet, feeling dizzy and tired. He grabbed the bed rail to steady himself until the black spots cleared from his vision.

"You alright?" Sam asked, voice hoarse.

"Peachy."

Sam snorted, then squeezed his eyes closed, hunching in on himself more. Dean grimaced and waited. Neither of them had really needed the doctor's long-winded speech on how bad a gut shot was and how dangerous it was and how much it hurt. One look at Sam at any given point in time told Dean exactly how much it hurt. So he waited for his brother to catch his breath while he caught his own. Because he really didn't feel good at all. But that was something he needed to keep Sam from latching onto because then he'd start asking questions.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam was swallowing hard and looking worse and Dean grabbed his shoulder again. "Need to lay down?"

Sam closed his eyes and barely shook his head, but Dean didn't press the issue. He started thinking that leaving the hospital now was a very bad idea. Even if the doctor had given the ok on the basis that Sam get plenty of rest and not exert himself, looking at him now, Dean wasn't sure they should be going anywhere.

"Sam?"

"I'm ok," Sam whispered, eyes still closed. "Just...it hurts. A lot. But it's ok. I'm...I just need a minute."

"You got it."

Dean wanted to sit down next to him and have a minute himself, but he was afraid to sit down lest the movement jar his brother and result in him throwing up. It looked like he was on the verge of that right now so Dean just held still and crossed his fingers. He'd been handling the anesthesia better this time around and hadn't thrown up since he'd left the recovery room thanks to plenty of good medications and a near endless supply of ice chips.

After another few seconds, Sam straightened and said, "Let's get out of here."

"Works for me." Dean left him there and grabbed the pile of paperwork, prescriptions and shoved them into Sam's backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he prepared for the argument he knew was coming when he went to tell Sam to get into the wheelchair because he wasn't walking out of the hospital.

But Sam was looking at the wheelchair with such longing that Dean realized he wasn't going to argue about it.

Dean pulled it closer and reached down to help Sam stand up and hobble two steps over until he could sit back down. The effort left Sam breathless with pain and even paler, but he was ok, Dean kept telling himself. He'd been up and walking a few times yesterday and had taken a lap around the nurses station earlier.

Once Sam looked as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, Dean took another glance around the room to be sure he hadn't missed anything, then told Sam he was going to start moving, waited till Sam nodded in agreement, then pushed the wheelchair to the door.

to be continued...


Hope you enjoyed the chapter! More to come...