6.

This was no way to manage a hunt:

He had no HQ, had only the (apparently crappy) research on busaws he and Sam had done a week ago that didn't include venom in their claws or either a mate or partner, or the ability to pursue, hunt, and attack after death. It was probably the former; Dean was damn sure he'd ganked that thing but good.

Anyway, he had significantly less money than when they arrived, most of it spent on coffee, none of it, he mourned, spent on beer. He hadn't had a drink in days and God could he use one. He wanted a glass of whiskey that he wasn't gonna get.

Sam was the smart one, who coulda dealt more comfortably with the people here, and he was out for the count. He might even be dying, but Dean wasn't going there. Practically speaking, he had no one covering his back in a closed environment where the monster could look like anyone and Dean knew almost no one. The people he did know had become obstacles, even as he had to depend on them for Sam. And last, but not least, the monster had moved out away from the Winchesters into the rest of the hospital population. Dean had to work fast with no knowledge, no friends, no food or drink, and no real place to sleep. He was left moving from place to place, identity to identity within the hospital, trying to stay invisible and unnoticed.

It was really not his style at all. He tended to get noticed for one reason or another.

Okay for the moment at the back of this chaotic storage room, Dean stripped off the scrubs he'd stolen to catch some shut-eye in one of the resident rooms. He folded and placed them on a shelf he'd knocked the stuff off and made his own, and dressed in the button-down, the chinos and the white jacket he'd helped himself to from an easily opened locker. He made do with his own boots. A man's gotta be able to walk and run; you don't mess around when it comes to footwear.

He felt better for the sleep and remembered without difficulty the way down to Maida Chernoff's room. The husband might be able to give him some useful info if he thought Dean was some kind of authority. So – hospital administration, public relations, yeah, that'd do it. House and his crew had set the scene up for him: he'd be looking into staff-patient family relations. Dean had to smother a snicker.

On his way down to the Chernoffs, Dean snagged a couple of rolls and a slice of Canadian bacon off an unattended breakfast tray. The patient was probably too sick to enjoy it anyway. Wow, that was good food. Maybe he could find some OJ and a cup of joe too ...

He knocked lightly on the open door, the way he remembered the docs doing it, put his head in and said to Chernoff, "Morning, Mr. Chernoff. I'm Link Wray with hospital public relations. Is this a good time for a little talk?"

It was definitely a good time for a talk; Chernoff had a complaint and Dean seemed to be the right guy to make it to.

By the time Dean was able to extricate himself from there, he knew a lot more. Mrs. Chernoff had been doing much better. The symptoms of the illness she'd been hospitalized for were nothing like what she was now suffering. There was no medical precedent, Mr. Chernoff said he'd been told, for one disease transforming into something so different, without a clear-cut etiology.

In other words, it had happened like magic. Bad magic.

Dean had pressed him about the "attack" on his wife that he'd talked about. At first Chernoff was reluctant to talk about it. He said, finally, that he must have heard his wife call out or something and maybe that had shaped his dreaming.

"What was the dream, Mr. Chernoff? What did you actually dream?" Dean asked.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"No, I'll probably believe you. I've seen more weird crap than you'll ever see."

"I was so tired that – this is what I thought, you understand – that one of the nurses came into the room and closed the door. She looked at me and ... and laughed. I couldn't move at all, or say anything." The man wiped his face with his hand. "Then she changed. Her nose and mouth grew out and ... and ... melded together. Like the beak on a bird. A long, sharp beak."

"What did she look like? The nurse, before she changed?"

"Um, she had brown hair, really long, past her shoulders?"

"Anything more you can remember?"

" Let me think. … Well, she was tall, about 5 foot 10, maybe, and thin. Her eyes were really wide apart. I couldn't tell the color. High forehead. Her hair was dark, but I couldn't really tell the color – it was dark in here." He scratched his nose. "Her hair was really long, though. She was wearing it loose and it was down way past her shoulders."

Good. The guy had a memory.

"After she changed, did she do anything to you?" Dean asked him.

Chernoff looked at Dean. "You think I really saw something?"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "You really think you didn't?"

"So – I'm not insane?" Chernoff leaned forward and put his face in his hands. "Thank God" came, muffled, through his fingers.

Awkwardly, Dean patted the older guy on the shoulder. The man leaned into it for a moment, then waved him away. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an old-style hanky and blew his nose.

"You want me to tell you the rest of it?" he asked.

Dean glanced out through the door and closed it. "Please." He sat down across from him, shifting the chair so it better faced the door.

"Okay," said Chernoff. He took a breath. "This thing, it was still a she, you know? Her body got more muscular and her legs grew, too, bigger and longer. Her arms got longer, too, and her fingers and the nails on them ..." He swallowed. "They stretched and curved, like claws. ... Not like claws, they were claws! I was terrified, but I couldn't move."

"Then what?" Dean prompted.

"It laughed. It was a horrible sound. Like choking. Then it left me and went to my wife. She was asleep, but when the thing reached her, she woke up. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. That was when I noticed the smell. God, it was an awful smell. Like – like something dead and rotten."

The guy's eyes were seeing nothing now, Dean knew he was remembering the busaw – a creature, a monster he'd never seen the like of before and couldn't have believed in until he saw it, heard it, smelled it.

"What was it?" he asked Dean. "What was it that came in here, into my Maida's hospital room, and pushed its claws into her body? It violated my wife – it sucked at the wounds it made on her!" Outrage came over the man's face. "And I couldn't move. I tried, Mr. Wray. I tried with every ounce of strength in my body and none of it – none of it! – was any use."

The tears were pouring down his face, ignored as he begged Dean to tell him why.

Dean had to loosen his tie. He ran his finger underneath his collar. Too hot and stuffy in here. The man was too close and Sam was downstairs, sick, maybe as sick as this woman, and she was gonna die.

She was gonna die, and maybe soon, and her poor schmo of a husband knew it. He wanted Dean to tell him it wasn't gonna happen, but it was, and Dean wouldn't – couldn't – lie to him. And it had nothing to do with medicine, or disease, or this test or that procedure.

It was just evil, pure and simple.

Dean became aware of the silence. Chernoff had run out of story to tell.

Dean felt vicious on this man's behalf, as well as own. He cleared his throat. "How about your wife's doctors, Mr. Chernoff? Have you been, um, happy with them? Good communication, bedside manner and all that?"

The guy's outrage followed Dean's very broad hint, and found, in Dean's view, a very worthy target.

"The doctors? The doctors here are terrible! They come in here and instead of taking care of my wife, they yell at me! You'd think I made her sick." He pounded a fist on his open other hand. "They're bastards, especially that guy House. That guy thinks he's God or something, talking down to me like I'm a moron. Like I didn't see that monster that hurt my girl!"

Dean felt a little joy at Chernoff's next words:

"I'm gonna find a lawyer!"

The volume of the man's voice had risen dramatically. Somebody was gonna be coming down here PDQ to see what was going on, and Dean had to be gone.

Suddenly, Mrs. Chernoff began to struggle, over in her bed. She sounded like she was trying to catch her breath, desperately, futilely.

Dean looked at Chernoff. His face had gone ashen.

Someone had to check on her. Dean said, "Call a nurse, man. This sounds bad." Chernoff obeyed.

He didn't have much time to get outta there, but he had to check on her anyway. He went over to the bed and lifted the sheet. The woman's skin was melting into her body. Her blind eyes rolled around in their orbits and her mouth was open in a silent scream of obvious anguish. Her lips began to dissolve as he watched.

There was nothing he could do for her.

Mr. Chernoff ran back into the room, followed by a guy in scrubs, not an orderly, but a nurse, Dean guessed. Chernoff started for the bed, but Dean stopped him.

"Mr. Chernoff, you do not want to look," Dean said. "You do not want to see her like this, I'm telling you."

He looked at Dean without understanding.

"I have to. She's my wife. How can I not go to her?"

Dean felt as though his heart was being compressed by a giant fist. It hurt him to see the guy like this, already in pain, minutes, maybe seconds, before he'd be feeling the anguish Dean's dad had known since Dean was four, and just about Sammy's whole life.

Dean let him go.

As he flew out the door, he heard the sound he'd expected: the sound of a man screaming, a broken man, for whom nothing in life would ever be the same.

7.

Dean unrolled himself from the tangle of old sheets and towels he'd found in his storage room. He felt better, even more optimistic than he had yet. He'd stolen some food from the cafeteria; paying for it was apparently largely based on the honor system, happily for Dean, who wasn't. He'd taken it back up to his storage room, eaten, and rolled himself up in a bunch of worn-out, but clean, towels and sheets, and gone to sleep.

Now it was night, a few hours after Mrs. Chernoff's grisly death by busaw, and time for Dean to get to work.

At least something had come from grilling the husband. Dean knew who to look for, at least what she looked like. He damned himself for not grabbing Mrs. Chernoff's chart before he'd split. Now he was either going to have to hunt down the chart on its way to Files, or call it up on a hospital computer so he could get the names of all the employees who'd had anything to do with the woman around the night her husband said it all went down.

Dean knew the busaw would be masquerading as an employee – actually doing the job – during the day, taking on its real form at night to feed. The Filipino monsters usually went for babies and children. The really powerful ones went for grown men and women who were powerful themselves, strong physically and powerful with the affection of others. With love.

Sam was strong as hell physically. And Sam was loved. Dean knew how much. He wasn't, in retrospect, surprised that the first busaw had gone for Sammy when they were hunting it.

In the hospital, where Dean had no doubt their monster, or its buddy, mate or ghost had pursued them, love would be enough.

He dressed in his scrubs again, his Princeton-Plainsboro "evening attire." The very small joke amused him and his lip twitched despite the circumstances. There was even a mirror in here, so he could see what kind of an impression he'd make on fellow employees. Ha, him and the busaw both impersonating hospital staff. Kinda ironic, really.

Needed a shave. Could use a little gel for his hair. Could use a shampoo and a shower, actually, but none of them were happening. He sprayed some expired liquid something on his hand and ran it through his hair. Better already. The Don Johnson look wasn't too bad, not with the scrubs. He'd get by.

Cup of coffee. See Sam. Find a computer.

He had the $1.50 for the coffee machine, fortunately, and, drinking it, made his way down to Sam's floor. Passing a patient parked in the corridor, Dean swiped his chart to make himself look official. Nodding hello at the people he encountered – none of 'em were Sam's docs – he peeked into his brother's room, and seeing no one but a Sam-sized lump on the bed, he went in.

"Sam." Dean shook Sam's shoulder, as if the kid was sleeping. It was wishful thinking and it was stupid, but Dean couldn't help it. Some kind of elation filled him when he got a response – weak, yeah, but definitely Sammy.

"Dean."

Dean peeled back the blanket to have a look, afraid at what he might find. "Sam! You look pretty good."

"Gee, thanks, Dean." Sam's face was pale and drawn. He looked like hell. "What day is it?

"We got here two days ago. You've had over-the-top fever and major seizures at least twice and they had to ice you down. Literally."

"Yeah, I remember some of that. What about you? You okay?" Sam's voice was hoarse, but, damn, it sounded good to Dean.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Kind of on the run here, but I've found me a storage room, it's got prehistoric meds ,and sheets with holes in 'em, nobody remembers it's there and it's all good."

Sam tried to sit up, but was too weak. Dean said, "Sam, just lie back. Exertion might set it off again. Look, a lady's died here from a busaw attack."

"What? We killed it!"

"Yeah, ours, I'm pretty sure we ganked. There's another one here. There's either a national infestation or ours had family that followed us here. And now it's goin' after civilians."

"It's poisonous, isn't it? Something we didn't know. Shit, Dean. Can we find an antidote?"

"I don't know. If Dad didn't know they were venomous, nobody did. Bobby might have people to call, but our cells're both dead as doornails and I don't think we even have the time. I'm hoping that if I kill it, the poison'll stop working."

"Damn. Okay, Dean. Thanks. I think … I'm gonna have to sleep. …"

"Wait!" Dean poked Sam in the chest. "I gotta ask you about a nurse."

"Is one of 'em hot?"

"No! One of 'em's the monster, Sam!"

Sam's eyes shot open. "Which one?"

"That's what I need to know." He gave Sam Mr. Chernoff's description of the monster's human form.

Sam was quiet for so long, Dean thought he might've gone back to sleep. He was gonna poke him again, which he didn't want to do, when Sam opened his eyes and said, "Yeah, I know who that is. Her ID tag says 'Jenny Dimagiba.' It makes sense. 'Dimagiba' means 'unbreakable'. In Tagalog.'"

Dean stared at him. "How do you even know that shit, geek boy?"

Sam smiled sleepily. "Just kill it, Dean. Make sure nobody else gets hurt." He rolled over away from his brother.

Shaking his head, without thinking, Dean tucked Sam in, just as if they were kids again. "Sure, thing, Sammy," he said. He patted his little brother's shoulder one more time and turned. Only to find himself face to face with Chase, the Aussie doc. Shit. Maybe he'd better get his ears checked. He hadn't heard a thing behind him.

"Mm. Hey," he said. "Dr. Chase."

"Dean," said Chase.

"Well, I really should be going." Dean felt a little surreal, like he was in some play, like one of those 19th-century English lit things that Sam liked, or said he did, anyway. They were opaque to Dean, but he did understand a tea party when he saw one.

"I don't think you should be going just yet," Chase said pointedly. "In fact, you are just the man I've been looking for."

"Yeah, you and Security. I think I'll just –"

"No," said Chase. "Please. I didn't and I'm not going to call Security. I need to talk to you about that story of Mr. Chernoff's. I think he might not be crazy and I think you know something about it."

Dean thought for a second. He was surprised, but if the guy was playing straight, he could be helpful. "Any of your school pals coming here anytime soon?"

"Who – you mean Foreman or Cameron? No, they can't – they're doing a workup on a new patient. He was found this morning with whatever it is your brother's got and that killed Ms. Chernoff."

"Shit," said Dean. He sat down hard on the chair next to the bed. "Old guy? Young? A patient? Is he dead?"

"Mr. Konstantinou's still alive," said Chase. "Just. He's got worse faster than Mrs. Chernoff did. He's an older man, in his 70s, who came in yesterday morning with a diabetic infection. He was already responding well to antibiotics yesterday evening, but this morning he was half-blind, feverish, and not responding well to cooling, as your brother has. Each of the patients has some entirely different symptoms, but it's the same disease."

"How do you know?" asked Dean, frowning.

"Same blood analysis. All three of them have an extra element in their blood, but it's something we've never seen before. We don't have the time to do the proper research on it – but we might have to send samples to the government if it takes on epidemic proportions."

"Does Mr. Konstantiwhatever have a bunch of concerned family, friends?"

"Yes. … Wife, daughter, two sons and grandkids, all here at the hospital to see how he's doing. Why?"Chase frowned. Dean didn't bother to answer.

"All right," he said finally. "You're going to have a tough time believing any of this, but with one of you guys helping, we might be able to beat it. And we hafta do everything fast, because I don't think Sammy's got much more time."

Dr. Chase nodded. "Try me."

"All right," said Dean. He told Chase as little as he could about what he and Sam did, and what had really brought them to Princeton, but the guy wanted to know more. He asked logical questions and seemed to take it in.

"So you don't know how to cure the illness it causes, but to stop it spreading, at least, we've got to kill the busaw, right? So we can pretty much relax about it being a contagious disease like ebola?"

"Yeah, I'd bet on that," Dean said.

Chase sat back. "Well, thank God for that," he said.

"Killing it's my job, Dr. Chase. But you can help me find it, and if killing it doesn't stop the illness, then you've gotta keep your colleagues working on a cure, okay?"

"Absolutely," Chase said.

"So I've got a name. Jenny Dimagiba. Filipino name, no surprise, it's a Filipino monster. You'd know her as a nurse. Been here only a short time."

"I'll look her up and let you know what her duties are tonight. Um … you are certain she's not a human being and that she has something to do with this."

"You heard Chernoff's story. I'm tellin' you, it's all true. The guy has a great memory, even under duress. Tell the truth, I was impressed. So, yeah, all true. All your Jenny D."

"Then I'll be right back. Ten minutes, tops." Chase left.

Dean leaned back in his chair and forced himself to relax. Now they were cookin' with gas, bypassing files and the computer both. He looked behind him, but Sam was still out. Dean laid a hand on his forehead. Damn it, his brother was beginning to heat up again. He'd better get on this and gank that bitch.

When the Aussie doc returned 15 minutes later, he brought with him Dimagiba's schedule for the next 36 hours, a cup of coffee – decent coffee – a ham sandwich and a Styrofoam container with dessert.

"I forgive you the extra five minutes, dude," Dean said to him. He wolfed down the sandwich and drank the coffee like it was ambrosia. When he discovered the container held a piece of pie, he said, "Forget the forgiveness, man, I think they oughta saintify you, or whatever they call it!"

"Canonize," said Chase. "It's the declaration of something God has allegedly already done."

His mouth full of pie, Dean said, "You're pretty well-informed on that stuff for a doctor, aren't you?"

"Studied in seminary before medical school. Thought I was going to become a priest."

"Hmm." Dean thought about that for a minute while he chewed. He swallowed and said, "Problem of faith, not of belief, huh?"

"Yeh. Something like that. Whatever; I don't have some of the same problems believing in 'weird shit' that my colleagues have. Especially Dr. House. All of this has to be kept from him. If he finds out I'm dabbling in the supernatural, my job is history."

"No problem." Dean swallowed the last of the pie and looked at the wall clock. "It's 9:30 p.m. now. Saint Chase, meet me here at midnight. Figure out where we're at." He stood up and tossed his garbage into the can. He glanced back once at Sam, nodded to Chase and left the room.