During the helicopter ride from hell, Sam Winchester noticed, hazily, that everything the paramedics said had an equal or opposite reaction, like a law of science. In a rather vain effort to keep his mind off of his brother dying in front of him, he blearily observed how it went. When one said, "He's not breathing," the other automatically shoved a tube down Dean's throat. Then, "His BP's dropping," and something was pushed into the IV on Dean's wrist. Sometimes the paramedics didn't even have to say anything. Like when a monitor started blaring, a high pitched whine that Sam had heard before and had tried ever thereafter to forget, a sound which started the paramedics moving, a bit more frantically than before. Saying things like, "v-fib" and "give him some epinephrine" and "damn it kid" and "clear." Sam suddenly snapped out of his reverie when he saw Dean's body raise slightly off the stretcher.

"No, Dean, no," he whispered, unable to say anything, horror creeping over him like a suffocating fog, fear lacing through him. "Please, Dean!" The monitor stopped its alarm, and Sam sagged against the wall, unable to prevent hot tears from rolling down his face. The paramedics were back to their normal pace, holding gauze down, rhythmically squeezing a bag over Dean's mouth and nose. Sam shut his eyes, opened them again, found the situation to be the same, and closed them even tighter. He didn't want to see the blood or the pallor of his skin or the heart monitor or any of it…

"Sir? Sir, we're here. You can get out of the helicopter, sir." Sam looked up and blinked at the medic peering worriedly at him. Dean was already gone, out of sight somewhere.

"Are you alright?" The medic asked, and Sam nodded.

"Fine," he said, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth and everything seemed unreal. He managed to find the waiting room, poured himself a cup of nasty smelling coffee and sat with it, never taking a drink, unaware of its dropping temperature. After a half hour of just waiting, he thought it might be appropriate to call Bobby. After all, he was in South Dakota and they were in Iowa; Bobby could come and be here if…Sam didn't allow himself to finish the thought.

"Singer," a gruff voice said finally, and Sam was startled. "That you Sam?"

"Yeah, hey Bobby," Sam said, and took a deep breath. Bobby must have noticed the hesitation.

"What's wrong? Is it Dean?"

"Yeah, Bobby, Dean got in a fight or something, he got stabbed, lost a lot of blood…" Sam's voice trailed off. Bobby was silent for a minute.

"How did he get in a fight or something? Were you there, Sam? Are you okay? You sound off," he said finally.

"I wasn't there. I, uh, I messed up, almost went on a hunt with Ruby, but I came back. There was so much blood, Bobby, it was all over. They, uh, they lost him for a second on the helicopter. It's bad,' Sam finished, rubbing a tired hand over tired eyes. He heard Bobby's sharp intake of breath, heard the low swear word.

"I'll be there in an hour or two, okay Sam? You just hang on, he's gonna be okay. I'll be there soon." They hung up, and Sam realized for the first time how wiped he felt. He just wanted to sleep, to drift off and not have to worry, to wake up and have it be a nightmare, something he had dreamed up as he slept. But, then again, he didn't want to miss Dean's doctor. That wouldn't happen. Collecting himself, he realized that he hadn't filled out any paperwork, was thankful for the consideration of the ER staff in letting him calm down a bit, retrieved said paperwork and sat down, staring at it blankly for a minute. Finally, he carefully scrawled Dean's name, using Page as his last name, because Dean loved Jimmy Page and it seemed like the thing to do. It was all so automatic, filling the paperwork out, and Sam thought that it was high time it stopped happening. It wouldn't be happening if he'd just been around, been where he was supposed to be.

Another hour ticked by, and Sam hadn't heard anything yet. Well, that meant he was still alive, right? Sam knew that it also meant it was bad, but he was trying to be optimistic, trying to believe that, for once, maybe they'd get a little lucky. They deserved some by now.

"Sam," someone said, and he turned, relief flooding over him. Bobby was here.

"Hey," Sam answered, standing up and stretching as Bobby approached.

"Any news?" Sam shook his head. Bobby nodded and took a seat. Sam sat down across from him, finally realized that he was holding coffee, and quickly threw it away.

"So what happened?" Bobby asked, studying Sam carefully. Sam shrugged.

"I messed up. We fought, I went on a hunt with Ruby, but I realized that it was wrong. So I walked back, and there was a blood trail from the bar, apparently he got into a fight, and I followed it to our room and he was there, pale, blood everywhere…He looked dead, Bobby, looked like a freaking corpse. Holy crap." Sam looked at the floor, hands shaking slightly. Bobby looked at him, frowned, leaned back in his chair.

"You did good coming back, Sam," he said finally. "Yeah, you made a mistake, but we all make 'em sometimes. You came back, Sam. Without you, your brother really would be a corpse."

"He could still be, Bobby."

"Don't think like that." They lapsed into silence again, disturbed when a slightly twitchy looking man with oversized glasses and undersized eyes approached them.

"Family of Dean Page?" He asked, and Sam stood up and nodded. He could feel Bobby behind him, as tense and nervous as he was. The man adjusted his glasses.

"Dr. Gates," he said by way of introduction. "Dean was pretty lucky, considering. The knife nicked his stomach and ruptured his spleen; we had to perform an emergency splenectomy, but we were able to fix his stomach up without any complications. It got a little touch-and-go with the massive blood loss, but we've got him stabilized now, and he's in recovery. He still needs some help breathing, so he's on a ventilator, but we're optimistic that with the blood transfusions, we'll be able to get him off it soon." Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot for a second, nodded, then finally spoke.

"But he'll be okay?" The doctor fidgeted with his glasses again.

"Bottom line is he should be alright, but tonight will be a crucial time for him; as always, there's a risk for infection after the surgery, but we'll be giving him antibiotics to try to prevent that." Sam nodded.

"When can we see him?"

"As soon as he's settled in recovery."

Fifteen minutes later, Bobby was fairly trotting behind Sam in an effort to keep up with the taller man's pace. He finally slowed as they neared Dean's room, then stopped at the door, hands hanging limply at his sides. Bobby came up behind him and looked in. Dean was hooked up to the vent, IV ports by his head and running lines into his arms, his eye black and blue as the bartender had predicted. Sam hadn't even noticed it before. A heart monitor beeped quietly, both comforting and disturbing. Sam collapsed into the chair next to Dean's bed and reached awkwardly for his pale hand; he couldn't help but smile as he imagined Dean's face if he was conscious for the chick-flick moment. Suddenly exhausted, he felt himself growing drowsy as he looked at his brother.

"Hey Dean, it's Sam…Just letting you know I'm still here, and I'll be here when you wake up, okay? I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered.

And he was.

A/N: So, should I continue? I planned on it, but then I thought that this was kind of an ending…Anyways, what do you think? Thanks for the reviews!