A/N: thanks to liliaeth for promptly correcting me on the nature of Chuck's "Supernatural" series so that I could correct it before this chapter ventured into the light of day! Please ignore any references in the chapter to comics.

Chapter 4

Wilson was really, really glad that Amber had preferred thick, opaque shower curtains.

"Not the time, House!" he called. He had to jump against the wall of the bath when a cane started jabbing into the aforementioned curtains. If not for the fear that House could lock himself in the bathroom and overdose, Wilson would've installed one of those little chain locks that hotels had on the doors. On all the doors.

House said something that the running water drowned out.

"Can't hear you from in here," Wilson said, a little smugly. He yelped as the water turned freezing cold. "This apartment didn't have plumbing problems until you got here." Giving up on the rest of his morning shower, he turned off the taps and stuck out a hand. "Towel, please."

There was a phlegmy spitting noise from outside before his hand made contact with something fuzzy. He pulled it in and inspected it for any gobs.

"This is a hand towel."

"Sorry, already spit on yours."

Darnit. Wilson liked that towel. He wasn't about to ask for House's (who knew where it had been), so he made do with the one House had given him, which was feeling smaller and wetter all the time.

"Are you about to go all 'Psycho' on me, or do you have a better reason for interrupting my one House-free moment of the morning?"

"Remember those x-rays from Delaware I showed you a few months ago?"

"Of course! Who wouldn't remember some novelty case from months back?"

The cane poked past the previously-safe boundary of the curtain. Wilson jumped. As House's face started to intrude as well, he slapped the tiny towel over his front, yelping.

"Should I take that a 'yes'?" asked House, and Wilson realised that House's eyes were, thankfully, closed. For now.

"Get out!" Wilson yelled, and fortunately House listened for once.

It was a while before he made it out of the bathroom. That tiny square of terry hadn't helped. He threw it at House as he headed to the kitchen for breakfast.

"So, those x-rays."

"What x-rays?" Wilson pointed at the refrigerator. "The ones that just showed up on the fridge door?"

"Exactly," said House. "Look like the ones from that e-mail forward that puzzled Osteology in the fall, right?"

"So? I've seen those. Thought it was some sort of termite on a corpse. You interrupted my shower just to drag them out again?"

"Except you haven't. This was taken at our hospital yesterday."

"Huh. No wonder you got that patient."

"Yeah, that's another thing. Cuddy begged me to take this case without even knowing about this. She barely knew anything about the case."

"It's not the first case she's taken on as a favour."

"They didn't even know each other, and, clearly, you haven't looked at the freezer yet."

"If this is another case of digging up a patient's pets, I'm not interested. In fact, I don't plan on looking in there for a week now."

House clapped the freezer door. There was a poster pinned up there that Wilson took one look at and decided to ignore.

"House, you make fake wanted posters all the time. The last cafeteria lady who tried to charge you for lunch was accused of public indecency and extortion. I know this guy took your cane, but-"

"It's not fake."

"Wait, what? He actually did all this stuff?" The grave digging definitely added towards his termites theory. "He's a murderer." The fact that he bolstered his theory before noticing the major crimes was scarily House-like. Wilson massaged his temples.

"But he's my murderer," said House, fake puppy-eyes on, before getting down to business and snatching half of Wilson's bagel. "Don't worry. When I'm done with him, it's back to the feds he goes. Before that, though, I need to find out why she's doing this."

"'It's personal' is like an engraved invitation to you, isn't it?"

"She said they sent someone she could trust to her." House stared pointedly at Wilson, who was beginning to see where he was going with this.

"Oh no," he said, backing away. "Ohhhh no. You are not pulling me into your issues with Cuddy. She doesn't trust me, anyway; I'm friends with you."

"Please, you're an oncologist. If you can make people trust you when telling them about their slow and painful death, you can fool Cuddy into it for the length of this case." House smirked. Oh no, he was about to pull out his trump card. "Besides, she's your friend too. Aren't you worried about whatever she's getting involved in?"

Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "I'll talk to her. If she's pulling a Maid Marian, something's definitely going on, and things might not be safe for her."

"Get her to trust you more than whoever set this up, and she'll fold like a cheap napkin and tell you. If someone's holding something over her head, I'll just find something to hold over theirs."

"House, that's not going to work with a hardened criminal! If you let this pull you in, you're going to get hurt."

"And Cuddy's not?"

"Is that what this is really about? You sure you're not just angry that you aren't at the top of the list of people she trusts?"

"Hey, if Cuddy wants to involve herself with thugs, that's her business," House snapped. "She's the most lenient hospital head I could get stuck with, so I wouldn't want anything to happen to her."

"Right, that's exactly why it's a problem. You have to know your usual conniving won't work here like it does with the general public. Yes, this case is weird, and that puts it right up your alley. But you can't get carried away. You need to report Dean Winchester, House. No matter what Cuddy says."

"No problem! As soon as the case is done–"

"You don't think it would be a better idea to do it now?"

House shrugged. "Medically, it's best for him to be here. Especially with his strange disease and-" he tapped the sheets in front of them- "wacky bones." He grinned.

"I guess he's lucky he doesn't have the flu. You really think your timing is going to work out on this one?"

"It's me: do you really think a patient is allowed to get better without my say so?"

The patient probably wasn't even allowed to shower without House's say so.

Cameron grabbed Chase. "You have to come see this."

"Is there a sock on the microscope?" asked Foreman. "Should I be leaving?"

"No, you look too. I've never seen anything like it. I don't even know what it is."

Chase jumped up from the microscope. "Oh my gosh. Our patient's name is Dean, right?"

"Yeah," Cameron answered as Foreman peered into the eyepiece.

"And his brother's name is Sam."

Cameron nodded.

Chase laughed incredulously. "Oh you've got to be kidding me. I can't believe I didn't notice." He fidgeted. "Look, I-I have to go home and get something. I think it might be important for the case."

Foreman looked up. "You think you know what this is?"

"It's not really a source I think I can trust, but I think it'll be... weirdly pertinent." He turned to leave. "By the way, check the blood for sulphur."

"Sulphur," Cameron said, skeptical.

"Doesn't fit the symptoms," said Foreman. "He'd be having a lot more respiratory problems. He did mention checking out a lot of abandoned factories, though."

"Test for heavy metal?"

Foreman looked into the microscope again. "There's something in there. Let's test for both. At any rate, I'm paging House."

Cameron nodded, and they got back to work.

Mind racing, Chase was heading back to his and Allison's apartment.

He'd known something was up about their patient, though he hadn't been able to put his finger on it. Of course, he wouldn't have been able to imagine the answer if he hadn't seen the blood sample for himself. That's when he'd realised that he'd seen it already.

In a book series.

But then the heart attack he'd found so strange had hit him as being the book with the faith healing. The car crash that caused the father's death, which Dean had soon walked away from (coma and severe injury notwithstanding), was like the one with the reaper. The timing and description on the records all matched up with the records.

Neither of them seemed to match up with the actual patient, just like the x-rays.

They still didn't really know who the patient was, though they'd been given a first name. Likewise with his brother. Surely it wasn't a coincidence that they picked names from the books and chose their histories to match?

There was still the sulphur in the blood - no faking that. Were they dealing with a superfan? Not that Chase would know that much about those...

He dragged out his collection of Supernatural books (why he had so many, he didn't know, they were rather over-the-top) from a box interspersed with graphic novels, packed them up and headed back to the hospital. If House had been on clinic duty this week, they would have gotten serious use. At any rate, he'd have something better to do than the crossword while they waited in the morning for their boss to come in.

It turned out the crossword was in full distribution by the time he got in.

"Really? House isn't here yet?"

Cameron shrugged. "No. Where were you?"

Chase dropped the box on the table. "Getting some reading material... about two brothers named Dean and Sam, who are on a permanent road trip looking at a lot of abandoned buildings."

"You managed to obtain their medical records?" Cameron asked, perking up a little.

"Uh... not quite. Here." He handed his colleagues the pertinent volumes. "See for yourselves. I have to make a call." He headed into House's personal office to use the phone. "Dammit! Voicemail. 'Hi Sam, this is Dr. Chase, from your brother's case. We'd like you to come in as soon as possible for x-rays and a few more questions.'" He left his contact information and hung up, returning to the main office. "Well? I did suggest Munchausen's earlier, but I think this is another symptom."

Foreman stood up quickly. "I'll write it on the board."

"Wait," said Cameron, "what do we say, delusions?"

Foreman nodded. "Maybe for a long time, though - the brother's backing him up. They could have been stringing him along for months, keeping him quiet."

"Which means it's probably unrelated to the case. He doesn't take any psych meds, though."

"Yeah, just half his weight in booze every week. Could be self-medicating."

"I phoned the brother," said Chase. "He didn't answer, but he's probably our best hope at getting some real answers."

"We should probably wait to discuss neuro until we can tell how much of the truth he's telling," Foreman conceded. "Remember that guy we wiped the memories of?"

The crew winced in sympathy.

House stumped in. "What are you doing?" he said to Foreman, who was still at the board. "We're out of the black markers, so you're out of luck. Ooh, but who should the green one go to? Chase?" He picked up the blue - the only one that worked anyway - and held it to the board expectantly.

"Turns out our patient's records have a primary source material after all," said Chase, waving a paperback at House, who snatched it and flipped through. His eyes narrowed.

"If there's one thing the patient isn't lying about, it's his name."

"How do you know that?" asked Cameron.

"Call it a hunch. Try and figure it out if you want, it's something I don't feel like sharing with you nimrods."

"House, come on. It could be important."

"So his so-called life is ripped from pulp fiction." House rummaged through the pile until he found one with the FBI on the corner. Things were beginning to click in very strange ways. "Call the author. I think I'm going to want to talk to him."

"Are you going to tell us why?" asked Chase, quashing his enthusiasm about the task ahead.

"Not really, no. Let the guessing games commence!"

"This is a waste of time," said Foreman for what must've been the thousandth time since House had hired him. "What if it's crucial to the case?"

"It's not. Our patient is just a conspiracy theorist who managed to sell some hack writer on his crackpot theories, at least for entertainment purposes."

"He did say his friend - the one who said we were dealing with demons-" Foreman infused the word with all the scorn it deserved -"read too many comic books."

"Just to be clear, these aren't comics, at all. They are all about demons, though," said Chase.

"I want to see the author," House said. "More importantly, I want to see the reaction on their faces when they see him. At least one of these people is knee-deep in crazy, and I'd like to see who. If it's the patient - which I'm pretty sure it is - it could be a symptom."

Anxious to change the subject, House pulled out his laptop and went to the message board where the x-rays had been posted. He turned it to face his staff. "Look familiar?"

"Whose are these?" Cameron asked.

"Our patient's, from a few months ago. Notice anything different?"

"The carvings look a lot smaller in this one. So either they've gotten bigger-"

"Like I said, parasites."

"Or his bones have gotten smaller."

They all exchanged 'Oh, shit' looks.

"Any decrease in bone mass is serious," Foreman said. "If that's what it is, we don't have much time."

"We're going to have to monitor the patient's weight," said Chase. "And deal with the extra calcium in his blood."

"There wasn't any extra calcium in his blood, though," Cameron said. "So where is it going? The thyroid was fine."

"Parasites," House sang.

His team was gearing up to quibble with him over his diagnosis when there was a knock at the entrance. The man at the door was small, bearded and unassuming: definitely the kind of guy who walked into a crowded place with grenades in his pockets. House hoped he wasn't about to get shot again.

"Hey," said the guy, "you're the team treating Dean, right?" He looked around the office, eyes lighting on random objects throughout.

"Why?" House asked. "Who are you?"

The man shifted. "I'm Chuck Shurley, and... whoa." His eyes caught sight of the paperbacks strewn across the table. "You guys know about the Supernatural books?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you're another really obsessed fan."

"Not exactly," said Chuck. "I wrote them." He started to pace nervously, avoiding eye contact.

"You're Carver Edlund?" Chase said in surprise. So many questions.

House rose and made his way over to Chuck, smirking. "Speak of the devil."

Chuck shrunk under House's piercing gaze. "Yeah, well, Dean called me in?

"You must know all about Dean."

"I... guess?" Chuck floundered for words.

"Get out and run those tests," House said to his lackeys, neither sure of what tests were left nor breaking eye contact with Chuck. He waited for them to file out before he started talking again. "So you know what Dean is up to. The feds?"

"I know. He's not actually-"

"Save it. He's getting turned in. And if you've known about him all along, I'm pretty sure you could get charged for aiding and abetting."

Chuck gulped. "If you're wondering about the books, I heard a few stories of theirs and added some ghosts and stuff when my publisher told me to. That's all, okay? I wasn't actually there." He stared towards the ceiling in supplication.

"And you think that'll be good enough to keep them off your back? Being associated with a record like that? You could get killed in the line of fire if you're still here when it all goes down." House drew a finger across his neck, moving closer.

The sun came out, piercingly bright, just as the floor beneath them rolled. Missing a good leg to stand on at the best of times, House reached out in vain before falling.

"Sorry!" Chuck yanked him to his feet. "He's not trying to hurt me!" he yelled to the room at large before scampering off like a frightened rabbit.

Another one for the crazy list, perhaps. Clearly, they were all absolutely nutso. It was like being back at the mental hospital. Seeing them greet each other would be like a group session all over again, and he'd had way too many of those. He'd learnt his lesson about inciting crazies.

Dean Winchester was a lot like the people he'd known in the ward; too bad they hadn't managed to get him there.

House wondered if there was any way to take advantage of the tremor. He wandered off to see if anything had fallen out of the vending machines.

Sam had been standing in front of a proliferation of demon guts for a while before he realised his phone was ringing. His hands being as bloody as they were, he scrambled for a while with his jacket sleeve to use it to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sam! It's Chuck."

"Oh. Hi. Um, I'm a little busy here..." Please not another convention, he thought.

"The demon? Yeah, there'll be more where that came from soon. Do you think you'd be able to get back to the hospital?"

Sam winced. These days, he was walking such a tightrope around Dean, and their fight had made it feel like he'd just fallen off it. Going back was probably the best thing to do – he could hear Bobby's voice in his head grousing at him – but after everything he'd said, it would be a pretty lowering experience.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Chuck? I mean, I didn't leave on the best of terms." He heard an irate mumble in the background that sounded like Dean. "Wait, are you with Dean?"

"He doesn't know I'm calling you," Chuck explained. "I don't even know if I should be. I wouldn't have come myself if it didn't look like things were going south."

Sam's throat was starting to feel tight. "He's not looking so hot, huh?"

Chuck paused for what felt like minutes. "I think it would help if you were here."

"Why are you telling me this, anyway? I thought you didn't like getting involved."

Chuck laughed self-consciously. "Well, Becky likes when authors put themselves in the story, and besides, I saw what was coming. Let's just say I'm skipping a few steps."

"Okay," Sam said slowly, still a little suspicious of his motives. He looked at the mess in front of him, smelled the blood. Nothing good was keeping him here. He headed back.

The blond doctor who had greeted them when they'd arrived was waiting outside his brother's room when he got there.

"Wow," said Sam, "you really keep an eye on the place, huh?"

"You got my message?" the man asked; Sam hadn't. "As I said earlier, I'm Doctor Chase. Let's go get you ready for your x-ray."

"X-ray?" He hoped this wasn't about the Enochian symbols. Craning his neck, he tried to see what was going on in Dean's room, but the blinds were closed.

"There were some... anomalies in your brother's x-rays. We'd like to have yours to compare. A physical and blood test, too, if we can."

"Sure, I guess, if it'll help Dean." Sam was a bit concerned about the blood test. He'd always been diagnosed before any blood had needed to be drawn, and he didn't know how much of a mark demons would leave on the results.

"So your brother and his friends like sci-fi?" Dr. Chase asked casually as Sam followed him through the halls.

Sam had trouble answering. He wasn't used to hearing 'his friends' attached to Dean, at least not without the word 'girl'; it had taken him years at Stanford to hear the term attached to himself.

"Not really, no." Then he remembered Chuck. "Well, I guess they're getting into it lately."

"I've read the Supernatural books. Imaginative stuff. Your brother seemed inspired by it when he wrote up his history."

Play innocent. "What do you mean?"

"It didn't exactly match up," was all the doctor would say.

What was it Dean said when perving about being a virgin? His body had been made over, no scars or anything. Oh no. Sam should've given the doctors a tenth of that list. Dean being sick was throwing them all off their game.

"Maybe I gave you the wrong list," Sam said desperately. "Maybe it was the, uh, character sheet for our Supernatural..." what were those things called? "...RPG?"

Turning, the doctor gave him a doubtful look. Sam scratched the back of his head.

"Look, I know you want to protect your brother's mind, but it does more harm than good. His delusions are severe enough that I think he could cause himself and others harm. We'll set up a psych consult once we're done with the case."

Sam didn't think he'd be able to get his jaw back into the upright position anytime soon, but he definitely wanted to be around the next time one of the doctors spoke to Dean. Sparks were bound to fly.

During his physical, the doctor kept referring to some of the papers that Dean had made him bring in.

"What's that?" asked Sam.

"Your supposed medical records."

"What?" Dean had never mentioned that Sam's were involved, just told him it was more of the same. He was never being Dean's messenger boy again. "Lemme see those."

He recognised his dad's cramped handwriting at the beginning. Surprising how many vaccines he'd gotten; it had always seemed like tetanus was enough for dear old Dad. Around the nineties, the writing switched to Dean's, becoming thinner and surer as it went along. Even his university years were recorded.

"I've never seen this before," he couldn't help saying.

The doctor gave him a strange look. "Who wrote it, then?"

"My dad and brother, I guess. I didn't know they kept track." He handed it back to Dr. Chase.

After a lot of poking and prodding, Dr. Chase was looking at him even more suspiciously. "Your medical history checks out. So why did your brother lie about his?"

Sam's 'honesty is the best policy' policy was backfiring big-time. "I don't know." He didn't know how his brother would receive him when he came back this afternoon, so he didn't want to mess up any stories. Dean would be able to come up with some rationale.

"I have to ask, where all the injuries are coming from?"

"Sports, mainly, and, later on..." Sam sighed. Love of his brother was all that could force him to continue. "Really kinky girlfriends." Such was the power of Dean that he made Sam tell awkward lies to strangers even when he wasn't around.

The doctor could barely look at him now. The feeling was mutual.

"Your family still in boxing?" Dr. Chase asked quickly, facing steadfastly in the opposite direction.

"Pardon?"

"Boxing. Your brother told Dr. Foreman that your family were professionals."

Not bad, Dean. "Not anymore. I quit when I could, chose brains over brawn."

"This may be difficult to talk about, but it's important we find out so we can help you two." Oh no, the doctor's voice was getting quieter and, turning back around, he was putting on one of those supposedly-tender faces. Amateur. "Sam, did anyone ever try to hurt you? Were you ever abused?"

Ugh, he had gotten so sick of that question over the years. After some arguments with Dad, he'd have been tempted to say 'yes' if not for Dean. Teenage self-righteousness went a long way towards considering 'not getting to do what you want' abuse.

Sam looked straight in the doctor's eyes. "No, I definitely wasn't."

"I know it's not always easy to talk about, but admitting it can be the first step. Was it your dad? Dean?"

It had been so long since he'd faced those kinds of questions that it hit him a little harder than it had used to. He'd forgotten that they used to blame Dean, too.

"What? That's bullshit! Dean would never- and Dad, he wouldn't-" Sam sputtered a little, eyes narrowing, trying to get himself together. "You can think what you want about my family, but we never hurt anyone, especially not each other."

Being basically from memory, and Dad, that speech wasn't quite as true as he wished it was, but the doctor didn't have to know that. At this point, Sam just wanted to get out of here and make sure that Dean was okay. Chuck's call had him anxious.

"Are you done yet?" he asked.

"Are you sure you haven't noticed any changes in your brother lately?" Dr. Chase returned.

"I told you, he's been acting more pissed-off." Sam took a while to think about it. So much had happened within the past few months, past few years even, that he didn't know what 'normal' was for his brother anymore. "Maybe he's more depressed, but we've been through a lot lately. Ask his... his… friend, Castiel, maybe." Still felt weird to say. "Can we finish this up? I want to see him already."

"Sorry, Sam," Dr. Chase said briskly. "We still have to get you x-rayed, then you're free to go."

Getting an x-ray was kind of embarrassing, although Sam had expected some measure of awkwardness. The radiologist running her hands over his torso was better than he had expected, at least, since she didn't look like she wanted to take a bite of him like Becky had. Dr. Chase looked less pleased with each new result that came in.

"So you have injuries that sync up with your friend's books, while your brother is just pretending to." Dr. Chase shook his head. "I don't understand. Why are you going along with any of this? What good can it possibly be doing you or your brother? I know you two must be close, but…"

"You have a brother?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Then you can't possibly understand," Sam answered, and headed towards Dean's room.