I'm pretty sure you don't want to read some long excuse as to why it's taken me almost three months to update this... and that's good, because I don't really have one. Other than that my muse seemed to desert me utterly and entirely. I had already planned out this chapter but actually WRITING it was another job altogether.

But hey. Here it is. And particular thanks to those readers who prodded me about finishing it – you encouraged me not to give up, which was a tempting idea, I must admit! This isn't actually the last chapter, but the next one is almost half-written so hopefully it shouldn't take me another three months to post.

Disclaimer: They're definitely not mine. If the show belonged to me, season 6 would have started on May 20th and we'd all know... what we don't know now ;-). And there'd be a hug.

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Dean had known it was bad.

As soon as he'd seen the blood, as soon as he'd realised that Sam had wandered off and was lost in the desert, he'd known that they were in trouble. Sam was missing. Sam was hurt. Sam was not with Dean; he was not where Dean could keep an eye on him and keep him safe. And his dream and his common sense had prepared him for the condition in which he'd found his brother: semi-conscious, dehydrated, scarlet and blistered with sunburn.

But he'd found Sam. Somehow, despite everything, he had found him. And at that point, with Sam secure in his arms, limp and overheated as he was, Dean had somehow thought the worst was over. Sam was no longer lost, they were no longer separated, and although he was clearly in need of medical attention, he was safe.

Now, in the shabby madness of the hospital waiting room, he had to acknowledge that he'd been wrong. The end of the m&m trail hadn't been the end of the nightmare: he was still in it. And he couldn't wake up.

In the ugly plastic chair next to his, Bobby's head sagged to his chest, heavy breath grumbling into a snore in the back of his throat. Dean listened vaguely, and stared at the crack running across the corner of one of the linoleum floor tiles.

Sam wasn't safe. He wasn't okay. If the convulsions in the car and the steadily worsening fever hadn't convinced Dean of that, the instant frantic activity of the hospital personnel upon their arrival would have been proof enough. They'd barely listened to his explanations, had whisked Sam away behind heavy swing doors and refused to let Dean follow. He could still picture the last view he'd had of his brother: sprawled unmoving on the gurney, damp hair falling across closed eyes, bare feet torn and blistered.

Sam could still die.

For a while, when Sam was gone, Dean had acknowledged that possibility. But he'd been too busy then, to think about it as more than a stimulus to urgent action.

Now he had time to think.

He'd lived without Sam before, when his brother was at Stanford, and he'd functioned perfectly adequately. He'd hunted, with ruthless efficiency. He'd eaten and done laundry and slept and driven, had even entertained himself with bars, pool and poker, girls. And somehow he'd managed to pretend even to himself that there wasn't something missing. He'd managed to persuade himself that he didn't need Sam.

He'd been wrong. After months of hunting together since Jess had died and Sam had left school, Dean could not imagine how he'd hunted without his brother, without Sam's research skills and empathetic handling of victims, without the security of working with another hunter whom he trusted absolutely.

And he couldn't imagine how he'd lived without Sam. It wasn't just the hunts, the backup and the extra knowledge; it was the thousand stupid little things that went along with being with a person who knew him as well as he did himself. It was the way Sam moaned about Dean's music and then sang it in the shower. It was the way he grumbled about Dean's dirty clothes on the floor but spent an hour getting the blood from a hunt out of Dean's favourite t-shirt.

"...as a companion you really suck..."

Anger and heat and the remnants of flu had made him say it – had made him believe it.

Now he couldn't understand how he'd ever even thought it.

There were many hunters with whom he could work, knowledgeable and capable, and several of them were good enough comrades with whom to enjoy a beer and a game of poker.

And none of them could ever come close to being the companion that Sam was. He was Dean's partner, his ally. His best friend.

Dean didn't know if Sam had remembered what he'd said. He wasn't sure what Sam had been thinking in those nightmare hours, lost and alone in the cruel waterless heat. He'd been upset when Dean had said it, though. Dean could remember the startled hurt in his eyes and the way he'd flinched, almost as if Dean had hit him.

And then, in spite of all that, Sam had been terrified about Dean's safety.

In whatever bizarre unreality concussion and heatstroke had conjured up for him, it had been Dean about whom Sam was worried, Dean for whose well-being he'd begged. Lost, confused and hurt, his primary thought had been for his brother.

"Don' hurt him..."

But it was Sam who'd been hurt. By Dean.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sammy...

Sam could still die.

Dean had spent a fair amount of his life in hospitals, either being treated or waiting impatiently for news. He'd talked to too many medical staff not to be able to hear what they weren't saying.

The middle-aged doctor with tired blue eyes had spoken about heat stroke, about dehydration and fever and febrile convulsions. He'd been calm and reassuring as he talked about rapid temperature reduction, fluid replacement, seizure control. And Dean had seen the tension in his shoulders, the concern that the man kept otherwise perfectly hidden, and he'd cut across the flow of words, interrupted the doctor to ask the only thing that really mattered.

"He's going to be okay, right? He's going to be fine?"

He'd heard the answer in the other man's involuntary deep breath, in the hesitation as the doctor formulated a response. He'd felt the fear, heavy like a fist to the gut, before the actual words were spoken.

"Dangerously high temperature... condition serious... doing everything we can..."

And the knockout:

"If his temperature doesn't come down significantly in the next hour, I'm afraid the prognosis is poor."

He hadn't heard anything since then. He'd filled out forms, given monosyllabic answers in response to Bobby's attempts at conversation, tried to pretend that he wasn't horribly aware of the inexorable passing of time.

The next hour... the next hour...

Sam could die.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, shaky breath sucking in, and then thrust himself to his feet. Beside him a snore caught as the movement startled Bobby into spluttering wakefulness, but he didn't wait for the older man's comment.

He couldn't just sit there. He wasn't going to wait passively for someone to come and tell him that Sam had lost the fight. That Sam had died, surrounded by strangers.

Sam couldn't go thinking that Dean didn't want him.

He was quite prepared to argue with anyone who tried to prevent him from going into the ER. He pushed through the swing doors through which Sam had vanished earlier and found himself in a generic hospital corridor, with its standard beige linoleum and scuffed institution-green walls. It was as busy as he'd expected, a constant buzz of uniformed figures moving through the doors that opened off the hall. He paused, momentarily nonplussed.

Somewhere in this maze, behind one of the many doors, was Sam.

Hurt.

Sick.

Alone.

If he's even alive.

Dean's mouth twisted at the thought, but it was enough to break him from his brief immobility. He needed to find Sam. Now.

Given the number of hospital staff moving around, he expected to be intercepted almost immediately. He straightened unconsciously, a purposeful frown driving a groove between his eyes, and headed towards the first door.

The chubby pre-teen wheezing into an oxygen mask didn't notice him. Her mother, grimly corpulent, looked up, and at the startled displeasure on her face Dean backed out quickly.

An impressive stack of bedpans greeted him as he opened door number two.

His fingers had closed over the third handle when a nurse emerged from a room a little further along the hall. Heels thudded on the linoleum as she hurried away, and for a brief instant the door stood open before an unseen hand inside pushed it shut.

That moment was enough, though. Enough for him to hear the sound to which his ears were more finely tuned than any other. Sam's voice – hoarse – pained – desperate. Afraid.

Dean didn't hesitate.

There were other people in there, uniforms. Some part of him knew they were only trying to help Sam, but he'd never been able to hear his little brother in trouble and do nothing.

"Sir!" The female voice was startled and a little angry. There was more – "...can't come in..." and "...calling security..." and it was just an annoying buzz to be ignored, as was the hand that reached for his arm, and the green-clad figure that stepped into his way. Because he could see Sam, could hear the gasping "No... no... Dean..." and there was nothing that was going to stop him when Sam called for him like that. There was nothing that could stop him.

"Sam? Sammy!" He wrenched his arm from someone's grip, took another stride towards the bed. Sam was fighting, limbs flailing in a pathetic attempt to get away from the orderlies, breathing harsh and quick and panicked.

"No... please... please..."

"Sam –"

Blue-green eyes shifted, met green ones. Then Sam's gaze slid away again without recognition.

"Dean... have to... have to... Dean..." He sagged against the bed, words dying to an incoherent mutter.

Another hand closed over Dean's arm, stronger this time. The voice in his ear was male, and angry.

"Sir, you can't be here. You have to leave."

He couldn't resist them indefinitely. They would just call in security, and throw him out. He'd never been particularly concerned about staying on the right side of authority, but if he was separated from Sam now he might not have another chance. This might be the last time –

And then Sam seemed to gather his meagre resources in a final desperate bid for freedom. His legs pulled up with a shuffle, fumbling hands pressed down, and he threw himself off the bed in a wild uncoordinated lunge.

Dean saw the tension in quivering muscles, remembered terrified fingers scrabbling at the door of the Impala, and guessed his intent a split-second before Sam jumped. One sharp swing freed his arm; one long stride carried him forward in time to catch hold of Sam just before the younger Winchester hit the floor.

Sam landed against him with a force that made Dean stagger. He grunted, arms closing around his brother, bracing himself to take Sam's weight. Sam's feet and ankles still rested precariously on the edge of the bed; his face was buried against Dean's chest.

For a moment, holding onto Sam and feeling the heat of uncontrolled fever, Dean was back in the Impala. He could hear his own futile attempts to calm his brother, to reassure him, and Sam's distress.

"Have to find Dean..."

"Don' hurt him..."

Muscles bunched in his grip, and he felt Sam's hands groping at his jacket. Sam's face bumped against him as he tried to pull his head back. Dean heard him mumble something.

"Sam –"

Then the restlessly pawing fingers stilled. Sam's head turned a little, his chin digging into Dean's chest as his face tilted up.

"De... Dean?"

Not a plea. Not a terrified cry for mercy.

Looking down, Dean saw a glimmer of awareness in the feverish eyes peering up at him. Sam's fingers were curled tightly around Dean's amulet, and a deep indentation in one flushed cheek showed where it had pressed into his face.

"Sammy?"

"Dean..." Sam blinked. "'s you..."

"Yeah, it's me."

"'s really you..."

"It's really me, Sammy."

He felt a tremor shiver through the body in his arms, and Sam's free hand clutched at his jacket. Worry – fear – flitted through the dazed eyes.

"Are you... are you..."

"I'm okay, bro."

"Not... di'n't hurt you?"

"No. Really, Sam. I'm fine."

"So worried..." Sam's breath hitched. Dean's jaw clenched, but his voice when he spoke was gentle.

"I know. I know you were." Worried about me... even though you were the one in trouble and I'd been such a dick... "But it's all good now, Sammy, you hear me? There's nothing to worry about now. You can just relax."

"Dean..." There was relief in the rasping voice. "I thought... I thought..."

"What?"

"I... I couldn't find you..."

Yeah, right back at you, dude.

Dean's arms tightened a little at the memory of his own fear.

"I know. But I gotcha, Sammy. You're safe now."

He felt the release of tension as Sam sagged against him, and his back protested at the weight.

"You okay with going back on the bed? Cause I gotta tell you, salad boy, you weigh a ton."

Sam blinked hazily at him.

"Head hurts..."

"Yeah, well, that's not surprising. You smacked it on a rock." Dean's words came out breathless as he heaved two hundred pounds of little brother back onto the bed.

"Rock...?" Sam slumped against the mattress, limbs sprawling bonelessly, eyes heavy. One hand still grasped Dean's amulet, tugging Dean down when he would have straightened.

"Hey! Mind if I have that back?" Dean huffed a laugh, unwinding Sam's grip from the metal. The hot fingers immediately clutched his hand instead, and this time he let them stay. He would have emphatically denied that his own closed over them.

"Dean..." Sam slurred. Dark lashes fluttered. "Don'... don'..."

"Don't what?"

"Don'... go..." The words drifted. Dean felt the hand in his relax, and he leant forward, suddenly alarmed. Sam was very still, eyes shut and head lolling slightly to one side.

"Sam? Sammy!"

"It's okay. It's just the Lorazepam." Dean had forgotten the presence of the medics around him; he blinked as the doctor spoke up. "It's a sedative – we gave it to him to control the seizures. Looks like it's kicking in at last."

"So he's doing better – he's doing okay?"

Gravely non-committal seemed to be the doctor's default facial expression, but Dean saw the flicker of a surprised smile as the man glanced at the bank of monitors keeping electronic watch over Sam's vitals.

"His temperature's down half a degree. I'd like to see it a little lower –"

"He recognised me, though." Dean cut across the cautious observation. "That's a good sign, right?"

"As I said, I'd like to see his temperature down further, and his pulse and respirations stabilised. There's always the danger of lasting... er... damage as a result of the high fever, and that's something we won't really be able to evaluate until his stats are back to normal –"

"Doctor."

The older man blinked, and cleared his throat.

"Uh – hmm. Well, I don't really like to commit myself at this stage, but... yes. The way things are looking, there does seem to be some improvement. Obviously we'll need to keep an eye..."

The doctor's voice continued its circumspect monologue in the background, but Dean had stopped listening.

"His temperature's down half a degree..."

Sam was still flushed, still too close to the limp lifelessness of Dean's nightmare. But the breath which rasped between cracked lips was a little slower, a little steadier. The lax fingers were a little cooler against Dean's palm.

"There does seem to be some improvement..."

Sam had recognised him. There'd been relief in the dazed eyes turned up to his, relief at the realisation of Dean's safety. Dean knew he didn't deserve his own relief, but he let it engulf him nonetheless.

"Need to get away..."

"Have to find Dean..."

He blinked hard, remembering the panic in that cracked voice – the fear in his own heart. He'd thought he was going to lose his brother... his best friend... his Sam. He still couldn't quite believe that he was being given another chance.

"Dean... don' go..."

"Not gonna leave you, Sammy..." The reassurance was quiet as a breath, almost inaudible. His fingers closed a little more firmly around his brother's, and this time he didn't care who saw.

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