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Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for all the kind words and the encouragement, especially concerning chapter 6. I'm glad to hear that everyone out the in PCLand is enjoying the story so far!
Nifty Fact for the Day:
Sam's LSAT (Law School Admission Test) score was 174. The highest you can score is a 180. Way to go Sammy!

o(8)o

It was only supposed to be a fifteen minute nap.

Dean had closed his eyes for a few minutes in their motel room. Just long enough to catch a quick snooze before hitting the road to Indiana.

He had awoken somewhere else completely.

Adrenaline flooded his system, blinding him as it surged through his veins. Bolting upright in bed, he whipped his head around, trying to discern his surroundings, each sudden movement sent pain throbbing through his temples. Anything more than a shallow breath sent agony spiking through his ribs and back, an unwelcome break in the mammoth pressure in his chest.

Swallowing hard, Dean forced himself to relax, taking in quick, shallow breaths. As he coaxed air into his lungs, the pain abated and bits and pieces of his surroundings began to become clear.

The smell of disinfectant and sickness. The insipid watercolor on the wall. The thin blanket covering him from the waist down. The soft hum of distant conversation and the much closer beep of a heart monitor. The freaking needle in his freaking arm.

A hospital.

He was so going to kick Sam's ass.

It had taken him almost an hour after the episode in the diner to convince his little brother that he was fine, that he didn't need to see a doctor. When reasoning with Sam hadn't worked, he had tried cajoling and when that had failed as well; he had done what any big brother would have done.

He had threatened to throw Sam's laptop out of the Impala going eighty-five.

Apparently the warning hadn't stuck with his little brother like he thought it had.

The privacy curtain shifted and Dean tensed, formulating the most believable lie about why he had to get out of this hospital. Right. Freaking. Now.

The curtain moved aside, sending a sliver of brighter light into the dim room, and Sam slipped into the room, a Styrofoam cup and a candy bar in his hands.

The strained, weary expression he was wearing dissolved into a relieved smile as his eyes landed on Dean. "Hey, you're awake," he said. "Are you hungry, do you want something to eat? They've got a vending machine out in the lobby."

The thought of food sent an unusual pang of revulsion through Dean and he shook his head quickly. "I would like to know where the hell I am, though."

Sam pressed his lips together, suddenly very interested in the candy bar as he unwrapped it. "The holding room of the ER," he said. "The doctor got called away, something about a gunshot victim."

Dean's fingers went to his opposite hand, picking at the tape that secured the IV, wondering how difficult it would be to pull the line out. He was sure the bleeding wouldn't hinder him too much as he pummeled his younger brother.

"Want to tell me what I'm doing here, Sam? I thought we had an agreement."

"You're sick, Dean," Sam said, looking down at his hands. "I shouldn't have waited as long as I did. I should have made you go to the doctor back in Genoa."

Dean paused in tearing away the second layer of tape. "Dude, what are you talking about, back in Genoa? Where are we?"

"Itasca, Illinois," Sam said, some of the worry leaching back into his features. "About twenty miles away Chicago."

Dean arched an eyebrow, incredulous. "That's bullcrap, Sam, and you know it," he said. "I just closed my eyes fifteen minutes ago in the motel room, how the hell did we get to Chicago?"

"Dean," Sam's voice dropped, "we left Genoa almost three days ago."

Alarm shot through Dean and he sat up a little straighter. "I've been out for three damn days?"

Sam shook his head, eyes wide. "You drove most of the way here. I couldn't get you to wake up for dinner tonight and brought you in. You don't remember?"

Brow furrowed, Dean tried to pull something, anything from the last three days out of his memory. But there was nothing. Tamping down his unease at the giant blank space in his brain, he turned his attention back to peeling the tape from the back of his hand.

"Must have been sicker than I thought," he muttered, wincing as some hair came along with the strip. This was ridiculous. How many freaking layers of tape did these people need to use for one little I.V.?

"The doctor has you on some pretty hardcore antibiotics now," said Sam, nodding toward the bag full of clear liquid hanging over Dean's head. "We just have to wait until they're done then we can go."

He paused, fingers hovering over the last bit of tape. "That's it?"

"Yeah, I knew you wouldn't want to stay. I've got your prescriptions already and the doctors think we're going to see our family physician once we get back home to Milwaukee."

Dean smiled at Sam, pleased. The less attention they drew to themselves the better. "Good job, Sammy."

"It's Sam, Dean. Sam."

"Yeah, whatever."

Rolling his eyes, Sam took a drink of his coffee and then grimaced into the cup. "Ugh. This is the worst coffee I've ever had," he huffed quietly, shaking his head. "And that's really saying something considering some of the places we've been."

Dean scoffed at his brother and reached for the cup. "It can't be that bad, I'm sure you've probably got more sugar than actual coffee in there anyway."

Raising his brows at the challenge, Sam handed over the Styrofoam cup. "That's what you think."

Never one to turn down the chance to prove what a pansy his little brother was, Dean regarded the cup for a moment and then took a drink. The acrid burn hit him like a brick and it was all he could do not to spit back into the cup.

Beside him, Sam gave an amused snort. Dean forced himself to swallow the vile liquid and then saluted his younger brother with his middle finger.

"Son of a bitch," he said with an exaggerated groan, returning the cup. "You don't drink coffee like this, you cross the damn street to get away from it."

Sam bobbed his head in agreement. "No kidding. Do you want to know what the worst part is?"

"What's that?

"This is my second cup."

Dean chuckled, arching an eyebrow. "And you're still bitching about how bad it tastes?"

"I thought it was just because the first cup was black." Sam glanced into the cup, the corners of his mouth turning up. "I guess I was wrong."

"Think its evil?" Dean asked, smiling at Sam's quiet laugh. It wasn't a sound he heard often enough. "Maybe a little rock salt will do the trick?"

"Couldn't make it taste any worse."

Chuckling, Dean settled against the pillows and glanced up at the bag that hung from the I.V. pole, "Looks like we have a little bit of a wait yet."

Reaching over the bedrail, Sam pushed a button and the television mounted on the far wall came to life. "Yeah," he said, settling into an uncomfortable-looking bedside chair. "The nurse that checked on you last said at least an hour, probably closer to two."

An hour or two with nothing to do: normally the idea alone would be enough to make Dean's skin crawl. But not today. The sound of the T.V. was soothing and the room was comfortable and dim.

He let his eyes slip closed, allowing some of the exhaustion he had been staving off for the past three days . . . or the past week apparently, to take hold.

"Wake me up when we can get out of here, okay?"

o()o

Sam stared at the television without actually seeing it, another cup of vile coffee in his hands, his third.

He should have known. He should have understood how sick Dean was and made him go to the hospital.

When his brother was awake, it was easy to tell himself that Dean was fine, that this was no big deal. But now, as his brother laid in the hospital bed, still too pale, unmoving as he slept, the truth was all to clear to Sam.

He had barely had time to grab Dean in that grimy bathroom, protecting his head from smacking against the hard tile as his brother's eyes had rolled back, body going limp.

The heat radiating off of Dean's skin had been hot enough to burn.

And Sam had done nothing. Hell, he had let his brother drive them almost three hundred miles, on top of being so sick. First the drowning, then this, was he really so caught up in himself that he couldn't even see what his brother was going through? Was he really so selfish?

Running a hand through his hair, Sam heaved a sigh trying to force the treacherous thought out of his mind.

He failed.

"Hey."

The voice made him jump and he was surprised to see Dean awake and watching him.

"I thought you were sleeping."

Dean shrugged, sitting up with a wince. "Must have been that swallow of rocket fuel you gave me earlier. I probably won't sleep for a week."

The chuckle Sam tried to give came out closer to a weary sigh and Dean frowned at him. "Something on your mind, man?"

Sam shook his head, looking back up at the television, watching as some soap opera heroine smacked the living daylights out of her male counterpart.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said, reaching out to give him an affable shove. "You look like you're sucking on a lemon."

"I'm fine." The retort came out sharper than Sam had intended and he regretted it instantly. "I'm just tired," he added more gently.

Something flickered behind Dean's eyes, something that looked suspiciously like hurt. A moment later, the look was gone and his brother's customary smirk was firmly in place. "Don't know how you could be tired after drinking that coffee."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a harried-looking nurse, her hair swept back and secured with a pencil, pushed aside the privacy curtain. She glanced at them both, her gaze turning to one of annoyance as she saw the ball of tape that Dean had removed from his I.V.

"Come on," she said, pressing her lips together.

Dean offered her a thousand-watt grin and extended a hand. "I'll fix it," he cajoled. "Promise. Just leave me the tape."

Her face softening, the nurse reached into her pocket and lobbed a roll of tape across the room to Dean. As she did, Sam noticed the blood that was splattered on the sleeves of her scrub jacket.

"I'll be back to check on you soon," she said, giving them both a small smile and a nod before disappearing from the room.

"Hey Sam," Dean said, setting aside the tape and plucking one of the prescription bottles from the nightstand. "Do you remember that time, you couldn't have been more than eight, and you got the flu?"

Sam nodded, resisting the urge to cringe. He'd actually been nine and it had been the most miserable week and a half of his childhood life.

"You know, I knew something wasn't right. I tried to get dad to take you to the hospital."

The disclosure grabbed Sam's attention. "You never told me that."

Eyes still glued on the orange bottle in his hands, Dean shrugged a shoulder. "I never told anyone."

"Well, you must have gotten Dad to listen; I ended up in the hospital anyway."

Dean's features hardened into a look that was normally reserved for the paranormal and his grip around the bottle tightened. "He didn't listen. When you passed out in front of the soda machine the next night, he was already gone. On a hunt."

Sam felt his eyes go wide, "What? Then how did I get to the hospital?"

"I stole a car. Almost killed us both trying to drive on the freeway." Dean closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I don't think I'd ever seen the old man so mad."

Sam nodded, gaze going back to the television. "I remember the fight."

"Yeah," Dean set the bottle aside and ran a hand through his hair. "It was the only time I ever called dad by his name."

Sam looked over at his brother, jaw dropping. "You did what?" Calling their father anything but 'Sir' was unthinkable.

His amazed tone made Dean chuckle mirthlessly. "He told me I should have left well enough alone, and then I took a swing at him, right there in the hospital lobby. It took two orderlies to yank us apart."

"Dean," Sam frowned, "Why are you telling me this?"

For a moment, Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but then he looked away, face closing as whatever window of vulnerability he had been willing to offer shut.

"I'm just saying if you hotwired the Impala to get me here, I'll kick your ass."

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