Thanks for your reviews! Here's the new chapter!

Chapter 9:

The fire had burned itself out fairly quickly after the building fell in, but that did not make it exactly safe: when paramedic Alex Croft jumped out of the ambulance he was aware that there would almost certainly be nothing for him to do. These houses had been empty for years and many were already scheduled for demolition. There was nobody to save.

The chief of the fire department came hurrying over to him at that moment, looking urgent. "Thank God you're here, we have a situation…"

Alex's face hardened, a characteristic sign of worry. "There were casualties?"

The fireman nodded. "Two men. We pulled them out from the rubble and I don't understand how they made it. One of them's been conscious but we've had to perform CPR on the other for about five minutes now…" Alex was already moving, waving his colleagues forward, towards the huddle of firemen a short distance away, clearly where the two injured men had been dragged. He pushed the crowds away, taking in the scene with practised alacrity: one man was sitting propped against a wall, covered in blood and soot and evidently barely hanging on to consciousness but apparently not in immediate danger, clearly fiercely focused on the fate of his companion, who lay utterly still, half concealed by the two firemen who were crouched over him, pumping air into his lungs and kneading his chest, just fighting to keep him alive. Alex and the other paramedics pushed them aside to continue: one tried to help the conscious man into the ambulance but he simply refused to budge from his companion's side. Alex himself took over chest compressions to this younger man, praying, begging a God he only believed in in moments of crisis for a spark of life, for a chance, but knowing that five minutes was getting on for too long without life, that hope was pitifully slim.

"Let me," the other man said hoarsely, leaning forwards. Alex shook his head.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to trust me, I'm a professional. You're injured."

"Maybe he needs it to be me," the man said, half to himself, clearly more than a little delirious from smoke inhalation, but Alex felt the words strike a chord deep inside, oddly powerfully. "Who are you?" he asked, never taking his eyes off his patient's face, but the simple answer he heard was enough to open up an entire soul.

"I'm his brother."

Alex moved aside.

Dean bent over Sam's motionless, destroyed body, pressing down hard where his heartbeat should have responded, then again, again. He was dazed from the smoke as by some kind of drug, confused and jerky, his perceptions narrowed down to a needle-thin line, aware that Sammy was not breathing and that he quite simply could not accept that as fact in this world. And that Sam needed him, because it was his, Dean's job to take care of him, and a fine mess he had made of that so far, and if anyone could drag him back from the brink of death then it could only be Dean. The paramedics watched, silent and united in their hope, their support, their unspoken despair, and Dean felt a growing panic surging up within him as Sam still did not respond: "Come on, Sammy," he snarled to his little brother's bloody, soot-stained face. "Goddamn you I am not letting you die on me, Sam, ya hear? You just breathe, okay, Sammy, breathe!"

And it was instantaneous: he felt a shuddering beat echo the motion of his hands, and Sam's body jerked violently as he sucked in a trembling gasp of air. Dean felt the breath rush back out of him, his strength fading as quickly as if had come, and he sagged back, a swift-thinking paramedic grabbing him before he could keel over onto the road. Others were bustling about Sam now, immobilising broken bones, fixing him up to an oxygen tank, but Dean could only gasp for air and stare with a kind of hungry, disbelieving relief at the tremors of breath shivering through his little brother's body, testament to his miraculously still-flickering life.

"You boys must have some kind of guardian angel," the paramedic supporting Dean muttered. "C'mon, let's get you in the ambulance…"

….

Dean refused to leave Sam's side in the ambulance and even when they reached the hospital fought to be allowed to sit through surgery with him. Here, however, his courageous nurse put her foot down:

"Look, sir, you're hurt, you're in shock and you need to be examined yourself. You'll only endanger your brother if you intrude on the sterile environment of the operating theatre and he's unconscious in any case and not even aware that you are here. You come with me and in a couple of hours when they're finished with him you can go right back. All right?"

Dean blinked at her tiredly but defiantly. He could see the sense in her words; he was just reluctant to let her perceive that. Defeated he watched Sam wheeled into the theatre, then turned back.

"So what now, Nurse…" he scanned her name badge. "Somers. Just you and me for a time."

She rolled her eyes. "This way. You're clearly delirious."

….

Dean opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a terrifyingly blank white ceiling. That's weird, he thought muzzily, used to the Impala ceiling facing him on waking, or the scrubby, chipped plaster paint of a motel room. Where was he? He closed his eyes again to dull the throbbing pain pulsing through his head, trying to decide, for starters, whether to try and work it out or just to go back to sleep.

A spectre. The fire. Sammy-

He sat bolt upright, swearing as his head twinged with pain. He was in a hospital room, in bed, dressed in green scrubs, and thank God not hooked up to any machines. He thought back-he remembered being taken into the examination room by that rather cute Nurse Somers, and then…ah. When it all started taking too long he had begun yelling and trying to get out, frantic to find out what was happening to Sam…and they must have sedated him to finish the examination. He grimaced-that was embarrassing.

"Ah, you're awake."

Dean jumped-he had thought that he was alone. He looked round now, to see a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain but smart suit rise from this chair in the corner and come towards him.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up. He was a little unsteady, but he could walk and that was the main thing. One arm was pulled cross his chest in a sling-fortunately it wasn't his right, so he could still fight if he had to.

"My name is Detective Land," the woman said coolly. "I'm investigating the fire."

"Oh, uh, good work there, officer. D'you know where my brother is?"

"Your brother can wait, Mr…?"

Dean thought fast. "Richards. Dean Richards. And no, he can't…" He glanced around, spied the call button and pressed it. It was only moments before a woman he recognised as Nurse Somers entered the room and smiled to see him awake. "You called?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Where's Sam? How's he doing?"

An expression of unease crossed her face-enough to set Dean's heart jangling. "What? What is it? Is he okay?"

She came towards him tentatively, taking his arm and trying to push him down on the bed. He fought her, desperate now. "What the hell is it? What's wrong with Sammy?"

"Your brother's doctor can tell you better than me," she said quietly. "Your brother is not in good shape, Dean. You were both amazingly lucky to survive at all, but Sam…"

"Tell me, dammit!"

She bit her lip. "Dean, can I just check you over and then I'll ask Sam's doctor if he can come and talk to you? I don't know everything…"

Dean gripped her wrist hard, forcing her to look at him. He could see the red imprint of his fingers on her skin and knew he must be hurting her, but he could not find it within himself to care. "No," he said icily, voice boiling with a barely contained fury. "You can get Sam's doctor right now, and then you can show me where you've hidden my brother, you hear? And if you don't then so help me I am gonna start throwing punches!"

Nurse Somers cast an uncertain glance at the detective behind Dean, then nodded. "Very well. Come this way…I'll take you to Sam's room. But you're going to have to be prepared for a shock. He only just got out of surgery."

Dean felt numb as he followed her out of his room and into the corridor. Everything seemed so familiar-he had seen too much of hospitals in his life, and the green linoleum and pristine white walls were like old friends: the stench of antiseptic settling in his senses as if it had never left. Be prepared for a shock. What exactly did that mean? What had happened to Sam? What was he going to see? And how could he just have got out of surgery-it had been hours since they had been brought in…as they walked, silent, he felt a growing sense of unreality settling over him, as if whatever nightmare lay at the end of this hall it would not be real, could not be, as if this was just a bad dream and the world just didn't work this way.

Nurse Somers stopped outside a room at the end of the hall and turned to Dean. "I'll go and find Dr Lucas," she said quietly. "Sam's in there. I'm…I'm sorry." And she turned away, to Dean's relief, leaving him to deal with the unknown horror alone.

As he dealt with every horror alone, alone but for Sam.

The room was a small, the walls white as ever, a small window closed tight against the faint grey drizzle outside, spattering the glass with half-hearted raindrops. It contained only one bed, but the person lying in it was almost unrecognisable. Dean froze by the door, momentarily certain that he had entered the wrong room, his sense of the unreality of the situation dissipating like smoke.

But it was not the wrong room.

Sam lay still as a corpse, his face obscured by a breathing mask and a large white bandage across one cheek: another was wound around his head pressing his untidy hair against his sweaty forehead, and both were slightly stained with blood. Another tube was fixed under his nose. His chest was bare, clearly for the sake of the livid burns that were seared across his skin, red and black and already flaking and scarring, as if his chest and upper arms had been put through a mangle. His torso was concealed by quantities of white bandage, though Dean could glimpse the black stitching holding his brother's flesh together through the thinner patches. One of his legs was elevated in a kind of sling hanging from the ceiling, and covered entirely by a plaster cast. Little suction cups were positioned around the burns on his chest, measuring his heart rate, the flickering, too fast patterns showing up on a black screen to the side of the bed. Dean just stood there and stared at the devastation of his little brother, feeling his heart breaking.

"Oh God, Sammy-" The words broke from his lips without volition, choked and desperate as a prayer.

"Dean Richards?" came a voice from behind, breaking him from his stunned horror. He turned to see a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a white coat just closing the door behind him; his face was regular and grave, eyes wide and calm, but in this instance troubled as well.

"That's me," Dean said, his voice a little tight. "Dr Lucas?"

The doctor nodded and drew closer, scanning the readings from the screens placed around Sam's bed. "No change," he muttered to himself, and then turned to Dean, who could only stare at him in frantic, wordless query.

"I'm sure you can see the seriousness of Sam's situation," Dr Lucas said softly. Dean gave a kind of mirthless, barked laugh, a sound of utter despair. "Just tell me how bad it is, plain English. And don't sugar-coat it."

"Well-" Dr Lucas took a breath. "Will you sit down?"

"No."

"As you wish. Sam sustained very serious injuries even before the fire, as I'm sure you know. There were serious lacerations to his chest and stomach; no vital organs had been punctured, fortunately, but the quantity of blood he had lost was extremely dangerous. There were also three broken ribs, and a fourth I believe must have been cracked while he was being given chest compressions to restart his heart. He had taken a nasty blow to the head as well: the skull was not cracked but there is some swelling and we won't know the full extent of the damage done until he wakes up." He paused. "Are you all right, Mr Richards?"

Dean nodded, speechless.

"During the fire Sam sustained serious second degree burns, very deep, which we fear could develop into third degree. You were not as badly burned, but there'll be time for the full story later. There are also difficulties with severe smoke inhalation: both of you will probably experience trouble breathing for several weeks, and that is if there are no added complications with the actual toxic chemicals in his-and your-bloodstream. We estimate that Sam must have been entirely without oxygen for several minutes, not counting the time when you and the paramedics gave him CPR, so you understand there could also be some brain damage. When the building collapsed…well, I don't know how you two survived at all."

"We fell through to the lower floor," Dean managed to croak. "It caught us for a while. When the whole thing came down I managed to hang on to a beam and I anchored Sammy…we fell afterwards and then a huge chunk of concrete trapped us in the rubble…"

"Well, that concrete would have protected you from any more falling masonry, as well as to some extent the flames," Dr Lucas said. "But it is still miraculous. During the fall Sam's left leg was crushed, and we have tried to set it but we can't be sure that it will heal. His arm was also broken, but it is not as serious…In addition to the burns on his leg we are heaving to discuss the possibility that it may need to be amputated, or Sam could develop a blood infection which would kill him for sure."

Dean did sit down then-crumpled onto a chair beside Sam's bed and covered his face with his hands. It was too much. Sam's leg amputated? Brain damage? He could not speak-sat there fighting tears as the worst kind of panic welled up inside, struggling to control himself.

"These are all hypotheses at the moment," Dr Lucas said quietly. "But real possibilities. I am sorry, Mr Richards, but your brother's chances of survival are extremely small. You should be prepared…"

"No," Dean snapped. "No, he is not going to die, you get me? He is not. He wouldn't dare." He turned to Sam then, reaching out, gently stroking his fingers across the small portion of Sam's face that was visible, the delicacy of the gesture contrasting starkly with the desperate harshness of his words. "You understand, Sammy? If you die on me I will kill you myself, you hear? You are not leaving me again. I mean that, okay? So snap out of it and you fight, okay, you fight!"

It was three more hours before Sam even showed a sign of life: three hours which Dean spent fixed to his side, ignoring the detective who kept trying to make him give a statement, or the doctors and nurses who told him he should rest. He remained sitting beside Sam's bed, carding his fingers through the bloody, sweaty chestnut hair, sometimes babbling to his unresponsive little brother about whatever came into his head, sometimes a plea to keep fighting, sometimes just random, disconnected words blurted out solely because he had to somehow believe that Sam could hear him. At other times he simply sat in shocked silence, willing his little brother to come back to him.

Night had fallen and it was nearing midnight when Sam suddenly stirred restlessly, turning his head on the pillow. Dean jerked into alertness, heart leaping. "Sam. Sammy, can you hear me? Sam?"

Sam's fists clenched tightly and he gave a small, pain-filled moan, and then suddenly his eyes were open and he was struggling with the oxygen mask, choking on the tube snaking down his throat, his whole body trembling with pain, fighting to tear it away. Dean grabbed his hands, trying vainly to still him. "No, Sam, you need it right now to help you breathe…Sam! Easy!" Panicking he jammed his hand on the call button, torn apart inside seeing his little brother so tortured. "Sammy please, just relax…just take it easy…it's helping you…please, Sam, it's me, it's Dean…"

Suddenly Sam fell still, his breath coming in harsh, painful gasps. His eyes were still open, staring fixedly at the ceiling, and tremors ripped through his whole body. "Dean?" he whispered in a mere thread of a voice. "Dean…hurts…can't…" And he convulsed into a racking cough that doubled up his body, and Dean saw the tears stream from his eyes as the movement aggravated his injuries. He got an arm around Sam's shoulders, easing him down on the pillows, helping him to sip at the water from a glass on the bedside table. Finally the coughing passed, and Dean felt Sam relax in his arms, shivering violently. "See, you're gonna be okay now, little bro," Dean said, trying to smile. "Easy now, easy…"

"Dean-" came Sam's broken voice. "That you?"

"Yeah, it's me, I'm right here."

And then the terror in Sam's tone, the rising panic: "Dean-I can't see you-I can't see anything-"

Dean stared at him. "What?"

Tears spilled over Sam's cheeks and anguish ripped into his face. "Can't see…anything…"

At that moment Dr Lucas came hurrying into the room, stopping short as he saw Sam awake, but even as he entered the drugs still in Sam's bloodstream and the exhaustion and exertion of his ordeal were already dragging him down, and he blacked out once more in Dean's arms before the doctor's eyes. Dean looked up at the doctor with a kind of mute, desperate appeal.

"He said he couldn't see," he said brokenly. "Doctor-why can't he see?"

Dr Lucas looked troubled, but he could only shrug his shoulders. "I don't know, Mr Richards. I'll run some tests, but I don't know."

Re-reading this there was a lot of pain in this chapter…hope it's not too traumatic for you guys! Please let me know what you think!