Yes I have a new chapter done! I tried to get it done quickly to make up for the shocking delay before the previous one…let's hope this kind of efficiency become a habit, huh?

Chapter 9:

Mike was bleeding to death, slumped across Sam's shoulder. Sam had to get him home before it was too late, every instant sheered away at his friend's chances of survival…all was dark around him and he could not see, fumbling his way forwards blindly, desperately. Then suddenly the witch was standing before him and he heard her icy voice in his head- "You. You-you deserve to be dead! Look at what you have done, Sam Winchester!"

"It's not true," Sam returned angrily. "It's not true."

"Just look, look at all those who have died for you…"

"I saved your prisoners," Sam cried. "I saved them, didn't I?"

And then her jet of power came at him, striking him where he stood, burning him to ashes from the inside out-

Sam jolted awake choking and screaming. There were strong hands holding him down and he clawed at them, struggling desperately but their whispering demon voices went on, coaxing him to be still, to take it easy. Panicked and lost Sam fought them, fought them until there was no more strength in his body, no more air in his lungs, and he dissolved into a painful coughing fit, alone in the darkness with these creatures who were trapping him, holding him, who were going to do God only knew what to him…

"Hey, Sam, Sammy, you need to calm down. Sam…"

Hands he knew coming down on his shoulders, soothing him, anchoring him. He twisted into them, clinging to his sole lifeline in this world of panic, of pain, and only then realised that he had never opened his eyes. He did so, the world blurry but slowly focusing, and then it was Dean sitting before him in a hospital room he had never seen before, clasping his shoulders in a slow gentle massage that opened his airway, allowed him to breathe.

"Breathe easy now, Sammy," he instructed softly. "Just breathe. Don't be scared."

"Dean?" Sam whispered, throat raw, chest tight and aching. "Dean, what…where…"

"Ah…" Dean's eyes flickered to the doctor and nurse standing beside him and even in his bewildered state Sam understood that he had been hurt in connection with some supernatural entity, and that it could not be discussed now. "You're in hospital, Sammy. You, uh…you were in an accident."

Sam cast his mind back. Yes-now he remembered. The witch, the prisoners in the warehouse. Had they beaten her? Were the prisoners safe? He tried to signal his questions to his brother with his eyes, but Dean did not understand his burning gaze and only smiled reassuringly. Sam felt frustration well up within.

One of the men by the bed stepped forward and at first Sam flinched back, then forced himself to relax. Dean shifted a few inches backwards, never taking his eyes off his little brother's face. "Hey, Sam," the man said. "I'm Dr Milligan, I'm the one who treated you."

"Uh…" Sam was not sure what to say, what the protocol was. "Thank you?"

Dr Milligan smiled. "You're welcome, but you don't need to thank me. I guess you've learned your lesson about high-voltage electricity generators now, huh?"

This story was totally new to Sam, but he managed to nod with only the faintest of hesitations.

"We'll take care he has," Dean added, to cover the silence. The doctor nodded. "But there is another matter to deal with…"

Sam was perplexed. "There is?" His voice sounded strange and unused, hoarse. He wondered why, then abruptly remembered. He had not spoken for days. And now…

"Yes. You see, I have diagnosed you as suffering from acute pneumonia, and I'd be quite interested to know how you managed to conceal your illness, which must have been fairly serious for a few days now, from your family?" He was testing them all, Sam realised suddenly. Asking him in front of Dean, and his dad, who he now saw waiting just behind the nurses, an expression of harassed relief and unease in his face. It was a test.

"I…I tried to hide it," he said uncertainly. "They were both, uh, really busy, and I thought I could deal with it. They tried to help me. I…I didn't let them. It's my fault." Dean stirred but said nothing-he must realise that any protest would only lessen their chances of being designated responsible guardians for Sam. Dr Milligan held the boy's gaze a few moments longer, then smiled and stood up.

"Very well," he said. "You should take a lesson away from that, as well, of course. I'm putting you on a course of antibiotics and I'll be keeping you in for at least a week for observation. You might just dodge a bullet here, but it'll be close. Another day or so and I would've had to intubate you. You understand?"

"Yessir," Sam replied quietly. "I do."

"Then I'll leave you to the mercies of your family. But they shouldn't stay long, you need your rest."

"I'll sleep here, then," Dean said immediately. "I'm not leaving Sammy here-"

"Dean," John remonstrated quietly. "We can discuss that later." Dr Milligan nodded and ushered the nurse out with him, leaving John and Dean alone with Sam. Finally Sam's protective mixture of composure and confusion dropped and he lowered his gaze, looking away.

"Did they make it out?" he demanded in a rush. "The prisoners?"

"Thanks to you," Dean told him. "But you can't go around pulling stunts like that, Sam. You could've died. Even Dad wouldn't have-" He paused, shook his head. "There's a difference between protecting strangers and throwing yourself in the path of a bullet for them!"

Sam shrugged. "M'sorry I scared you," he muttered. "I couldn't…couldn't watch them die. Not…not again."

"Well-" It was John who spoke. He sounded embarrassed and uncertain, but at least he did not look angry. "You were…very brave, Sam. But it was stupid, too. I don't want to see that again, you hear me? I-" He hesitated, seeing his son's face fall. "I don't want to…" He could not say it. But he thought, he hoped, that Sam understood. "And that's not all, he went on, to cover his awkwardness. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

Sam shrugged. "Didn't…didn't think of it. I…I deserved it anyway." His voice was empty and listless. Dean swore.

"What the hell, Sam? You deserved it? That is the biggest load of crap I've heard since-" He shook his head. "Is this about Mike and the others? Is it?" He saw his little brother's flinch at the sound of their names. "'Cause you are not responsible for what happened to them, Sammy! There was nothing you could have done, nothing anybody could've done! And you have to stop blaming yourself for it! You didn't deserve any of this and if you ever say that to me again I will kick your ass from here to Texas. You get me?"

Sam hesitated. It wasn't true. When Dean was less angry, when he calmed down and thought about it, he too would realise the truth. But he wasn't going to understand and he wasn't going to listen, not now. Sam nodded. "Okay," he whispered.

"And that too," Dean went on, undaunted. "You didn't speak for nine freaking days! What the hell was that all about?"

"I'd kinda like to hear that one too," John said quietly. Sam did not meet their eyes.

"I don't know," he said miserably. "It just didn't work. I don't know why. I…I'm sorry."

"Dammit, you don't have to be sorry!" Dean exploded, then raised his hands to his face and made a frustrated kind of growling sound. "You know what? It's done. You're staying here and you're gonna take good care of yourself. And I'm sticking close by too, like it or not, little bro. And then when we get you out you're gonna be okay, that's all. Right?"

"Sure," Sam said quietly. "Sure." But he was lying. He knew now what he had to do-he understood the only way to stop the pain, to make him feel once more that he deserved to be alive. The only way to do it was just what he had done in the warehouse. He had tried to sacrifice himself for the prisoners, and been ready to die to save them. That was the way forwards. Saving people, as many as he could, no matter what. That was what was important. And Dean wasn't going to understand that right now, nor was their Dad, but it made no difference. It was what Sam had to do, and he was prepared for the consequences. His own safety and his own life did not matter. What mattered was saving as many people as possible, to make up for failing Mike and Tom and Adrian. It was the only way, and he knew that it was the only thing that could give him the will to go on.

Two days later, when Sam opened his eyes to find Dean slumped in the chair next to his bed, flicking through a magazine, he had made his decision. Dean looked up, sensing his movement, and closed the magazine.

"Don't know why they bother with these things, hospitals," he commented. "Nowhere near enough porn."

"Why the hell would they put porn in a magazine they're going to circulate around the patients?"

Dean grinned. "It has curative properties. And anyway, what is the world coming to? Little kids like you shouldn't know what porn even means."

"Ha, ha," Sam said absently, and then his face turned serious. "Dean…I'm going to ask them to discharge me today."

Dean started. "Huh? No, you heard the doc. He wants you in here for a week at least."

"I don't need to be," Sam said stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'll be fine. I'll keep taking the antibiotics."

"Sam, the doc's gonna say no, and Dad's gonna say no, and more importantly I'm saying no, right now."

Sam scowled. "Dean…" His voice turned pleading. "I don't want to be here. It feels...weird. Plus the food's horrible. And…"

"And?" Dean demanded. Sam looked up miserably.

"And I have to be busy, Dean. I have to be doing stuff. Useful stuff. I need to be out there helping."

Dean blinked. "Why? Helping with what?"

"Hunting," Sam said. "I just do. I need to be doing something."

"Sam, you're sick. If you don't take care of yourself for once, you're gonna get seriously sick again. You had a fever of 102 last night for God's sake."

"I'll take care," Sam insisted. "I'll take the meds and everything. But I need to get outa here, Dean!" His wide hazel eyes gazed up at Dean with a deep intense pleading, but Dean just shook his head.

"No way. There is no way I'm letting you out of here till you're okay again. Don't you understand how sick you were, Sammy?"

"I understand," Sam said through gritted teeth. "I'm not a little kid. But-"

"I'm saying no, Sam," Dean said with finality. "And don't try anything or I'll kick your ass however sick you are."

…..

That night, Dean was dozing in his chair when suddenly he heard Sam, sleeping beside him, begin to moan and whimper. Immediately he was fully awake, realising that his brother must be having a nightmare, and he stood up, leaning over the bed.

"No," Sam was mumbling, tossing his head on the pillow. The floppy chestnut bangs that fell across his pale sleeping face were dark with sweat. Dean reached out to touch his shoulder, intending to gently shake him awake, but Sam instantly jerked aside, as if struggling against some invisible assailant even in his sleep. "Sam." He shook him, at first softly then more violently. "Sammy c'mon, wake up!" Where's Dad? he wondered. They were taking it in turns to sit with Sam during the nights, but it must be nearly time for John's shift. "Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped open. "Dean?" he gasped. "Dean-" His arms jerked out, flailing for purchase, and Dean grabbed his hands, pressing him back against the bed. "Hey, easy there," he said urgently. "Relax, Sammy, I'm here, you need to take it easy, okay?" Sam's breathing was harsh and laboured, every gasp coming with a frightening choking sound, and he was white as the sheets. "Dean?" he croaked. "Dean, I don't feel…so good…"

"Yeah, well, you don't look so good either," Dean muttered, sitting back on the edge of Sam's bed. "You want some water?" Sam nodded and Dean picked up the glass, holding it to his little brother's dry lips. Sam, afraid and disoriented by fever, did not even protest at the gesture, and that scared Dean more than anything else.

"You were having a nightmare," Dean said awkwardly. "You, uh, wanna tell me about it?"

Sam sagged back, closing his eyes. "I keep seeing them, Dean," he whispered. "Mike and the others. Dying. Because of me. Every time…"

Dean sighed. "Sam, for the last time they didn't die because of you! You did everything you could and more than most people would've, isn't that enough?"

"They won't leave me alone," Sam said hopelessly. "I thought…if I saved…somebody it'd stop. It'd be enough. But…" He was already fading into unconsciousness again, his crushing exhaustion weighing him down. "Not enough," he mumbled. "It's not enough."

….

Two days later Sam could already feel the inflammation in his lungs beginning to subside, and his fever had dropped. His nightmares, however, had only worsened and he knew that the longer he lay here doing nothing the more horrific they were going to get. Dean and his father were still adamant that he should stay until the doctor discharged him, but Sam had no intention of doing so. When his father walked through the door to his room that morning it was to find Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and waiting for him. John stopped, taken aback. Sam too was thrown: he had expected Dean, who had just gone down to the cafeteria to get a coffee.

"Sam-uh-I guess you're feeling better?"

"Yes," Sam said, looking straight up into his father's eyes. "I'm okay. Uh-where's Dean?"

"At the gas station filling up the car," John replied. Sam nodded. That might actually make this easier.

" Okay. Um, Dad? I…I think I'm okay enough to leave here now." He lifted his head, trying to seem as healthy and as adult as possible. John sighed heavily.

"Sam, you heard Dr Milligan. The last five or six times. He wants you to stay here at least another three days and I'm not disregarding a doctor's advice like I did last time."

Sam scowled. "I'm in here because of the hunt, not because of last time."

John came across the room and sat down beside his son on the edge of the bed. "Look, Sammy," he said with an effort. "I was angry, last time. I was angry and as much as anything I was angry because you'd…" He took a deep breath. "Because you'd scared me so badly. I thought I'd lost you, Sam. Don't you know what that did to me? Maybe I reacted badly. No, you know what-I did. I reacted…very badly. I shouldn't have said to you what I said."

Sam had gone red. "Dad," he muttered. "You don't have to say this. It doesn't matter. I was stupid. Selfish. It wasn't…"

"You were," John acknowledged. "But I was too, more so. You aren't at fault. And I should never have taken you out of the hospital. I was advised not to. I knew you were sick. I knew you were…hurt. But I didn't listen, thought we could handle it. I should've known better, Sam, and I caused you a lot of pain. I'm sorry for that. And I'm not going to make that mistake again. Hunt or no hunt, you would've ended up hospitalised for pneumonia the way you were going, and you might have died." His head was lowered and he spoke quickly, embarrassed. He had not planned to say this. He did not know where the words were coming from. But seeing Sam, so vulnerable and so hurt, sitting there fiercely telling him he was ready to face the world again…it had wrenched open some deep painful well within him and suddenly he had not been able to stand the weight of all the unspoken words. "And I couldn't have taken that. I…I need you in here, being taken care of." He fell silent, waiting for Sam's reaction, almost afraid of it.

"Dad," Sam whispered. "Dad, I…it was my fault too. I wanted to leave then. You don't have to…feel bad. It's not your fault."

"Sam-"

"But this time I want to go. This time I'm okay. I'll keep taking the meds, I'll take it really really easy, but I can't stay here any longer. I just can't."

"Sam, you were very sick. Your fever only dropped yesterday. You can't mess about with this-"

Sam looked up at his father at last, his eyes wide and pleading, and John suddenly read in them something he had not expected. Something in Sam had changed irrevocably since the last time he had really looked at his son: outwardly he looked exactly the same, but in his eyes there was a deep ingrained grief of the kind that did not just fade away, a maturity born of pain. "Dad," the boy said softly. "Please."

John stood up so fast the bed creaked wildly. "I'm going to go and talk to the doctor," he muttered, and strode out as fast as he could, thrown inside by that new expression in his son's eyes. Sam was only fifteen. He shouldn't be carrying something like that. Oh, so maybe Dean had. John felt it now as he did every instant, that deep penetrating guilt that Dean had never been able to have a real childhood, that from the beginning he had been Sam's protector and John's ally, his partner, long before he was old enough to hold a weapon. But Sam…

Somehow they had always protected Sam. Sometimes it had infuriated John, and sometimes his rage had issued from Sam's independence and courage making it so difficult for them. But he had always been the child in their family, the vulnerable element, and suddenly…suddenly he knew pain, as they did. Maybe it was John's own fault, maybe not. But he did not even know if it was reversible. All he knew was that it was wrong.

See, John just needs something to make him see the light sometimes… Please review and let me know what you think!