Dr. Diana Walters was Sam's primary doctor once he was transferred out of the emergency room and into recovery.

Without her lab coat, she was a tall, solidly built woman who carried herself in such a way that commanded respect. She spoke intelligently, not masked with the hint of a southern drawl. She was middle-aged and a proud mother of three.

And she was great with Sam.

Which, bluntly, was all Dean cared about.

He could see the way Sam felt at ease when Dr. Walters spoke with him. Dean knew his little brother was timid around most people, especially doctors. Understandably so, when they readily and frequently committed insurance fraud to receive medical attention…

But with Dr. Walters, Sam was different. Relaxed.

Dean trusted her whole-heartedly.

"How are you feeling this morning, Sam?" she asked, the morning following Sam's surgery.

"Okay," Sam croaked, voice hoarse from his NG tube.

"Your throat a little sore?" Dr. Walters asked, knowingly.

Sam nodded. "I don't like this tube," he said, lazily pointing at his nose where the NG tube was inserted.

Dr. Walters smiled. "Yeah, that's the general consensus we have with those pesky things. But it's necessary to get samples of fluid from your stomach for testing – to check for any signs of bleeding. The good news is: we'll probably be able to remove the tube later this afternoon. How does that sound?"

Sam returned her smile. "That sounds good."

"Doc, Sam is still feeling a little nauseated," Bobby spoke up. "Is that normal?"

"It is," Dr. Walters assured. "Unfortunately, surgery following intestinal ischemia does not always have immediate results. It is likely that Sam will continue to experience nausea frequently in the coming weeks, and that is just a sign of his body adjusting to his new and improved intestinal pathway." She winked at Sam. "And actually, one of the main reasons we insert a nasogastric tube is to address that nausea. One of the tube's functions is to prevent the patient from vomiting, since it is draining the contents of the stomach."

Dr. Walters glanced down at her clipboard and then turned her attention back on Sam. "Looks like you're still running a low-grade fever," she said. "And I bet you're feeling a bit weak and drained. Sound about right?"

Sam nodded.

"That's all normal, Sam." She wheeled her mobile stool closer to the head of Sam's bed and slipped on her stethoscope. "Can you sit up for me?"

While Dr. Walters listened to Sam's breathing, Dean and Bobby exchanged a few words. Bobby had just gotten back. He'd left during Sam's morning doze to shower and bring the boys back some fresh clothes. Dean hadn't been able to speak with him yet, because Dr. Walters appeared seconds after Bobby arrived.

"Any messages from Dad?" Dean whispered, his hopes dangerously high.

Bobby let out a sigh and shook his head. "Nothin'."

Dean closed his eyes. "Fuck," he mumbled, too exhausted to filter his mouth in front of the older man beside him. He reached up and pressed his palms to his eyes. "Bobby, that ain't like him."

"Kid, you said it yourself; we can't jump to conclusions." Bobby patted Dean's knee. "What we can do, is focus on your brother."

"Breathing sounds normal," Dr. Walters announced, taking off her stethoscope. She then proceeded to lift Sam's hospital gown up so she could take a look at his stitches. She gently pressed on Sam's abdomen, in the areas surrounding the incision. "Any pain as I do this?" she asked.

Dean saw Sam swallow. "Yeah," he breathed. "Not real bad, though."

"Just a little tender, huh?"

Sam nodded.

Dr. Walters scribbled something down on her clipboard and gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze before broadening her attention to Bobby and Dean. "For as invasive of surgery as Sam went through, he's doing really well. He is very lucky; not every patient who suffers from intestinal infarction makes it through surgery. You should count your blessings."

Dean swallowed hard. He hadn't stopped counting his blessings since Dr. Linney emerged from the operating room to announce that the surgery had gone successfully. He hadn't left Sam's side, either.

"What happens from here, Doc?" Dean asked.

Dr. Walters smiled warmly. "I was just getting to that." She went on to explain the typical timeline for patients recovering from bowel surgery. At first, Sam was only to consume ice chips, and that had to be done in moderation. By the second or third day, it was likely that Sam would be able to handle clear liquids. The staff would continue to add thicker liquid and soft foods to Sam's diet as his bowels began working again.

"How will we know if his bowels are working?" Bobby asked.

"Passing of gas and the production of stool are clear cuts signs that the bowels are functioning properly. Once one of those two things occur, we will start looking at sending Sam home, upon further evaluation."

Dean couldn't help but smirk at his brother's suspense; his cheeks were beet red.

"Do you have any further questions for me?"

Dean didn't, but Bobby did. "Er, yeah," he said. "Do we know what caused Sam's intestine to go kaput?"

"We have some theories, yes." Dr. Walters let out a deep breath. "In Sam's case, it was a volvulus that led to the infarction of the proximal portion of his ileum. In layman's terms, his intestine was twisted, cutting off sufficient blood supply to the area."

"What causes an intestine to twist?" Bobby pressed.

"Many things," she answered. "Among those are adhesions, hernias, and tumors – all of which are not present in Sam's case. However, poor diet and stress can interfere with proper digestion, and are often indicators of Sam's condition."

Dean's own gut clenched. He was primarily responsible for Sam's food intake, and he admittedly wasn't the best at making sure all the food groups were represented. Processed foods were so much cheaper and readily available. Did that mean he was responsible for what happened to Sam?

"That being said," Dr. Walters continued, "Sam seems physically fit and healthy, and he clearly has a network of support." She was referring to how Bobby, and especially Dean, had been extremely attentive and focused on Sam the entire duration of their stay at the hospital. "I can't imagine that stress played any sort of major role in this. But then again, I never know what goes on behind closed doors."

If only you knew, lady, Dean thought to himself, glancing at Bobby. The life of a hunter's kid was basically the definition of stress.

"Any more questions?" Dr. Walters asked. Bobby and Dean shook their heads. "Sam?" she inquired, making sure her patient was question-free for the time being.

"No, ma'am," he said quietly, looking down at his hands.

"All right," she said, standing up. "I'm going to see if we can get you on some stronger anti-nausea meds. I'll also have a nurse bring some ice chips. They will help your sore throat."

Sam nodded his thanks.

"I want you to take it real easy today, Sam. If you're feeling up to it, Nurse Adams will take you out into the hall for a short walk later on this evening. It is encouraged that you do a little bit of activity every day while you heal."

"Thanks, Doctor," Bobby said.

She winked at him. "You have a real trooper on your hands. You all take care."

xxx

The phone call came late in the afternoon.

Sam was fast asleep, the way he had been the entire day. Bobby was dozing, snoring softly from the uncomfortable armchair in the corner of the room. Dean was in the chair next to Sam, having given up on any form of sleep long ago.

He was leafing through a magazine when a nurse poked her nose in, smiling brightly. "You have a phone call," she said quietly. "I can put it through to your room."

Dean perked up immediately, alert and oddly relaxed all at the same time. "That would be great," he replied. The nurse nodded curtly and disappeared from the doorway.

Dean wasted no time in picking up the receiver and holding it close to his ear.

There was some crackling on the other side of the line, and then, "Dean?"

"Dad?"

"Yeah, son, it's me," John assured, though his voice sounded tired and grave. "What's going on? Is Sammy all right?"

Dean let out a shuddering breath. It was so good to hear his father's voice after being so distraught with worry. He shakily went on to explain everything that had happened in the last 24+ hours: how they'd taken Sam to the ER, what his diagnosis was, how he'd had surgery… everything.

"How's he doin' now?" John demanded.

Dean reached out to run a hand through Sam's hair. Sam was so out of it that he didn't even flinch. "He's okay. Exhausted, but okay." Dean swallowed hard, and as an afterthought, he said: "I wish you were here, Dad."

"I wish I was too." No hesitation.

"What's it like down there? Do you know what you're dealing with?"

There was a silent pause. "Yeah, we know what we're dealing with," John answered lowly. "It's uh – It's demons, Dean. A whole slew of 'em."

Dean's breath hitched. Demons were not his father's usual gig. No, his typical gigs were angry spirits, and monsters, and pagan gods. That's not to say John hadn't exorcised demons before, because he had, plenty of times. But they were a whole new level of evil – and were much stronger as a crowd than standing alone.

"What do they want?"

John exhaled. "Well, there's something I need to tell you, son."

Dean's heart jumped into his throat at the sound of his father's grim voice. "What, Dad? What is it?"

John hesitated. "These demons… they're after our family. All the killings… especially Lou's death… they were all part of an elaborate plan to get me to Lawrence. And they were expecting me to bring you and Sam along."

"What? How do you know that?"

"Because these demons are possessing people, Dean. People we know. People we've come across from town to town."

Dean felt the color drain from his face, because he was near certain he knew where this was going.

"That girlfriend of yours… Michelle..." John took a deep breath. "She's one of them."

TBC…