A/N: Thanks, Twinchy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

Chapter 14 – kindred spirits

"You did WHAT?" Bobby roared. The fact that the man was miles away didn't do anything to make Sam flinch away from his cell. There was a long moment of silence that followed. Sam couldn't help it; he tensed up the whole time.

"Look, princess," Bobby said finally. "This thing with Dean isn't gonna work if you run off like some damn diva every time he pisses you off."

Sam didn't answer. "Better answer me when I'm talking to you, boy," Bobby growled.

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

"That knucklehead brother of yours knows how to push all your buttons, but you know his buttons too. I suggest you get your ass back in there and return the favor. Take a walk around the hospital. Cool off, take your time, and then get your ass back in there. Unless I miss my guess, Dean ain't goin' anywhere. Not yet, anyway. Rufus and I are just about done." Sam could almost see the head shake in the man's voice. "Idjit."

Sam could hear Rufus growl in the background. "I didn't come over here to get talked about like this, Singer."

"I'm not talking to you or about you, Rufus," Bobby snapped. "But a whipped dog will holler."

"Think it'll work, Bobby?"

"Yeah. Probably. I don't know. So what the hell are you doin' still talking to me? Move your ass, Sam."

Sam hung up. Sam did.

God, this daytime crap hadn't improved since the last time he was flat on his back. Dean scowled as he thumbed the buttons on the remote. The only good thing was that he didn't see any commercials with that damn fabric softener bear. Huh. Would have been nice to hunt that creepy little sonofabitch down, but he never got around to it. And it was a little late to do now; his Bucket List was full.

Public television…talking heads. No nature programs, nothing about wolves in the wild or wild horses living free. The rest of the shows was stuff he'd seen before: old sitcoms he'd seen as a kid, in some crappy motel room somewhere, and those damn soap operas. No baseball, no football, not even a friggin' hockey game was on, for cripes' sake.

Days of Our Lives. Huh. Dean rolled his eyes and wondered why the hell that was still on. He was 15 at the time, laid up for a week after he won that argument with that black dog near Rockwell, Ohio. The only episodes he ever watched were the ones in which that female doc was possessed by the Devil.

It was good for a laugh; Dad thought it was funny, too.

Dean glanced down at his right arm. His skin looked nearly normal, that is if you could ignore that long incision from his wrist to his elbow. The staple marks looked like a ladder, neat and precise, all the way down. He'd be reminded of what happened at Anderton Ironworks for the rest of his life, however long that would be.

Not long, if he had his way about that.

No telling what Bobby and Sam had planned once he got home, but they couldn't stop him, right? Get his duffel, pop the trunk on the Impala, get what he needed and then he could haul ass. What were they gonna do, shoot him?

Oh shit. They just might.

There was nothing on the damn idiot box, and his brain kept wandering back to Sam. That hurt look on Sam's face…kid didn't get it. He never would. Some things can't be forgiven. Shouldn't be.

Dean closed his eyes as he heard Leslie scream inside his head again (Nonononoplease), and he could swear he tasted Harlan's blood, slick and coppery sweet in his mouth.

He opened his eyes again, and it was a relief to see Veronica, the nurse, roll in with that damn wheelchair. She winked at him. "Bet you thought we forgot about you, Richard."

Dean rolled his eyes wearily. "Dang."

"Aw, c'mon, we missed you down in the dungeon." Veronica pulled down the foot pedals, made an exaggerated sweeping bow. "Your implements of torture await you, Lord Sambora."

Physical therapy. Okay. Fine. Dean nodded towards the wheelchair as he threw the covers off. "I keep telling you I can walk down there."

"Hospital rules, sport. Now get your fine ass in this chair and let's roll."

Sam came out of the stairwell just as Veronica rolled Dean out into the hall. They went in the opposite direction, and as usual Dean had switched moods. He was laughing and joking with her about not running up the meter, and the rumble of Dean's voice pissed Sam off a little.

I'm trying to help you, you dumb sonofabitch, Sam thought. He stood perfectly still and he watched as they went down the hall and turned the corner. He didn't even have to glance at his watch. 2:15 then. Dean's daily physical therapy session. According to the doctors he was coming right along; the infection was just about gone, and they planned on turning him loose on Friday.

Once he was in the room the first thing Sam did was check to see if the brass amulet was still underneath Dean's mattress. He was really surprised to find out that it was. It was white magic (You stay put now) something Bobby had gotten from a friend down in New Orleans, with a little bit of protection added.

Sam turned the chair at Dean's bedside around. He wanted to see the look on Dean's face when he rolled back in.

"Damn," Kyle down in Physical Therapy muttered as Dean picked up the tennis ball with his right hand without even being prompted to. "I feel so useless."

"Dude. You said it. I didn't." Dean squeezed the ball, held his grip for two seconds, then released it. He repeated the motion five more times, then quirked an eyebrow at Kyle. "Six reps total, right?"

"Yeah. What, no bitching and complaining? I love it when my patients bellyache."

"Nope." Flexing his hand like that hurt, no question, tiny shocks of sharp pain that needled its way up his nerve endings. That was the least that he deserved.

"Now you know you're gonna have to continue this for a while once you leave. I'll give you an instruction sheet as a reminder, but I don't think you're gonna need reminding. Might even throw in some party favors. Tennis ball, couple of bungee cords." Kyle slid into the chair opposite Dean. "It's easy money when you come down here, partner. All I have to do is sit and watch."

"Admission's five bucks." Dean put down the tennis ball, picked up the rubber bands and twined them around the fingertips of his right hand. He relaxed his hand and fingers, then opened them up for a two second hold, then he relaxed. Five more.

The better he got at this, the sooner he could leave this place.

Dean looked down at the stitch marks in his arm. He blanked his mind, blanked out the way Harlan Gates' throat quivered and shook in his mouth, blanked out Leslie Hardy's screams and moans in his head.

Six more exercises to go.

Sam dreamed, and he waited.

He sat in a clearing next to Dean's hospital bed. That was the only other thing left from the real world. The grass was thick and green underneath his feet. Tall trees and rolling hillsides; that sky overhead was too blue, too bright and perfect. He caught glimpses of blond fur, wide green eyes flashing through the shadows in the brush around him.

"I know you're out here," Sam called out.

Sorry, Dean rumbled softly inside Sam's head. The wolf stepped out into the open, big and blonde and glorious, his tail carried low between his legs.

Sam sat back in the chair. He had a bad moment, a second in which his skin twitched with the memory of Dean's teeth.

The moment passed. The animal standing in front of him seemed shy, almost fearful, not the cheerfully murderous creature back at Anderton Ironworks.

"Dean?"

Dean stared at the ground. Didn't mean to hurt you. Didn't want to.

"It's okay." Sam put his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. "I know you didn't."

The animal shook its head. 's not okay. I hurt you. Hurt my pack. The voice was a tad lower than Dean's normal voice, but the inflection was pure Dean. It glanced at Sam's right arm and then quickly looked away.

"Have you always been here?"

The animal rolled its eyes. Dumb question, Sammy. Always. Wang-Mei didn't make me. You did. Dad did.

"You're Dean's spirit animal." It was a simple declaration of fact.

The wolf smirked proudly.

Sam made a mental note to research totem animals and spirit guides as soon as he could get his laptop. It was back at Bobby's place, and he didn't even waste time bitching at himself for leaving it there. This was more information than he'd had when the day started.

"I want you to understand something," Sam said slowly. "The people you killed…that wasn't your fault."

Those wide green eyes blinked. Do it again if I had to.

"What?"

You heard me. Pack needs protection. Got nothing to atone for. He wants to make amends. Thinks we need to die because of what we did. Dean as wolf's tone was disdainful, as though that was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

"Kill me, Sam…" Dean whispered in Sam's memory. "Please…kill me…"

No need for that. Didn't do anything wrong. The wolf lifted his head and stared Sam in the eyes for the first time.

"I won't let anything happen to you. You know that. Pack needs protection."

The animal pricked its ears alertly at the words, and that thick plume of a tail wagged a little, from side to side.

The wolf stretched his neck out, nuzzled Sam's right hand, almost shyly.

Sam woke up with a jerk.

Hank Bates, sat in his motel room on the other side of town. He cleaned all his guns, sharpened his knives one by one. Several of the knives had been blessed by Father Hanley back in Wyoming, and he smiled a little as he used the whetstone. If only the good Father could see him now.

Several gallon jugs of holy water sat in the bathtub. His grey business suit hung in the closet, his fake badge as "Detective Harry Callahan" tucked away in one pocket.

That Richard Sambora, the patient back at the hospital? Kid hadn't believed a word of it.

Hank could see the wheels turning in the dude's head, like he knew Hank wasn't really a detective, and he wanted to tell him something, something important, but he'd stopped himself at the last moment.

Dog attack, my ass, Hank thought. He'd seen this kind of thing on other hunts, seen the way the human half of the fugly scented the air whenever a hunter came around. This time was no different.

Hank got a cash advantage from one of the fake credit cards, passed fifty dollars to one of the nurses on Sambora's floor. She'd call Hank the moment Sambora's release date came through. The motel was close enough to the hospital; he could get there by the time the bastard was released.

Civilians never realized what was really out there. The world was safe and normal, and shadows never had teeth. Sambora still looked human, but Hank knew better.

Silver bullets worked on any number of beasts. Double tap in the head, and any problems that Richard Sambora (or whoever the hell he really was) had would promptly cease to exist.

It was the right thing to do.

Half an hour later Veronica rolled Dean back into his room.

Sam smiled, wide and cheerful. The surprised look on Dean's face was priceless.

TBC Friday