Chapter Twenty:

Dean just grew sick, standing there, staring vividly through the window. Each time he caught sight of his morose reflection in the glossy pane, another shade of green was added. Any worse and he was sure he'd be able to audition for the play Wicked. But it wasn't like he could help it. Staring at the still form of his dying sibling was nauseating.

He was numb. Trapped in a void, in a pit of guilt, he knew deep down he couldn't be set free from. Sammy was dead…either dead or was drifting between the veil. There was no other explanation for the calm stillness, the continuous support of the ventilator, the use of all the other tubes and wires hooked up to the flaccid body. And he knew it had been his fault. His brother had asked for one simple thing, for once piece of solace, and he failed him in that respect.

Inside the room was a strange deafening silence: one that was eerie and calculating, rhyming in tune with the hollowness of his soul. It had been days he fought and struggled inwardly to remain in the room by his brother's side. Days since Sammy's eyes had taken a final bow without the promise of opening ever again. It had been then that Dean's heart had finally cracked in two.

Each week. Each day. Each minute he now felt he was standing back over that precipice, barely clinging on via a rope. The rope's fibers splintered and frayed, wilting away, the rope's strength dwindling along with the hope he once had fought so hard to endear.

Dean had to admit he knew it would come to this. It was- shall he think it?- inevitable. Sammy tried. He did. But nature had a different perspective on mercy. Days back, it had been so different. And still, it had chilled his bones thinking about those few days he had left with Sam.

Against the profound silence, the sound of rushing liquid hummed loudly in both his ears, forcing Dean to occasionally steal a glance. And each and every time he eyed the machine inserted into Sam's chest, he swore his face grew greener. The tubes protruding out of Sam's gown glowed red from the continual pumping action of the fragile heart. The heart monitor monotone beeping chorused on in the background, in sync with the device.

The doctors implanted what was called a LVAD device the evening Sam returned from his afternoon outing. Sam was asleep during the process, but the staff gave him a numbing agent as they had to create an incision through his upper abdomen and attach plastic tubes to the heart muscle. The machine, according to Dean's understanding, was battery operated, and consisted of tubes inserted into Sam's left ventricle and aorta. Mainly it was a pump that drew the blood from the left ventricle, cycled it through the machine, and pumped it back into the body to complete its circulation, so the rest of the heart muscle, theoretically, could take it easy.

Bresley explained it was mostly used for patients waiting on a transplant. The explanation still, however, hadn't mollified the shock of it all.

That was nearly a week ago. Dean stilled in watching his brother sleep. He couldn't discern which was more disturbing: the fact Sam hardly spoke a word, or the way his lips were a continual shade of blue now. Sam looked paler than before, and he was on one-hundred percent oxygen. He didn't need a translator. Sam had worsened and Dean feared for his sibling's seesaw of sanity as Sam was now completely bed-ridden. With the machine in place and the need for supplied oxygen, he couldn't move, stretch his legs, or do anything, his mobility limited. Luckily though, he had been mostly asleep during that time, so it helped…to an extent.

Kylie had come by now and again, abolishing whatever boredom Dean suffered, until she was forced back into her own room. It was times like that he wished Bobby would return sooner with the cats. At least then Dean would have something to play with.

He heard rustling; the source belonging to the ends of Sam's legs moving under the many flimsy blankets. Dean perked up in his seat, eager for his brother's return to the Real World. Slowly Sam's tepid eyelids lifted, momentarily struggling to remain open. Dean observed the action some more and noticed that Sam's facial was beginning to contort turning into a prolonged grimace of discomfort.

"Morning Sammy, you okay?" Dean gently glided a thumb over Sam's pale hand.

Sam's frown deepened, his eyes clamming up tightly. He tried to speak, his throat issuing out small groans. His brow creased over and over and that's when Dean understood the message. "You feel like you're about to hurl again, don't cha?"

His brother gave a tiny nod. "Okay? One sec," Dean replied pressing the call button. It was the typical norm for Sam to wake up feeling increasingly nauseated. With the new machine, the new beta blockers, and the continual supply of intravenous nutrients, Sam's system was out of whack, fighting nonstop to rebalance itself. Dean would be surprised if there was a spare moment in which Sam had felt anew, refreshed.

No matter what other method they tried: the water, the cooling blanket, or the breathing techniques worked in quelling the nausea—which if not controlled, would result in dry heaves, applying more pressure on Sam's heart. Ultimately it came down to a nice antiemetic to control the nausea.

Chloe came through the door, practically skidding in her soles. "Everything okay?" she asked panting.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean was quick to pacify. "Sorry for the scare, but Sam's about to go Exorcist. He might blow chucks any minute. Is that medicine you use on standby?"

"Uh," the nurse muttered, thinking fast. "Yeah. Yeah, give me a second and I'll be right back."

"Okay thanks." Dean turned his attention back to Sam. "Hear that. She's bringing ya some juice, so just hang tight."

Sam didn't answer, as expected. He hardly ever answered to anything now. Throughout the last couple days, his health had taken a major setback. By the twinkle in the grayish eyes, Dean could tell Sam was fighting. He was fighting with every cell and fiber he had, but it just wasn't enough.

During that time, Dean noticed Sam's continual stage of disorientation. Bresley explained that it was normal with heart patients, in which the blood wasn't being pumped efficiently to the brain. There would be times where Sam would have a moment's lapse and couldn't remember where they were, or would have suddenly gone in a daze during the midst of a conversation. Also there were times where he couldn't remember certain facts like what their previous occupation was. It would scare Dean, because sometimes Sam would look at him like he was a stranger; his mind gone astray, his speech constantly slurring.

Chloe came back shortly with a syringe. She lengthened out Sam's elbow, rubbed a patch of astringent on an area, and inserted the needle full of anti-nausea solution. Dean grew a little worried as Sam hardly twitched at the pinprick. Chloe finished and threw the syringe away in the designated biohazard receptacle before leaving. The tiny voice in the back of Dean's head told him that he shouldn't have expected anything. Sam's expiration date was skirting by so fast, his innards itched and squirmed at the thought. There was no news yet of how that heart was coming, and Dean was steadily becoming a nervous wreck.

The medicine, it seemed, had won the battle, evident by the slow release of the pained grimace. Sam's head slumped to the side, finally relieved. Dean sighed. "Just hang in there Sammy. It'll all be over soon."

Again Sam made no reply, except stare dully at his covers.

Dean's lip trembled and he glanced away, feeling the bottom of his lids well up. "I…I don't know what else to tell you. Sammy, I really don't. It's coming. That's all I can say is it's coming. You'll have a heart soon."

A loud beep sounded from the heart monitor. Dean eyed it. It was then he realized Sam was listening, and that warmed his aching heart. As long as Sam was able to hear him, he would find some way to pull through. Hopefully, Dean thought, hopefully.

There was an echoing knock at the door. Bobby entered the room with two carrier cases. An instant smile suddenly adorned Dean's lips, glad that his father figure had returned for the morning. "Ah, just what the doctor ordered," he exclaimed as Bobby set down the two boxes, opening the caged doors. The two cats instantly leapt up onto Sam's bed resuming their designated places; Dude snuggling into his lap while Ivan took up space beside his head.

More beeping sounded in the backdrop. Dean let off a tiny smirk, understanding that Sam's two little buddies were another thing his brother needed at this time. He hoped the docs and the nurses wouldn't return and give Hell again. The first time Bobby brought the cats, the morning after their excursion to the park, Dean wanted to think Chloe and Bresley both had an aneurysm. It took a lot of smarts and wit to allow them to keep the felines about.

Bresley, however, wasn't so weak to fall under the Winchester thrall, more or less concerned about bacterial complications with the LVAD tubing. Ultimately it took Sam with his pleading "puppy-dog" eyes and calm demeanor that warmed the doc up. He allowed for the animals to stay, but only on the condition they go nowhere near the device.

Funny enough, as though the cats understood the doc's stern words, Ivan and Dude carefully treaded the bed, avoiding the machine all together. Dean had to laugh. Who knew that two cats they picked up off the streets had a higher than average feline IQ?

Dean's forced smile of appreciation instantly morphed into a frown of apprehension when Sam barely made of motion of response when Ivan purred lovingly in his ear. The stress accumulating over this past week, with Sam hardly able to speak, much less stay awake, the medications failing to do their supposed job, the hope of finding a new heart vanishing…it suddenly became too much. He shot up out of his chair and began to pace, working out the kinks to his legs and heart.

It would have taken a blind bat to not have noticed the ball of anxiety strolling around. Bobby finished putting away the carrier cases under the bed before rising to his full height with a look of pure empathy. "Dean," he called, nodding towards the door.

Dean immediately followed his mentor outside into the hallway. His heart raced with the implication. Anytime Dear Ole' Bobster wanted a personal interview, it mainly was to get him to open up, primarily because he was probably wearing his bursting emotions as a mask, and they needed to be addressed. Though that wasn't exactly how the old man started off.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked in a low whisper, his wizened blue eyes set on the door.

Dean glanced behind him. "Uh, honestly…" his voice quivered unintentionally, "Not good. He um…he's at the stage now where he's trying to stay awake, and uh…I don't think…I don't think he's—"

"Don't," was Bobby's authoritative reply. The man hardened his gaze. "Don't do that. I can see in that wild look you have in your eye that you've got it in your head to do something stupid. So stop. Don't even think about it."

Dean clasped both hands together, in an attempt to stop them from shaking. "I'm out of options here Bobby. Right now…I can't think of anything else to do, and I'm getting desperate. I can't keep waiting anymore. I gotta do something."

"Like what?"

"I…I uh…I don't know," he stuttered. "I don't know what to do, but I have to try something. Find something. Anything."

Bobby shook his head, in utter bewilderment. "Son…don't even think about calling on the powers at be. You know exactly where that leads."

"I know that Bobby. But…Sammy's dying Bobby," Dean cried in a frail whisper. "He's dying and everybody is telling me that there's not a damn thing I can do about it. That there's nothing they can do. Please? We have to try. My gut is telling me if we don't do something now Sammy won't last more than a day. He's fighting, but he can't fight forever."

"All right. I hear ya Dean. I do," Bobby reassured. "I'll place some calls, see if anyone of my contacts can come up with an idea or two. If that doesn't work, and they can't find any organ that's available…then I'll see what I can do. But that's only as a last resort, you copy?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"All right, I'll start making some calls. But you? You keep it together. If Sam sees you like this, you know how he'll take it."

"I know. Thanks Bobby. And just…hurry."

"Will do son." Bobby answered, giving him a hug, before strolling down the hallway.

Dean took a shuddering breath, eying the man as he walked away. A tiny part of the weight he felt lying on his back lifted. He didn't know why it was more alleviating to have Bobby on his side than anything else. At least with Bobby's world of contacts, there was a chance of finding something.

He sighed before making his way back to his brother's side. Sam hadn't stirred as he nestled back into his chair. He appeared to be asleep again. Ivan stared up at him interested. Dean patted the cat's head, tickling it under its chin. He said, "It's going to be okay Sammy. Bobby and I are on to something…or at least, we're looking into it. We'll find you a heart dude. So don't sweat it."

Another loud beep sounded from the machine.

Dean then began sifting his fingers through Sam's silky locks. "Just hang on dude. Help's coming. And I won't stop until we save you."

…

It was near evening when Bobby returned to collect the cats and to give an update on Intel. He said that a couple of his contacts, as a debt to be repaid, decided to look into it. He had received a number of calls stating that several hearts were available, but none in the right size Sam needed. As an added measure, Bobby swore on his life to Dean that he would keep looking.

Dean had to admit, he was glad for the info. It certainly had nullified his agitation a bit. At least there were several people all around the U.S. trying to help them. Bobby left taking Ivan and Dude back to his hotel as he said he will continue his search there. Dean nodded his consent, opening up the laptop Bobby brought back for him. He, too, was in search…but for nothing physically related. He had made a promise to his brother a long time ago to not follow down this road…but at this stage, there wasn't anything left but to ponder.

Besides what Sam didn't know wouldn't hurt him. This wasn't about his feelings. This was about his life.

He looked up witchcraft. He looked up different spells and potions. Different types of creatures with the ability to grant life, such as reapers. Though apparently he had an acquaintance with a reaper a couple times and barely made it out alive—despite the fact he was already dead to begin with. Perhaps when it was Sam's turn, he could figure out a spell to keep the reaper at bay, much like Sue Anne. Boy, Sam wasn't going to be a happy camper about that. But as long as he would stay alive, Dean didn't care of the price.

Several times he came upon the topic of the Crossroads. Described as one-hundred percent effective in securing whatever your mind deems necessary, it seemed like the way to go. But, however, it was also described according to the many sites he looked up that it came with a price. A soul for a soul. Typically in a deal, the person selling a soul had a solid ten year no-payment stage. At the end of the ten years, the payment was to be collected. How that was to be there was no mention. He was teeming with excitement-or possibly desperation- as he read on. Perhaps this was the way to go?

The more and more Dean read about it, however, the more an awful feeling struck up in his gut. A wriggling action he only ever associated with his dad. Something about this topic kept his thoughts straying to his father for no particular reason. Horrible, wretched thoughts wormed through his head. Could this possibly be what happened to him? Since his miraculous recovery, with no explanation how he survived, and then suddenly his father just died. First he said his wondrous goodbye and then—bam—dead. He hated to think that maybe it was right. But no…his dad would never do such a thing.

But then again…he was thinking along the same lines for a supposed deal of saving Sam. So why not?

His brother's soft groans rebounded through his ears. He looked up to see Sam blinking open his eyes several times. The poor kid was still trying to stay awake. Sam rested his tired gaze upon him, the corner of his mouth creasing upwards. "Hey."

"Sammy! Finally talking, I see," Dean stashed the laptop to the side, leaning forward in his seat. "Ya good dude?" He knew it was an inane question, but it couldn't have been helped.

That was answered with a small shrug. A typical Sammy answer of "No, but I'm fine."

"Well since you're finally awake, ya wanna finish that checkers game. Now's a good time than ever. I know you can't stand to lose."

Another shrug.

He shook his head, hardly expecting anything else.

"Dean," Sam spoke so low, Dean literally had to place his ear by his head. "Do me a favor."

"Yeah, anything Sammy."

Sam took a couple of deep breaths. "Tell…tell m-me about mom."

The bottom of Dean's stomach plummeted. All too familiar feelings of anguish pillaged his head, the implication of Sam's gentle demand striking up mutual feelings of grief and bitterness. He hadn't spoken of his mother in years. Why now would Sam want to know all about her? To reopen that wound that was never properly healed.

"M-mom? You want to know about m-mom?" No matter how hard Dean tried, his voice was as unsteady as ever.

Sam slowly nodded.

"Well, uh…what do you want to know?" He gulped. Deep down, he prayed it wouldn't be "anything". There wasn't a single fiber in his core that wished to indulge Sam's interest. Weren't the pictures when they were younger good enough?

"Anything."

Tears welled up. Of course! The topic of his mother was always really sore to discuss, just like Christmas and Holidays. But it was even more painful in that there were so few memories of her, and all of them were so flagellating to endure.

"Please…" was Sam's soft plea. Dean looked to his brother with doleful eyes, in hopes that Sam would comprehend the message he was sending. But, alas, Sam hadn't. Instead he gazed back with his own bleeding expression, one that Dean read as yearning for some form of solace.

And…Dean couldn't give it.

He bit his lip so hard, actual reddish liquid produced. He turned crimson, straining against the explosive emotion attempting to burst forth. "I…" his lip trembled, "I c-can't Sammy. I'm sorry." It was all too much. He no longer had the strength.

A pained twinkle bore in his brother's eyes. They asked "why?"

"Because man…losing her, it nearly killed me," Dean turned away and stared at the opposite wall. It was much easier speaking to than watching the heartbrokenness he had just instilled into his sick brother. "Talking about her…it…I…I can't. Not right now. Honestly I can't even talk about dad at the moment. Just call it a certain mental block," he slightly chuckled.

Sam didn't laugh, or smile. Dean read his expression as extreme hurt. More hurt than anything else he had ever seen Sam suffer through, other than losing Jessica. He faltered. "You want me to talk about Mom and Dad. I…I guess I can do it."

"No." Sam's voice contained every smidgeon of the pain Dean saw. "It's o-okay. I…k-know you…you don't want to talk about them….e-especially D-dad."

For a brief second there, Dean thought Sam knew. It was he this time that paled to the color of white paper. Could Sam possibly know the guilt he carried? Could he somehow have learned about the man's message regarding him?

Dean thought some more. No, he couldn't. He had never spoken about it. To anyone! So how could he know?

"I…I k-know something…is b-bothering you…a-and it's about Dad," Sam strained to speak. He swallowed convulsively. "I may be dying, b-but I can still read you like a book. W-what is it?"

Dean bit his tongue. The grand tension of relieving the heavy burden was ecstatically mesmerizing. More than anything he wanted to spill the beans…

"He…He…" it was at the tip of his tongue. Why couldn't he just have said it?

He gave one last longing look at Sam and simply said with all the stoicism and muster he forced. "Nothing. He didn't say anything. And if he had, it doesn't concern you. So drop it."

It wasn't meant to be harsh or severe. This was something Sam didn't need placed on his frail shoulders. Perhaps when he was whole and healthy again, he could try again. But then, as a big brother looking out for his little brother, this was something he had to endure alone.

Sam slowly nodded in understanding, and exhaustively rolled his head away, as though shamed.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. Just not right now. I'll tell you later," Dean tried. "Do you want to talk about something else? What about a card game? I hear Phase 10's fun."

Again as expected, there was no answer.

"Sam, don't do this." Dean pleaded. "Please."

Silence.

He knew this would happen. He had disappointed Sammy big time. A lighter mood won't lift up the darkness he unintentionally beset. Yes, he was selfish. He'd be the first one to admit that. But he couldn't…just couldn't talk about their parents, not with the way he was feeling.

Dean sighed deeply. It'll be a while until Sam spoke to him again, that he was pretty positive. Laggardly, he pulled himself out of the chair and left. I'll give Sam some time to digest. God knows I'd be a spitting ball of fire if he kept something about Dad from me.

Only then it never occurred to him it would happen that night.

After acquiring his third cup of caffeinated sludge, he was about to pass over the threshold into Sam's room when Bobby's huge form lumbered up, a bit shaken.

"Bobby? What is it?" Dean asked, gripping the coffee tighter, fearing that something dreadful had happened.

The old man seemed at first disoriented, but Dean learned he was only in a fit of worried anxiety. Bobby cleared his throat several times before he finally found the power to speak. "It's the cats," he said in a low whisper. "They're gone."

Dean's heart shot up his throat a second time that day. "What do you mean they're gone?"

"I don't know," Bobby's eyes misted, bulging from worry out of their sockets. "I let them out of their cages when I got back to the motel. I went out for a bite, and when I came back, they were nowhere."

"Was the door left open?"

"No, that's the thing. I locked it. The windows were too. And I know I saw them on the bed before I left. I…I looked everywhere. They're gone."

"Okay, okay, just take it easy. We'll find them," Dean said sympathetically. "Whatever you do? Don't tell Sammy. He can't handle it right now. So in the meantime, we'll keep looking for them. They can't have gone far."

"You sure?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure." It was weird in that typically it was Bobby who always had done the reassuring, not the one to be assured. "You stay with Sam and I'll be Indiana and find em'."

No sooner had he said that when the alarms from Sam's room began wailing. For a mere second, the two men became stone, stunned, understanding what exactly those alarms were signaling. It was in the next second the flood of staff rushed into the room and began to work.

The coffee fell from his paralyzed fingers. Dean couldn't move his legs. They would not bow down to his commands. It wasn't until Bobby had pushed him that he was ushered into the room. One of Sam's regular nurses, Janet, pushed them both back gently against the wall, all the while Bresley was shouting off orders.

Minutes.

That's all it took. Just minutes. Sam's body flopped up and down under the electrocardiogram. His foot accidentally fell and hung suspended off the mattress. Dean couldn't help but stare at it. Bresley rubbed the paddles together and placed them on his still sibling's bare chest and shocked him again. Sammy's foot shuddered from the electricity. More orders echoed through the room. More noise. More activity. The foot pulsed boneless yet again. Dean's legs then became jelly and he plopped to the floor. Bobby hung by his side, wrapping his shoulders with his tight, big hands.

"Stay strong boy," Bobby's voice shook.

The heart monitor continued to read "dead".

Bresley commanded in his deep voice to shock him again, upping the voltage. The black paddles went down, the loud "bing" chorused, and Bresley shouted "clear". Sammy went up and down once more…and then there was the most beautiful sound Dean heard within those last five minutes: the sound of a regular diastolic beep, the next a systolic beep.

The staff backed off and watched the monitor fiercely with bated breath. Bresley didn't move an inch, glaring in concentration.

Minute six was up moving on to minute seven and yet Bresley continued to stare. The machine flashed their numbers, showing a decreased output in oxygen. Immediately he began barking out more orders, asking for atropine, asking for a ventilator, asking for a possible move-in to ICU. The list kept going on.

Eventually Sam was covered in tubes, wires, hooked up to every machine the hospital had, it seemed. Dean, at that precise moment, couldn't move. He couldn't think. He could barely keep his head up. Now there was a new sound added to the agonizing silence: the sound of Dean's own failing heart.

Days later, he stood outside the room, afraid to enter. It killed him, literally a proverbial knife slicing through his midsection, thinking about the last few things he said to his brother. Sammy wanted to know about their mom, and he pulled an "I'll tell ya later!"

How could he do that? What was he thinking?

Sam now lay comatose; Bresley revealing that his input had dropped below forty percent. It was now or never. A heart had to come in. The doctor swore he was looking into the availability himself. Shockingly he had said it was mind-boggling that there hadn't been one so far. The stout man's reassurance still had done nothing to alleviate the fear stabbing Dean in the chest.

It was now or never, he said.

Dean took another gander at his reflection and the bright greens dulled. He had never felt fear greater than this…ultimately because he knew without a heart Sam would never come back to him. And without a heart, it wouldn't be long until it was his time.

Or perhaps his time would be a lot sooner than he thought suddenly. If Sammy needed a heart, maybe…just maybe there could be one. It was dark, sure, but it was as sure as Hell good to think about.

Deep shadows marred his reflection in the darkened pane. Yeah, it was a comforting thought.

Anything for you Sammy!