Chapter 21

They both sat in silence, staring at nothing. Sam was stretched out on his sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling, David was sprawled on his favourite chair, stroking the sleeping dog beside him.

Sam threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. "Tell me what to do David, because I don't have a clue anymore." He wasn't expecting any real answer.

David looked up. "I wish I could tell you, buddy. I wish I had a magic pill, but I don't. But I'll tell you one thing-I don't think I can sit around here watching him fade to a wraith anymore. Dennis is on board, I think it's time we get him back in. I don't know-maybe we missed something, maybe an MRI will tell us something new, because he sure as hell isn't improving." He sighed and yawned, getting up stiffly. "And we've got some excellent mental health professionals. If you or I can't get into his head, maybe one of them can."

It was something. Sam immediately felt lifted with this plan. He was as tired and frustrated as David was that nothing they did or said seemed to make any difference here. Maybe some new approach at the hospital would be the key. He sat up and nodded. "Yeah, for sure-let's do that. Do you think enough time has passed that nobody will pay attention to who he is?"

David nodded. "Probably. And this time it's different, I don't have to hide it from Dennis. That's a huge relief. And frankly, with the beard and the weight-loss, Dean looks quite different from the guy we brought in last time."

David made the arrangements. All that was left was to break it to Dean, and Sam winced at the thought of having to do that. It wasn't going to go over well. When it was time to make the trip, he crept in to Dean's room and stood uncertainly.

"Stop hovering." Dean whispered.

-Stop dying- Sam thought. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Are you awake enough to listen to me?"

He coughed drily. "Do I have a choice..?"

"Nope." Sam cleared his throat and braced himself. "Change of plans, Dean. Change of venue. David and I are taking you into Atlanta. Dennis is waiting for us. He's got a private room for you, and we're going to-

That animated Dean. He turned and rose up on an elbow. "Did I hear you right?! What, are you nuts?! Why? Why the hell would I go back there, it's a sure ticket to a holding cell!"

"Because nothing we do here is helping you! For gods sake, Dean-I can't take watching you just fade away in front of me! And neither can David!"

"I'm not fading, I'm not dying! There's nothing wrong here other than the usual, for shits sake! I just need a little time to heal up, what the hell is wrong with you two?! Why do you have to make such a big deal out of this?"

"Dean, you're sick, you're not healing, that's the problem, and-

"Bullshit! I'm fine! I just need some time and some damned breathing space! If the two of you would just leave me alone and stop coming in here with your sob-stories and your stupid "testimonials", I'd be up in no time!"

"Shut up!" Sam roared. He clenched his hair in angry frustration. "You ARE sick! You've gone downhill ever since we got back, and it's driving me fucking insane! Nothing I do, nothing I say to you makes any difference, you just lie there coughing and sweating and having your nightmares day in, day out! You look like death warmed over, I can't stand it any more! Jesus, Dean, don't do this to me!"

The shouting shut Dean up for a moment. He cursed, and lay back, suddenly and guiltily aware of Sam's tired and disheveled appearance. But he was intractable. "Look," he said quietly, "I'm sorry this is messing you up, and David too. But all I need is a little time, ok? I just need you to leave me alone. I don't need Dr. Douchebag, and I sure as hell don't need any hospital."

"Really Dean? You don't? So David and I are just being irrational? You're fine and if we let you lie here by yourself everything will be ok, is that it?"

Dean gave him a withering look. "Yeah, that's right."

"Fine. Fine, Dean. Then how about you get up, right now, right this second? How about you just leap out of bed and walk ten steps further than the bathroom door? How about you just go on out to the Impala and fire her up? She hasn't been run in a long time, Dean, it isn't good for her, you know that. Come on, let's see you do it! Then I swear, I'll leave you alone!"

Dean glowered at him and swore under his breath. But he got up, slowly, gripping the headboard for support. When he was steady, he stood there, shaking. "Happy now? See? I'm up, no problem."

Sam could see he was lying. Dean was ashen, in a sheen of sweat, he knew he must be experiencing quite a head-rush. "Not good enough. Walk out to the car, Dean. Nothing to it, right? Then I'll shut up."

David stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Dean looked up and growled at him. "Oh, you too? Nice. Just get out of my way then!" He lurched toward the door. David resisted his urge to bolt forward and catch him. And predictably, it was too sudden, too much. Dean took three unsteady steps before the blackout overpowered his senses. He staggered, and grasped wildly for something supportive, up-ending a chair as he sank to the carpet. He swayed on hands and knees, muttering profanities, before collapsing fully to lie wheezing at David's feet.

David knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sam joined him. "You are not fine," the doc said quietly. "You need help." Dean lay on the floor, trembling, trying to shake off the fog and deafening hiss. He didn't bother to argue. David caught Sam's eye and smiled softly, nodding at his unspoken question. He had done the right thing. Dean was as stubborn as they get, and he needed to be shown that it had indeed gone too far. Between them, they carefully lifted him to his feet, and when he could support his own weight they helped him toward the door.

"Assholes, the both of you!" Dean rasped.

David smiled, and winked at Sam.

Dean was settled, and sleeping. Dennis sat down with David and Sam at the cafeteria. "Ok, boys. Let's talk. Our friend Redbeard in there looks like shit. You did the right thing hauling him in here. David, how about a synopsis of what's been happening with him?"

David filled him in. "Steadily downhill from that day. He's usually an uncannily quick healer, but not this time. I though maybe histoplasmosis at first, but that came back negative. Whatever it is, if it isn't a mental issue, it certainly hasn't responded to broad spectrum antibiotics. Dean's had pneumonia before, after trauma, but I'm not seeing that kind of congestion."

Dennis nodded, scarfing down a ham sandwich in his few minutes of spare time. "We'll get him scanned, and run the gamut. He has thinned out, you weren't kidding." He swallowed half his coffee in a loud gulp. "David, how's the chest wound healing? He was a little fractious when he came in, and I thought I'd better let him settle down, so I haven't seen it yet."

"Slowly. I'm not entirely comfortable with it. Should be further along now, it's granulated, but it's fragile. The original burns are ok."

Dennis noted it. He sat back and finished the rest of his drink. "Sam, fill me in on his mental state. David indicated that he thought there was significant depression."

Sam glanced at David, feeling traitorous in revealing such personal things about his highly private brother. But he knew Dennis needed all the information. "Well, I guess depressed is right. He's listless, not interested in anything, sleeps alot. He hardly eats. And he's having nightmares, almost every time he's asleep. A few times...when I tried to get him to talk about it, I just made him so upset, that he...well, he ended up in tears. He feels a huge amount of guilt over the circumstances of this whole thing, there's a lot to it that you don't know, Dennis. Man, I can't even begin to start explaining the connections, and some of it goes way back. But bottom line is that he feels guilt over things...things that he shouldn't. Not really, anyway. I mean, the nature of what we do is pretty damned harsh, but... well, things need to be dealt with and it's always ugly, and.. Aw christ-I can't even tell you this shit because you only know a sliver of it, and I don't know if you should ever know more than that."

Dennis listened. He stayed silent for a moment, then turned to David. "David, what do you think? Should I know more, or should we just leave it at the fact that Dean is having deep personal issues as well as physical?"

David had already decided. "Dennis, for everyone's safety and peace of mind, let's just leave that as general as we can for now. If it helps, I know the whole story, and it's complicated. But I believe he does not deserve to feel the guilt he's choking on right now. It was a tragedy all around, but he did what he had to do, in all cases."

Dennis had seen things that were deeply unsettling in recent days. And he had decided to trust David Bowman. He nodded decisively. "Good enough for me. I know what I'm here for, we'll get the physical straightened out, and if necessary, I'll send one of our mental health people down afterward, to have a talk with him."

Sam and David reluctantly left for home. They were exhausted, and since nothing new was going to be revealed in the next few hours, they agreed that it was wise to try to gain a few hours of sleep. Once back at David's comfortably chaotic home, they found their favourite places and sat in tired silence. The only life was a very insistent little dog, who worked hard at fostering his master's interest in a game of fetch over a mud-stained lacrosse ball. David obliged. He threw the ball down the hall, and Mayhem retrieved it with tireless enthusiasm. After some time, David stopped and said to Sam, "Go crash, Sam...in a proper bed this time. Dean's in good hands."

Sam looked up from the carpet. He was very aware of how depleted he was. "I guess I will. Thanks. Gotta admit, I'm pretty tired."

David smiled wanly. "I hear you. I think I'm not long for this world myself." He watched as Sam got up wearily and headed for the stairs. "'Night, Sam. Sleep well... Dean is going to get better, I promise you. I promise.."

Sam turned and offered a lack-lustre smile. "I know, David. Thanks to you." He went up then, disappearing from view. David sighed deeply. "Hope so.." he thought. "I'll be praying for it."

Both of them had a decent sleep that night, finally. Once the heavy burden of Dean's health had been transfered to others, they were able to give in to their own, over-looked needs.

Dennis did as he'd promised. He ran Dean through every diagnostic procedure available to him, and David and Sam anxiously awaited the results. It took time, agonizing days, -they had to culture things, analyze data. They were on tenterhooks the entire time, traveling back and forth between the hospital and David's home. Dean remained as he had been, weak, uncharacteristically quiet and ill. Beyond his initial opposition to being taken in, he had little to say, and spent most of the time asleep, or pretending to be so. He hardly noticed the passage of time, or the coming and going of staff around him as they went about their tasks. The nurses could have been moonlighting as Victoria's Secret models, he wouldn't have noticed. He was feverish, and in general malaise, and there was little to be done about it until they had a diagnosis. They kept him as comfortable as he would allow.

But at night, when the activity and vitality of the day had waned, the nurses really earned their pay. The patient who had been so easy, requiring nothing for long periods, would be their focus in the early hours, as he struggled and fought against unseen terrors. It went on for him all night, it seemed. They would check on him and find him in the throes of some terrible dream, or staring wide-eyed in the dark, sweating and disoriented. He never would speak of what was tormenting him, and after a time, he would settle down, assure them he was fine, and refuse any offer of company. And then the cycle would repeat.

"Sshh. It's alright, dear. You're safe, you're in the hospital, it's just a dream it's ok.." The nurse sat beside him and put her hand on his. She'd been in this position before, with him.

He stared at her wildly, comprehension still hindered by the terrors of his dream. "Sammy?" he whispered hoarsely.

She mistook the name he uttered as her own. "That's right, it's Sandy. I'm the night nurse. You've had a bad dream, sweetheart. But you're awake now, so just let it fade."

..Let it fade- He wished it would. He wished more than anything that he could close his eyes again and see nothing but empty, comforting darkness. He worked hard to catch his breath, his chest was burning with the effort. When he got a grip, he shut his eyes in denial. It embarrassed him, knowing others had born witness to his uninhibited emotions. But he was too tired to really care. He smiled weakly, and apologized to her for startling anyone.

"It's all right, honey. Nobody wants to be here, it gives the best of us the sweats." she smiled. She got up and checked her watch. "I've got to do my rounds. Are you sure you're ok? Any pain, or anything odd you want to talk about?"

He almost laughed at her choice of words. Instead, he nodded. "I'm ok...thanks. I'll call you if I need anything, I promise."

She stood watching him, then decided he was safe enough. "Ok. But I'm a call button away, you know that.."

He nodded, and rolled over and shut his eyes. When she was gone, and he was alone again in the darkness, he rolled on to his back and tried in vain to calm down. -i can't do this any more.- he thought in bitter panic. He hated what was happening to him, he hated the nightmares, he hated the memories and the pain and the damned weakness. He didn't know where it would all end up, but he knew one thing for damned sure-he didn't want to be a regular spectacle, bringing the nurses to his bedside with every moan and sound. He wasn't at his most rational point, and he decided he wasn't going to waste any more time in this mausoleum. He felt stifled. as if there wasn't enough oxygen in the air. He wished for a fan, or an air conditioner, or a window that could be opened. He was intensely fearful of being brought in to the local police station, it was a worry that preyed on him until he felt ill. He felt the rise of breathless panic, and this time he couldn't reason it away. He had to get out. He had to get OUT.

When it was quiet again, and no nurses were about, he made his decision.. It wasn't rational. It wasn't in his best interest, nor was it good for those who cared about him. But he wasn't thinking clearly...all he could see was blessed escape.

He sat up, and let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. The act left him swaying with vertigo, but he stared at the little lights blinking beside him on the monitors, until he got it under control. He pawed in irritation at the cannula that fed him oxygen, and pulled off the electrodes and IV tube. He felt the complaint of pain from his healing stab wound, but he ignored that. Clothes...he needed his clothes. He rummaged in the locker beside his bed and found what he needed. The only things missing were his shoes. He rooted in the darkness but couldn't locate them. It didn't matter to his fevered mind. He knew it was warm enough, it was spring and it wasn't freezing outside any more. And he did this regularly...he remembered leaving hospitals before. It always seemed the best way. He untied the gown that he was wearing and took his time pulling on his own things. Sam was at David's, he reminded himself. He could get there, he could sneak out and find his way to where they were. He pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders and gathered his strength. He didn't spend any energy thinking about the route he needed to navigate, he had no real idea but it was somehow irrelevant. He just needed to get out, into the open, into the air, where he could be free of the things holding him down right now. Under the stars...where the brutal and relentless images had no hold. He was dressed now, and ready to do it. Nothing would be gained by his being cloistered in this damned place, he was sure of it. He just needed to get out, and away.

It was quiet. He had counted on that, the time when all the other patients had stopped their moaning and sighing and settled down to silent sleep. The nurses were less alert then. They hardly expected anyone to bolt. Dean gripped the chrome bed rail. He steadied himself, cursing quietly but with conviction, and when he was fairly sure he could go further, he made his move.

He stopped in the cool alley beyond the service door from which he'd exited. Staring around, he figured it was safe enough. The only obstacles were several industrial-sized waste bins, and a few smaller receptacles. Good, he thought. Nothing he couldn't handle. Soon he would be at David's. He'd be safe then. Warm, amongst friendly faces... no threats, just their concern, their endless, tiring worry over him...

It nearly stopped him in his weaving tracks. But he was skilled at rationalizing, and he weighed it all. In the end, with fevered logic, it still seemed like a good idea. He mentally measured the distances and lurched forward. He cleared the barriers in front of him and went on toward the streetlight.

He kept moving, shivering and holding his side. Other men in the shadows, bearded, dressed in rags, eyed him for potential gain. But when they realized he carried nothing, and was dressed thinly, they moved on, ignoring him. He stopped in exhaustion finally, staring about his dim surroundings. He didn't exactly have his bearings, and it frightened him. Once or twice, at the point of blacking out, he let himself rest, paranoid about every strange sound and shadow that crossed his path. He knew enough that Atlanta could be a dangerous city at night. Once he felt a little better, he kept moving, hardly aware of where he was headed, until he ended up in some sort of little community park. Swings, a sand-pit... dry wading pool and a jungle-gym structure. He dropped to the grass, exhausted and spent. He crawled over and propped his back against a steel post, erected for some sort of tethered ball game, and for a little while his view swam and spun. He was cold, he coughed until he could hardly catch his next breath, until the pain in his side threatened to make him puke. It was damp in the night air. Any vestige of the warmth of spring had long since fled with the sun. He started to wonder of he'd perhaps made the wrong decision...

It was yet another silent and tense morning, David and Sam sat in the kitchen, hunched wearily over their tepid coffee and staring distractedly, waiting for the time when visiting hours would begin for the day. Sam glanced at David, and the doc's expression gave him no relief. He could feel the worry radiate from his friend. It tied his own knotted stomach tighter. "They'll find whatever is keeping him down, right? I mean, there's no mystery here, is there?"

David looked up. "Sure...of course, Sam. If it's there, they'll find it, and they'll know exactly how to treat it." David had said nothing to Sam, but his own worry was that Dean had acquired an uncommon but dangerous infection. Spores of all kinds were found in the type of environment they exposed themselves to regularly, and were generally not an issue to healthy people. But when Dean had stood in that grave, he was far from well. Such fungi could have taken hold in his lungs, or worse, if the particular infection that he feared was systemic, it had a high mortality rate. Dean's efforts to save David's job could have dire consequences.

They were there as vistors' hours once again were opened. As usual, they made their way to the room Dean occupied, but the door was closed. Expecting he was being checked over, they returned to the lounge, waiting in anticipation of the door re-opening. Sam went off to grab a few coffees. David tapped his foot in agitation against the shining floor. He glanced up sharply at a familiar voice.

"Hello Bowman."

David shot to his feet. "Dennis! What's the word?"

Dennis Churchill sat down for a rare moment. "Your friend has a serious respiratory issue. Fungal, no question. No wonder it was resistant."

David paled. "Ah, christ-I knew it! It's aspergillosis, isn't it? And he's so damned weak.."

David smiled with the pleasure of besting his colleague. "No, but excellent guess. It's something a little rarer around here, want to try again?" He had misread David's state. If he'd known just how deeply concerned he was, he would have approached it a little more gently.

David stared at him for a moment. "Fuck! Dennis, just tell me already!"

"Right, sorry." Dennis said. "It's Blastomycosis."

David let it sink in, then let out a whoosh of relief. "Oh! Gilchrist's disease, -aw thank god."

Dennis nodded. "Bad enough in his state, but not insurmountable."

Sam had returned in the meantime, cups in hand, and he stared from one to the other. He didn't share in their relief. "Ok, what, this is good?! Would you mind speaking english here?! What the hell is that?!"

Dennis answered. "It's quite infrequent, but it can occur here. It's a fungal lung infection, and it can affect those who come in contact with certain damp soils, and rotting organic material. I guess we all know the most recent source of that, although the incubation typically takes longer."

David nodded. "Yes, but these boys are up to their eyeballs in decaying material on a regular basis, he could have picked it up months ago, and it took hold now because he's compromised."

Sam was still alarmed, but David was obviously pleased. Of all the nasty things Dean could have picked up at the bottom of a grave, in his state this was one of the lesser threats. And he knew that prognosis of full recovery was tangible.

Dennis continued. "That's where the flu-like symptoms, the weight loss, the sweats are coming from. I know David ruled out histoplasmosis early on, and we checked for other, more potentially serious infections, like the other one he mentioned, which can be nothing or rapidly fatal. But this thing is very treatable, and it shouldn't saddle him with any long-term effects. So there you have it, Sam. He's not going to die from this, I promise."

Sam's eyes filmed over. Relief washed over him like a heroin rush. He pumped Dennis's arm, nearly crushing his hand in his enthusiasm, babbling, "Aw man, thank you so much, Doc! We were so worried, I couldn't do anything, he was just fading, and it was driving me nuts, and...well, thanks!"

Dennis smiled crookedly and rubbed his hand back to circulation. "He's not out of the woods yet. He'll have to be clear of it before he goes, and that will take a course of drugs. But in the meantime, you can breath a little easier. We'll get him back on his feet." He turned away, and then came back, advising, "He's fairly incognito, but you, Sam-you're a little more readily identifiable. People may remember you from earlier, so try to limit your time here."

Sam nodded, still a little addled.. "Sure, I understand."

"And David, please- get yourself back home. You look like some kind of street-fighter with those shiners, and not a good one. Stop scaring my patients!" He left then, in his usual hurry.

Sam turned to David, wide eyed and speechless. and struck by an irrational urge to laugh hysterically. He looked to his friend for grounding, after all-he was used to the pace of the hospital.

David smiled and shrugged. "That's normal," he said. "We call him hundred-mile-an-hour-Churchill". He put an arm around Sam's shoulders. "So Dean is in good hands. We have a diagnosis, we have the reason we haven't been able to fix it so far, and we have the means to get him healthy. It's good news, Sam. So- wanna go see him..?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. For a little while." He was suddenly and acutely aware of his days of insomnia now that others had Dean's care in hand. He could hardly string two words together. Sam sighed with relief. They had it covered. Things would turn around now, it would be alright. He followed David out to Dean's room.