Author's Note: I've had a few comments about how Sam is being a doofus for not recognizing that it has to be more than tracking a sexual predator and acting gay that's causing Dean all this trauma and reaction, and I kind of get what you're saying, but let's be fair to Sam. He also just heard that there are sexual components to Dean's memories of Hell. That's part of what he thinks is building this trauma. He thinks the other things are bringing Dean's experiences with rape in Hell closer to the surface. Hopefully that makes him seem like less of an idiot to some of you. I mean . . . I always think Sam is kind of an idiot. For a guy who hangs his emotions on his sleeve half the time, he sure doesn't seem to see very deeply into anyone else's. But in this instance, I think you guys may be selling him short, a little.

Chapter 26

Dean woke up to a splitting headache and the sound of beeping. He blinked at the ceiling and saw tracks upon which curtains could run back and forth easily to create rooms. He started to sit up, but a hand came down on his chest to stop him. A surge of panic made him slap the hand away, but sitting up didn't seem nearly as much fun in action as it had in thought, so he sagged back down.

"Good to see that you're back with us," said the man standing over him. "Now, can you tell me your name?"

Dean blinked stupidly at him. What name was he using? Where the heck was he? "Dean," he said. The bar, the case, the gay waiter. "Dean Winchester," he elaborated. "What semi-truck hit me?"

"I was hoping you could tell me what happened," the guy asked. "I'm Ryan, and we need to know what you remember about what happened to you yesterday."

Dean looked around. "Where's Sam?" he demanded.

"Sam? Who is Sam?"

"My brother," Dean said, and now he really did sit up, though it made his head throb. "Where is my brother?"

"Can you describe him for me?" Ryan asked.

"Gigantic," Dean replied, and Ryan's eyebrows rose. Dean rolled his eyes. "He's insanely tall, long hair, brown." He shrugged. "He looks like Sam. Where is he?"

"I believe he's in the waiting room."

"Can you bring him in here, please?" Dean asked. "I need to see him."

"I can send someone out for him, if you want," Ryan said.

"Please."

Ryan stepped out of the little cubicle, and Dean heard him speaking. He wasn't sure what was being said, but he evaluated his condition. He had a nasty headache, and parts of his skin stung. After a few moments, Ryan came back in. "So, I have questions I need you to answer, Dean," he said.

"Okay," Dean replied, not sure whether he would be truthful or not.

"What happened to you yesterday?"

Dean blinked. Yesterday . . . "Monday?" he asked.

"That's right, Monday," Ryan said.

Shrugging, Dean said, "I . . . I woke up late, went down to the police station to answer a few questions." He blinked. "I think I was there around two hours, and then I stopped to eat at a diner." He stopped and swallowed uneasily.

"And then?" Ryan asked gently, and Dean looked up at him suspiciously. "What happened after you ate?"

Dean realized that he didn't remember eating. He remembered Rhonda, he remembered ordering, but didn't remember getting the food or eating. "What does it matter?" Dean asked. He also didn't remember exactly how he'd gotten hurt. "What happened to me?"

"Well, that's part of what we need to find out," Ryan said. "According to your brother, you fell in the tub and cracked your head on a ledge."

"Then that's what happened," Dean said, glad to be on sure footing, even if it sounded crazy. How the hell had he managed to crack his head open in the tub? Something else must have happened and that was Sammy's cover story. Craptastic cover story. He'd have to thank Sam later for making him out to be a clumsy dumbass.

"We have concerns that something more may have occurred, Dean," Ryan replied. He pursed his lips. "I have to ask you this question, and please, try to answer it honestly." Dean shrugged, growing uneasy. "Have you been sexually assaulted?"

Dean blinked at him. "Why?"

Ryan's expression grew more worried, and Dean realized that by not immediately denying the assault, he had inadvertently confirmed it. "You show signs of abrasions from compulsive cleaning, and that is one of the things we see in cases of assault." Dean shook his head, not so much in denial as in confusion. What had happened that had brought him here? He looked down at his arms, which were largely uncovered by the hospital gown. "It's okay to talk about it if you have," Ryan said.

Dean blinked at him and made a rapid calculation about how to get out of here with the least damage, to the hospital, to Ryan, who seemed like a nice enough guy, and to his own psyche. "Yeah," he said. "I've been . . . sexually assaulted." That didn't come close to describing what he'd experienced in Hell, but he sure as . . . he wasn't explaining it in detail.

Ryan nodded, looking relieved. He put a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "Then I'm afraid we'll need a rape kit, and –"

Dean held up a hand to forestall the wheels of public justice. "No, it was years ago," he said, and Ryan's brows knit. "But I had a flashback yesterday." Understanding dawned in Ryan's eyes. Dean kept his sigh of relief internal. "That's kind of why I didn't answer when you asked me what I did after eating. I don't really remember. Everything after about five o'clock is pretty vague."

"Oh, I see."

"I remember calling my brother, I remember him picking me up, and I remember going to take a shower, but . . ." He shook his head. "What happened?"

Sam stood transfixed outside the curtain, his heart suddenly beating harder. Dean was awake, and that was good, but he couldn't believe his ears. Dean, his brother Dean, calmly admitting to sexual assault, even if it was 'years ago.' He didn't know what to think.

He'd left Ellen and Jo in the waiting room, glad to finally be allowed in to see his brother. It had taken a heck of a lot longer than he'd expected.

When Dean stopped telling and started asking, he steeled himself and opened the curtain. "Dean, you okay?"

"Where were you? Why weren't you in here?"

Sam glanced up at the man standing next to Dean, Dr. Keating, and tried not to show his irritation. "They had a lot of questions, and then they wouldn't let me in because they were in the middle of a procedure. Anyway, are you okay?"

"I don't even know what happened!" Dean exclaimed, and then he winced as if his head pained him.

Sam glanced over at the doctor, but given the suspicions he hadn't voiced but had clearly felt, Sam doubted the man would leave. And Dean had already admitted to the salient facts, so it wouldn't hurt to build on the story he'd told. That it was the unvarnished truth seemed almost to be a side note. "You were in the shower for . . . a really long time, and I got worried. When I went in to check on you, the water was ice cold and you were . . . scrubbing yourself raw." He was having trouble getting the words out, the situation was freaking him out so badly. "When I turned off the water, you acted like you didn't know me, you stepped back and . . . and you slipped. Gashed your head open on the soap thing and knocked yourself out."

Dean blinked at him and reached up to touch his head. "I wouldn't," Dr. Keating said, but it was too late. Dean winced away from his own hand.

"Stitches?" Dean said in a pained voice.

"Two," Dr. Keating said. "Why didn't you just tell me all of that earlier?" he asked Sam in an exasperated tone.

"I didn't . . . I thought . . ." He shrugged. "How is he?"

"He'll live," Dr. Keating said. "Now, Dean, did you report the assault?"

Dean shook his head. "No," he said. When Dr. Keating started to say something about the statute of limitations, Dean shook his head. "Ryan!" he said intently, halting the flow of words. "It doesn't matter now anyway. The guy's been dead . . . for a while." That was a bit of an understatement. Who the hell knew when Alastair had died – the first time, at any rate? Sam didn't want to think too hard about the second time.

So, Dean was on a first name basis with Dr. Keating, which somehow startled Sam a little. Ryan nodded, looking marginally satisfied. "And you think this attack may have brought up unpleasant memories?"

"Sammy here says I've been having a lot of nightmares lately, so it's entirely possible," Dean said, smacking Sam lightly in the stomach. Sam glowered down at him. He seemed to be taking this awfully lightly.

"Well, Dean, you were unconscious for a good long while, so I'd like to admit you for observation," the doctor said.

"Hell no," Dean replied, shifting so that his feet dangled off the examination table. "I'm fine. Just need to get home and get some real sleep, I think."

Dean's phone began to ring in Sam's pocket. Ellen had brought it with her to be on the safe side and Sam had stowed it away while he waited. He pulled it out and looked. "Cas," he said briefly to Dean.

"Give it here."

"I'd better get it, you need to talk to the doctor." Dean gave him a dirty look, but he looked up at the doctor with a patient expression.

Sam stepped away and answered the phone. "Yeah, Cas?"

"Where are you?" the angel demanded in a low, tense voice.

"At the hospital," Sam replied. "I guess I should have called you, but –"

"What is wrong with Dean?"

"He got a little shocky, I guess, and he slipped and fell in the tub, cracking his head open." There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment and Sam felt compelled to fill it. "He's fine, Cas. He's working on convincing the doctor to release him."

"Do you think the doctor should release him?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "That depends on how he looks when he . . ." he trailed off, because as he spoke he turned around and saw Dean hopping off the table. His legs crumpled under him, and he reached backwards, trying to catch himself. Sam tossed the phone onto the table so he could support Dean before he hit the floor and smashed his head into anything else. Between them, he and Dr. Keating helped Dean back up onto the table. By then the phone was making agitated sounds, so he picked it up.

"– cannot locate you. Sam? Sam!"

"I think maybe he should stay here," Sam said, giving Dean an anxious look.

"Where are you?" Cas demanded, sounding irritated.

"St. Mark's Hospital," Sam said. "The emergency room."

"I guessed that much," the angel replied before he disconnected. He might not have much of a sense of humor, but he had a powerful sense of sarcasm.

"Why's the world moving?" Dean asked shakily.

"You have a concussion," Dr. Keating said.

"I've had concussions before, and I don't remember the world moving this much."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam growled. "Lie your ass down if the world is moving."

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean said with an attempt at his usual cocky attitude.

"You are not fine!" Sam replied in a throttled voice. "You . . ." He didn't think he wanted to talk about the fugue state in front of Keating. "You were completely freaked out when I went to get you, and you freaked out again in the shower."

Dean tried to brazen it out. "Come on, Sammy, it's not like that." But Sam could see the sick fear in his eyes.

"It's exactly like that," Sam retorted. "And who could blame you? And it makes you not fine, that's just the way it is. Quit trying to tough it out."

Wide-eyed, Dean lay back on the table. "Who died and made you the boss?"

"Dad," Sam replied. "You said I was just like him."

Dean blinked at him. "That doesn't make you boss," he said. "It makes you . . ."

But Sam wasn't going to find out what it made him. A woman's voice said, "Sir, you can't be in here. Sir, I insist that you –"

"Where is Dean Winchester?" Sam and Dean's eyes met and Sam hurried to the curtain's opening.

"Cas? We're over here."

Castiel changed directions, striding straight towards him, the nurse, or doctor, or whatever she was following him. "Sir, you can't be in here."

Castiel walked past Sam to Dean where he stopped, gazing solemnly at him where he was propped up on his elbows. "You do not look well," Cas said.

"Nice to see you, too," Dean replied. The sarcasm could have been more pungent, but it looked like Dean didn't have the energy to put the required oomph into it.

"I am, of course, glad to see you conscious and aware of your surroundings. You were much less so when –"

"Sir, you have to leave. Only family is allowed in the emergency room."

Castiel turned to her with his unnerving stare, and Sam knew that she hadn't actually experienced it up till now, because she stopped talking with an uneasy stutter. Sam wondered if he was going to let that look do it, or if he was actually going to say something. "I am his lover," Castiel said in that calm, barely inflected voice of his.

"Oh," the woman said, and Sam saw Dr. Keating make a gesture dismissing her.

Sam felt frozen in place. Cas hadn't really actually said that, had he? Maybe he was going crazy and no one had bothered to tell him.

Castiel turned to the doctor. "What is wrong with Dean?"

Dr. Keating looked at Dean, who looked at least as shell-shocked as Sam felt. Dean sort of waved at him to go ahead. "Dean has a concussion," Keating said to Cas. "It knocked him unconscious, and it took him a long while to wake up."

Sam finally kicked off his discombobulation. "And they're going to admit him," he said.

"I don't want to be admitted," Dean said pathetically.

Dr. Keating grimaced. "Well, we could discharge you AMA," he said.

"No!" Sam said instantly, glaring at the way Dean perked up.

"I do not understand," Castiel said, looking at Sam.

"He's saying that they could discharge him against medical advice," Sam explained.

"From the hospital?" Cas asked.

"Yeah."

He turned back to Dean. "No. You are not well, and there is nothing I can do to fix you."

Dean rolled his eyes and thumped his head against the soft top of the exam table. Then he let out a pitiful whimper.

"What did you do?"

"The stitches are on the back of his head," Dr. Keating said. "I'll just go get the paperwork started."

"I don't have insurance," Dean said, looking stunned. He looked over at Sam. "Sammy, we don't have any ins –"

"Don't worry, Dean, I'll take care of it," Sam said. He touched Cas lightly on the shoulder and went out with Dr. Keating.