A/N: So big news this week: I have two new stories up on my profile. "I Will Wait" is a dark, angsty oneshot featuring Sam and Dean. "Daddy Drabbles" is my new series focusing on the boys as fathers (not Wincest). Because little kids are fun. If either of these sound like your thing, go check 'em out and maybe kinda sorta definitely leave a review. Thanks.

Please keep in mind that while I research thoroughly, some of the medical aspects of this fic are entirely made up. They are not to be taken seriously to any extent.

Also, I have dragged (almost literally) ThoughtfulConstellations off her ass and she has updated her fantastic SPN story, "The Risk of Fearlessness". You're welcome.


Dean woke to the sight of Bobby sitting next to his bed, the Hunter's chin dropped forward on this chest. Dean reckoned it was the soft snores that had woken him in the first place. Sam could sleep through just about anything but Dean was restless even with his eyes closed, always had been: a habit born of spending his childhood watching over his brother. His throat was dry from staying asleep for so long but the damn styrafoam cup was on his right, the same side that wasn't working. He was no longer strapped to the bed but when he attempted to pick up his left arm, the limb trembled so fiercely, he was forced to drop it back to the bed. He groaned when he took a closer look; his bicep seemed to have shrunk five inches in girth. It was nothing but a pale toothpick of skin and bone. Dean didn't even want to think what shape his legs were in and he jerked them restlessly just to make sure they still moved. They did.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

Awakened by the groan and rustling of sheets, Bobby peered at his surrogate son with a worried frown. Dean's head swiveled toward his uncle, half looking for his brother or father.

"Wanna get up," he explained, pushing his heels into the mattress to shove himself upward.

"Easy there," Bobby cautioned.

"I wanna walk," Dean grunted, pulling his blankets off and exposing his bandages. Bobby left the room and when he came back with Angie, Dean was fiddling with the elastic strap of his oxygen mask, having gotten some strength back in his left hand. Still, his fingers were thick and clumsy.

"Whatcha doing, handsome?" Angie said, standing by his bedside while Bobby hovered over her shoulder.

"Getting up, what does it look like?" Dean muttered.

"I don't think so. Hey," she said, taking hold of his fingers. They twitched impatiently in her hand and she gave a tight squeeze. "Let's keep the mask on."

"Don't need it," Dean insisted.

"I see you're getting back to normal," Bobby observed. Angie flashed a smile, keeping her firm grasp on his hand when Dean tried to tug it away.

"Do you want to sit up more?"

"No. I wanna get up," he told her.

"Not today. Maybe we'll get you sitting in a chair in a couple days."

"Walk," Dean repeated. He curled his legs up close to his bed and then struck out, the action unbalanced and stilted but forceful all the same

"I know." Angie took Bobby's vacated seat. "Dean, listen to me. You listening?" She waited for his nod before continuing. "Your right leg is very weak. It's going to take some therapy for you to be able to walk again. Even if I let you out of bed right now, you probably wouldn't be able to stand without help." Bobby held his breath as Dean took in her words and then frowned as they struck home.

"Do you understand? Do you want me to get the doctor to explain?" He shook his head and somehow she knew he was answering the latter question. She let go of his hand and he let it rest at his side, though his fingers still twitched against the sheet.

"I know you're getting anxious," Angie said. "I'm going to go get you a toy to play with, okay? Don't go anywhere." She turned to Bobby. "Keep him in line," she said, only half-teasing. "I'll be right back."

Both men were silent until the nurse came back, carrying with her a plastic container. Despite his disgruntled state, Dean was curious as she set it down on the table and opened the top. Out of it, she took three balls, all in different colors and each about the size of the tennis ball.

"I've noticed how much you like playing with your blankets," she said, raising an eyebrow at the material draped over the bed railing, half-trailing on the floor. "So, these are balls for you to play with instead. This one," she placed a white foamy ball in his hand, "has only air inside. It should be relatively easy for you to squeeze. Go ahead." Dean squeezed, feeling his forearm muscles work as his fingers clenched tightly. Angie plucked it from his hold. "This one," the next ball was blue, "has soft rubber in it. It'll be harder to squeeze." It was and Dean could only make a shallow indent where his fingertips pressed in. "And this one…" The last ball was pale pink and smooth, "…is filled with sand." It might as well have been a rock; for all the effort Dean mustered, the ball never shifted. Angie replaced it with the first one. "We'll work up to the other two," she said.

"Thank you," Dean said, palming the white ball while she covered him back up.

"If I go take care of some paperwork, are you gonna stay put?"

He half-nodded, half-glared and she left them to it.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked, not so much because he wanted to know but because he was afraid Bobby was going to ask him about walking and his legs and his useless arm and Dean didn't want to talk about any of that right now.

"At the hotel, sleeping. He drove all night to get here, hasn't slept in two days." Dean frowned.

"Dad hasn't been keeping an eye on him? You know how Sam gets…"

"I know," Bobby said. "But they've been a little busy worrying about you." Dean stuck his thumb into the ball and pressed down, feeling the foam dig in under his fingernail. Someone had cut his nails but hadn't done a clean job of it and there was a jagged spot that was sharp against his skin when he formed a fist.

"I'm fine," he said even though he wasn't.

"No you aren't. You're in the damn ICU," Bobby said.

"That's not what I meant," Dean mumbled. He had meant that he was getting better, that he certainly wasn't going to up and die, not today, and probably not tomorrow. He had no clue about what the time after that would bring but he didn't think he was dying anytime soon. So he wasn't okay, but he was.

"Sam'll be along soon," Bobby said. "You want me to stay til then?" Dean shrugged. No one ever asked if he wanted them to stay, they just did. Granted, he'd spent a large amount of that time unconscious or incoherent but it did get a little tiring knowing someone was always watching him. If it wasn't his father or his brother, it was the nurses, who pestered him day and night. However, if Bobby left than Dean was alone with his own thoughts and his head wasn't the best place to be right now. Not when the yellow-eyed demon kept showing up every time he closed his eyes, whispering in Dean's ear, taunting him.

"You can stay," Dean said. Bobby nodded and took a seat, looking awkward and out of place in his flannel shirt and ballcap. He knew better than to ask Dean how he was feeling and so they just sat there in silence until Sam showed up around lunchtime.

"How long has he been asleep?" Sam whispered to Bobby as he ducked around the curtain.

"I'm not asleep," Dean said, eyes blinking open lazily. "Just resting until you got your ass in here. How was your nap, princess?"

"Good to know you're feeling better," Sam said, dropping into his usual chair. "I only drove across the state to get to you."

"I didn't plan on almost dying," Dean said sarcastically.

"He was trying to get up out of the bed a couple hours ago," Bobby said. "I think he'll be fine."

"What? You shouldn't be trying to get up," Sam said, alarmed enough for all three of them. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry, I didn't get too far. Nurse Ratchet over here," he glared at Bobby but the glower was half-hearted, "called the police on me."

"As he should have," Sam said in earnest. "Dean, your heart-."

"I know," Dean said. "Jesus Christ, Sam, I know. Lay off." Sam lips pressed shut and he glanced away, knees bouncing as his heels rocked on the floor. "I'm sorry," Dean said a few moments later.

"It's just…" Sam looked up the ceiling. "You were really sick last night. We didn't know if you were gonna make it. And now you're talking like this and-." Sam broke off and bit his lip.

"I'm sorry," Dean said again. It hurt watching his little brother so upset and he now he felt guilty for snapping at him, however annoying he was being. Sam was just trying to help, he knew that. "Come on, Sammy." Sam gave him a weak smile. It was odd seeing Dean like this when for so long he had lay in the bed unable to move or speak or even stay awake. Now, although he was far from back to normal, there was a sense of rightness in the room, as if even the air knew Dean was getting stronger.

"Speaking of," Bobby said. "I don't want to burst the bubble here, but how did you get better so fast? I'm glad you're gettin' well but Sam here is right: you were ringing Death's doorbell last night. And I know you've got a long way to go but you have to admit, you look a whole lot better." Bobby was right and both Winchester boys knew it.

The difference between the pale, sweat-soaked, gasping boy of the night before and the one sitting in the same bed now was startling; a puzzle that Dr. Cantwell would spend hours trying to figure out. Dean shrugged and winced, proof that his wounds were still more than evident.

"I don't know. I feel different but I don't know how or what happened."

"What do you mean, different?" Sam asked. "Like," his voice lowered to a whisper. "Demon different?" Dean resisted the urge to shrug again.

"I don't know. I'm not sure what that feels like."

"Dean," Bobby said, pulling his chair closer to the bed. "Do you think he's possessing you?" The very thought was enough to make Dean queasy; Bobby must have noticed because he was quick to add, "Not that I think he is. I just want to make sure."

"I don't know," Dean said again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would I know?"

"He's not possessing you," Sam said, shaking his head. "Dad and I put holy water in your IV a last week."

"You did?"

"Yeah, while you were out of it. Nothing happened." Sam shrugged and Bobby nodded.

"Well, that's that," Bobby said but Dean wasn't convinced. The way the demon kept appearing to him over and over…it was more than just the trauma of the attack. Dean was sure his brain was trying to tell him something, get him to remember something, and the fact that he couldn't quite reach a conclusion was making him uneasy.

Bobby had been around Dean a long time, knew his tics and his moods better than anyone else in the world besides Sam and he could tell that the boy was upset about something. Sam either didn't notice or was ignoring it because he was slouched back in his chair and looked miserable.

"Sam," Bobby said suddenly. "Can you go grab me a fresh cup of coffee? My knee is achin' real bad this today. Must be the weather." Sam gave him a look because when he got here five minutes ago it was sunny and Bobby's bum knee only bothered him when it rains. But he left anyway.

"What's up?" Bobby asked as soon as Sam was on the other side of the double door. Instead of holding back like Bobby thought he would, Dean actually gave a confession.

"It's about the demon, Bobby. Something's not right."

"What are you thinking?" Dean looked at his uncle and gave a small shake of his head, leaning back against the pillows so that he was staring at the ceiling.

"I'm not sure I am thinking. This is the first time I've been truly awake in days and it's now what I think…it's what I feel." Bobby didn't laugh or scoff, just knit his eyebrows together, sweeping the baseball cap off his head and then putting it back on.

"Something's off?" Dean nodded.

"Bobby, I think he talked to me." Bobby squinted and Dean refused to look at him, terrified he was going to see doubt or even worse, sympathy.

"You mean before he sliced you up?"

"Maybe. But I think he's talking to me in my head." This time when he looked over at Bobby, the older man wasn't quick enough to hide the flash of fear that went through him. Hearing demons wasn't exactly what he called normal.

"When?" Bobby asked, trying not to let Dean notice how much effort it takes to get the words out of his constricted throat. He noticed anyway and the fear transferred from Bobby into Dean, who dropped the white ball and wrapped an arm around his middle, as if that would keep the demon away. The truth was, he had never felt more vulnerable, lying in a hospital bed and unable to move, unable to run away if he needed to. Dean was completely dependent on the charity and service around him and that made him more uncomfortable than any of his injuries.

"What do you mean?"

"While you're sleeping or while you're awake?"

"Asleep," Dean said then frowned. "I think. It doesn't feel like I'm asleep but it wasn't in the hospital so I must have been asleep. Bobby, I don't know. Everything is so messed up in my head." A panic was edging into his words; the heart machine jumped an octave, startling Bobby.

"It's okay," Bobby said even though it wasn't. "Sounds like he's coming to you in your dreams, it's a manipulation that not many demons have."

"How many is not many?" Bobby hesitated before answering.

"I've ever heard of one in particular. Read it once in a book."

"So none."

"I didn't say that." Dean closed his eyes to cough and Bobby leaned around the curtain to make sure Angie or Sam weren't on their way over. As good as Dean was looking – and sounding – he was getting paler by the minute, exhausted by the conversation. This was the most talkative, and therefore active, the kid had been since the attack.

"He say anything useful? Anything I need to know about?"

"I can't remember," Dean said. He struggled back to that moment in the cellar, the face grinning at him through the darkness, the rippling fingers under his skin. He remembered screaming, he remembered pleading with the demon to kill him, the demon's roar of laughter at the request.

"Dean, do you know what he wants? Why he came after you?" Bobby's voice was second to the leering, high pitched giggles in his ear and no matter how much he tried to focus his brain on something else, he couldn't He coughed again, feeling the breath catch in his throat but working around it.

"What do you want?"

"Now there's a loaded question. I want John. I want you. But most of all I want darling little Sammy."

Dean's eyes flew open, his chest heaving. Bobby was reaching for the oxygen mask dangling around his neck but Dean didn't want it, didn't need it. There was more air in lungs now than ever before in his life. His vision swam with it.

I want darling little Sammy.

Sam's absence was pressing in on him; he wasn't in the room and neither was John. Goddammit, where was John when you needed him?

"Bobby," he gasped and Bobby mistook the noise for distress and started to rise to call Angie. "Bobby, where's Dad?" The Hunter stopped in his tracks, turning back to find Dean struggling to rise, his blankets torn off again, legs thrashing to pull himself further up on the bed. "Bobby, I have to talk to him! Get this stuff off of me!" He ripped at the heart monitors, leaving angry, red marks on his skin and causing the machinery around him to go beserk. Bobby pressed a palm into his shoulder but Dean was having none of it, not even when Angie came rushing in, alerted by the machines.

But most of all I want darling little Sammy.

"Bobby, where's Dad?"

"Dean, he-." Bobby couldn't finish, he had planned on telling Dean but he hadn't planned on Dean going crazy. There was a fresh franticness to the boy as he struggled against Angie and Bobby.

"Dean, listen," Angie was saying. "You need to stay still. Calm down." Her voice slid like soap over him, right over him and out the door and he surprised every single one of them with his strength and then he finally got his legs under him and started to swing them over the bed, falling into Bobby in the process. The man caught him, holding on tight to Dean's arm, the one that couldn't wrench itself away.

"Listen here," Bobby said gruffly but quietly. "Your father isn't here. He left, okay?" If possible, Dean's eyes went even wider and his feet still scrabbled beneath him, one lying at an awkward angle on the bed, the other jammed up against the railing. His good arm pushed at Bobby. Angie was hurrying a syringe ready behind him and Bobby saw her out of the corner of his eye, talking fast as he knew Dean wouldn't want to be knocked out.

"They're going to put you under if you don't stop. You hear me? Is that what you want?" Sam was at the door now, two coffees in hand, mouth agape at the scene in front of him.

"What's going on?"

Nobody answered him but Dean's fingers stopped moving, his legs stilled. The information that John wasn't around hadn't quite processed fully; his thoughts were focused on something else.

"Bobby, I know what he wants," Dean whispered, voice hoarse from yelling. He coughed and let his forehead drop forehead onto his uncle's shoulder as the rest of his body went limp with exhaustion. Angie paused with the syringe, watching the exchange carefully. She set it down a minute later when Dean made no further attempt at leaving. "I know what he wants," he repeated.

"Okay," Bobby said, if only to appease the young man in his arms. "What does he want?" Dean sagged against him, all energy and adrenaline of the moment fading away as Sam spoke in hushed tones to the nurse. The smell of the coffee was making him nauseous but he had to keep talking, had to tell Bobby what he remembered before the demon made him forget again.

"He wants us," Dean said. "All of us." His gaze swung over to his little brother who met his eye and offered Dean a weak smile. Dean couldn't look away. His fingers curled around Bobby's, clutching tight to the only stability he could find. His next words came out choked, a ragged disbelief tethered to his tone. His heart lurched painfully and it had nothing to do with how fast it was beating.

"But most of all, he wants Sam."