A/n I guess I should make the disclaimer that I'm not in any way associated with the medical field nor I am a doctor. Thus, if the medical terms or situations don't add up, let me know! :)

Also, if you feel so inclined, I would love to know what you are thinking. Please leave a review on your way out! :)

Chapter Eight

The wind continued to howl outside of their room, the snow piling up on the window planes as midnight came and went. Dean turned on the tv had some point, letting the background noise make up for the distinct lack of it in the almost empty room.

Dean had never liked being alone. The silence was oppressive and would weigh down on him until he felt like it would crush him. There were just too many unknowns and what-if's that liked to circle through his mind. Being on the hunt, being with his family, that focused him. Let him feel like there was some semblance of control in his life.

He didn't feel that way right now, not at all. They were supposed to be on the road to some mountain but here they were, Sam laid up, beat to hell, and John out searching for the culprits, and Dean…Dean didn't like it.

He was the one who had convinced John to let Sam go see Rilla if he would have just put his foot down…but no, Sam would have hated him and he could never stand to have Sam look at him the same way he sometimes looked at John.

Rubbing at his forehead, Dean swore softly under his breath. This wasn't how things were supposed to go, but when had life ever treated them fairly? That was Winchester 101.

It was almost three in the morning before John returned, his skin red from the cold. His knuckles were bruised but there was a triumphant grin on his face.

"You got them?" Dean asked tiredly, shifting from where he was sitting on the bed next to Sam.

"They won't be able to stand for a while, never mind beat up teenagers. Gave them a hello from you as well," John said heartily, going to the small fridge and pulling out a beer. Dean grinned a little standing and stretching sore muscles.

"How many?" He asked, trying not to let his bitterness creep into his words even as his hands curled into loose fists. He had wanted to be there, had wanted to wipe the smirks off their faces…

"Just two. And Sam clearly did not go down without a fight, but they had this." John tossed a set of brass knuckles down onto the table and Dean swore under his breath.

"That's cheating," he growled, and John nodded in agreement, taking another swig of beer before offering it to Dean.

Dean's watch began to beep and he jumped, quickly silencing it. "Time for meds," he explained, and John nodded in approval.

"Any change?" he asked as he took Dean's spot next on the bed. Dean shook his head as he began to gather up various pills and a bottle of water. John nodded, leaning over Sam.

"Sammy…c'mon, wake up," he coaxed softly, one hand rubbing up and down his arm. Dean set the pills down, quickly moving to flick on the lamp and turn off the main light. It was only then that he joined them on Sam's other side, waiting.

"Sam. Hey. Open your eyes." John's voice changed, going from soft to hard, from asking to demanding and Dean stiffened, shooting his father a glare but John wasn't paying any attention to his oldest. Transferring his hand to Sam's chest, he rapped his knuckles smartly across Sam's sternum.

Sam flinched, coughing a little as the pain hit and groaning. John sat back smugly as Sam blinked once, twice, staring over their heads and at the ceiling.

"Hey there, dude," Dean said, tapping his arm lightly but Sam didn't respond, his eyes slipping shut again.

"No, Sam, stay awake for just another moment," John ordered loudly, and Sam jerked. Dean frowned, giving his father a hard look of his own.

"Just get the pills and the water, he's not fully awake," John instructed, shifting his hands carefully underneath Sam's bandaged head and lifting him up enough to be able to swallow. Sam went willingly enough and Dean bent down, trying to look him in the eyes, but his lids were closed once more and he snapped Sam's name out, flinching him back into awareness.

Holding up the pills, Dean carefully slipped them past Sam's split lip, offering the water as a chaser. Only Sam didn't move to help, didn't even swallow the pills and Dean felt unease tightening in his gut.

"Sam, you gotta swallow, dude. These will help, I promise." He shook Sam's shoulder gently, offering up the water again as he choked weakly on the pills. John shifted him, trying to help him swallow but it wasn't working and a moment later Dean was digging the now pasty pills from Sam's mouth.

"Dad?" he asked, trying vainly not to let his concern show.

"Crush them up, he'll have an easier time with that."

Dean moved swiftly to do so, returning with a mug of spiked water and pressing it against Sam's lips. Sam appeared to be more asleep than awake, no awareness in his foggy eyes when they did drift open, and it took them several attempts to get most of the water down his throat.

The exercise left them all tired and Sam was unconscious again before John had finished lowering his head back to the pillow. Dean wasn't finding it quite that easy to relax.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?" John hummed as he pulled the first-aid kit closer, examining his own torn and bruised knuckles.

"He didn't seem very aware or coherent and he did take a couple of strong blows to the head…do you think that we should take him in, get him checked out?" Dean perched an elbow on his knee, watching his father closely. John's lips twisted as he began to tape his knuckles.

"He did seem kind of out of it," he agreed, stopping to glance over at Sam before shaking his head. "Then again, we did wake him up out of a pretty deep sleep. We'll try again at five, see if we can get him to respond more fully. Don't worry, we'll take him in if the need arises. Right now, though, you should get some sleep. Morgan's daughter should be here by eight and we will see what she says, but until then, I've got this watch."

Dean hesitated, rubbing at his aching eyes, before shaking his head. "I think I'm just going to sit here a little while longer. The infomercials are just riveting, after all," he said, forcing a smile, and John shrugged. Dean settled into a slouch next to his brother, close enough that Sam could get his attention if he needed anything.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his father, hell, it was only because it was John that Dean felt comfortable letting his guard down a little, but this was Sam. And Sam needed to know that Dean was there, that he was safe. Although neither John nor he would talk about it or admit it, it wasn't John who Sam looked to for comfort.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean reclined back, listening to Sam's quick breaths until they lured him into an uneasy sleep.

#

Dean wasn't sure what woke him. One minute he had been asleep, albeit fitfully, and the next he was awake, his heart pounding as the feeling of wrong penetrating his veins. Tensing, he popped one eye open, searching for the cause but the room was mostly dark, the only light coming from the cracked bathroom door, and Dean opened his other eye, sitting up straight.

Next to him, Sam let out a strange, wheezing sort of gasp, and Dean's attention immediately changed.

"Sammy? You awake?" he asked slowly, consciously keeping his voice at a low level as he stretched across the bed to flip on the overhead lamp. He was half expecting for Sam to flinch away or to respond in some manner, but Sam remained limp, sucking in another painful-sounding breath. It caught in his lungs long enough for Dean's heart to skip several beats before he made that same odd gasping sound from earlier.

"Sam?" There was a definite note of panic in his voice but Dean couldn't do anything about it, not when Sam sounded like a ninety-year-old smoker with pneumonia. Placing a hand atop his brother's head, careful of the injuries, he rested the other on Sam's chest and shook him gently.

Sam didn't move.

"Dad? Dad's something's…wrong." Looking over his shoulder, Dean felt the pit of unease in his gut skyrocket when he didn't immediately locate John. Pushing off the bed, he hurried to the bathroom, not even bothering to knock, but John wasn't in there either.

Darting to the door, Dean swung it open, glancing outside into the flurry of snow and trying to see if the Impala was still there because Sam didn't sound right and no teenager was supposed to be breathing like that, and John needed to fix it.

The car was there, sitting under a pile of snow, and Dean was about to slam the door shut again when he caught sight of the lone figure standing next to the vending machine.

"Dad?" Dean ventured out into the snow and wind, holding up a hand to protect his eyes from the elements. John turned around, holding up his finger and Dean could now see that he was on the phone, but he didn't care.

"Dad, something's wrong with Sam," he yelled over the howl, pressing forward until he could grab John's shoulder and jerking his head towards the door. John's eyebrows dipped together but he flipped the phone closed with a gruff word and followed Dean back inside.

Without bothering to take off his coat, John sank down onto the side of the bed, Dean hovering over his shoulder.

"He's breathing funny," Dean pointed out needlessly as John laid a hand on Sam's chest.

"Get me a glass of water, we'll try to revive him and get him to change positions, he might be putting too much pressure on those ribs," John commanded, and Dean immediately turned to the sink, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as he waited for the flimsy plastic cup to fill.

John was bending over Sam, rummaging through the first-aid kit.

Cursing under his breath, Dean jogged back with the water. "Here…"

John didn't respond, his back stiffening and Dean's gut churned, the anxiousness eating away at his insides like acid.

"Dad, here, take it."

John turned, flicking off the penlight and tossing it back into the kit. No fear or panic shone through his carefully shielded eyes and his voice was the picture of perfect calm when he spoke.

"Call 911. Now."

If Dean thought he had been feeling anxious before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now as he fumbled for the motel phone. "What's wrong with Sam, Dad?" he asked as he dialed but John just shook his head.

"911, Dean."

"I know, I know—"

"911, what's your emergency?" A cool, male, voice asked, and Dean had to lick his lips before he could reply.

"I need an ambulance sent to the Village Inn, Room 213," he heard himself requesting even as he searched his father's face, willing him to say something but John didn't say anything, just staring at the floor in a defeated sort of stance.

The operator was asking him questions and Dean answered as best he could, admitting only the bare minimum that his brother had been mugged and that he wasn't breathing correctly.

Finally, the man told him to stay on the line and that the ambulance would be there soon. Dean dropped the phone, realizing for the first time that his hands were shaking and he squeezed them into tight fists as he moved to sit next to Sam, next to his baby brother, the kid he had always protected, the kid who was struggling to breathe, who wasn't waking up—

Pressing a fist against his mouth, Dean stared hard at Sam, willing him to open his eyes and laugh it off as some joke.

This couldn't be happening, not right now, not to Sam, not to them. They weren't even supposed to be in this crap town another night, they were supposed to be in the mountains, freezing their asses off as Dean tried to make Sam laugh while he kept up a steady stream of complaints until he drove Dean nuts. Not this.

The sharp rap on the door made Dean flinch but John rose steadily and ushered the two EMTs into the room. Dean stood as well, squeezing into the tight space between the nightstand and the bed, and laying a hand protectively on Sam's shoulder.

John pulled the first EMT aside, talking to her in a low whisper. She nodded grimly and Dean rounded on John.

"So, you'll tell her and not me?" he asked in a sharp whisper, the anger feeling good against the fear that was bubbling inside of him.

"Later, Dean," John snapped and Dean had never wanted to hit the man more than he did right then and there but the EMTs were descending on his brother and it would have to wait.

They began to strip Sam of the blankets, the man sliding a blood pressure cuff around Sam's good arm while the woman pulled an oxygen mask into place. They were calling out stats and numbers, some of which Dean understood and all of which gave him a cold chill as he began to wrap his head around the idea that his brother might be in serious trouble.

But it had been a simple beating, that was all, wasn't it?

They couldn't have been in the room for more than a few minutes when the female EMT was standing and turning back around to face John, her hands on her hips as she spoke calmly and softly.

"So, here's the deal. Sam should have been brought in immediately after the attack, but what's done is done. I would feel a lot better if we got him into the ambulance and on the way to the hospital. MRIs and other ex-rays are going to be required. Sam's still a minor, we need you to sign the waiver." She glanced behind her, extending a clipboard as her partner pressed his stethoscope against Sam's chest, listening intently.

"Just show me where to sign and we will follow behind."

"I'm riding with Sam." Dean stepped forward, his hand tightening around Sam's shoulder. The EMT peered over at him, but Dean stuck out his chin, daring her to sideline him.

"If he stays out of the way that shouldn't be a problem, but you're the father, it's your call," she said instead to John.

"That's fine," John said distractedly as he took the proffered pen.

"Good, alright. Fred, his vitals holding for the moment?"

"Yeah, let's get him on the gurney."

And just like that, Sam was being strapped down and pushed towards the door and the waiting ambulance. Dean darted forward, absentmindedly accepting the coat that John thrust at him as he slammed the motel door behind them.

Dean couldn't help but feel like he had left part of his insides somewhere behind the closed door.

#

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean's head shot up, his eyes darting over to his father who was standing next to him and looking a little pale in the fluorescent lights, before darting to the balding man who was looking around the waiting room with a practiced eye.

Together they made their way over and the doctor moved in to breach the gap. "Dr. Winfield," he announced, holding out his hand. John shook it firmly before the doctor extended the greeting to Dean as well.

"How's Sam?" John asked anxiously.

Winfield's face fell, his eyes going grim in a way that said that they were about to have a very serious discussion. "I would like to speak to you both alone in my office if that is alright?" he asked quietly. He gave them another sad smile when John nodded, and Dean wiped clammy hands against his jeans.

Dr. Winfield took the lead, ushering them into a nearby elevator. It didn't escape Dean's attention that they were heading up to the fifth floor where the ICU was located, and he tried to share a worried look with his father but John was staring moodily ahead at nothing. Taking a deep breath, Dean glanced to his left at Winfield but he didn't receive any comfort there either.

Leading them into the brightly lit room that was his office, Winfield gestured towards the chairs and Dean sank down onto the edge of his.

Dr. Winfield sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms as he regarded them grimly.

"Before we continue, do you have any other close family or friends around? Perhaps someone that we could call to be with you right now?"

John shook his head while Dean snorted quietly. They hadn't had anybody for years now.

"Are you sure? Well, then, there is no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to give it to you straight," Dr. Winfield took off the glasses that had been perched on his nose, his eyes soft and worried, "The beating Sam received was brutal, and at some point, he was subject to blunt force trauma to the head. This, in turn, has led to swelling in the brain." He paused, making sure that they were following, before continuing with a pained expression. "I'm sorry to inform you that Sam has slipped into a coma."

Dean blinked. "No, that's not right," he said before he could stop himself and Dr. Winfield turned to him.

"No, Dean, I'm afraid that this is very much the case. Sam is in a coma."

"A coma?" John repeated softly and Dean jerked his gaze over to him, willing his father to be angry, to fight against this, but he only sat there, the same defeated look that he had worn at the hotel back.

"No, Sam's not…Sam can't be…in a coma?" Dean echoed and suddenly John's hand was on his shoulder, a crushing and sure grip that betrayed his own fear.

Dr. Winfield raised a hand, pushing the glasses back up onto his nose. "I know that hearing that someone you love is in a coma isn't easy, but I do want to reassure you that we have high hopes that Sam will wake sooner rather than later. There is a scale that we use to measures someone's awareness called the Glasgow Coma Scale, and as part of it, we test someone's eye, verbal, and motor responses. Now, a score of thirteen or fifteen would indicate a mild head injury. The lower it is, the more cause we have to be concerned."

"And what did Sam score?" John asked and Dean snorted a little.

"He'd be disappointed in anything but a fifteen, he's always been an overachiever in that aspect." The words felt numb and wrong, nothing more than an automatic response from a different part of his brain, one where they weren't sitting here discussing Sam being in a coma.

"Well, he may yet score a fifteen, but currently he is sitting at a six," Dr. Winfield said not unkindly. "He is not responding verbally, which is one mark. He is, however, opening his eyes to certain pain stimuli and though that does not mean that he is awake, it does mean that he has a score of two in that category. Lastly, he scored the highest in motor response with a three, which means that his muscles are responding to pain stimuli." Here, he stopped, looking between them.

Dean could only sink further into his seat, feeling a little like he was being sprayed in the face with a fire hose. This couldn't be happening, they shouldn't be sitting in some doctor's office discussing the freaking GCS. "That's not good," he managed to say, and John's fingers tightened a little.

"Yes, Dean, you're right. A score of six is not desirable and I won't lie and say that this isn't severe. It is. But he's not brain dead, and that is a start, a big start. I've seen people come back from worse."

"What medication is he on?" John asked abruptly, still looking lost in a way that Dean didn't see very often. Dr. Winfield turned towards John and began to explain about the drugs that they were currently using to try and lessen the swelling in his brain. He also began to discuss the ones that they were using to try and get Sam to respond but Dean was stuck on the fact that Sam was not responding. Sam always had something to say and he let everybody know it.

"And…what about brain damage, is that a possibility?"

John's voice cut straight through Dean's train of thought, derailing it violently and he leaned forward, bringing a trembling hand up to cover his eyes as Dr. Winfield paused. He didn't want to know the answer to this, didn't want to even have to ask the question. He didn't want to know. This was Sam they were talking about, brilliant Sam whose brain was always going three times faster than everybody else, who could get into any college that he wanted to if he was so inclined, who thrived on independence. Little Sammy who had taught himself to read with only a little help from Dean, who—

"That's a harder question."

Dean froze, his heart pounding a mile a minute but he was unable to stop listening. He had to know even as his own brain screamed at him to cover his ears.

"To be blunt, we don't know, and we are simply going to have to wait for Sam to wake up. There could be major issues, or it could be minor. There are many cases of there being no brain damage whatsoever. We are just going to have to wait and see but I would remind you once again that he is not brain dead. Not even close, so we can cross all other hurdles when we get to them."

Dean felt like he was lagging behind. How could possible brain damage be just another hurdle? Everything went back to that, didn't it? Even if Sam woke up again would he even recognize Dean? Would things ever go back to normal or had his last words to Sam been just a few hours ago? What had he even said? When was the last time that he had told Sam how much he meant to him? How freaking much he loved the stupid kid?

"Dean…?"

His chest hurt, his heart throbbing and pounding as fear sank its ugly teeth in, unwilling to let go and—

"Dean?" He was shaken vigorously and Dean's head shot up to find Dr. Winfield had stood from his desk, his eyes tight with worry, while his father was crouched in front of him looking just as concerned.

"I'm fine," Dean said instantly, pushing himself more upright and running a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath, regaining control. He let it out slowly. They didn't know anything yet, that was what the doctor had been saying, right? And if Dean did know anything it was that Sam was a fighter, and stubborn as a mule.

Sam was going to wake up again. He was going to be just fine.

He had to be.

"Really, I'm good. What else do we need to know?" Dean insisted, his voice tightening. John hesitated before moving back to his seat, gesturing for the man to continue, and Dr. Winfield leaned back against the desk.

He kept his eye on Dean for a second longer before resuming. "As I was saying, we have begun treatment on his other injuries as well. The second and third ribs on his right side are broken but we have them stabilized. Someone also came in to cast his arm after we set it. You will be glad to know that it was a clean break and did not require surgery. It should heal nicely."

"Can we see him?" Dean broke in as Dr. Winfield took a breath, who smiled.

"Yes, I'll take you back in just a moment. It can do a coma patient good to be surrounded by loved ones. The movies don't get it all wrong, believe it or not, and there are cases of someone in a coma being able to hear those around them. It varies person to person, but it never hurts to try, does it?"

"Good. I want to see my brother."

John stood and Dean followed suit, but the doctor held up a hand. "Hold on just one second, John. Before I can take both of you back, I need you to head back over to the nurse's desk, we passed it on the way here? Yes, while I am thinking about it, I need you to give Dean permission to stay with Sam alone, as he is a minor, should you need to leave for some reason and Dean wants to stay."

John's eyebrows creased in a frown but for once he didn't argue, simply disappearing through the doors. Dean sank back down, unsure if his legs would continue to hold him until his father returned.

He was staring at the door, waiting, when Dr. Winfield moved forward and sat down in John's chair, leaning in close.

"Dean," he began softly and a little bit urgently and Dean felt the fear dig its teeth in deeper. He didn't want the doctor to try and shower him with petty comfort and he didn't want to talk about his feelings. At all. Not with anybody. He braced himself as the Doctor glanced at the door before making eye contact with him.

"Dean, you can trust me, alright? You can tell me the truth. Is John hurting Sam? Or you?"

"What?" It took Dean by surprise and he reared back. "No! My dad isn't some abusive freak, okay? What in the hell possessed you to say something like that?"

Dr. Winfield shook his head, that sad look back on his face. "I oversaw Sam's care, I examined him and this clearly isn't the first beating that Sam has received. His body is scarred with damage that no sixteen-year-old should have. Something is wrong, and we can get him help, we can get you help too if you need it. You may not be minor, but we could detain John and—"

"No."

"There is something seriously off here. Why didn't your father bring Sam in the moment the beating finished? His arm was clearly broken, any father in their right mind would have brought their kid in. And…and I saw John's knuckles. He's been hitting someone recently. Did he do this to Sam?"

"No. No, and I'll swear it on anything you want me to that he didn't."

"One call and John can be detained at the desk and the police sent for. We can have child protective services here within the hour and Dean, I'll stand up for you. I would have to be blind not to see how much you care for your brother. We could get you set up as his guardian, you're old enough but—"

"You don't know anything," Dean spat, standing up and looming to his full height which was not unimpressive. "You don't know my Dad. He looks out for us, he keeps us together. He does what is best for us, okay?"

"Okay, okay…" Winfield agreed quietly, and Dean knew that he had been unimpressed with his arguments. His suspicions were confirmed when a business card was extended to him. "Maybe this was just a mugging gone wrong and your father was mixed up in a bar fight. All the same, if you need my help, ever, you just come and talk to me. I'll help you both with whatever you might need."

He finished his speech, the card still extended awkwardly in front of him and Dean shook his head.

"If you expect for me to start cryin' and telling you some sob story about being beat as a kid, then you are going to be waiting a long, long, time," he said coolly and Dr. Winfield sighed, putting away the card.

Dean stood, moving to the window as he watched his father down the hallway, talking with a nurse and reaching for a pen. Winfield didn't know anything. He didn't know that the scars that decorated Sam were from saving people, about how John taught them to protect themselves against things that Dr. Winfield couldn't even begin to understand.

It wasn't abuse. It wasn't.

It was the one thing Dean refused to think too deeply about and not something that he could dwell on when Sam was…was in a coma.

Glancing back at the doctor, Dean frowned, turning fully. Winfield may have dropped several notches in Dean's book, but he was still a doctor and appeared to know what he was talking about when it came to the…when it came to Sam's situation.

"Sam woke up, back at the motel before we brought him in, but he wasn't really respondin'. We couldn't get him to drink or take any pills was that…?" Dean trailed off but Dr. Winfield straightened, fixing his tie absently.

"He had probably already slipped into the coma. His body was responding to the pain, more than likely."

"Oh." Dean turned back around, not comforted at all, but then John returned and something his chest eased.

Any relief that was gained from his father's return vanished as Dr. Winfield walked them into the ICU and led them to a tiny cubical.

Dean felt a little lightheaded as he peered in at his brother.

Sam was covered in wires and machinery, making him look small and fragile. His face was so swollen from the dark bruises that he was hardly recognizable and the ventilator tube going into the back of his throat made Dean want to gag on his behalf.

John continued to ask Winfield questions as Dean snagged the chair that was closest to the bed and sank down, staring numbly at Sam.

Finally, Winfield left, giving Dean one last emphatic look that Dean made sure to ignore, and then it was just the three of them, just like it always was.

Dean stared at John, who blew out a long sigh as he dropped down into the second chair.

"Dad?" he asked and John looked over at him, massaging his forehead.

"Sam's goin' to be okay," he said, dropping his hand back into his lap and Dean nodded. He hadn't even been aware that he had needed that reassurance, not until a weight was lifted from his shoulders and he found it a little easier to breathe.

"I know," and for the first time he believed it, "But there is somethin' else, They think that you are abusin' him and CPS is gonna get called if we aren't careful."

"What? Damnit!" John shot back up, pushing a hand through his hair. "When did you hear this? Who was talking to you?"

Dean jerked his head back in the direction that Dr. Winfield had left in. "It was when you went to go sign those forms. He's pretty convinced."

John made a face, his hands clenching together. "Alright, well, keep your ears pressed to the ground. If it sounds like they are about to actually call, warn me and I'll make myself scarce, but until then…" he trailed off, rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

"Yeah," Dean agreed and they went silent, the only sound in the room the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the woosh as the ventilator forced air manually into Sam's lungs. Dean closed his eyes, grinding the heel of his palms into the lids and wondering when everything had gone to hell.

"He's in a coma," he stated dully and John looked over at him as Dean raised what he was sure were pleading eyes. "He's in a freakin' coma, what are we supposed to do?"

"Well for starters, pull yourself together, boy. No tears or moping around is gonna fix this. Either he will wake up on his own, or we will find something to help him wake up." John's face went tight but even as Dean straightened, pushing the crushing fear away, he felt a flicker of hope.

They knew things, things that doctors did not know. If Sam wasn't going to wake up on his own, then they would fix it. It would be that simple. Dean had given up everything else for this cause, was it really too much to ask that his family be kept healthy and alive and in one piece in return?

John made it about an hour before he stood, stretching. "It's going to be a long day. Do you want a coffee? Or anything to eat?" He began to fumble through his jacket pockets, making sure he had his wallet.

"Just coffee. Black."

"Alright, I'll be back, don't leave him unless you have to, understood?"

Dean nodded, muttering under his breath, "Like you even have to ask," as he watched his father retreat.

And then it was just him and Sam.

Dean hunched forward, gazing at his brother who slept on, oblivious to all that was happening around him.

Feeling slightly sick, Dean stood and shrugged off his own coat, draping it haphazardly across the chair before lowering the safety rail on the bed. Carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed by Sam's hip, he reached out, poking his arm.

"Hey, ah," he began a little self-consciously. "the doc thinks that you might be able to hear us, so you know, I'm gonna go for it. And unless you want to chime in, that means I get to pick the subject so no bellyaching, you hear? Just…don't leave me hanging for too long, man. I got better stuff to do than sit here and listen to you snore. Like going huntin'. Speaking of huntin', did you know that Dad once hunted down the ghost of a Lt. James Rollin? The dude was a lieutenant in the Civil War and all that jazz. You could probably tell me about the battles that he fought in or whatever, but I can tell you that he was one nasty son of a bitch. Dad first got word of him that time we were staying in Rock Springs. I think you were only like nine, anyway…"

Dean rambled on, starting with Rollin and then pressing on to the Banshee he had hunted sometime last fall when Sam had been in school.

It was slightly unnerving, the way that Sam simply laid there and didn't respond to any of it. Not to the inappropriate comments, or the immature jokes.

He simply laid there, a machine pushing air into his lungs for him.

#

"You need a shower."

Dean jerked, fumbling to right himself as his brain came back online and he lifted his head up blearily from where it had been resting on his arm. "What?" He blinked up at John who was sitting opposite him.

"A shower. You need a shower, dude." John closed his journal, leaning forward and looking Dean in the eyes.

"No, I don't," Dean mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his face and shifting, glancing around at all the monitors. No change. They had been here two days already but it felt like weeks.

John huffed a laugh and Dean shot him a glare.

"Yeah, you kind of do, kiddo. When was the last time you left Sam's room to do anything but get food or use the bathroom?"

Dean was silent for a moment staring unseeingly at Sam before sighing and throwing up his hands. "I need a shower," he confessed, getting to his feet.

"One second," John instructed and Dean stopped, turning back. "While you're making yourself presentable, I need you to do something for me."

"Name it," Dean said tiredly, resisting the urge to yawn.

"Track down that Rilla girl. I want to hear her side of the story." John was tapping his journal thoughtfully and Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"You think that there is more to the story?" he asked tightly and John shrugged.

"Ah, probably not. I just want to hear what she has to say. I didn't ask many questions to the two idiots when I probably should have. Sam's not totally incompetent when it comes to hand-to-hand. He should have been able to take them down and I want to know more about the situation, see if there was anything else going on."

"Oh. Why don't you go?" Dean asked, sinking back into his seat but John was shaking his head.

"I think she will respond better to you than to me. Just…turn on your charm and try not to scare her, okay?"

"Alright, alright, I'm leaving." Dean stood reluctantly, glancing back at his brother. Some of the swelling in his face had finally gone down and some of the bruising was fading from blue to yellowish-green. "Hey, you'll call me, right? If anything changes with Sam?"

John nodded distractedly, a thoughtful look on his face and Dean left.

The plan was to take a quick shower (because as much as he hated to admit it, he was kind of ripe) and then hunt Rilla down, get the needed answers and return to Sam's side to attempt to coax him awake.

Not that it had really been working so far, but Dean wasn't done trying. He had tricks up his sleeve that Sam hadn't even seen yet.

Going to shove the key into the lock, Dean stopped, frowning.

The lock had been smashed, probably with a rock, and the door was cracked open.

Dropping the key, Dean fumbled for his knife and slowly eased the door open.

He stopped short, his jaw dropping.

It looked like a hurricane had blown through their room. Clothes were spilling out of duffels, furniture was overturned and the bedspreads were scattered across the room. Sam's school books were laying across the floor in a heap, a few loose pages decorating the floor.

"What the hell…"

The bathroom was no better, with every single drawer pulled open, the contents dumped haphazardly on the floor and searched through.

Someone had been looking for something.

Cursing under his breath, Dean began gathering everything up, throwing belongings back where they belonged, and trying to account for anything that might be missing. He was much more careful with Sam's clothing than his or John's, attempting to fold it like he knew his brother liked and repacking them with a tenderness that he would never admit to. The books were treated with equal care.

Storing them away in the duffle, Dean paused as he caught sight of a newspaper-wrapped square that was in the bottom of the duffle. Pulling it out, he opened it without hesitation. Something was going on here, and any clues that he could get, the better.

Only, it wasn't a clue. It was a brand new watch, one that Dean had been admiring back in Victoria. And tucked into the wrapping was a folded piece of paper, Sam's handwriting just visible.

Dean sat down hard on the floor, his legs unwilling to hold him up as his gut churned. His birthday was in a couple of days, this was a birthday gift from Sam, and he couldn't—this wasn't what he wanted to deal with. He didn't want…

He just made it to the toilet before he threw up. Slumping back in exhaustion against the bathtub, Dean ran both hands through his hair, gripping tight. All he wanted was for Sam to wake up again, he didn't want the last words that he shared with his brother to be on a note for some birthday that Dean had forgotten was coming.

Dean just wanted Sam to wake up.

Struggling back onto his feet, Dean eased the note and the watch back into the newspaper, tucking it away underneath Sam's clothing. Sam would wake up and give it to him, he had to believe it.

Zipping the duffle closed, Dean took a moment to take a couple of deep breaths, before returning to his search. The guns were still there, as were the limited array of protective wards that would look valuable to an outsider.

Rubbing a hand across his jaw, Dean turned in a circle, mind racing through all the possibilities. He may not be much of a religious man, but he didn't believe in coincidences. Sam getting mugged and then this? No, there was something definitely up and Rilla was their next link.

Forgoing the shower, Dean quickly headed to Rilla's home. He had picked Sam up there once after school, and it didn't take him long to retrace his steps, only to find nobody home.

Glancing at his watch anxiously, Dean calculated how long he had been gone before making the decision to go back to the hospital. He needed to tell John about the break-in and they needed to discuss what was going to happen next.

Nothing had changed at the hospital when Dean barged into the room. John broke off his one-sided conversation with a still silent Sam, looking a little embarrassed.

"Oh, sorry…" Dean instantly began to back out but John waved him in.

"Did you find Rilla?" he asked instead and Dean shook his head, launching into his story. John looked angry than shocked by the end as he began to pace back and forth in the tight quarters.

"They didn't take anything?" he asked for the third time and Dean shook his head.

"Not that I can tell."

"Huh. We need to find that girl, they could be going after her too if she knows something. Okay, here's the new plan. You stay with Sam. I'm going to go revisit those two goons, see if I can get anything out of them, and then I'm—"

There was a soft rap on the metal frame that counted as a door and they both turned. A pretty young woman in a pantsuit was standing there.

"May we help you?" John snapped and she smiled warmly.

"Hi, I'm Sally Jones, Mayor Bedford's personal assistant. He heard of Sam's unfortunate accident and wanted to send his condolences and to tell you—"

"Thank you—" John cut her off and gestured at the door pointedly but she tilted her head back, standing her ground.

"He is wondering if you would be interested in setting up an interview with the press, perhaps to bring awareness to all he is doing to help confront the drug issue and bring in donations that would—"

"No offense, ma'am, but you need to leave. We're not interested." Grimacing, John stocked over to the curtain and swung in shut in her face, effectively ending the conversation.

"Damn politicians. They'll make a buck off of anyone or anything that moves," he muttered.

"What are we going to do about whoever is after Sam?" Dean asked, bringing the conversation back and John made a face.

"You stay with Sam and be on guard, they knew where he lived, and they could come after him here."

"Right," Dean straightened, his hand tightening around Sam's bedrail. Oh, he would love to see them try and get their hands on Sam…

"Good. I'll be back shortly." John paused only long enough to drain the last of his coffee and grab his coat before leaving again, a determined expression on his face.

Dean frowned, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head in disgust before reaching out to his brother and clapping his knee lightly.

"Hey, dude. It's me, I'm back. And you know it would be kind of nice if you woke up and explained everything to us, 'cause I'm starting to think that this is bigger than we thought. Just what were you doing that night?"