A/N: I know it's Dean's turn to voice his views, but considering his condition I'm just going to skip right over to Sam.

I hate hospitals. I don't know why, I guess it was just burned into my brain at an early age. Hospitals cost money, they ask too many questions, and besides, they couldn't do anything more then Dad or Dean could to help. However, sitting on the cold, broken blacktop, Dean's limp body in my arms, I knew that's exactly where we were going. My hands were shaking too bad to patch him up, and if he died…no. No I wasn't going to let myself think like that.

The disembodied voice didn't change the situation. It scared the crap out of me, but it sounded vaguely familiar as it hissed 'hospital' in the cold. Urging me to take care of Dean. I had gotten him into this mess, I would make damn sure that he would get out. I thought I was going crazy, was hearing things, I probably was. It was probably my own way of coming up with the justification I needed to be able to take Dean there, he hated hospitals as much as I did. It's Psyche 101. He wouldn't like waking up in the hospital, but at least there he'd be waking up.

I tried not to think about the fact that this was my fault, as I loaded my brother into the backseat of his car. When did he get so damn heavy? When did it get so hard to look at him? I had to fish the keys out of his pocket before I could bring his baby to life. Knowing full well that if he had been conscious he would have slapped me upside my head for trying to drive. I felt sick, seeing him lying there, blood stains covering his jacket, knowing it was my fault. I almost wanted him to hit me…no, I did want him to jump right up and pound me into the ground. Don't die Dean, please.

I drove like a madman, a madman with a mission, Dean was going to live, and then he was going to kick my ass. I can't explain it, can't deny it, in that split moment when I pulled the trigger, I hated my brother. Looking back, I don't see how that is possible. Dean had only ever tried to help me, tried to protect me, and tried to love me. And I hated him. I hate myself for thinking like that, but to me Dean was hunting personified, the entire part of my life that I didn't want, and that I couldn't deal with. I couldn't take the anger anymore, it was almost physically painful, and I felt like, if I could just kill Dean then all the guilt, grief, and rage that seems to follow me around would just go away. And people say I'm the smart one.

Looking over my shoulder into the backseat, Dean isn't moving. He's not fighting. I've seen him hurt in more ways then anyone should be hurt, but he always struggles with the pain, fights back unconsciousness, wills away the darkness. But he was just lying there, he wasn't even trying. I hate to think that that might have something to do with me. I had to get him to the hospital, had to make him understand.

The twists and turns of the road were taunting me, if the road was just a straight shot we'd be there by now. I'd be distracted by the blinking lights, the shouts of doctors and patients, but no, now it was just me and my thoughts. I think I understand why Dean likes music that's loud enough to pull the skin off your face. If the music was just loud enough, he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to feel. I contemplated putting in one of his tapes, but the thought was quickly erased by the fact that Dean would kill me. He's probably going to kill me anyway. God, if only I could make him know how sorry I am. Then why'd you shoot him again? I hate that voice, the one that tells me I'm wrong, that I'm to blame. I hate it more then anything…especially when it's right.

Finally, mercifully, I saw the distant form of a large, sterile building. I looked back at Dean, his eyes were still closed, his breathing was still shallow, but he had gotten through worse. One bullet didn't compare to a demon's claws, or a creatures bite, and he had sustained both of those, multiple times. If only he'd just fight it.

I didn't answer a single question as the nurses wheeled out a gurney and roughly flung him on it. They were talking too fast, rapidly demanding an explanation that I didn't have. They looked as if they saw this sort of thing everyday, a man pulling up in a chick magnet of a car, his brother with a hole in his shoulder in the back. They kept asking questions, damned questions. They were walking too fast, pushing through doors, sticking needles in Dean's arm. What the hell were those needles for? Finally, they pushed him through the ER doors, but they wouldn't let me follow him. I was left in the waiting area with a headache.

"What happened?" One elderly nurse asked, as sweat dripped from her graying hairline. She was barking some orders to some younger looking nurses and tapping a pen against a clipboard rapidly. Writing scribbles of notes that hardly looked important. She looked impatiently at me, as if I was wasting her valuable time. Well, she was wasting mine. She wasn't helping Dean. He had long since disappeared through those formidable white double doors, two stern looking doctors wheeling him through.

"He was shot" I replied irritated. He had a hole in his shoulder, what the hell did she think had happened? She looked up at me her lips pressed into a firm line.

"Yes, I saw" she said tapping her foot impatiently at me, as if she expected me to say something to explain the situation my brother was in, but I couldn't. I couldn't get the words past my lips and it was driving me crazy. I couldn't look at her; she made my stomach twist itself into knots, her accusing eyes. I felt like she knew, somehow she saw what had happened. I ducked my head and turned away from her letting out a shaky sob, I couldn't suppress my plea any longer,

"Oh, God, please." I sounded so weak, so broken. I couldn't help it, Dean was in the hands of some very bright people…but what if it wasn't enough? What if he died? What if it was my fault? I looked around for anything to lean on, something to stabilize my spinning head. I found a crappy plastic chair. We were in some nondescript waiting room, with humming florescent lights and coughing patients waiting to be helped. I couldn't see straight, I was just overcome. Dad would love that, seeing a Winchester break down. Dean would laugh his ass off if he saw me, Dean…damn. I heard the screech of chair legs against the dirty tile floors, but I couldn't look up.

"Okay, what really happened?" It was that damned nurse again her cold, accusing eyes softened a little. I saw something in her eyes that made my hair bristle…pity. I didn't need her pity; I didn't need this hospital…where the hell is Dean?

"I told you" I managed to gasp out, hot tears burning to the surface, but I wouldn't let them fall, not in front of her.

"Who is this guy that you brought in?" She asked flipping the page on her clipboard, staring over it unapologetically at me. Who is this guy? He's…he's, Dean. He's my big brother, my protector, my rock. He's got a bullet hole in his shoulder that I put there. He's all that I have left.

"My brother" I said, with as little emotion as I could manage. I still ended up sounding afraid, alone, weak. She let out a little sigh and leaned in closer to me. Her wrinkles seemed deeper, her skin, older, somehow she seemed like she had aged in the past four minutes.

"Tell me what happened" she said, it was an order. Who did she think she was? She couldn't order me around; she couldn't force anything out of me.

"I don't k now" I barked, giving her the best imitation of Dean's cold, authoritative look as I could. She seemed hardly fazed.

"When you found your brother, had he already been shot?" She asked. No, not exactly. I thought, he had been shot in the heart, but not by bullets. At least not by real ones.

"Yeah" I choked out, my voice sounded strangled, I tried to mask my worry, but I couldn't. I don't know how Dean can seem so cold and distant, even under such major stress. I'll have to work on that.

"Mmm, hmm" she replied her eyebrows raised, she didn't believe me. But hell, in her position I wouldn't believe me either. "How long has he been like this?" She asked, and I'm ashamed to think, I honestly don't know. The last few…hours? Has it been hours? All I could think about was how Dean might die, how it would be my fault. What the hell would I do if Dean died? How could I possibly continue? I'm out of practice; I don't have the emotional strength to go it alone. Damn it Dean, I can't do this without you. I don't know how Dean does it, he's just different from me, he can take it…he's just, stronger. I hate to admit it, but it's true, he always has been. I've never seen a job get to him. Except maybe when we were little and I was in trouble, or had made some stupid mistake. Come to think of it, the only times I've ever seen anything in Dean's eyes besides cold determination, was when I was at risk, and that's when I saw his fear. The only times I've ever heard anything in his voice besides sarcasm and confidence was when I heard him call out, "Sammy" in the dark, in the cold, or in whatever scary situation we'd ever been in. And that's when I heard his fear…but that was it. He needed to know I was safe, and that was what kept him so…so…Dean-like. It was beyond description, it was just Dean. I had lost the nurse's question, but when she looked at me with those narrow, critical eyes I shook my head.

"I-I don't know" I said and she sighed and stood up abruptly. Apparently, she was convinced I would be of no further help, and was a waste of space. She pulled away the chair she had pulled up and glowered at me,

"We'll let you know if there's any progress." She said as if she was the most important person in the hospital…well she wasn't, that was Dean. I mentally added this woman to the list of reasons why I hate hospitals, as I watched her walk away. I couldn't take it anymore, the pressure, the guilt, the anxiety. I felt so stupid, my head in my hands, my elbows on my knees, I was gripping my hair so tightly I thought I was going to go bald. I felt eyes on me, but I didn't care, I couldn't look up, I was afraid that if I met anyone's gaze I would completely break down. I don't know how long I sat there, on the verge of tears, it must have been a while. The only thing that brought me back from the guilt and fear was a voice.

"Excuse me" I heard my saving grace above me, it was saccharine sounding, almost grandfatherly, and it made me lift my head. There was an elderly man standing in front of me with a lab coat on and a name tag that said Dr. John Sator. My eyes must have been red as Rudolph's nose, but thedoctor didn't even blink. "Is your brother a Dean Winchester?" He asked a slight hint of importance in his voice. He didn't sound ostentatious and I liked him immediately.

"Uh –yeah" I said rubbing my eyes roughly trying to dispel any emotion from my face, I couldn't do it, the pain shone through and I knew the Dr. saw it.

"He's awake..." so that's how they knew his name. I was relieved that he was awake, that he was alive.

"How is he?" I asked before Dr. Savior could continue. He laughed a little to himself and shook his head, his perfect teeth flashing across his face.

"He's…he's, awake." He replied, he didn't look worried, but apparently he had had a conversation with Dean. "He's not too happy about being here, I can tell you that." I smiled in spite of myself, I had called that one.

"But he's okay?" I asked, my voice still wavering a little.

"He's pretty banged up" he said pulling out a clipboard and flipping through some thin white papers, "He's got the bullet wound, but that should be healed up pretty quickly, it missed everything vital and it basically just caused tissue damage. He also had some other injuries that we did not expect." I could hear the tension in his voice as he rubbed his forehead nervously, letting out a low breath. "He had a few cracked ribs, and some extensive bruising throughout his abdomen. At first we didn't know how that could have occurred, but when we examined him further we found bits of…salt, inside of his chest." I took a deep breath, sinking my head low again; I couldn't lie to this man, and look him in the eye. "Do you have any idea how rock salt could have gotten into your brother?" Yeah, I shot him with it.

"No." I said looking up at him nervously, my hands were shaking, and I couldn't get them to stop. He raised his eyebrows but didn't press the issue any further.

"Alright. We had to flush his wounds…"

"I bet he liked that" I mumbled and the Dr. grinned and shook his head,

"Yeah, we bandaged him up and gave him some painkillers to keep him happy; he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, so hopefully he'll get some rest. He's a strong boy, I'm confident that he'll be fine." I heaved a sigh of relief and nodded standing up. I knew it, Dean had to be okay, and he wouldn't be Dean if he wasn't.

"Can I see him?" I asked and the Doctor furrowed his brow but nodded,

"He's going to be a little groggy; he might not speak clearly, but sure, right this way." I followed him down an endless white corridor with blaring white lights, and sterile, blue walls. He led me to room 1246 with a small window that was too fuzzy to see through. Dr. Savior reached for the doorknob but before he turned it he turned to me, "do you know a Sammy?" He asked and my heart almost stopped.

"W-why?" I asked hesitantly and he raised his eyebrows, giving me a skeptical look.

"Well, when he woke up at first he was screaming for someone named Sammy." I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Now I really felt like an unworthy piece of crap. Of course he was calling out for me, he was always calling out for Sammy.

"Oh" that was all I could say. I had shot him in the shoulder tonight, not to mention the rock salt, or the fake bullets that hurt him deeper then I could have imagined. I had tried to kill him three times in one night, yet when he woke up he was still calling out for me. Still trying to make sure I was okay. God, I love him, and I hate him, and he's …my brother.

"So, do you know a Sammy?" He asked me again and I looked from the Doctor to the room and back again. The Sammy Dean knew would never have done what I've done, the Sammy Dean loved would never see his brother, his hero in front of him, and pull that damned trigger. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to answer levelly.

"No, sorry."