A/N: Okay, so I wasn't going to post until tomorrow but all the complaints...err... encouragment for more finally got to me and I'm caving. Things are finally being shown for what they are in this chapter (for those who haven't guessed it as of yet). Can't think of much else I wanted to say. Only that this is so for my beta. Even if she is ditching me for a long ski retreat for FIVE DAYS. I will be in utter withdrawal without her. But, on the other hand, last time she went away I wrote most of this story, so we'll see what happens :) (oh, and Cati, Sam's out of it for most of the chapter...no eyes to focus on...you may have to visualize the lips instead...) Oh, and Nerissa, you didn't leave an e-mail address, but if you ever want to hear about the real world of teaching, I will happily go off on teacher-rants for you (just ask my beta...she's heard many). I teach high school language arts. Feel free to drop me a line if you're curious about more.

Chapter Five: Aftermath

Dean woke up with a start, with the sudden conviction that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. He jolted in bed, taking in his surroundings.

The room was foreign and devoid of personality. Then he remembered. The party.

As if on cue, a headache began to pound behind his eyes.

Then he remembered the girl in the dim lighting and her smile.

Sure enough, Tessa was asleep next to him, her blonde hair less vibrant in the early rays of the morning sun. Her makeup had smeared and faded, and she looked far less alluring than she had the night before.

He picked up his watch off the bedside table. Almost 8. He had to get home.

Soundlessly, he got out of bed and retrieved his clothes from the end of the bed. He thought about waking Tessa, but he didn't see the point. Instead, he left a note and stumbled from the bedroom.

Digging his keys out of his pocket, he stepped outside and squinted into the morning light. The yard was still half-full with cars which glimmered with the early morning dew.

The car ride home seemed longer than he remembered, and he felt a strange need for haste. He had not intended to stay that night. He knew Sam could take care of himself, but Sam was his responsibility. You keep an eye on your brother.

Burying the twinge of guilt, he pressed down a little more on the accelerator and hurried home.

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The apartment was just as he had left it. It was eerily dim as the blinds blocked out the light. Sam didn't usually sleep late, and he was somewhat surprised not to see his brother up and about. He had been hoping after a good night's rest, Sam would be readily recovered.

Dean checked the kitchen and found it untouched. He moved toward the bedroom, noting that the door was still closed.

Gently, he opened it, peeking in. Sam was sprawled on his bed, twisted in the blankets.

Dean moved closer, turning on the lamp to illuminate the room with dim light. Sam was sleeping, but it looked far from restful. His brow furrowed and his head kept turning from side to side. The water and toast sat untouched on the bed stand.

"Sammy?" Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey, Sam. Have you been sleeping all this time?"

There was no answer.

Dean reached a hand to his brother's sweat-drenched head. He drew it back, shocked by the heat radiating form his brother's face. "Geez, Sammy."

Sam whimpered at the touch, and he scrunched his eyes shut even tighter, a small tear dribbling from the corner.

"Sammy?" he asked, gently running his hand over Sam's face again. Sam had been getting better. What had happened?

Dean tapped his brother's face, trying to get a response. "Sammy?"

But Sam still didn't move.

"Sam, wake up," Dean ordered, putting a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. The panic began to rise within him. He had dealt with Sam sick, he had dealt with Sam injured, but his brother's current condition had him baffled. It was nothing more than the stomach flu--why wouldn't Sam wake up?

Dean shook him once more. "Sam," he said, approximating his father's voice as best he could. "Wake up."

Sam mumbled something, his head rolling, but his eyes did not open.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Dean did a split second analysis of the situation. Sam was sick. Although Dean had medical training, it was rudimentary and limited mostly to cuts, bruises, and sprains. This was out of his league.

His father hated taking them to doctors because the paperwork was messy and it left them vulnerable to the checks and balances of real world authorities, which would never understand hunting and the necessary risks involved. Hospitals were a last resort, but Sam's condition was too questionable to leave unattended.

"Come on, Sammy. You need to get up now." Dean flung back the sheets, revealing the t-shirt that was plastered to Sam's chest. He grimaced as he pulled Sam upright, slinging his arm over his shoulder. "Come on, Sam."

Sam's head lolled against his brother's shoulder. A groan was his only protest.

Dean maneuvered his brother's body to the end of the bed, wrapping his arm around his brother's waist. "Up we go," he muttered, trying to pull Sam to his feet.

Dean had underestimated the weight of his brother's lean frame. He tried to take a step forward, but Sam's long legs became tangled, not supporting the younger's weight. Dean felt his balance tip and he stumbled backward to the bed to keep them both from crashing to the ground. "Work with me here, Sammy."

Frustrated, Dean reconsidered his plan of attack. Sam was not walking out of here of his own volition.

He spared a look at Sam, who showed no signs of awareness. His face glistened in the morning light, a sheen of sweat shimmering across it. He had to get Sam out of here, and he had to do it fast.

With his motivation revitalized, he sighed. "Sorry, Sammy," he muttered, pulling Sam upright again. Carefully, he positioned himself under his brother, hesitantly rising with Sam in a fireman's carry.

He grunted under the weight ane took a few test steps, he felt satisfied that Sam was secure. With even paces, he made his way to the car. He deposited Sam in the backseat, found his hand shaking as he fumbled to get his keys in the ignition. He was trembling. What am I going to do?

Still shaking, Dean gunned the engine and pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

Dean did not care much for the rules of the road on the best of days. He always figured they applied to normal people--people who could afford to believe that life existed with in neat little boundaries, people whose biggest rebellion was to drive five over the speed limit.

Usually Dean was careful--the last thing he wanted was flashing lights in his rearview mirror. No matter how he judged himself in relation to the laws that regulated most people, the police wouldn't know that difference.

But usually and best of days were not phrases that characterized this car trip.

Dean glanced in his mirror and saw Sam still sprawled on the back seat, bouncing as the car jolted over bumps in the pavement. Come on, Sammy. What's going on with you?

Dean was nearly surprised when he arrived at the hospital and came to a squealing stop in front of the doors, cursing as he remember Sam unrestrained in the back. Slamming it into park, he scrambled out, relieved to find his brother still situated on the seat.

Trying to maneuver Sam out of the car was more difficult than he had anticipated, as Sam flopped bonelessly. He nearly dropped his brother when someone finally took notice.

"Hey, you okay there?"

Dean glanced up, seeing a paramedic packing up his rig. "My brother." Dean couldn't think of anything else to say. He hoisted Sam up, his arms locked around Sam's chest.

It was enough for the paramedic, who was jogging toward him, moving to keep Sam from hitting the pavement as Dean pulled him from the car. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, his throat tight.

"Hey, Callie," the EMT yelled to his partner. "Grab the gurney."

Within seconds, Dean heard the clatter of metal wheels on pavement and the two EMTs were guiding Sam to the padded surface.

Dean stumbled to move with the gurney, his eyes not leaving Sam's face. Wake up, Sammy, come on.

A flurry of activity erupted when they entered through the doors. He was pushed aside as doctors and nurses swarmed around Sam. Numbly, he tailed along as Sam was rushed to an exam room.

"Sir, what's his name?"

Dean looked up at a doctor, who was waiting with urgency. "Sam. His name's Sam."

"What happened?" The gurney was stopped and Sam was transferred to another one.

"He's been sick," Dean tried to explain, watching as they took scissors to Sam's t-shirt.

"Sick how?" a doctor asked.

A nurse slipped an oxygen mask over Sam's face. The other doctor was setting up an IV.

"Stomach flu," Dean said. "He was throwing up."

The first doctor was listening to Sam's exposed chest. "For how long?"

"A day or so."

The other doctor was drawing blood. "Anything else?"

"His stomach hurt," Dean offered. "He couldn't hold any food down."

A nurse pulled a thermometer from Sam's ear. "His fever's 103.8."

"Was he running the fever?" the first doctor asked, checking Sam's pupils.

"Barely. Until today." He kept his eyes trained on his kid brother, who laid completely still admist the action around him.

"He's dehydrated," the other doctor was saying.

"Micah, can you take Mr. Winchester to the waiting room?"

The nurse was petite and small boned, but Dean was unable to stop her from pulling him away.

"Come on, let the doctors do their work," she said, her voice soothing and low. She led him to a waiting room, plastic chairs lined up on linoleum.

"How do you know Sam?" she asked.

Dean looked at her for a moment, then cocked his head. "He's my brother."

"Are your parents around?"

Dean just shook his head, unable to think, unable to really process her words.

She gave a small smile. "We'll find you when we're done assessing him."

He sat down uncertainly and didn't see her go. He blinked once. Twice. There was a passage of time, but Dean did not move.

All he could think of was Sam and how his body had rolled onto that gurney, how hot his skin had been to the touch, and how lifeless he had looked as the doctors and nurses probed him.

He didn't recognize the doctor who talked to him next, didn't even understand what he was saying, until there was a mention of surgery.

"What?" he asked, willing his head to clear.

The doctor seemed perturbed. "Sam's appendix has ruptured. When did he first fall ill?"

"A few days ago," Dean said, his mind scrambling. "Thursday."

"Thursday?" The surprise was evident in the doctor's voice. "It's Monday. This kid must have been in agony."

Dean remembered the tears in Sam's eyes, the creasing of his brow in fevered sleep.

"Why didn't you bring him in sooner?"

Dean racked his brain for a response, but his hesitation was enough.

The doctor looked disgusted. "Where are your parents?"

Dean reddened. "My dad's at work."

"Mom?"

Dean shook his head. "Just Dad."

"Well, call him. Sam needs emergency surgery."

"Can I see him?"

"Not right now." The doctor's reply was clipped as he moved quickly down the hall.

Dean tried to follow. "But--"

The doctor stopped abruptly, turning around in hurried exasperation. "Look, kid, your brother is very sick. His appendix should have been dealt with days ago. Infection has probably set in. If we don't act, your brother could die."

The doctor's words were so forceful, so final, that Dean can do nothing but stare as the doctor disappeared behind the door and left him gaping.