A/N: I have a feeling I'm going to catch some flak for this chapter. Just remember everything that's happened. Okay? And feel free to rant--I like long reviews :) Much gratitude as usual to geminigrl11 who told me this chapter works--so complaints can be voiced to her :)

Chapter Eleven

Dean leaned back in the chair, his leg bouncing unconsciously as he chewed his lower lip.

Hospital waiting rooms were not unfamiliar to him, nor was the feeling of helplessness that invariably accompanied them.

But no waiting room had ever been this unsettling.

Sometimes hunts went bad, sometimes they went really bad, and the waiting room served as the place were adrenaline dwindled and the question of what went wrong was identified and answered, over and over again.

Dean's adrenaline had definitely faded, but the question of what went wrong had never been so elusive.

Usually he could pinpoint a flaw—being too slow, being unprepared, being caught off guard. These were things he could analyze and fix, things he could identify and solve.

This time—

He didn't know what to think about this time. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the look of Sam's body, twitching on the floor before it fell deadly still.

This time, Dean didn't know what happened. He didn't know what lies to feed the doctors and nurses because he was as clueless as the rest of them.

There were acceptable risks in their line of work, and each Winchester had paid his dues with blood and broken bones. They'd seen each other through concussions and stitches, hospital stays and home therapy.

He had been scared before. He'd been scared the first time Sam had gotten knocked unconscious, when he'd first seen his baby brother go down and not get up. He'd been scared the first time Sam had really gotten sliced, nice and deep, and the sight of his brother's blood had made him nauseous even when his father said it wasn't that serious. In fact, he'd been scared every time he'd seen Sam hurt, that momentary sensation of disconnectedness, of denial, of proverbial crap hitting the fan.

But the moments had always passed. Even Sammy's hospital stays had never been that long or that stressful, and Dean had always been able to pass the time in reflection of what he could do better next time.

This time, he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't missed pulling Sammy away from a poltergeist; he hadn't been too slow in shooting away a spirit. This time, he had just woken up and found his brother having a seizure. And he still had no idea why.

He could understand when Sam got a concussion from being thrown into another wall. He could understand Sam getting stitches after a run in with a creative poltergeist. He could understand when Sam sprained his ankle in a scuffle with a not-so-happy spirit.

He understood those things better than most doctors ever would and they were things he counted on, things that made waiting rooms a hell of a lot less scary and a lot more self-deprecating.

But he didn't understand anything this time.

He didn't know if the nightmares were connected to it, if Sam had even been sleeping or eating at all since they'd left California, or what it all meant. He didn't know if the cause was supernatural, or if someone was after Sam, or if Sam's psychic brain was tripping out on a lack of nutrition and rest.

Most of all--worst of all--he didn't know if Sam was going to be okay.

He let his head hang in his hands and he thought about calling his father.

When the doctor came out, Dean recognized him before the doctor had to ask for him.

"How is he?"

"Mr. Clarke, we've got your brother settled into a room. Currently he's stable, but he's still unconscious. He had another seizure in the trauma room before we were able to stabilize him."

Dean's mind reeled a little from the new information, but he forced himself to focus. "What caused it?"

"CT was normal—we can't find anything in his brain to explain it. The tox screen shows nothing out of the ordinary in his system," the doctor said. He paused, pursing his lips. "You're sure Sam doesn't take any medications or have any drug habits?"

Dean shook his head quickly. "No, never. What's wrong with him?"

The doctor pursed his lips. "Sam was severely dehydrated and exhausted. It looks as if he has hasn't slept or eaten in days. This, in extreme circumstances, can cause seizures like Sam's."

"So is he okay?"

"It takes the body awhile to recover from seizures, but we were able to contain the second seizure quickly. I don't think there'll be any lingering physical after-effects. We've got him on a saline solution to get him hydrated again."

Dean could sense there was something more. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dr. Siela took a breath. "Sam was conscious when he was brought in. He was fairly oriented. But while we were examining him, he suddenly became very agitated and somewhat disoriented. We can't find a medical reason."

Dean waited for the other shoe to fall. "So?"

The doctor sighed, his brows knitting together thoughtfully. "We have to consider all the reasons for his status. Right now, beyond the dehydration and exhaustion, there is no physiological reason for Sam's condition. So there may be some underlying condition we haven't discovered yet or it could be something psychological. We're still running tests, but we do plan to have a psychiatrist come and assess Sam."

Dean's knee-jerk reaction was to tell the doctor off but good. Sam didn't need a shrink. He needed to sleep for twelve hours, wake up, eat a good meal, and sleep for another twelve. He needed to sit out in the sun long enough to get some color back in his skin. He needed to kick back with a couple of beers, laugh, smile, and just forget about everything for awhile.

But the protest never made it out of Dean's throat. Because just as quickly as his defense of Sam came, so did the memory of Sam's behavior over the last few days - how much Sam hadn't slept, how little he'd eaten, how off he'd been acting.

Sam seemed sure it was supernatural, but no demon or ghost had ever given Sam a seizure before.

Until he could figure it out for sure, Dean was starting to think it might be better to let the doctors have a crack at figuring Sam out. At the very least, it couldn't hurt.

"Okay," he finally agreed, feeling deflated. "But can I see him?"

"Of course," Dr. Siela replied easily. "Though he is in a deep state of unconsciousness; it's common after seizures like Sam's. It'll probably take a few hours for him to come out of it."

Dean's throat was too tight to reply, so he nodded, blinking back the unfamiliar burning in his eyes.

OOOOOOO

Unconsciousness was not kind to Sam. The normally healthy glow of his skin had been completely depleted, leaving his skin pallid and colorless. Sam's hair fell away from his forehead, swept away in the chaos of the night. His eyes seemed sunken, set deeply within the sockets, shaded by darkness underneath.

Dean had seen Sam out of it before, but never like this. Sam seemed like nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, a body caving in on itself. The only time that had ever been close were the days following Jessica's death.

Sam's grief had been visceral then, ravaging his senses and leaving him groping in the aftermath. Sam had forgotten all the necessities of life, and Dean was certain that if he hadn't been there to feed him and make sure he went to bed, Sam would have self-destructed.

But Sam had pulled through, had come back into himself, and had managed to keep himself from falling apart in the face of his growing adversities.

Dean leaned over his brother's sleeping form, trying to assure himself of Sam's presence. He felt his heart begin to beat in tandem with the beeping on the monitor, and let his chest follow the rise and fall of Sam's.

For a minute, Dean thought to make a wisecrack, but couldn't bring his throat to work. He let out a strangled laugh instead as his hand hovered above his brother's head.

"Geez, Sammy," he breathed. "Don't you know you're not supposed to pull stunts like this on vacation? Wait till we're on a hunt so you can actually get out of work."

He didn't expect Sam to reply, but the silence haunted him. His brother hadn't been the talkative type recently, but even just the sound of his brother's voice was comforting, gave him reason to be strong, to keep it together. Without someone to put on a facade for, Dean felt weak.

"It's okay," he said softly. "You're going to be okay."

He watched Sam's unmoving face, his still limbs, and wished that Sam's unconsciousness was providing him the reprieve that sleep had not been able to.

He was still standing there, firmly by Sam's side, when the nurse came back in to check on them.

She had to coax Dean from the room, telling him that Sam needed to be examined, that his brother was fine at the moment, that she would come get him the minute anything changed.

She led Dean to the waiting room and left him there, and Dean watched her go, his eyes fixed on the blank walls long after she had left the hallway.

He wondered if this it what Sam had felt when Dean had been in the hospital--this numbing, encompassing terror that now crept through Dean's own veins. He could still see that pained, desperate look in Sam's eyes as Dean joked about his own death, and suddenly realized how wrong it had been. Dean's self-defense had come at the expense of Sam's heart. How Sam prevailed when he had been so flippant, he wasn't sure.

How had Sam had the strength to do anything at all?

He didn't know, but he knew he needed to be that strong for Sam, that persistent for Sam. No matter what was wrong, Dean would do anything to make him better.

OOOOOOO

"Sam?"

He was tired of people talking to him, tired, tired, tired.

"Sam?"

His eyes were open. Something was wrong. Why wouldn't they just go away?

"Do you know where you are?"

Sam's eyes searched the ceiling frantically, his mind racing. "…hospital?"

"Good. What's your name?"

He looked again at the doctor. The doctor looked plain, nondescript--they all had white coats--and this one wore a tie. The tie was so blue. Sam couldn't move his hands.

"Sam," he finally answered.

The doctor nodded.

Where was Dean? What was their cover story?

"What day is it?"

Why was he here?

"Do you know why you're here?"

His eyes traveled down his body. His clothes were gone. He was in a hospital gown. His hands were tied down in soft restraints at the bedrails. Why was he tied down?

"Sam?"

He looked back at the doctor. "I—" he tried, but nothing else came to him.

The doctor made a note on his clipboard, nodding patiently.

A nurse came into the room, pleasantly smiling as she checked the equipment. He watched her distractedly.

"Sam?" the doctor asked.

Sam was about to look back at him when the young woman turned her eyes to Sam, darkness engulfing them.

Sam flinched and whimpered. It was still here.

"Sam? What's wrong? What do you see?"

Sam glanced frantically to the doctor and back to the nurse.

The doctor followed his gaze, perplexed. "That's just Nurse Webber."

Sam's mind raced. Couldn't he see it? Couldn't he see her eyes? His breath quickened as his eyes darted desperately between the two medical personnel in the room.

The nurse looked hesitant to make a move that might further upset the young man. "Doctor?" she asked tentatively, her hands pulled away from the equipment.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

Sam looked wildly up. "I--can you--I mean--please, I want to leave."

A monitor was beeping. The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse. "Sam, you need to calm down," he said evenly, moving closer toward the young man.

Sam pulled desperately against his restraints, his body straining with the effort. "Please," he begged, tears beginning to cloud his vision. "I have to get away."

The doctor put a firm hand on Sam's shoulder, attempting to still him. "Sam, I need you to look at me. Look at me, son. If you don't calm down, we're going to have to sedate you again, do you understand?"

Sam was shaking, cold shivers running up and down his body. He flinched at the doctor's touch, but allowed his calming and steady voice to direct his attention.

"Good," Dr. Ness said, as Sam made eye contact. "Now tell me what you saw."

Sam's mouth trembled. He couldn't tell them, not when they didn't see, not with her standing there staring at him like that. He looked at her again and her gaze intensified, piercing him nearly physically. "No..." he whispered softly, closing his eyes.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

Tentatively, Sam opened his eyes, letting them turn from the doctor to the young woman at his side. He braced himself for what he was to see and his breath caught in his throat as he stared up into the wide, doe-shaped, blue eyes of Nurse Webber.

The doctor took Sam's silence and disbelief as his answer. "Okay, Sam," he said. "We're going to keep monitoring you."

Sam shook his head tightly. "No, that's not necessary. I'm ready to go. My brother is--"

The doctor interrupted him with a gentle but firm hand to his arm. "Your brother agreed that you needed to stay here a little longer, Sam."

Sam was incredulous. There was no way that Dean would ever agree to this, would ever just leave him here without talking to him first. Dean didn't play by doctor's rules, ever, unless--

Sam didn't finish his thought.

"I'm going to talk with him. He'll be in to visit with you afterwards, I'm sure, and then you and I can talk more as well."

Sam just stared, feeling as though his world was collapsing around him. Dean couldn't--he wouldn't--

The doctor left, and Sam tried to clear his mind, not picturing the way the nurse's eyes had changed, not remembering the whisper that had haunted his thoughts for days.

You are mine.

He shuddered.

But most of all, he tried to not think about how Dean, his brother, the only person in his life that he could truly count on, had left him there.

Alone.