Sam was at Dean's side in an instant, his arms wrapping around his brother's shoulders to keep him off the ground. "Dean?" he called, worry obvious in his voice. He put a hand to the side of Dean's face. "Come on, big brother, open those eyes for me."

"Sammy?" Dean whispered back. "Call the doctor. I think I'm gonna crash."

"You already did," Sam replied, shaking his head at Dean's train of thought – he was spouting Eagles' lyrics… "What's goin' on, Dean? Where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere?" He cried out then, turning away from Sam, trying to curl up into a ball.

"Easy, easy," Sam soothed. "Come on, let's get you into the car. I'm taking you to a hospital."

"Yeah. I think that's probably a good idea."

Sam's worry increased exponentially at Dean's admission. Messing with Hell's Angels, or their local counterparts, didn't scare him at all – not when compared to how hurt Dean must be if he was willing to go to a hospital.

He carefully helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Impala, and as he headed around to the other side of the car, whipped out his cell phone. He dialed 911 and asked for directions to the nearest hospital, talking to the police dispatcher and starting to drive at the same time.

"One of these days, Dean, I swear," Sam mumbled to himself. Then to Dean, he asked, "How bad? What did they do to you?"

Dean remained silent, though, focusing only on holding his body as still as possible as Sam negotiated the road, its turns, and bumps. And that scared Sam, too. Dean should have been complaining about his driving skills, worried about his precious car.

Fifteen minutes and ten miles later had Sam driving the Impala up to the Emergency Room entrance of the hospital. The police dispatcher must have given the staff there a heads up, because several people and a gurney met them there.

As they rushed in, Sam couldn't help but notice how bad Dean looked. He was sweating profusely now, his skin was too pale, and he was still way too quiet. He tried to answer as many of the nurses' questions as he could, telling them that Dean had been involved in a bar fight the previous night, that he'd thrown up several times and how it seemed Dean's most intense pain was his belly and/or back, judging by the way he'd been guarding himself.

Sam knew enough about Dean's symptoms to know that his brother not only had a concussion, but was probably bleeding internally, too. He cursed himself again for not pressing Dean further, not getting his brother help sooner.

Sam's last glimpse of Dean before being stopped at the edge of the cubicle to which they'd brought him, showed the bruises on his chest and abdomen one nurse had exposed after cutting off Dean's shirt.

"We'll need some more information about your brother's medical history," another nurse told him, gently leading him to a desk down the hall. "We'll do our best for him," she added, seeing Sam's worried look.

Sam nodded and gave the woman the information they needed for Dean's care.

00000

Dean moaned, turned his head back and forth, and tried to dislodge the oxygen mask that had been placed over his mouth and nose. He'd tried to use his hands to move the plastic thing, but found them useless, tied down/restrained/whatever they did when they'd shoved the IV tubing into them. He was hoping that those IVs would be sending some painkillers his way pretty soon.

"Dean? Dean can you hear me?" It was a man's voice.

Dean opened his eyes and looked toward it. He winced as the light from the doctor's penlight hit them, forcing them to close again. Unfortunately, the doctor just forced them back open.

"Dean," he called again. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Fight."

"Tell me where you're hurting, Dean,"

"My gut. My back. Just look for the bruises, Doc, "X" marks the spot," he replied with a groan.

The doctor had already seen the bruises mottling the skin on Dean's torso. He wasn't happy to see how many there were, or how deeply colored they were, either. He began to check the injuries, lightly pressing down on the four quadrants of Dean's abdomen.

"Jesus, fuck!" Dean swore when the doctor reached the lower ones. "I think you can start pumping in the good drugs now, ladies," he added through gritted teeth as he tried to turn away from the doctor.

"He's got some rigidity in the two lower quadrants," the doctor told one of the nurses holding Dean down. "Let's turn him, check his back."

"No. No, you don't have to move me. Really."

The doctor made eye contact with two of the nurses and in unison they turned Dean onto his left side, so that they could take a look for more injuries. The movement did not come without a scream and some more cursing from Dean.

One of the nurses also removed the rest of Dean's clothing from underneath him. "Hey, Steve?" she spoke up, getting the doctor's attention. She pointed to what was left of Dean's jeans and underwear.

"Okay," he told her, then continued his examination. "Bruising over his right kidney," he noted. "Have we got any output from the Foley yet?"

"There's blood," someone responded.

The doctor moved so that he was in Dean's line of sight. It was easy to see that Dean, despite the pain he was in, despite the state of physical shock he was heading toward, knew exactly what was going on at that moment; knew what was coming next.

The doctor saw the fear and trepidation on his young patient's face, but asked the question anyway.

It took almost a full minute before Dean was able to nod in response, closing his eyes as he did so. He felt the doctor's hand gently squeeze his shoulder. Again, Dean nodded, then retreated into his dark world and regretted not being able to tell Sam.

"Wendy, let's get the usual bloodwork and an MRI set up. I want a skull series, too. The kit'll have to wait," began the various orders the doctor gave as he continued to examine and treat Dean's injuries.

00000

Sam sat in the waiting room, mulling over his current thoughts of Dean. Stubborn Idiot ranked high on the list of names he'd come up with for him. Asshole, jerk, and just plain idiot were also on the list.

Occasionally he would stand and then and pace around a bit, his hand massaging the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension. It didn't work. The nurse at the admissions desk had offered him coffee a few times. He finally relented and accepted, hoping to make the woman feel better, but once he'd taken a token sip for her, he'd put it down and promptly forgotten it.

He thought about calling their dad; didn't.

All this, Dean practically killing himself, not taking care of himself, just for some stupid pool winnings, he thought angrily. Because someone had tried to hustle him and took offense.

The blonde's face came to Sam's mind. She had tried to hustle Dean. She had drugged him. That alone was enough to make Sam mad, let alone Dean. Yes, Sam definitely saw Dean taking that a little personally.

Sam's brows knit together, then. There must be more to it, though, he thought. She had seemed to take it more personally. Bitch. What had she said to Dean? Something about "fair trade"? Sam shook his head. He didn't understand it at all.

He dropped his head onto the back of the couch and thought up some more names for his brother, unconsciously, or maybe consciously, avoiding the fact that his brother was in a very bad way, and the fact that he was very, very scared.

00000

"Mr. Wesson?"

Sam stood up as the doctor called to him.

"How's Dean?" he asked immediately, his eyes showing his desperate need to know how his brother was.

"Why don't we sit down," the doctor suggested.

Sam recognized the tone in the doctor's voice, and didn't like it. "Just tell me," he told him.

"Mr. Wesson-"

"Sam."

"Sam," the doctor corrected. He took a seat, his position forcing Sam to do the same. "Your brother was beaten very badly."

"Tell me something I don't know. Tell me how he is now." Sam didn't care if he came off as rude. He wanted to know how Dean was.

"He's in surgery now. There are internal injuries; bleeding," the doctor went on, not put off at Sam's tone at all. Keeping Sam's attention, he continued, "We're most concerned about damage to his right kidney; there's blood in his urine and extensive bruising."

Sam nodded. "What else? Concussion?"

The doctor nodded this time. "Yes, a mild one. He's got some spectacular bruising on his face and temple region, but I'm confident that it looks worse than it is. Same with his ribs – bruises, but no fractures." He took a moment and let out a sigh.

"What?" Sam asked. "What else?" There was something else. He knew it. He knew it was bad.

"There was some physical damage from the sexual assault," the doctor began, quickly adding, "Nothing too serious; some stitches and we're already starting him on a heavy dose of antibiotics-"

"Wait! What?" Sam interrupted. His eyes were wide, his head shaking in denial. "Sexual assault?"