Sam made it outside before vomiting in the alleyway between the bar and the apartment building next door. Drink and bartender forgotten, he knelt by the brick wall on his knees, heaving, tears running down his face.
Dean.
They'd been talking about Dean.
"... never saw that much blood at a scene. Whole damned alley was painted in it. If that kid lives, I'll be surprised. Son of a bitch who did that was one cold fucker."
Oh God. Please let him be okay. Please. Sam's eyes closed, and he pictured it against his will. Dean, probably coming out of a bar. Had to have been drunk to get caught out that unaware.
Alone.
He shouldn't have been alone. Sam should have … he should have been there. Should have had his brother's back, like always. He could see it …could hear it …
"... blood pouring out every side of him, and he keeps calling out for his brother. Whoever did it just left him there lying in the alley next to the damned dumpster like they took him out with the trash."
Sam hadn't been there. Dean had needed him, had called out for him, and Sam hadn't come. Dean and Bobby had been all alone. They'd gone through this tragedy alone … weeks ago.
Weeks.
Dean could be … he could be … by now.
Sam made a noise that didn't sound human. Standing, he quickly surveyed his options, settling on a nondescript, blue minivan parked across the street on a quiet corner. In record time, he was inside and settled, rocketing toward Singer Salvage like the devil, himself, was chasing.
###
Bobby sat by the bed, his eyes trained on the ghostly white figure that occupied his downstairs room. The doc had come and gone - someone that Bobby knew through a friend of a friend of a friend.
Someone who wouldn't carry tales and who would be honest with him about Dean's injuries. Bobby had made sure to find someone who wouldn't sugarcoat the truth.
But now, he was sort of wishing he hadn't been so thorough.
Dean was dying. Probably only hours left.
By this time tomorrow, Bobby would likely be all alone and contemplating another hunter's funeral.
And just like that day weeks ago when Dean had first shown up with Sam in tow, Bobby didn't think he could do it.
Sam.
If only they'd found him before Merrill had found Dean.
The kid had no idea his brother was dying right under his nose, and when he found out one day … when it was too late … well … Bobby knew how that would go down.
Being on the outs with someone when they passed on … Bobby wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy, let alone his boys. If they weren't both so damned stubborn …
But the old hunter had to grin at that. They'd come by that stubborn pretty honestly, between himself and their daddy. And the way he'd heard it, their mother could hold her own in that department too.
Those two boys had never stood a chance.
Bobby looked down at his oldest fondly. He took Dean's hand in his own and grinned through his tears. "Your daddy was THE stubbornest SOB I ever did know. He'd kick your ass ten ways from Sunday, Dean, if he was here right now, you know. Gettin' fall-down drunk like that, letting your guard down. He'd say, 'Son, I'm disappointed in you. Can't believe you let this happen.' Then he'd stumble into a wall or two and go about his way. Damned fool never could take his own advice."
Bobby waited for a snarky reply, a shift, a moan … anything at all.
But Dean slept on, oblivious. He'd stopped waking up days ago, and Bobby had called the doc in a panic, wanting to take the kid back to the hospital. But doc had said there was nothing they could do for Dean there, that Bobby couldn't do for him here.
It was … it was just … comfort care at this point.
It was just waiting.
There were no machines they could hook Dean up to that would save his life. No magical medications. No treatments.
The only thing that could save the kid now, was Dean. He had to want to beat this thing. And he just … didn't.
Doc said his injuries were bad, but he'd seen people come back from worse.
The only thing keeping Dean in the veil was Dean.
Kid wanted to die, apparently. And deep down, Bobby knew why. He knelt down close and whispered in his kid's ear. "Come on, Dean. You gotta fight this thing. You gotta FIGHT, cause Sam and me … we can't do it for you. You hear me? I need you, you idjit. Sam, he needs you. Just cause you two had a spat, don't mean you get to check out all together. Come on, Dean. FIGHT!"
Bobby waited.
Nothing.
He jostled the kid's hand. "Please, Dean. FIGHT. Don't do this to me, kid. I don't deserve it. And your brother, wherever he is, he don't deserve it either. You know what's gonna happen to Sam when he finally shows up back here a week from now or a month or a year and finds you gone? Hunh? Kid won't survive that, Dean. He won't. I can promise ya' … I …"
Dean groaned, and Bobby froze.
"Dean? Son, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
"Dean, come on. I'm an old man. If you let go, who's gonna be here for your brother? You think of that?"
Dean shifted restlessly, his face drawing into a pained grimace.
"That's it, boy. You chew on that for a bit. Sam needs you, you damned, stubborn idjit."
And then, because Bobby was concentrating so intently on making Dean awaken that he never heard the tires crunch over the drive or the screen door open and close, Sam was suddenly standing in the doorway, face wrecked, eyes terrified.
"Bobby! I heard De …" Sam's eyes fell on the bed and on the prone form over which Bobby ministered, and his voice broke. "Dean?" He stumbled forward, falling to his knees on the floor across the bed from Bobby. His eyes found the older man's. "Bobby? How bad?"
Bobby smiled, ignoring the wetness that had found its way onto his cheeks at Sam's arrival. "Maybe better now, you're here. Talk to him, son. Give him a reason to keep fightin' cause the doc says he's given up."
Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He reached over and took his brother's hand.
"Dean." Sam cleared his throat. "Dean, I'm here. I'm here, and you're gonna be okay, okay?"
But in the bed, Dean slept on, his face expressionless, his boundless energy stilled.
And Sam felt real fear.
