Disclaimer: If I owned them, I SWEAR I wouldn't keep them bound in my basement. Honest. crosses fingers Okay, this is probably why it's best I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! My new goal is 30 reviews. Tee hee. Also, my motto is: whumping is like dessert - there's always room, but sometimes you have to rest a bit first.

Before
"Frankenstein lives," Dean said.

Frankenstein might be living, Sam thought, but he wasn't quite ready to walk. His legs were unsteady, making him list to the left where there was less support. Tucked under his arm like a buttress, Gwen reacted the only way she could, shifting her body weight and reaching up to steady him. Her hand slapped down somewhere on the right side of his chest. Sam wasn't sure where exactly. All he was aware of was renewed agony, an intense bright light consuming everything, and then finally he was aware of absolutely nothing at all.

Sweet Caroline
Chapter 11

Dean's head hurt, and his vision was hazy at best, double at worst. Contrary to popular belief, people generally didn't get up and run around after a head injury in real life, not the way they did on TV. Any blow that made someone black out was serious, requiring specific care. In this case, though, the hole in Sam's shoulder trumped Dean's likely concussion. He knew that. So he pushed past the blurry vision and the significant pain from cracked ribs to get Sam to his feet. For his efforts, Sam rewarded him with a heartfelt, if lopsided and grimacing, smile.

"Frankenstein lives," Dean said, acknowledging the victory with mild sarcasm.

Getting Sam vertical was only half the problem, of course, and Dean hadn't properly accounted for the girl. He should have had her on Sam's right, a mistake he could blame on the head injury. This occurred to him only as their situation went from tolerable to bad less than five seconds after Sam was standing. His brother tipped to the left and the girl automatically braced, putting up a hand to keep him from collapsing on her. Two things happened simultaneously: Sam made a strangled gurgling sound before going limp, and white, glaring light shone on them from ahead. There was nothing Dean could do. Blinded by the light and already not up to his usual physical standard, he was lucky Sam didn't drag him down to the ground.

"Stop right there," a familiar voice called out.

Dean heard, but he didn't heed. He didn't care who was giving the order; all that mattered was making sure Sam was okay. Dropping to his knees caused the pain in his head and ribs to ratchet up a notch. He ignored it, leaning and trying to roll Sam onto his back. Remnant spots from the flashlight moved across his field of vision, nauseating him. The falling snow didn't help with that, either, eddying around in a big swirling mess. He swallowed a couple times and wished the visual effects away. It didn't work, but he could finally start to see more. Not that it was much of a victory, because all he saw was Sam lying there all heavy and floppy. The beam of the flashlight zigzagged all over the place.

"Oh, crap, not another one," the newcomer said.

Gwen knelt on the other side of Sam, helping Dean to get his brother turned over. He slapped Sam on the face, provoking a low moan and a head wobble. Dean heard the new person speaking in hushed, rapid tones and there was a loud burst of static but he couldn't be bothered. He inspected Sam's shoulder wound, rock still embedded, and it didn't look worse to him. Of course, it didn't help that he was seeing double and everything jittered around like he'd just come off a spinning carnival ride. His energy was rapidly waning; adrenaline could only fuel him for so long. He needed to get moving again, or he'd be flat on his back next to Sam. Without the company, they'd have probably been back at the motel by now.

"You kids shouldn't be out here. I've called for backup and an ambulance."

The flashlight beam bobbed around again. Dean knew why the voice sounded familiar. The cop patrol. He hadn't forgotten about it, but he'd really hoped one thing would go their way and they'd avoid getting caught. He should have known better. Worse, not only had they been busted, it was Deputy Graham who stared at him with a doughy, confused expression. Dean squinted, holding an arm up to block the light. He and Sam were stuck between two lies now, playing student to the girls and feds to the cop, and at the moment he didn't feel up to plugging plot holes. Sam was better at that sort of thing, more believable and earnest, but he was out of commission. Dean looked down, just to make sure. Yeah. Sam wasn't going to be any help. A hospital visit was unplanned and unwelcome, but they were screwed on that front.

The small town cop shuffled a few steps closer, peering at him, and then at Sam.

"Agent Morrison? What're you doing out here?" Graham said. He gave a low whistle when he caught sight of the rock in Sam's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Agen…?" Gwen started, standing up.

"I asked them to come," another voice chimed in.

Dean's head began to swirl even more. He tried to stay on topic, but never lost his line on Sam. The new, new person walked over to stand next to Gwen. Thanks to Graham flashing him in the face again, all Dean saw was spots.

"What? Iris?" Gwen again, but that answered the question about the newcomer's identity.

"They were on campus today, asking around. They gave me their business cards. When my friend came out here, I panicked and called them," Iris said, with calm Dean found impressive. "I didn't want Gwen to get in trouble."

"Calling the FBI instead of us meant not getting in trouble?"

"FBI? I thought they…"

Gwen just didn't know when to be quiet. Dean did his best to glare at her, as if that would work, but Iris again stepped up to the plate, doing something that made Gwen jump and also stop talking. He didn't know what, and he didn't care. He also didn't know why Iris was on their side, and he didn't really care about that at the moment either. Sometimes gift horses shouldn't be looked at in the mouth, or whatever that saying was. Dean leaned over Sam again, unsteady, before glancing up at Graham.

"Okay, whatever," Graham said, baffled, "You're here. But what happened?"

"We had an, uh, a small accident," Dean said.

"A small accident." Graham seemed to have a thing with repetition.

"Yeah." Dean knew it was a weak, half-assed story. He couldn't come up with anything better, so he went with his gut, clutching at his head and exaggerating how crappy he felt. It wasn't that much of a stretch, really. He made himself sound absolutely pathetic, "Can this wait? My partner's bleedin' out, here."

"Right."

Dean hoped the ringing he heard was from ambulance sirens, only in the sense that if it wasn't, then his head was worse than he thought.

Deputy Graham mumbled something about directing the EMTs, leaving the scene to go flag down the ambulance.

Returning his attention to his brother, Dean was happy to see Sam's eyes open. It was amazing how a little evidence Sam was back among the land of the conscious made him once again forget about his own aches and pains.

"Dude," Dean said, "First you get saved by a girl, and then you pass out? You're getting soft."

"Shut up. I'm bleedin' out, here, remember?" Sam groaned.

The words were slurred so that Dean barely made them out. He was unlucky enough to be able to decipher injured Sam-speak fairly well. What was lucky, though, was that Sam seemed lucid for the moment. Truthfully, Dean was still concerned about shock. He was starting to consider that professional medical help wasn't such a bad idea at all.

"What is going on?" Gwen hissed. "Why does that cop think these guys are FBI?"

"I don't know," Iris said. "Because maybe they are."

"Are you FBI?" Gwen turned on him, panic and confusion all over her face. "So you were just pretending to be college students?"

 

"That's right," Dean said, latching on to that idea. It'd work as well as anything at the moment. "We were undercover to rule out any campus-related foul play with the first victim."

"Meghan." Gwen blinked a couple times. "I guess that makes sense. Sort of."

He might have sold Gwen easily despite the gaping holes in the story, but Iris stared down at him and Sam with skepticism. She didn't say anything, though, and before Dean had the chance to make sure she'd back up the crappy cover story, the EMTs descended upon him and Sam. Everything became a blur of activity, invasive hands and questions. He went with the flow. For the first time in his life, Dean was gladder than not to be going to the medical center, and he wasn't even actually glad. Neither he nor Sam was critically injured, the gig was over, and it would give them a needed break. It was a Winchester spa day, when other people would tend their injuries instead of old-fashioned family doctoring.

But none of that meant he had any intention of losing track of Sam. His insistence on riding along in the bus was met without the customary annoyance that he usually got, due to the blood all over his face. He'd have insisted anyway. He had to be there not only because he was concerned about Sam, but to explain away any shock-induced craziness his brother might spout off. The artificial lighting in the ambulance was more revealing than the snow-fogged moonlight. The second Dean climbed on board, his assessment that Sam wasn't critical wavered.

Sam's face was gray. There was more blood than Dean had been able to see before, oozing down his jacket from shoulder to waist. Now that he could see more clearly, double-vision aside, one look at the piece of stone in his brother's shoulder made him realize how much bad luck had played in all of this. What were the chances, really, of a cement statue shattering and that one of the pieces would be sharp enough to impale someone? For regular people, Dean would venture slim. For them, the chances were much better. Obviously. He grimaced when they cut away the sodden jacket, Sam arching ever so slightly in pain.

The EMTs weren't rushing or anything, so Dean knew on a base level it meant things weren't as bad as they looked. Somehow that didn't stop his heart from racing or fear from prickling at the base of his skull. He opened his mouth, catching himself before he said but he's going to be okay out loud. He didn't want to alarm Sam or, well, himself, by verbalizing concern. He didn't have the chance to speak anyway. The ride to the medical center took all of four minutes. From the time he readied himself to speak to the time he changed his mind, the doors of the ambulance were opened, Sam was rolled away somewhere Dean wasn't permitted to go, and he was in an examination room with a cold pack pressed to his face, thinking, so much for keeping an eye on Sam.

Everything from that point started to blur in that way a visit to the emergency room only could induce, so Dean couldn't say how long it was before he was left alone in the waiting area. He had the routine down so pat he didn't even consciously remember answering the standard questions, nodding about the standard post-concussion care or acknowledging he understood the standard recommendations for cracked ribs, refusing to stay overnight.

Now that he did sit in the waiting area, it occurred to him how sad it was he could probably do most of the ER jobs himself. And without the pesky medical degree. It also occurred to him that he hadn't seen or heard anything about Sam. Dean jostled his leg, nervousness edging toward worry.

The waiting area was empty, which wasn't a bad thing. He half expected to get a visit from the cops any second, and he'd rather see how Sam was before having to deal with the cover stories. The nurse behind the desk busily worked on the computer, tossing him glances every so often. She was in her mid fifties and scowly, making Dean disinclined to chat her up for information. His head still hurt too much for the diplomacy that would require.

"Jim Morrison? Agent Jim Morrison?"

Dean looked up at a paunchy, short man in light blue scrubs. He stood slowly, once again ignoring the pull of his sore ribs. Slightly stooped, he was still several inches taller than the physician.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean said.

"I'm Doctor Nuber. I worked on Agent Krieger."

"He all right?"

"He'll be fine," Doctor Nuber said, smiling briefly. "We were able to take care of him down here. The puncture is fairly shallow. There was debris in the wound, so we did a simple debridement, no need for surgery. We discovered an extensive, deep bruise on the back of the same shoulder, which likely exacerbated the pain of the puncture. Blood loss was moderate, as was shock. Both will take a bit of time to recover from, but I don't foresee any complications."

"Mind if I check in on him?" Dean asked.

"I thought you'd ask that. Not at all, for a few minutes. Even though we've got your partner doped to the gills…" Dean raised his eyebrows. Nuber peered up at him, smile more genuine this time. "That's a technical term. The pain medication hasn't stopped him from asking to be released AMA. I've stalled him, hoping you can talk him out of it. I'd like to monitor him until mid-day, at least. The gash wasn't life-threatening by any means, but it wasn't on par with a scraped knee, either."

Despite himself, Dean grinned. If Sam was already asking to be released, that meant he was fine. He'd known that, of course. It was good getting confirmation.

"Though by the looks of you," Nuber continued, "Maybe you won't be of much help. You should be in a bed yourself."

"Why, so someone can wake me up every two hours to make sure I know my own name?" Dean scoffed, but it hadn't been that long ago he'd had to think hard to remember he was an FBI agent to these people. "Nah, it's nothing I haven't had before. Never had problems with memory loss or Jekyll/Hyde symptoms. It all comes with the badge."

Nuber shook his head and muttered something about thinking cop bravado was only on movies and TV, as he ushered for Dean to follow him down the corridor.

Dean didn't care what the guy thought. All he cared about was seeing for himself that Sam was no longer ashen and sick-looking with pain. In hindsight, Dean maybe shouldn't have scoffed at the ridiculousness of taking on a killer statue. It didn't seem all that funny anymore, especially not when he rounded the corner and saw Sam wasn't fit as a fiddle and ready to play.

The doctor did a quick check, then gave Dean a meaningful glare as he left the room.

"Hey," Dean said.

"Hey," Sam said, squinting up at him. "You look like crap."

His brother was one to talk. The bloody jacket might have been replaced with a hospital gown and the wound out of sight under a big bandage, but any idiot could see Sam was going to need a day or two before he looked like anything other than shit on toast. Part of that might be the meds. More of it was not. Sam's skin was too pale beneath the still-vibrant bruise on his face, and Dean had had enough impalement injuries to know the pain was unpleasant but bearable. No medication he had experience with ever fully knocked out the ache.

"I look better than you, wiseass." Dean tapped the edge of the bed. "No matter what happens, I'll always be the handsome one."

Sam laughed, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you have to tell yourself, man."

"Seriously, Sam," Dean said after a second, "You okay? The doc wants to admit you."

"Yeah, I'm fine. They took my damn pants off, and my shoes," Sam said, making random observations. He shifted, rolling to the left side with all the speed of an eighty-year-old. He grunted as he managed to slide his legs off the bed and sit upright. "We can get out of here any time."

Taking in the increasing pallor of Sam's face, the faint glisten of sweat on his forehead, Dean doubted his brother was really up to standing. No way was he getting to the car on his own. Dean was tempted to back the doctor's forcing Sam to stay for observation. As much as he wanted to avoid any interaction with the police, he wasn't sure he was up for a middle-of-the-night drive himself. The throbbing in his head was still there, aggravated by the bright lights and antiseptic smells. It might be better for them to take the time getting the story straight and maintaining their FBI alter egos than to end up crashing a few miles down the road.

"We could do that," Dean said, unconsciously reaching out as Sam wavered. From the way his brother shook beneath his touch, Dean verified there was no way Sam was as ready to go as he wanted to be. "Or we could hang out, just till morning. You can get some sleep, let the meds kick in more."

"Dean…"

"C'mon, man. We both know you feel shitty."

Sam glared up at him. Dean sighed.

"All right, my head's still killing me. I wouldn't vote for sticking around unless I thought it was the best option, you know that." Dean gently pushed Sam back down on the bed. The ease in which he succeeded spoke more than words could have. "We'll get our stories straight, deal with the cops, and by then we'll both be ready to go. Okay?"

Sam looked like he was trying to pout, but in his current condition he couldn't pull it off. They held a wordless battle of wills, which Dean had no doubt he'd win. He always won. It was in his job description as the big brother.

"Okay," Sam said sullenly, crowning Dean the victor.