Disclaimers still stand.

A/N: Thanks again for reading, reviewing or favoriting. :) I meant to get this chapter out earlier, but my brain has been sucked into a black hole lately. I just discovered that after receiving editing, I uploaded the same chapter twice and it took me forever to fix, due to the brain black hole. It also just took me three tries to spell the word "chapter" correctly. Blah. But it's Friday. It's a long weekend (for Americans). I'm getting really, really nervous I'm not going to have the final parts ready to go when I should and I don't want to leave people hanging. chews fingernails But enough kvetching. I must soldier on, right?

Sweet Caroline
Chapter 12

Sam hardly ever won stare-downs with Dean. He wasn't really disappointed this time wasn't any different. Sitting up had sapped all of his energy. Temporarily. He just needed a few minutes. The hole in his shoulder wasn't the worst injury he didn't remember getting, but Dean was right. There wasn't any real reason to rush out of there. He was tired of always rushing. It was all he'd done since joining up with Dean again. Since Jess. Though, even at Stanford and even with Jess, he was always rushing to stay ahead of freak and maintain normal. All rushing seemed to do was make things even worse. He felt tired.

"Okay," he said when he could no longer put up a fight.

He must have looked even worse than he felt; Dean's shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Sam hated being the weak link so much he almost took his concession back. Sometimes he wished he could be more like Dean, who, despite the confession of a lingering headache, was on his feet and ready to go. But now that Sam looked at his brother more closely, he noticed fatigue lines around Dean's eyes. There was puffiness below his good eye, purple and blue beneath his bad eye. They might be sticking around because of him, but they both could use some recoup time.

"So, what happened out there?" Dean asked, pulling up a chair and easing down into it. "I don't remember much after I hit the tree."

"Much?"

Sam gave Dean a disbelieving look. Time hadn't meant much when they were in the thick of it, but in Sam's mind his brother had lain there unmoving forever. Minutes might have been hours, as far as he had been concerned.

"Nothing. I remember nothing."

It was all a blur to Sam as well, but cleared as he began recounting. For him it had gone down in flashes. The need to keep Dean out of the line of fire. The lightning-quick attack of the very solid spirit. The suffocating heaviness pressing down. Sam winced at the angry face Dean pulled at hearing that. Had his head not felt thick from the pain medication, he might have left that part vague, or out of the story completely. Now they knew exactly how a vengeful spirit statue went about killing, though. It was something to add to their wealth of supernatural knowledge. Sam forged ahead, expecting Dean to tease him when he explained Gwen saving him. None came, but he did get a feeling of déjà vu, like Dean had already made fun of him for getting saved by a girl. It might have happened for all he knew. Like Dean, his memory was faulty beyond a certain point.

"Then I went to make sure you were okay. I get fuzzy after that," Sam finished sheepishly, looking to Dean to fill the blanks.

"Oh, that's when the fun started. First you swooned like a southern belle with the vapors…"

Ah, there was the making fun.

"Dean."

Dean ignored him, holding up a finger. There wasn't any humor in Dean's expression about the southern belle crack, which Sam took to mean his brother didn't really find Sam collapsing due to blood loss terribly funny. He was quickly becoming re-fluent in worried Dean-speak, not that anyone would have to be well versed to figure that out.

"Before I could get you out of there, the cop on patrol showed up," Dean continued. "In a coincidental twist of fate, it turned out to be Deputy Graham, and he had Iris with him."

"Iris was still there?"

"Yeah. Good thing, too. I think the other girl would have screwed things up by blabbering, but Iris covered. She said she called us. We owe her for that one. Graham went off to flag down the ambulance he'd called and now here we are. One of the girls assumed we were on campus as FBI agents posing as students, and that made some sort of sense so I went along with it."

Sam was unclear, though Dean's story was concise. The pain meds might have been making him tired, or maybe it was because it was the middle of the night. Either way, he didn't have the energy to ask for more detail. He supposed the only important point was they were in the emergency room instead of the motel because they'd been caught in the act. Something lingered at the edge of his own memory as well, distracting him. He couldn't remember what it was, he only had a strange feeling it was significant.

"Okay, we've got the blanks filled well enough," Dean said, shifting around in the chair stiffly. "We're going to have to come up with a reason for being out there with sledgehammers and how you ended up with part of a statue in your shoulder. Just in case we can't avoid the cops."

"We had an accident?" Sam offered.

"That's what I said when they asked." Dean gave him a wry smile. "It was the best I could come up with. My bell was still ringin', if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

Sam yawned. He hoped Dean wasn't relying on him to be useful. At least it wasn't likely they'd get hauled off for grave desecration this time. Their fake federal agent status should make getting caught in a cemetery more legitimate, given the local investigation. The same thing couldn't be said for Iris and Gwen. The tiredness faded. Oh, shit. Iris and Gwen…. Without thinking, he sat up and regretted it instantly. Large black spots oozed across his vision until he squeezed his eyes shut to block them out. Pain thudded dully through his shoulder. He flopped back down, breathing harshly. Something heavy clasped on his arm. For a fraction of a second, he gasped, panicking in the unwelcome memory of suffocation, and, inexplicably, sadness.

"Hey," Dean said, close to his ear. "Take it easy. Just breathe through it, Sam."

The pressure lifted from his arm, but Dean's voice was all Sam had needed to bring himself back to the present. He calmed down right away, feeling foolish.

"Screw it, I'm getting someone. Just keep breathing through it."

"What is this, Lamaze class?" Sam said weakly, cracking his eyes open to find Dean halfway to the door.

"Lamaze, ha, ha," Dean said, halting in his tracks. "That's not funny, Sam. You're white as a sheet."

"I'm fine now," Sam said. "It's not that bad, I just freaked out for a second. I'm okay."

Dean returned to his side, but looked like he'd bolt for a doctor at any sign of Sam's distress. A year ago that would have pissed him off, if a year ago he'd been traveling with his brother and father. The pang he felt wasn't a physical one this time. Now Sam was starting to see Dean's tendency to baby him as nothing more harmful than a fierce protective streak. It was sweet and noble, really, but unnecessary most of the time. Unnecessary for him, he thought, but maybe not so for Dean.

"Don't go making any more sudden movements, okay? You've got to give yourself time to heal."

"Thanks, Dean, I got it," Sam said, somewhat grouchily. He might have a new appreciation for Dean's hovering, but that didn't completely negate the irritation.

"What was that all about, anyway?"

The pain faded back to mere annoyance. It had only been a flare up, fizzling fast like the way he could never stay truly angry with Dean for very long. He wasn't about to admit spazzing over some memory, so he shrugged with his good shoulder and half-smiled.

"I sat up too fast."

"No shit. That's not what I meant. Why did you sit up too fast?"

"I was thinking about Iris and Gwen," Sam said. "They're both okay?"

"As far as I know, yeah. They were both confused but fine the last time I saw them."

"Which was out in the cemetery."

Dean blinked.

"With the police," Sam said, giving his brother an expectant look. He was starting to worry the head injury was worse than Dean admitted. He drove the point home when Dean just blinked some more. "Who probably had a lot of questions for them."

"Oh," Dean said at last, straightening up. "Shit."

"I think I'd like to not be admitted here, against medical advice."

There was no way to tell what Iris and Gwen might have said, no way to corroborate a story he and Dean didn't know. The best course of action was to flee. It was Dad's number one rule – if things looked like they could get messy, run. No matter what, leave town. Sam would say this case had gotten messier and messier. He didn't want to chance anything else now that it was all over. That vague, niggling sensation he was missing something returned. He frowned.

"I'll go tell the doctor. He's not going to be happy," Dean said, heading for the door again. He turned back at the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face. "And I should see if I can find the car. You be all right here for a few?"

"Dude, I've had worse than this," Sam said impatiently. "Go."

Sam thought he'd use the time it took Dean to get the car to get himself upright and mobile. It was going to have to be mind over matter. He was still tired from sitting up carefully before, and the pain from sudden movement made him wary. Taking it slow and steady seemed to do the trick, but once he was shakily on his feet he realized something else: he had no idea where his clothes were. A cool spiral of air wafted up his bare legs and fluttered around the hospital gown. Sam spun in a circle, searching for his jeans. His shirt and jacket were probably toast, but the jeans should be salvageable.

"I hear you're still refusing to be admitted," said a male voice from the door.

Jerking slightly, Sam winced and lifted his hand up to press against the thick wad of bandages on his right shoulder. The discomfort eased a little. The owner of the voice took three quick steps to his side, offering a steadying hand. Sam recognized the ER doctor, but only in an uncertain it-felt-like-he-should way.

"I think that's a mistake, but I can't stop you." The doctor frowned at him. "At least let me make sure you understand how to care for your injury, and that you've got enough medication to keep the pain at a minimum until you can get to a pharmacy."

"It's nothing I haven't had before," Sam said gruffly.

"Now where have I heard that recently?" the doctor grumbled. "Oh, yeah, your partner, who should also be staying overnight for observation. The first bandage should stay in place for twelve hours. Will you at least come back tomorrow for a follow-up exam?"

Sam nodded absently, but suddenly wished Dean would hurry up. His brother probably hadn't even left the premises yet. He understood the doctor's frustration, but it wasn't helping. He took an unsteady step, ignoring the short, snarky man in the white jacket in favor of finding his pants. Pants were infinitely more important. Sam was aware he was moving like an old man, just as he was aware the doctor watched his every sluggish movement.

"Uh," he said after a few moments of awkwardness. Leaning down, Sam searched the white lab coat for a nametag or something. "Doctor…?"

"Nuber."

"Doctor Nuber, are my jeans around here somewhere? And my shoes?"

"Oh, sure."

Nuber scuttled across the room, returning with pants, shoes, a sling and a bag of personal effects from Sam's jacket pockets in hand. He set the bundle on the gurney, and also a small packet of pain pills.

Sam didn't know how he hadn't seen that stuff. He took the dusty, grimy jeans gratefully, only contemplating the challenge he'd have putting them on when he started to do so. His right arm was useless. Because he had to move without jarring the injury, one-handed dressing wasn't as easy as it could have been. The doctor continued to watch him, making an occasional tutting noise. Sam thought the whole dressing one-handed ordeal would go much more smoothly if he didn't have an audience.

"I can give you a hand, if you need," Nuber said, inching toward him.

"No, thanks, I'm good," Sam said quickly, thinking please, please, please don't.

"Are you certain?"

Sam straightened, letting go of the jeans, which he'd just managed to get up to his knees. Doctor Nuber was starting to strike him as a world-class perv. He so didn't need that kind of drama right now. All he read in the doctor's face was genuine doctor/patient concern, though. Slumping against the bed, Sam gave a relieved laugh and closed his eyes. The pain meds must be making him jumpy or something. He reopened his eyes and found Doctor Nuber crouched in front of him, reaching for the jeans with an uncomfortable twist to his features. Sam looked up at the ceiling, trying to decide if he should get over his embarrassment and let the doctor help him get dressed.

"Hey, look who I…"

His brother had to choose that moment to return, Sam thought.

Dean stared, expression horrified, as he finished, "…ran…into. Uh."

On Dean's heels was no other than Deputy Graham, who turned a vibrant shade of red when he took in the scene. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doctor Nuber scramble to his feet with his hands lifted like he'd been caught doing something bad, which didn't help. Sam made sure the hospital gown was still in place, not that it had ever been out of place. He knew what was coming as Dean started grinning.

"Don't," Sam said. "Don't even go there, man. He was hel…just don't."

It took Dean a few seconds of eyebrow raising and mouth flapping open and shut before he settled on a neutral expression. For once, it seemed Dean was going to ignore his immature urges. For now. Sam waved a hand when Nuber tentatively started for his jeans again. As if he hadn't endured enough humiliation. Having bare legs for a few more minutes was okay by him.

"Okay, awkward," Dean mumbled, then cleared his throat. "I, uh, ran into Deputy Graham on my way out. He said he can give us a ride to the car. Isn't that nice? I think that's nice."

Great. Just what they'd hoped to avoid had happened. Dean's sugar-laced tone was proof of his unhappiness. Sam wasn't surprised, though. He could count on one hand the number of times things had gone their way lately, so now didn't have to be any different.

"The girls, are they okay?" Sam asked, hoping he sounded more concerned than paranoid.

"Agent Krieger," Graham said. "Glad to see you're up and well. We already interviewed both girls and took them back to campus."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Agent Morrison confirmed their story. What a strange set of circumstances." Graham seemed unconvinced. "Never would have guessed in a million years the cemetery was in the process of repairing a statue, that someone happened to trip into it…."

"Whoops, I'm so clumsy," Dean said, fingering his bruised face. "Didn't see those sledgehammers someone left lying around."

"And that loosened it off its pedestal, falling directly toward a girl out there in the middle of the night at the spot where her friend died," Graham continued. "Paying her respects, she said. It's really a good thing you acted so quickly, Agent Krieger, and were able to push the girl aside and take the full force of the statue's weight."

Oh, crap, the story Iris and Gwen had concocted was farfetched. Sam was confused why they even had covered his and Dean's asses, so he figured he had no right to gripe about how they did it.

"I'm just glad she wasn't hurt," Sam said.

"Yes, it's all quite strange," Graham said as if Sam hadn't said anything. Given the way the deputy was reciting the story, it was obvious that he didn't buy it. "Plausible, but I don't know what the chances of that all happening just like that are."

"I don't know, either. One in a million," Dean said jovially, fake smile plastered on his face. "Maybe a billion. Life's funny sometimes."

"It sure is." If they didn't change the subject, Sam was sure Graham would dig and dig until he was satisfied. Which would be never. "Listen, do you mind if we finish this conversation after I've got some pants on?"

That worked. Graham glanced at Sam's legs, then the floor, the ceiling and anywhere that wasn't Sam's bare flesh. "Right. We'll wait in the corridor."

"Thank you."

Practically running, Graham led the way out of the room. Nuber hesitated, as if still considering lending a hand, before he opened a cabinet door and drew out a pair of scrubs. Then Sam was left alone. The scrub bottoms would be easier than struggling into his jeans, but were about a mile too short. It was time for Sam to man up and put on his own pants.

Nothing was getting between him and his Calvins.