Where Angels Sleep

Summary: In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it.

A/N: Well, I hope you all survive the squick; this chapter shouldn't be as bad. I made minor additions to part one due to a plot oversight that was driving me insane, but as it is, here's the second (and final) part of Sam's adventures with bodily functions. Happy birthday again to sendintheclowns, and thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta and support.

Disclaimer: Nope--I'm just playing with other people's toys.

PART TWO

Dean arrived at the hospital with the paramedics in a whirlwind of activity.

The ride had been awkwardly quiet, the medic silently working, and Sam beginning to twitch on the gurney. When they were five minutes out, Sam had become more active, nearly violent in his movements, so much so that the medic had fastened Sam to the backboard in order to keep Sam from hurting himself.

Dean didn't even look at the hospital as Sam was rolled into it. His focus was kept solely on his brother, who was moaning now, and mumbling. Dean caught snippets of supernatural myth and weapon maintenance slip from his brother's incoherent mouth.

In the background, he began to make sense of the medical babble. "23-year-old male, brother found him on the bathroom floor--he'd been sick--vomiting and diarrhea. He's been altered since we arrived."

They were in a room now and Sam was being lifted and moved, and Dean was being pushed gently out of the way.

"He's combative," one doctor said. "Let's get him something to calm him down so we can help him."

Dean watched, too sick to move, while people worked. Sam thrashed as their hands pulled on him, holding him down. A frustrated mewl escaped from Sam's mouth.

"Is your brother on any medications?" another asked, glancing up at him.

"No."

"Does he take anything else? Any kind of drugs?" Her voice was rushed, to the point.

"No," Dean snapped.

The doctor seemed unfazed. "Are you sure?"

"Completely. Sammy's clean." Sam's bucking had slowed and he was merely moving weakly on the table. Dean ached for him.

"What about illness? Has he been sick?"

Dean's mind could barely keep up. "He had a cold. But he was getting over it. He said it was something he ate."

The doctor nodded distantly, mostly forgetting about Dean and focusing her attention on Sam.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked, edging cautiously forward.

Sam was still now, eyes closed and shirt cut away. He looked far too exposed and vulnerable for Dean's liking.

"His red blood cell count is low--platelets, too."

Dean strained, trying to see what they were doing, but all he saw were latex gloves and tubes and movement.

"His potassium is way too high."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked, his restlessness overtaking him. He moved forward, tried to get their attention. "What's wrong with him?"

"Will someone please show him to the waiting room?"

Dean didn't remember moving, didn't hear the voice of the nurse talking to him, just remembered standing behind the doors swinging in his face, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

OOO

Sam was pretty used to not knowing where he was when he woke up, but before he even opened his eyes, he knew this didn't seem right.

It was too cold, and it smelled funny, like disinfectant. A little too sterile for motel rooms. Most didn't keep things that clean.

No, this was brighter too, too bright, he realized as he tried to open his eyes.

"I think he's coming to."

As he blinked his eyes open, he realized they were talking about him.

Opening his eyes brought his situation into acute clarity. He felt sick. Not just a little under the weather, but truly ill. He ached and his stomach felt swollen and turned. He felt something churn and realized with a distant horror that he may very well be messing himself.

"Sam?"

A shiver traveled through his body.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

Where was Dean?

"Sam."

His eyes finally focused on the source of the voice. A doctor, he guessed by the scrubs and stethoscope. Which would make this a hospital, he concluded.

A hospital, and he was on a gurney, IV in his hand, surrounded by medical personnel. What happened?

"Sam." Someone was probing his stomach.

He groaned. That hurt. Why was he here?

Brammer? But they hadn't even gotten to the bones yet.

"Sam, can you hear me?" More hands. Lots of hands. All over him. Everywhere. "Can you tell me where you are?"

He remembered he needed to speak for them to hear him. "Dean..."

"What?"

"Where's Dean?" he asked, trying to push their hands away.

"Your brother is in the waiting room," a soft voice told him, but he couldn't see who said it.

"I need to see him," he insisted, struggling harder now.

"Easy," the voice cooed again, and there was a hand on his forehead. He followed the long arm up to the face of a nurse. She had a motherly smile. "You need to relax."

Sam's eyes flicked to the movement around him. "What are you doing?"

"You're very sick, Sam," she explained. "We're helping you, but we need to protect your airway. We're going to give you something to relax you and when you wake up, you'll have a tube in your throat."

Sam shook his head and he realized he was having trouble breathing. He heaved desperately for air while trying to squirm away from the hands. "I've got to...to find Dean." Dean would know what to do.

"Shh," she shushed him. "We'll find him for you. But for now, just breathe nice and slow."

He wanted to fight, wanted to protest, but something warm was spreading throughout his body and he felt himself growing heavy and weary.

He was being laid back, flat against the table, hands pushing him down, holding him there. He was stronger than this, he knew he was, why couldn't he break free?

His vision swam and his eyelids drooped as the tension left his body. The world buzzed and Sam knew he was fading.

"He's out," someone said, and it sounded so far away that Sam wondered if he dreamed it.

There was a hand on his chin, tilting his head back. Something cold opened his mouth, touched his tongue. He wanted to gag but couldn't, couldn't do anything as pressure slide into his throat and he knew no more.

OOO

Dean was chewing his nails. He had already worked his way through his right hand and was now thoroughly engaged on his left thumb. It wasn't a habit he often succumbed to, but he needed something to keep him occupied. He'd shuffled through his contact list on his cell phone, wishing there was something he could call, but coming up with nothing, and had started in on his hands shortly after that.

Because he had to do something--anything--to keep himself from sitting there, feeling useless.

Chewing his nails didn't really help though, and he'd peeled his right pinky so low it bled.

He didn't feel it though. He was disconnected.

When the doctor finally found him, she seemed to be talking to him through a tunnel. He saw her, heard her, but it didn't quite register.

He blinked and focused, standing on unsteady legs. She was blonde and looked sympathetic.

"I'm Dr. Pottebaum. I've been treating your brother."

Dean forcibly directed his scattered wits to her. This was important. "How is he?"

"Well, we've managed to stabilize him somewhat. But, I think maybe you should sit down," she suggested.

Dean didn't move. "What's wrong with my brother?"

She smiled a little and seemed to sigh. "Your brother is in acute renal failure. We'd like your consent to put him on dialysis."

Dean stared, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Renal failure? How?"

The doctor paused, considering her words. "It's really hard to say for sure until we run more tests. We're hoping that the dialysis will clean out his kidneys and that they'll rebound. If they don't, then we're looking at full on kidney failure which would then likely lead to multiple organ failure and possibly death."

Dean could do nothing but gape. The doctor had to be kidding. "He had a stomach ache. Some diarrhea. How does that lead to death?"

"Has Sam eaten anything unusual lately?"

The question distracted Dean. "What? How does this have to do with getting Sam better?"

"We believe Sam's condition may be from something he's ingested."

"Like food poisoning?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Not exactly. From the symptoms you've describe and the shutting down of his kidneys, I would guess he's suffering from an e coli infection."

"E coli? How does that cause his kidneys to fail?"

"Sometimes the bacteria just takes a more aggressive course," she explained softly. "There's no way to say."

Her tone was comforting, but her words provided no security. "So what do we do?"

"We've already taken a stool sample, but if his symptoms have persisted for over two days, it may not show anything," she explained. "We hope the dialysis will keep his kidneys functioning. But beyond that, there's not much we can do except wait and see."

"Wait and see? Wait and see? What kind of treatment is that?"

"I understand your frustrations, but there is no evidence that antibiotics have any effect. We'll provide him with anti-diarrheal medicine to try to contain his bowel movements, and we'll keep him hydrated. We intubated him in order to keep his O2 levels up--his blood gas reading was a bit off, so it's mostly a precautionary measure. But the time Sam has gone without treatment means his kidney failure is advanced, almost to the point of involving his lungs. We're going to monitor that very closely. We've arranged to have him transported up to the ICU where they'll continue to monitor his condition."

Dean had no words. No questions. Nothing. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Dr. Pottebaum smiled slightly and rested a hand on Dean's arm. "Let us get him moved, and then we'll take you to see him. He's sedated for now, but he should be waking within the hour."

She patted his arm once more, offered one last smile, before standing and moving down the hallway.

Dean's was a desolate hope, but hope nonetheless. He needed to be with his brother. He needed to be there. He'd been there for every trial in Sam's life since he was an infant and Sam had always prevailed. Even if it was being there, he had to help his brother.

OOO

Seeing Sam was supposed to make him feel better--he had thought that sitting alone in a waiting room, not knowing was the pinnacle of helplessness.

But sitting by Sam's bedside, the dialysis machine whirring nearby, and Sam hooked up to a ventilator--well, that was probably worse. Because now he knew exactly what was wrong with Sam and there wasn't a thing he could do to change it. Sam had a tube down his throat, his kidneys were failing, and none of it mattered because Dean was powerless to control it.

"Sammy," he breathed, afraid too get too close. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Sam was silent, unmoving.

Dean laughed uncomfortably, looking at his hands. "You have to wake up."

It was a stupid thing to say, pointless and meaningless, but it was all he had.

Nothing answered him. No reassurance, no hope. Just the emptiness of the hospital.

And in the beeps and hissing, the comings and goings of nurses and doctors, Sam said nothing, did nothing, and all Dean could hear was the growing sound of his failure.

OOO

He was dirty and tired, but he didn't really see leaving as an option. The staff was merely happy when they got him to eat; that trying to convince him to leave was a battle they stopped bothering with shortly after Sam had been admitted.

That had been nearly a day ago, and Sam had done nothing but get worse. His kidneys were still borderline even with the dialysis, and his lungs were showing more signs of being compromised.

Dean was too afraid to leave, too afraid that if he did, Sam would die and he wouldn't be there to stop him. Sam was his. Their father gave control of Sam's life to him years ago. And now, he might be responsible for Sam's death as well.

It was his responsibility. His choice. Not some demon's, not some spirits, and certainly not some burger's.

He was familiar to the staff now, and the doctor's treated him with cautious benevolence. It wasn't uncommon to strike up awkward small talk, so when Dr. Pottebaum pulled up a chair next to Dean at Sam's bedside, he wasn't too surprised.

"You said you two were road tripping?" the doctor asked, her voice hedging.

"Yeah," Dean replied slowly with veiled suspicion. "Why?"

"I don't suppose you were traveling through Ohio," she mused.

"And what if we were?"

"There's been several reported cases of e coli, just like Sam's. All of them ate at the same small town fast food joint in Wimbly, Ohio." She held out a newspaper.

Dean took it, feeling numb. His eyes read without his brain working. The name of the town, the name of the restaurant, the symptoms--

"Three people have died," the doctor said. "Six others are ill. Have you been there?"

Dean's blank stare was answer enough.

"I'm very sorry," she said.

To Dean, though, there was no words, just the growing doubt that this was something that he couldn't control.

OOO

Dean wasn't so naive as to believe that he had any sway with the universe. If there was any greater being out there, Dean figured he probably didn't have much standing with Him, no matter what Layla or a misguided faith healer in Nebraska told him.

Sure, he fought evil, and maybe in some way he was a good guy, the kind that didn't kick puppies or laugh at little old ladies falling down. He even was known to be compassionate when the situation arose, and children even seemed to be drawn to him.

But he drank and swore and he killed--yes, he killed a lot, and he killed with relish, and he took pleasure in the gory glory of his job. His destiny. It wasn't divine. It was just reality, one that had been thrust upon him when he was four years old and that he hadn't really been able to fight since.

He didn't have that inherent goodness like Sam did, which he supposed meant he didn't have that lingering fear of darkness like Sam did. Dean existed in gray, though he saw the world in black and white.

So, in the grander scheme of things, he was just a man, and no matter how much he killed or fought or demanded, the universe did not comply to his will, though sometimes he was good enough to avoid the devastating blows it tried to dole out.

Other times he was just lucky.

Okay, maybe he was more lucky than good, because watching Sam fight for his life because of some bacteria certainly was a harsh way for the universe to assert its dominance over him.

But he was at its will. He would have pleaded for help if he thought anyone would listen.

He did it anyway.

No one seemed to listen. Especially not Sam.

Next to Sam's bed, he did not move from his post. He seemed as static as the machines that kept Sam alive and knew that this was his charge above all else.

"You can't go down like this," he said. "A bad burger is no way to die." His voice was scratchy and weak--he'd been here too long, and he was just so tired. Suddenly, he gave an irrational laugh.

Because it was crap, and Dean knew it. He knew it in every fiber of his being. It didn't matter if it was bad meat, a poltergeist, a demon, The Demon, natural causes or Dean's hand--death was still death, and Dean wouldn't stand for any of it.

"You can't die, Sammy," he tried again, pulling Sam's hand into his own. "Not now, not ever. Not while I'm around, okay?"

He knew Sam would never agree to a deal like that, would never acquiesce to Dean dying first, but this was his bedside vigil, and he would barter just about anything he had, anything he may ever have, to keep Sam safe here and now. That included his own life, his own soul, his own everything.

Sam had been right. Dead was dead. Just like Mom, Jess, and Dad. Dean had lost everyone else. He couldn't lose Sam.

OOO

In the end, Dean wasn't sure who to thank when Sam turned the corner for the better. He wanted to take credit, and he certainly thanked the doctor, but he knew it was by something else's grace that things had worked out for the best.

The dialysis was stopped and the medications were weaned and Sam would wake up soon.

Dean hadn't left much to begin with, and he certainly wasn't going to leave now, no matter what logic the staff tried to use on him.

He was there, then, when Sam first started waking. It was a slow process, taking Sam through levels of consciousness while Dean coaxed him from his bedside.

Dean wasn't sure how, but the doctor had caught wind of it, and before Sam could fully wake, she was positioned by Sam's side, obscuring Sam from Dean's view.

Sam struggled, seemed to panic, and the doctor was hovering over him in an instant, which just raised Sam's anxiety more.

"Sam, you need to relax," she said. "We don't want to sedate you."

But Sam didn't listen, or couldn't listen, and Dean could see a sheen of tears in Sam's eyes as he fought against the tube.

The monitor was still wailing, Sam was still struggling in vain, and the doctor was swearing under her breath. And Dean had enough.

Deftly, he wove his way to Sam's bedside, letting his hand rest on his brother's head. "Just take it easy, Sammy," he said. "Take it easy."

Sam's eyes snapped to him, begging and pleading.

"I know," Dean told him. "But you've got to calm down and then the doc will deal with the tube, okay?"

Sam looked like he wanted to protest and a single tear of brokenness slipped from his eye.

And Dean's heart broke and he flushed red in embarrassment on Sam's behalf. "You've been sick," he explained. "You've been sick. But you're going to be okay, now. I can promise you that."

OOO

Dr. Pottebaum had asked him to leave as they extubated Sam and in order to perform a brief examination. Dean hadn't wanted to go, and the look on Sam's face made it pretty clear that he didn't want his brother to go either, but Dean knew that while Sam was clingy now, just waking up, that in a few days his brother would feel the weight of embarrassment at being so helpless and exposed.

So Dean left, lingering just outside the door. He saw other patients in their rooms, nurses coming and going, and remembered waking up in a hospital not so different than this one.

That time, he'd lost so much.

This time, he'd make sure he didn't.

OOO

Sam was propped up against a few pillows, the bed angled up. His eyes were closed and his head was turned toward the window. The machines were turned to silent and the room was unusually quiet.

Quietly, Dean edged around the curtain, sinking quietly in the familiar chair by Sam's bedside.

The small rustling made Sam stirred, and he meagerly turned his head toward his brother. He blinked a few times before a grin lazily crossed his face. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself," Dean countered. "You feeling okay?"

"Never better," Sam rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper.

"I can bet. That tube probably did a number on your throat. Can't imagine the other tubes feel much better."

Sam nodded in agreement."Did you finish the job?"

Dean blanked. The job?

"Ronald Brammer. Lake Evans," Sam continued.

Dean literally laughed. He'd almost forgotten why they were in Wisconsin to begin with. "Are you kidding?"

Sam looked hurt, his puppy dog eyes shining up at Dean, then the hurt hardened slightly to offense. "People may be at risk. We have to finish it."

"We don't have to do anything, Sammy, except get you better."

"I'm fine," Sam said dismissively.

"Fine? Are you kidding me?" Dean asked, eyes wide, his voice colored with disbelief.

"I don't want to be responsible for the deaths of others," Sam insisted.

"Yeah, well, I could live with anyone else's death Sam, but not yours."

"Dean, we have a responsibility--"

"Trust me, Sam, I understand my responsibility," Dean said, leaning back in his seat.

"Then why is the job still not finished?" Sam pressed, his frustration spiking.

Dean's patience broke. "Because my first responsibility is you!"

Sam gaped, looking at his brother in shock. "But people have died, Dean."

"Yeah, and you were almost one of them."

"The doctor told me it was e coli. That's nothing supernatural."

"It doesn't matter," Dean said. "Like you said, dead is dead, Sam. And if I have to choose between you and someone else, I'm going to pick you every time."

"Dean...," Sam's voice was quiet and pleading. He drooped back against the bed, looking suddenly tired. "It's our job."

"A job is a job, Sammy," he whispered back, leaning forward, putting his hand on the bedrail. "But you're family. That's where the real glory of all this is. You and me."

Sam held his gaze, his eyes tortured. "Someday, Dean--"

"The day will never come," Dean promised.

The gaze passed a moment more between them before Sam tore it away, looking toward the window with a strangled laugh. "You turned into a girl while I was out."

"Better than being taken down by a burger," Dean joked, leaning back in his chair. "A burger, Sammy. Doesn't exactly invoke fear and trembling into the supernatural realm now, does it?"

Sam smiled slightly, letting the joke fall easily between them. "Thank you," Sam said finally. "For being here. But you need to finish it, Dean."

Dean suppressed his sigh. "Sam--"

"I'm okay now. You need to finish it."

"Sam--"

"Please, Dean," Sam said.

Dean felt himself crumbling, succumbing to the puppy dog look on Sam's face, the desperation, the overwhelming need in Sam's voice. Why couldn't Sam just let it go, let the hunt be second just for awhile longer?

It was a question Dean already knew the answer to. A question that traced back to the Demon that started this and the fate that Sam was increasingly desperate to fight.

"I can't be responsible for anyone's death. Not ever again."

OOO

Graveyards were empty more often than not, because people didn't want to remember the dead. They said they did, sometimes came to decorate the graves, but the dead were nothing more than memories in the best of times, ghosts in the worst, and at some point, life just had to go on.

Most people hated graveyards, but they had never bothered Dean. He had dug up too many graves, desecrated too many remains, seen the dark side of death too often to really worry too much about those that rested peacefully beneath his feet. Because the dead were forgotten, loved only in fading memories where danger is not a threat.

He would have preferred Sam to be with him, but the doctors wanted to keep him a little longer--they were still watching his left kidney, and Dean wasn't about to take a chance with Sam's life.

As he approached the grave, shovel in hand, lighter fluid in the other, he suddenly felt a chill, and his chest tightened in anticipation.

To prevent his father from becoming a ghost wasn't the only reason they'd burned his bones. His reluctance to visit his mother's grave wasn't because he had no need of it.

No, it had all been because it hurt too much. Death was too permanent, too final, too unknown. It was the one thing he couldn't fight, the thing he couldn't change.

Ronald Brammer's grave was simple and alone, in a row of similarly simple and lonely headstones. As he tore up the sod and shoveled the dirt and mud away, Dean couldn't help but wonder if anyone thought of Ronald Brammer now.

It didn't matter what he did in life, who he was, or how he died. Ronald Brammer was dead and forgotten, nothing but a story in the mouth of a crazy old woman.

Breaking open the box, he saw the skeleton, and felt a sudden urge to cry.

For Ronald Brammer, for all the people buried around him, for his mother, for his father, for the brother he had almost lost. Because life was precious, and Dean didn't care if it sounded cliched, it was everything. As long as he was breathing, he always had the chance to make something better.

As long as Sam was breathing, there was a chance to save Sam from all the darkness closing in on him.

And Dean would fight forever for that. No matter what.

Pulling himself out of the grave, Dean salted the bones and then poured on the gas. He struck the match, threw it down, and watched as the flames licked the dirt.

He stayed until the flames died down, until he reburied the opened grave, and returned Ronald Brammer to the dirt and ash. Then he left, alone in the rows of headstones, and returned to his brother and his life.

OOO

"It's done," Dean said. "No one else died. We got to it in time."

The relief that spread across Sam's face was utter and complete. He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, you owe me," Dean snipped, plopping down in the chair.

Opening his eyes, Sam glared at Dean. "I owe you? Are you kidding me? The doctor told me about the e coli outbreak in Wimbly. The burger I ate the night I asked you for a soup or salad."

"So you blame me for that?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm just saying."

With mock annoyance, Dean glowered. "Next time I'll let you suffer on the bathroom floor, okay?"

"That's very nice, Dean, thanks."

"Exactly," Dean said decidedly. "What more do you want?"

"Well, maybe next time I ask for a salad, get me a salad." There is a sparkle in his eyes, and smile quirks his lips.

Dean just snorted a laugh. "They say it can be found in vegetables too. Usually from the water its washed with."

"At least I won't die of a heart attack."

"I'm not letting you die at all," Dean countered, his voice light, but his intent serious. Sam didn't know yet, couldn't know yet, but Dean could feel it tugging on both of them.

Sam's face darkened, the sparkle faded, and his eyes narrowing in fear. "You know you can't control that."

"Watch me," Dean promised, defiance ringing in his voice. "Just watch me."

fin