Disclaimer: Usual stuff applies. If I owned them, I'd be hiding them away somewhere for my own personal use….ner ner!

Warnings: Swearing, Winchester angst, bored author looking for things to torture…or not….

A/N: Before you all decide to dispose of my body, forgive me? I know, I know, this update is long over due, but I've been struggling to find a suitable way to bring this story to a close. And I'm under pressure!! sobs I want to finish this before I go traipsing off to England and Scotland for a month! So review and pelt me with compliments and/or death threats and I might just be able to!

This chapter was a bitch to write. Seriously, I was considering self harm at one point, but I got bored at work and decided to write some. This is the result. There will be one more chapter after this one (or two) and an epilogue. This chapter was supposed to be the last before the epilogue but I've stupidly decided to write more. What say you all?

Anyone else going into withdrawal symptoms from lack of supernatural?

Chapter Fifteen: The Killing Stone

-

You've been hiding in the shadows

Have you forgotten how we used to dream

Let me remind you

The light doesn't blind you at all

It just helps you see

Can you see?

Becoming by the Goo Goo Dolls

-

Dean was bored and tired, but he couldn't sleep. The nurses and Caleb had somehow managed to convince his dad to go home and get a shower and some rest. The lights were off in the room, and the faint glow from the machines monitoring Sam cast strange shadows around the room. He was nervous and edgy and felt incredibly vulnerable without a knife or a gun nearby. Not to mention that Sam was completely out of it and would rely upon him to protect him if something was to get in.

And despite having taken his meds for the night, Dean could feel the stitches that covered him stretch and pull every time he moved. And his chest hurt like a bitch every time he breathed. He'd been lucky not to break all of the bones in his chest, he'd been told.

Well, that was all very well, but it felt like he had. Every time he took a breath he felt his chest twinge. It made talking difficult sometimes, and created odd hitches in his voice he couldn't quite disguise.

Dean scowled up at the ceiling and wondered if the insomnia was a result of his paranoia or the fact that Sam still hadn't woken up. It had been three days already, and they doctors had finally pronounced that Sam was slipping in and out of a light coma, much to his dismay.

Dean knew injuries. He'd grown up patching his father up, patching Sam up and being drilled endlessly on the proper procedures of emergency treatment. He could place stitches with surgical precision and leave next to no scarring in the process.

The knowledge was as much a blessing as it was a curse. He knew all the things that could go wrong, and how one tiny little thing could kill. And head injuries were tricky. People could go into the deepest of coma's and recover just fine. People in light coma's could and did die. Head injuries weren't anything to screw around with.

Sam had had that hematoma thingy and a concussion on top of it. Not to mention the trauma of his other injuries. He'd lost a lot of blood when he'd broken his leg, as was normal, and the soft tissue damage had been extensive, his dad had said.

Sam had a lot of fight in him, but most of his strength had been drained by the Wraith. That hell-spawn had almost killed him. It had drained him of all his vitality and the seemingly endless energy that Sam had always possessed, and Dean still wasn't sure exactly what had gone down in that warehouse.

Dean was angry to the extreme, but there was no one and nothing to take his anger away. Or his fear. Sam could still die. They weren't out of the woods yet.

Not for the first time, Dean wondered just how much Sam would have to suffer. It wasn't enough that he had grown up not knowing a mothers love, and constantly being uprooted and dragged around the country. It wasn't enough that he had seen more horror that three Marines put together. And it wasn't enough that he was cursed to a fate of wandering and lonely anger like Dean and their father was.

Dean closed his eyes and released another hitched breath.

"Guess we gotta roll with the punches, Sammy," Dean whispered to the darkness. "Just gotta learn how, that's all."

-

"Hey Dad?" Dean spoke up.

His father was slumped in his usual chair, clean shaven now and looking a little rested at least. He was reading the morning paper and cradling a cup of coffee in his large hands like it was a treasured lover or a much needed lifeline. He grunted in acknowledgement when he spoke, and Dean scowled.

"Dad!"

"What is it Dean?" his father looked up, irritated.

"Sammy looks like he's in pain."

His father was on his feet immediately and at Sam's side in moments. Dean looked on worriedly, watching as his dad took Sam's hand and put his hand on Sam's cheek.

There were subtle signs of distress etched into Sam's young face that Dean could probably pick out better than anyone. A lifetime of looking after the kid had ensured that he knew every expression off by heart, and could practically read his mind at times. It was all in the body language.

"I'll go and get a nurse," he said, promptly laying Sam's hand back down and disappearing within moments.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. It was like a punch in the guts, watching Sam sleep like that. In his entire life, he had never been still when he slept. Now Sam was so still he looked like he had died, and it reminded Dean all too vividly of what had almost happened, and of what he had almost lost.

Movement at the door had him jerking his gaze away from Sam, and he sat up a bit straighter as Pastor Jim walked in the door.

He smiled at Dean warmly. "Hello, Dean. Nice to see you're awake and looking better."

"Hey, Pastor Jim." Dean greeted quietly, watching as the pastor approached Sam and took one of his limp hands. A slender, bookish hand was laid upon Sam's cheek gently, and Dean had to look away at the expression of great sadness that had arrested the pastor's kindly face.

"Oh, my poor boy," he murmured to himself. "What a mess you are."

Dean swallowed and looked down at his hands, hating himself all the more for landing them both in hospital. Sam had a gentle heart, but he hated people worrying about him and he'd be irritated beyond all else if he were awake, and sniping at anyone who had the misfortune to land within his sights.

"It's a good thing you've got Dean right here beside you. Like some sort of demented guardian angel," the pastor whispered to Sam, but Dean caught the faint words and whipped his head around to find Jim looking at him with a smile on his face.

"D..please tell me you didn't just..." Disbelief, humor and anger all struggled for supremacy within him, and for once, he was lost for words.

The pastor laughed then, and it sounded so out of place and grating that Dean glared at the older man, and wondered exactly when it was that the pastor had gone insane.

"I'm not worried about Sam recovering Dean. Not when you're here with him," the pastor explained. "Sam would do just about anything for you. You can count on him to get better for your sake too."

"But I..I want him to get better because he wants to. Not because it's what I want. I want him to want to..."

The pastor laid Sam's hand on his chest, and approached Dean.

"I'm not going to sugar coat this for you Dean. You're not a child anymore."

"I appreciate that," Dean replied cautiously, looking up at the now serious man who was standing next to him.

"He's going to struggle with this for a long time. He's going to try and push you away, but you can't let him do that, no matter what he says."

Dean swallowed convulsively, and picked at his blankets as the need to argue rose within him.

"He's got dad as well."

"You and I both know that things between the two of them will never be as they were before," the pastor told him quietly. "There's no use denying it Dean. Your father knows it too. He made a mistake leaving him behind, and he's going to be paying the price for the rest of his life. He knows that. And that's why you have to stick by Sam no matter what."

Dean fought back tears of frustration and rage. There was no way they could ever go back, and Dean knew that they would never have the chance to be the family he had always wanted them to be. It was all he had ever wanted, and now it was something else that he had lost, along with his mother, his home and any dreams he had once had of a normal life as a child.

The pastor laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and he fought the impulse to shrug it off.

"You'll need to be the glue that holds your family together Dean. If you want to keep them, you'll have to be strong."

A surge of bitterness consumed him, and he swiped angrily at the tears that spilled down his cheeks and dropped onto his hands.

"You sound like dad," he muttered angrily.

The pastor was quiet for a minute.

"You can fight it all you want, Dean, but it won't make it any less true. This is what being an adult really means. Taking on burdens that seem too heavy to carry. But you'll manage. You'll learn to live with it if you try. All you have to do is try and things will right themselves, given time and effort."

Dean snorted. "Save me the sermon Pastor Jim. I don't need you to tell me what I have to do."

"Not when it comes to Sam you don't. But otherwise, I'm not so sure."

They were interrupted by the doctor and his father returning. John nodded a greeting to the Pastor, then leaned against the door frame and watched as the doctor went about checking Sam's vitals.

Eventually, Doctor Amal straightened up with a frown on his face.

"What is it?" Dean asked before his father could. Fear had replaced his anger, and a tiny part of him was glad. He hated the taste bitterness left in his mouth.

"He's presenting with some symptoms that are common reactions to anesthesia." the doctor explained.

"And what are those?" John questioned, studying the doctor closely. If there was one thing John Winchester was good at (besides being a stubborn bastard at the best of times) it was reading people. Dean didn't know if anyone could make a living out of reading body language and facial expressions, but his dad had it down to a fine art.

"He has a slight fever, probably just a normal post-operative reaction. I'm going to adjust his medication a little. It should make him more comfortable."

"Exactly how are you administering his medication?" John asked. "I haven't seen anyone giving him injections or anything like that."

Doctor Amal looked surprised at the question, but he recovered quickly and beckoned his father closer. Dean shifted a bit in his bed so he could watch better.

"See this here?" the doctor was pointing to a thin tube that disappeared underneath Sam and was connected to a small device the size a cell phone.

"This is what we call an epidural catheter. It is placed between the bones of his lower back, and continually feeds Samuel small amounts of narcotics and local anesthetics. It's a very effective form of pain relief, especially with surgeries such as the ones Samuel has had."

"So why do you need to adjust his medication then?"

"The strength of the medication we use varies from patient to patient. It's just a matter of finding the right dosage. Samuel's body has been under a lot of stress as a result of his injuries, so it's only to be expected that he reacts in some way to that stress. He should be waking up soon so you can all relax a bit now. He's on his way to recovery."

Dean couldn't help but to glance over at the Pastor, to see him looking back at him steadily. He averted his gaze quickly, concentrating instead on watching his father's impassive face as he touched one of the bruises the decorated Sam's faces like a garish mural.

"Thank you doctor," John murmured.

The doctor nodded and backed out of the room unnoticed.

Dean was left wondering and aching in the raw silence that followed.

-

Dean was flicking through the channels on the TV with the sound down and wondering when his father and Jim were going to get back from their coffee run. Caleb had been forced to leave earlier that morning, called away by a hunt in Mississippi that needed his immediate attention. Before he'd left though, he'd extracted strict promises of updates from both Jim and Dean, knowing that John would be too preoccupied to remember.

Dean had been sorry to see him go. He was at odds with Jim at the moment, unhappy with the conversation that had rattled him more than it should have. His father was distant once more, and Dean was entirely unhappy with the situation. He missed Sam, he missed things being the way they were and wanted them to be right again.

A pained groan jolted him from his brooding, and he looked over at Sam to see him awake.

"Sam?"

His brother's response was to lurch up suddenly and vomit over the side of his bed, a sickly orange mess that stunk to high heaven. Dean's heart jolted in his chest and he hit the call button desperately and Sam heaved helplessly over the rail of his bed.

"It's okay Sam," he called over to his brother, praying that someone would come soon. He hit the button again and again, and Sam's ragged breathing let him know that Sam was truly feeling his injuries. He was twisted awkwardly, immobilized in his bed by the cast on his leg. There were tears running down his face, and Dean gritted his teeth.

He carefully swung his legs out of bed as fast as he dared and hobbled over to Sam, avoiding the pool of vomit. He wrapped arms around Sam and held his heaving body gently, resting his cheek on his long back.

"Its okay, Sammy, I'm right here. You're not alone," he whispered, aware that nurses and a doctor were flooding into the room.

Someone's hands were on him, prying him gently away from Sam and easing him backwards. He didn't want to let go, but the doctor and the nurses were swarming around Sam, easing him back into the bed and fussing around him.

Strong arms wrapped around him, and he leaned back into his father, grateful for the strength.

"C'mon, Dean-o. Let's get you back into bed."

Dean strained for a glimpse of Sam amongst the bustling bodies, but allowed himself to be led by to his bed by his gently insistent father.

Fifteen minutes later, the nurses had left and the doctor was talking to their dad outside. Dean looked over at Sam once more. He looked dazed, and a little confused, but half awake at least. They had upped his pain medication and had cleaned him up, piled more blankets on his shivering form and made sure he was comfortable.

"Hey Sammy. How're you doing over there?" he called out softly, so as not to scare his disorientated brother. He seemed to not know where he was, like his mind wasn't all there.

For a moment he thought that his question had gone unnoticed, but Sam's head slowly turned towards him and grey eyes blinked blearily at him.

Never had he been so pleased to see those beautiful eyes looking back at him. He smiled at him.

"Hey Sammy. Welcome back."

"Hey Dean," was the sleepy and distracted reply. "Where 'm I?"

"We're in the hospital, little brother," Dean pointed out gently.

"Safe...?"

"Yeah, that's right, Sammy. We're safe." Dean breathed, finally believing it himself as he drifted back into sleep.

-

He could feel no pain, and that in itself was a strange thing. Sam knew he was injured, but the lack of pain was deceptive. He'd try and move and when his inability to do so became clear, he was reminded once again that he was injured.

That and the fact that everyone thought he was fragile, and was treating him like he'd break at the slightest thing. Truth be told he felt as weak as a kitten, and he tired very easily. Staying awake was a difficult thing, and he found himself falling asleep at the oddest of times, in the middle of conversations, or in the middle of a meal or an awkward sponge bath during which Dean would tease him gently.

But he was uncomfortable; he knew that much for sure. A part of him was telling him that this wasn't real. That he had actually died in that factory and this was some sort of alternate reality. And living the lives that they did, it was all too possible.

Something was missing, and he was unsure what to feel any more. Emotions flitted through him briefly, but most of the time he couldn't summon the energy to really analyze what had happened.

He kept replaying everything that had happened in his mind. Things drifted back to him slowly and in pieces. The things that he did remember were all relatively straight forward and all things considered, they were relatively clear, but he found most of it made little sense.

Why had it chosen him?

Sam wanted answers, but he knew he wouldn't find them any time soon. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be angry, and he wanted to cry but there was just nothing. He wasn't strong any more, nor was he sure of anything. He didn't feel safe.

Doctors and nurses came and went, people talked to him, and he vaguely remembered answering in some way or another, but he didn't remember the actual words. He thinks that a therapist visited him as well, but he couldn't remember her face, or what she had said.

Things were off somehow and he needed to find a way to change things and to reach out. But to who or what he wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure of anything.

-

"What's wrong with him dad? I keep talking to him but it's just like...he's not there anymore," Dean murmured as he stared at the door that Sam had been wheeled through.

More tests, they'd been told, but Dean had to wonder if they were really helping. Maybe it was something to do with the sterile hospital and the false cheerfulness that surrounded them that was making Sam so despondent.

John was scribbling away in his journal, and had slipped into a dark mood over the course of the day. Dean felt like screaming. Between Sam's vacant company, and his father's worsening mood, he was going to go insane. Sooner rather then later. And probably violently as well.

A padded cell probably wouldn't go amiss.

"They said that he's been doped up to his eyeballs with drugs Dean," his father's response had a touch of impatience to it. "So he hasn't really been with us, has he? He's off his face."

"You make it sound like it's his fault," Dean retorted before he could stop himself.

"Watch your tone, Dean." John scowled as he looked up at him. "I know, all right? I know that it's not his fault, and I know that he probably has some kind of post traumatic disorder. We'll deal with it when we can."

"And when's that going to be?" Dean asked quietly, trying not to sound as meek as he felt.

Dean watched as his father closed his journal with a snap and sat forward a little.

"I don't know Dean. I don't know much of anything at the moment," he admitted quietly as his bad temper seemed to just drain away. "We'll figure it out. Doc says that they're slowly lowering the amount of medication he's on, so he should start getting more alert."

"Dad..."

"Go on Dean. Say what you need to and get it over with."

And there was the patented Winchester way. Face things head on and don't show any fear. Direct and precise. Well, if that's what he wanted, then that was what Dean would give him.

"If you don't know what we're going to do, then what hope does Sam have of ever getting back to normal? We can't just...let things keep going the way they have been. It's only going to make him worse."

"I know, Dean. At the moment we have to focus on getting him on his feet again. Then we deal with the fall out. That's all we can do for now."

"We might be too late," Dean whispered, unable to maintain eye contact anymore. "We're going to lose him, aren't we?"

He looked up, surprised, when his father got to his feet.

"No Dean. We're not. We're going to figure out a way to make this right. I just need more time."

"I don't think we have any more time, Dad," Dean argued, pulling himself into a more upright position. "We need to..."

"Dean!" his father snapped, before he visibly made an effort to calm down once more. "Dean, I don't have the answers you're looking for and it true that I don't have the solution that Sam needs. Just...give me more time to figure this out. I promise you, I'll make this better."

Dean let his doubt and his faiths wage a private war within him and tried not to let it all show on his face. God he needed to get out of here. He felt like the place was leeching his ability to think straight from him.

"I need to get out of here for awhile, Dean. I have things I need to do."

Dean looked at his father with disbelief and fear written plainly on his face.

"You're leaving?"

John Winchester sighed like he was the world's most weary man and for a moment Dean felt sorry for him and backed off a little. After all, it couldn't be easy having both your sons stuck in hospital indefinitely.

"I just...I need to think. Stop giving me the third degree, all right? I just need to think for awhile."

Dean swallowed and looked up at the worn man his father had become. He wondered if things would always be this hard from now on. He felt like he was wearing thin, like he could just...separate from his skin and float away at any moment.

"Are you going to come back?" he asked slowly, knowing that he sounded like a scared five year old and not really caring. He watched as his father approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The heat radiating from his father seeped slowly through his thin hospital gown and warmed a cold place deep within his chest. After all these years, his father's touch still had the ability to make him feel safe and comforted.

Dean wondered if it would ever be like that for Sam again.

"Of course I am, son," John's voice was rough. "I'm just going to be gone for a few hours. Make sure...make sure Sam knows that okay?"

Dean nodded mutely and watched as his father backed away and picked up his journal. It wasn't until the man had left that Dean collapsed back against his pillows and stared up at the plain ceiling.

A/N: As usual, all medical terminology is researched and ripped off from the net. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

And the whole vomiting thing? That actually happened to my brother. He'd broken his arm and had surgery, and as soon as he woke up, vomited this disgusting orange stuff all over his lap. Eewww!