AN: Yet again I write to publicly thank everyone who has reviewed because I can't thank you personally. The response to this story has really surprised and encouraged me. Everyone who has come out of lurking to drop me a review, I thank each of you from the bottom of my sensitive little heart. To everyone who has theorized on what might have happened to Sam, I adore that, and I wish I'd thought up some of these super smart ideas myself! I hope the actual explanation is okay for you all. Anyway, enough of my nervous nattering, on with the story.

BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

- Chapter Six -

"What did the bitch do to Sam?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit." Dean fisted his hands in Ted's grimy lapels and shoved him against the glass wall. It shook on impact. "What did she do?"

Ted licked his lips nervously, his gaze darting. "Beam me up." He grinned awkwardly, his hands loose at his sides. "Scotty," he added as though in afterthought. The leer faded. "Let me go."

Dean pressed himself closer, chest to chest with the older man, the stench of urine and unwashed desperation almost overpowering. "Do not mess with me. You do not want to mess with me."

Ted's arms came up and pushed ineffectually. "Get off. Help," he bleated.

"Don't." Dean pressed a hand over Ted's mouth, the older man's facial hair wired against his palm. "Tell me what your screwed up kid did to my brother."

Ted cowered, tried to cover his face with his hands as he slid along the wall, shoulder hard against the glass. Dean tightened his hold and bunched muscles trembled with the need to beat answers from the cringing scrap of humanity in his grasp.

"I don't know what she did," Ted said, his voice wavering with uncertainty and partly muted by his bowed head. "Let me go."

Dean scanned the hallway: chlorine bleached linoleum stung his eyes, murmured voices poured like liquid acid against his ears. People moved in the periphery, distance driven by the odor that emanated from Ted, leaching outwards like putrescent Agent Orange. Fergus had disappeared over ten minutes earlier, seemingly too overwhelmed by Ted's distinctive aroma to make anything other than an effusive grunt as he disappeared from view. Even the nurses took a wide path, nattering and scowling as they hurried past. Dean, however, had nowhere to go. Stuck with his critically ill brother and a strung out, alcohol deprived drunkard who had all the answers – or had absolutely none.

"Let me go," Ted said again, louder, whinier – high pitched enough to draw attention.

"Hey, what's going on here?" a third voice, deep, male and authoritative. Coming from behind Dean, out of sight and moving in quick.

Dean roughly shoved Ted, then raised his hands and stepped back. "Family disagreement," he said tightly as he turned to address the newcomer. "It's resolved now."

"Sir?" the security guard asked as he stopped beside Ted. Narrowed eyes fixed on the drunkard, bushy brows knitted in a façade of concern even as the long nose hairs twitched and his puffy face screwed up in disgust. The man took a step back, his belly wobbling beneath the starched uniform. "Mr Wilson," he said, as his gaze lifted to meet Dean's. "We need to speak privately."

The guard moved off down the hall and stopped two rooms down. He gestured again, a sharp flick of his wrist before one hand slid to rest on his hip, holstered weapon in clear view. Dean bristled and shot a quick glance at Sam, his chest tightening as he took in his brother's critical state. Sam had not yet regained consciousness and the intubation remained, pushing in chemically altered air because the twenty-three year old could no longer breathe normally. At least he was no longer blue – Dean thought that had to count for something, but wasn't exactly sure what.

"Is there a problem?" Dean said tightly as he reached the other man. He instinctively chose an angle that allowed him to observe his brother's room – to see who went in and out, though he could not longer see Sam directly. Ted remained at the window, limpet fixed, fetid breath fogging the glass as he stared inside. It seemed that nothing short of atomic detonation would remove him.

"Your father requires a change of attire," the officer said.

Dean's focus flicked to Ted and his nose twitched despite the distance. "Yeah, so?"

"You are his son."

"Oh, you heard that too? Freakin' grapevine needs a good shot of herbicide." The disapproving glance cut Dean off, made his too loud voice soften. He ducked his head, folded his arms across his chest and shoved his hands into his armpits. "He stinks, point taken. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Your father can use the staff showers and he can be provided with patient attire."

"Fine. Show Ted where to go, he'll figure out the rest."

"That is not our responsibility. I have been ordered to remove you both from the premises, but I thought that you may not wish to leave given your brother's condition."

Dean's arms unfolded, dropped to his sides as his shoulders squared. He faced the guard, aware of his own superior height, of brawn, of desperation. "What do you know about Sam's condition?"

"Nothing," the guard shot back as his face reddened. His hand slid to the weapon, teased at it. "I've been ordered to remove both of you and only allow you to return once he's clean. But I wrangled a compromise so you both can stay, except he," he thumbed toward Ted, "has to be cleaned up." He stepped back and fluffed out his chest. "I thought it a fair deal."

"He won't leave and neither will I."

"You won't have a choice."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the stout man, his jaw clenching as the portly little foot soldier's hand flexed around the gun.

"He's my brother," Dean said, unable to veil the stunned incredulity and raw panic from his voice. "I need to be here."

"Rules are rules."

"Jesus, what the hell is this place? That prick Fergus is behind this, right?"

"Are you going to cooperate or do I need to escort you from the premises?"

"Escort him."

"You are his son."

"You know what, I'm sick of hearing that." Dean stalked back to Sam's room and stopped at the door, fingers clenched against the doorframe. "You stink, Ted. There have been complaints. You need to get cleaned up or they'll kick us both out, and trust me you do not want that to happen."

Ted's eyes widened. He plucked at the threadbare clothes and the distressed action caused newly released ammonia to waft outwards. "No. No. No."

"Freakin' hell, Ted, then leave, now!"

Ted's jaw dropped and his gaze shifted back to Sam. "He saw Melanie. I have to stay."

"He either gets cleaned up or you both leave," the officer said as he rejoined them. "I've offered you a compromise. Make a scene and the offer will be reneged."

"You hear that? You get cleaned up or they'll kick us both. Trust me, you do not want that." Dean leaned in close, almost gagging at the heated scene of urine, sweat and God knows what else. "Do you, Ted?"

"No," Ted said breathily, "but—"

Dean moved back and glanced at the security officer. "Where are the showers?"

"Lauren at the nurses' station will show you where they are. I'll be back in thirty minutes, if he's not clean by then, you will both be escorted from the premises."

"Yeah. Got it. Ted, c'mon, bath time."

Cleaning Ted took an hour, endless cajoling, threats and the last of Dean's already frayed sanity. He returned to Sam's room, exhausted and aching. Ted followed along behind, dressed in white, his head hanging and beard dripping. A tattered brown covered book was tucked against his chest, the bony fingers clutched at the thin tome with a repetitive desperation. He had pulled it from the depths of the ought to be condemned overcoat, and now carried it like it was a bible. Maybe it was, Dean really did not care.

Fergus, the primly starched medico, stood by Sam's door, cell phone to ear. The blinds to Sam's room had been drawn. Dean froze and a spike of fear tracked the length of his spine, made his fingers prickle and his heart stop dead in his chest. Ted bumped up against Dean, his waterlogged beard creating a damp patch on the back of Dean's upper arm. The scent of lavender, nicotine and booze hung as a bitter veil, locking the eldest Winchester to the grieving drunkard – one and the same. It turned Dean's stomach.

"I have to go," Fergus said to someone on the other end of the cell phone connection. He dropped the phone to his side and addressed Dean. "You can't go in right now."

Dean's gaze shot to the drawn blinds and somewhere around then his heart started pumping again. He lunged forward, growling as Fergus shot an arm out, braced the hand against the door and strengthened his stance.

"Professor Sandbaum is assessing the patient. It is inappropriate for you to enter."

"Don't make me deck you."

"Don't make me have you removed."

"This is bullshit. He's my brother. I need to be in there."

"Professor Sandbaum will speak with you when and if it's appropriate."

"It's appropriate right now."

Fergus retrieved the cell phone and thumbed at the buttons. He pressed it to his ear. "Security," he said, his even gaze leveled on Dean.

Dean shoved the doctor hard enough to bruise, then back stepped, his hands opened out by his sides in a gesture of submission. He breathed hard, teetering on the edge of panic as the frighteningly aloof doctor grimaced in an over-exaggerated show of pain. He rubbed one handed at his shoulder, his eyes sparking with feigned distress and something else that Dean could barely comprehend.

"Is he going to stop us from seeing Sam?" Ted asked as his fingers made dented impressions in the cover of the book.

Panic clawed at Dean's chest, constricted his windpipe and made rubber jelly of his legs. "No," he said without a shred of conviction as Fergus kept the phone to his ear and the door to Sam's room remained closed.

Dean felt the complete loss of power, of control, of any sense of potential influence he may ever have held over his brother's safety. Their father had impressed upon them the need to avoid hospitals unless there was no other option. Life first. Safety second. Comfort last. Suck it up. Dean had learned that early. Sam too. But his kid brother had been near death – no way in hell could Dean have patched that up.

"This isn't good," Ted whispered.

Understatement of the year, Dean thought sourly. He thought he heard movement from within the room. His assumption correct when Fergus quickly glanced over his shoulder, thumbed the end call button and dropped the phone to his side.

Several awkward moments passed and the door did not open. Dean heard no further sound. He bounced on his toes, clenched and unclenched his hands. "What are they doing in there?"

Fergus wet his lips and smoothed non existent creases from his crisply laundered shirt. "Assessing the patient."

"The patient's name is Sam. S. A. M. Do you need me to write it down for you?"

"Professor Sandbaum has arranged for a transfer to Boston," Fergus said, his tone infuriatingly neutral. "Massachusetts General Hospital. Be grateful that the professor has taken such an interest in the case. He is a noted physician and researcher in the field of PPHN. This arrangement poses considerable advantage."

Advantage to whom? Dean did not ask the question, but the way the hairs of his neck stood on end and his heart pumped fast and frantically warned him that he had endangered his brother in a way he never thought possible. "How unique is Sam's condition," he finally asked when he felt sure his voice wouldn't break.

Fergus seemed to briefly smile, but it was too fast for Dean to grasp, and too incongruous to make sense. "No other recorded case. Ever." The doctor paused, made a show of kneading at his shoulder as he raised his chin and considered Dean and Ted over the bridge of his nose. "There are some documents that need to be signed to effect the patient transfer. Professor Sandbaum's legal unit is having them drawn up as we speak."

Dean watched the closed blinds as his fingernails gouged into the palms of his hands, hard and sharp enough to draw blood.

"You will need to sign them." A brief pause, then, "Will there be a problem?"

"No." Dean deliberately drew his head up and met the doctor's gaze squarely. "Whatever is best for Sam. I will do whatever is best for Sam."

Fergus studied him, his blue eyes piercing Dean's. He snapped to Ted then flicked back, his lips pulled thin with a self congratulatory leer. "Good, I'll have the papers to you within the hour."