SUMMARY: A vengeful spirit's attack leaves Dean hypothermic and fighting for life, while a concussed Sam, lost and alone, battles to get back to his brother. Story takes place mid-to-late Season 2, but before the events of All Hell Breaks Loose.

DISCLAIMER: Nope. Don't own Supernatural. Still playing in Kripke's sandbox. Will happily vacate premises when strike is over and Kripke & Co. are allowed to play here again.

A/N: Another big pitcher of margaritas to Heather, my medical sounding board. Cheers! As always, thanks to chronic tweaking, any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Enjoy.

BRIDGING TWO SOLITUDES

CHAPTER 8:

Dean had no recollection of the waking process, just sudden awareness.

He groaned as the all-too-familiar sounds and smells assaulted his senses. He was in hospital. What the hell had landed him in here this time?

His head was pounding and his mouth dry. His throat hurt, his chest hurt, his hip hurt. Crap, what didn't hurt? He frowned as he realized he could hear his own wheezing breath rattling back at him from inside the hard plastic mask strapped to his face. He wanted it gone but couldn't seem to summon the strength to lift his hand to his mouth and pull it off.

Forcing his eyes open, he squinted against the too bright light of the room. The light only intensified his headache and he squeezed his eyes shut again, rolling his head across the pillow and toward the door on the opposite side of the room. The motion was slight but enough to fuel a wave of nausea that left him dry heaving. He curled instinctively on his side only to roll back with a groan as fire ignited in his hip. His hand hit the safety rail of the bed and he locked onto it feebly in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. His other arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen as he willed his stomach to settle and fought to quiet the pounding in his head.

His eyes blinked open as he felt a cool hand on his forehead.

Sam?

"Try and relax. Your doctor's on his way."

It wasn't Sam's voice. Dean's vision was fuzzy at first, but slowly came into focus on the woman at his bedside. Definitely not Sam. Her scrubs told him she was a nurse. She was in her late 20s, tall and slender, her curly brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her green eyes sparkled behind trendy square-framed glasses and her smile was warm and genuine.

"I'm Terri. It's good to see you awake."

He smiled, his inclination to flirt instinctive, but when another wave of headache-fuelled nausea wiped out any attempt to be charming, he decided not throwing up on her would be the best way to make a good first impression. He swallowed hard, allowing his hand to fall off the bedside rail and join the other in curling around his stomach.

"Feeling sick, huh?" Dean settled for a slight nod in response to Terri's question.

She smiled sympathetically. "It's the head injury. Dr. Elton will be here in a minute. He can increase you anti-nausea medication to make you feel more comfortable."

"Throat hurts." Dean barely recognized the weak, raspy voice as his own.

"Here," Terri raised the head of Dean's bed a little more, "these should help." She gently pulled aside the oxygen mask and offered him a spoonful of ice chips, which he accepted gratefully, before settling the mask back in place.

"Better?"

He nodded again, the coolness of the ice helping quell the rising nausea and numb the rawness of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on leveling out his breathing. The nurse was hot. If he puked all over himself or, worse, all over her, Sam would never let him live it down. He frowned. Where the hell was Sam anyway?

He started to ask but was interrupted by an unfamiliar man's voice. "So, I hear our patient decided it was time to wake up?" Dean opened his eyes again to take in the tall doctor now standing beside Terri.

The nurse smiled down at Dean, tilting her head toward the doctor. "This is Dr. John Elton. He's been looking after you since you came down from the ICU."

Even with the pounding in his head, Dean raised an eyebrow when the doctor's name registered.

"I know, I know." The doctor rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I've heard all the jokes, from grade school all the way through med school."

Terri smiled as she adjusted Dean's pillows. Her eyes flashed mischievously. "I'll bet he hated those teachers who insisted on taking attendance last name first."

Dean's head was way too fragile to laugh. He settled for a half-smile as he squinted at the doctor. John Elton was in his early-40s, in good shape as far as Dean could tell given his baggy white lab coat, and his dark, wavy hair featured just a hint of grey at the temples. He smiled at Dean before reaching for a clipboard at the base of Dean's bed and checking over the information it held.

"He woke up about five minutes ago," Terri told the doctor, pumping the blood pressure cuff on Dean's right arm. "He's complaining of a sore throat, nausea…"

"Headache," Dean croaked as he squeezed his eyes closed again. He needed the headache to go away so he could think. The doctor and nurse were talking but every now and then he lost track of what they were saying, their voices sounding tinny and distorted.

Dr. Elton nodded. "Well I'm sure we've got something that will take care of that." He scribbled a drug order on Dean's chart and nodded at Terri before turning back to Dean. "You've got a concussion. That's what's causing both the headache and the nausea. And you were hypothermic when they brought you in. You've been in and out of consciousness, mostly out, for the better part of two days."

Dean blinked at the doctor in surprise. Two days? What the hell? "How?" he rasped, swallowing hard again to try and get his voice back in working order while frantically trying to remember the series of events that that landed him in the hospital.

"How did you end up here?"

Dean nodded.

Dr. Elton turned from the monitors. "I'll make you a deal. You answer a question for me; I'll answer one for you. "What's your name?"

Dean frowned at the doctor. "Trick question?"

Dr. Elton's smile widened. "No tricks. We know who you are; we're just making sure you do."

Instinct told him to keep it simple. "Dean. My name's Dean."

Dr. Elton nodded. "Good. And what year is it?"

"Uh-uh." Dean closed his eyes and swallowed to fight off another wave of nausea before continuing. "My turn…. Answer …my question."

The doctor smiled. "Doesn't seem to be anything wrong with short-term recall. That's a good sign." He nodded. "Fair enough. How did you end up here? They pulled you out of the river two days ago. Local kid, with the help of Search and Rescue, saved your butt.

"You were in the ICU for the first 24-hours, and then we brought you down here after the first time you woke up. Do you remember that?"

Dean shook his head lightly. The first time he remembered waking up was in this room a few moments ago.

Fuzzy images of a bridge, a river, a paramedic with dark hair all tumbled through Dean's mind. He remembered feeling really cold. He remembered talking to Sam, Sam yelling his name. Dean frowned. The doc just said some local kid pulled him out of the river. That wasn't right. It was Sam. He remembered talking to him. He could see him giving him a thumbs-up sign.

Dr. Elton glanced over at the cardiac monitor. "Your heart stopped three times while they were trying to get your body temperature back to normal and they were forced to intubate you, put a tube down your throat, to help you breathe. If your throat's feeling a little raw right now, that's why."

Dean didn't need the layman's explanation. He was all too familiar with the procedure. He hated hearing his own wheezing breath inside the oxygen mask he wore but breathing was way more difficult than it should be.

"Weak." There was little power behind his exclamation but the annoyance was clear.

Dr. Elton smiled down at Dean. "You've been through a lot. You're still running a slight temperature and your lungs still have some fluid in them, that's why it's hard to breathe." The doctor's smile widened reassuringly. "You're going to feel tired for a while but, with rest, you're going to be okay. So just relax. Give the medication a chance to work."

Dean didn't want to relax. He was fighting hard to pull up memories that didn't want to surface and fighting to quiet the percussion section in his head. As the doc had suggested, he was tiring quickly, using up what little energy he had just to stay awake as he frantically searched his memory for answers. "Don't…can't remember what happened. I…"

"Give it time." Dr. Elton squeezed Dean's shoulder consolingly as he noted his patient's respiration rate quicken. "Right now we just need to concentrate on getting you well."

Dean frowned at his well-meaning doctor. He probably knew better than the doc what concussion symptoms were. He'd put money down on the fact he was more familiar with what they felt like. God knows he'd had enough of them. But most times he had his brother there to fill in the blanks. He needed to talk to Sam. He needed Sam here.

He shifted, then yelped as pain shot up from his hip.

Dr. Elton moved to the side of the bed and pulled up the blankets to assess the hip injury. "Try and relax, Dean."

Dean frowned. The relaxing part would be a whole lot easier if this man's hands weren't under his gown, probing his hip.

"You've got some pretty extensive bruising down your left side, especially here on your hip." Dr. Elton tucked the blankets back in place "You're very lucky your hip's not broken, but it is going to be sore for a while. When you're stronger, we'll send a physiotherapist in. She can give you some exercises to do to help you loosen up and stay limber as the injury heals, okay?"

Dean nodded, swallowing hard.

"Do you remember how you got those bruises, Dean?"

Dean frowned at the doctor's question. "Dunno," he mumbled. "Think I fell……Ask Sam……"

While Dean had missed Terri leaving the room, she returned at this point carrying a syringe which she handed to Dr. Elton, who injected its contents into Dean's IV.

"There. That should help."

Dean felt himself relax almost immediately. He frowned sleepily at Dr. Elton. "Sam. Sam'll know…. He'll tell me." He yawned. "Tell him …tell him to get….his scrawny ass…. in here…."

Injury and medication took over pulling Dean back into a healing sleep.

Terri looked down at Dean, wiping a cool cloth over his face. "Sam? That's his brother, right?"

Dr. Elton nodded. "Yeah. Dean's uncle says Sam is out of town on business. They're trying to get hold of him to let him know about Dean's accident."

"Good." Terri straightened Dean's sheets. "They seem close."

Doc Elton nodded again, making a note on Dean's chart. "I'm sure he'll be on the first plane he can get the minute he hears the news about his brother."

xxxXXXxxx

A coughing fit pulled Sam back to consciousness, his lungs objecting to the frigid air he was breathing in. He tried to push himself upwards but seemingly lacked the strength to do anything but lie there.

He groaned at the pounding in his head the coughing had ignited, rolling forward and pressing his forehead into the cold ground until the pounding receded to a dull thump. With considerable effort, he forced his eyes open..

He was lying on his side in front of his small campfire. Its smoldering remains told him, once again, he'd been out of it for some time. He was pleasantly surprised to discover his vision, in one eye at least, was close to normal, sliding out of focus only occasionally.

He frowned as he took in the empty clearing around him. "Dean?"

There was no answer. With difficulty, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, swaying dangerously as his body objected to the change in position. He clamped his eyes closed until the vertigo passed., then once more surveyed the clearing. It was empty.

"Dean?" Still no answer. No sign of him anywhere, not even his voice inside Sam's head.

Sam dropped his head to his chest, snorting at the paradox. Logically, not being able to see or hear his imaginary brother was a good thing. It likely meant his battered brain was healing and he was one step further along on the road to recovery.

But, damn it, he missed Dean's presence. For all the times he had told Dean he could take care of himself, for all the times Dean had told him Sam was the stronger of the two, he knew they were strongest together. Each fed the other's strengths, shored up the other's weaknesses.

Suddenly aware he was no longer alone, he twisted to his right and saw Mary standing at the edge of the clearing. She blinked out. then reappeared at his side. Worry seeped through the warm smile she offered.

"You do not look well, Sam Winchester."

Sam snorted again, which launched a new round of coughing. "And you, Mary," he smiled, when he regained his breath, "have a knack for understatement."

She smiled uncertainly, the humour not translating well over the generation gap. Mary knelt down beside Sam. "You should find the strength to get up. If you lie down, you will not survive. I did not."

Mary's behavior surprised Sam. The spirits who knew they were dead were usually the vengeful ones. He studied her face. "You know? You know that you're…."

"Dead?" Mary nodded. "Yes. I did not at first but, yes, I know now."

"How?"

"I found my…my body." She pointed into the woods beyond the clearing. "It's over there. I remember falling. I was so tired I couldn't get up. But he was still chasing me. So I crawled into a hollow and hid. I covered myself with leaves and twigs so he wouldn't find me."

The irony did not escape Sam. Her tormenter didn't find her. But no one else did either.

"I'm so sorry, Mary."

The spirit tilted her head quizzically. "Why would you be sorry? None of this is your fault. You did not take me from my home, cause my death or condemn me to this fate."

Sam marveled at the innocence of Mary's spirit. She seemed angry only at the man chasing her – and justifiably so. But even after a century of reliving the final moments that led to her death, she still possessed the gentle nature she apparently had in life.

Sam struggled to turn toward Mary. Winded by the effort, it took him a while to regain the energy to speak. When he did, he smiled sadly. "I'm sorry that you've been forced into this. No one should have to die like you did, or go through what you have."

She returned his smile in kind. "I am tired, Sam Winchester. I want to rest. I just wish I could see my family again, to say goodbye."

Sam swallowed. "Mary, do you know how long it's been since you…. since you died?"

The spirit seemed puzzled. "A long time. Why."

Sam weighed his words carefully. "It's been more than 130 years, Mary. Your family will have….moved on."

Mary seemed floored by the news. Her eyes welled with tears. "So there is no home for me to return to. No family…." Tears fell as her eyes met Sam's. "What did I do wrong that I was forced to live this hell every day for so long? I tried to live a good life. Why would God forsake me?"

Sam's voice was gentle, comforting. "I don't think he did, Mary. I think there's something holding you here. If we can figure out what it is, then maybe we can help you."

Mary tilted her head quizzically, her long brown hair falling over one shoulder and grey eyes widening. "How? How can you help me?"

Sam winced, closed his eyes and swallowed hard as pain in his knee flared up, igniting a new wave of nausea. He opened his eyes to see Mary staring at him worriedly, expectantly. His breathing was shallow and rapid and he fought to get out the words. "I don't have what I need to help you but if my brother….when my brother finds me, he'll be able to get it."

He coughed, cringing as the hacking ripped through his chest. "But…but until he gets here, I think I know where to begin." Sam's tired eyes met Mary's. "Show me where your body is."

xxxXXXxxx

The next time Dean woke he felt a little more like himself. The headache was still present, although in a less obnoxious form, his stomach had settled and, if he stayed still, the pain in his hip remained a dull ache. The oxygen mask was still across his face and he could still hear his own shallow, raspy breathing.

The subdued lighting in the room and the darkness showing through the cracks in the blinds told him it was night, but he had no clue what time it was.

He glanced around the room. He was alone.

Damn. Where was the hot nurse when he actually capable of turning on the patented Dean Winchester charm? More importantly, where the hell was Sam?

Somewhere in a dim corner of his memory he could see the kid flashing him a thumbs up sign, signaling everything was OK. But if that was true, why wasn't his ass parked in the not-so-comfy looking plastic chair at his bedside? Sam might be in a motel room somewhere, catching some much-needed sleep, but something seemed off. Too often he'd seen his brother stubbornly attempt to sleep in a way-too-small chair, refusing to leave the hospital until he was sure Dean was out of danger. Under current circumstances, there was no way he'd voluntarily take off without at least talking to Dean first.

Dean also couldn't quite believe the thumbs up he'd seen in his mind's eye. He needed more tangible reassurance. He needed a phone. He'd call Sam, make sure he was okay. Maybe he was down the hall, maybe across town, Didn't matter. Wherever he was, he needed to talk to him.

Not seeing a phone on the bedside table, Dean reached over his right shoulder, grabbing the call button that lay on his pillow and pressed it repeatedly.

While he waited he looked down at his battered body, hidden beneath the standard issue hospital gown and several pale blue blankets. Two arms, two legs. All present and accounted for. He wiggled his feet and moved his hands; all were in working order. He grimaced at the pain in his hip and a slight stiffness in his left shoulder but, whether through rest or medication, the pain was duller and more manageable than the last time he woke. What bothered him the most was the weakness. He wanted to sit up but just couldn't summon the strength, forcing him to lie there, helpless, as he waited for someone to come.

He noted there was a clip attached to the middle finger of his right hand, a pulse something-or-other they called it, and an IV port in the back of his left.

He lifted his right arm and twisted around his hospital bracelet. It took him a couple of tries to bring the letters into focus but when his vision cleared he smiled at the entry for patient's name: Dean Remington. Ha. Good one Sammy. The name of the hospital was also on the bracelet. Plymouth County General Hospital.

Okay, so he knew who he was and where he was. Plymouth County. They'd come here on a job. No, that wasn't right. They'd come here and found a job. Something to do with a pissed-off spirit. Sam had read about it latest victim on-line and Dean had suggested they check it out. Beyond that things were fuzzy. Screw it. It hurt to think right now, he'd get Sam to fill in the details.

He pulled at the neck of his hospital gown, taking in the cobweb of wires and electrodes attached to his chest, then glanced sideways at the monitors to which the wires relayed their information. Thankfully, the monitors were in silent mode so there was no annoying beeping to further fuel his headache.

The last time he'd be hospitalized, after the demon-driven semi plowed into the Impala, he'd awoken from his coma with tubes both up his nose and down his throat and their removal, to put it bluntly, sucked out loud. Thankfully he'd slept through that treat this time around. He scowled when his thoughts wandered further south and hoped he'd slept through the catheter removal too.

"God, I hate hospitals." He weakly slammed his hand down on the bed in frustration.

"It's not the hospital that's the problem, it's the fact you keep landing in them. You on some 'For-every-10-stays-get-one-free' program I don't know about?"

Startled, Dean opened his eyes and turned toward the familiar voice. "Doc Blue?" Sam's childhood nickname for Doc slipped out before Dean could stop himself. He frowned, puzzled as Doc moved into the room and to his bedside. "What are you doing here? You change hospitals without letting Sam know?"

Recognizing the fuzzy memory symptoms of a concussion, Doc shook her head. "No. Just here for a week giving a seminar." She reached over Dean's shoulder to turn off his call button. "You two were on your way here to meet up with me, remember?" She smiled. "The idea was coffee, a chance to catch up. For once, no drama, supernatural or otherwise, attached."

Dean smiled tiredly. "Guess plans changed, huh?"

"Apparently. How are you feeling?"

"Fi….." He bit off his pat response as Doc's eyebrows peaked over her intense blue eyes. He sighed, sagging back into the bed. "Like road kill."

Dean looked up to see Doc watching him intently. He flashed back to the first time they'd met. His chest still tightened and heart rate sped up whenever he thought about Sam that night, lips turning blue as he struggled to breathe. When Sam was admitted to the ICU, they weren't going to let Dean in, until Doc intervened. Dean was pissed, he was worried, he was scared as hell but, instinctively, he trusted Doc. When she'd handed him scrubs and a surgical mask and told him the only way he'd get to see Sam was if he wore them, shut up and did as he was told, he'd done so without question. Hell, he'd have worn a clown suit if it got him into Sam's ICU room. No, strike that. Clowns and Sam were a bad combination.

He'd later heard some big-shot doctor chewing out Doc for breaking the rules but she was unapologetic, saying Sam's chances of recovery were far greater with Dean around than if was isolated from his family. Dean had missed what they'd said next because they'd walked away from Sam's room but, from there on in, until Sam left the hospital, he had been allowed daily to sit at his brother's bedside.

Dean rubbed his temple in frustration and looked up at Doc. "How come I can remember the day we met you like it was yesterday, but yesterday is a complete blur?"

Doc smiled at the muddled logic of Dean's question. "It's the concussion, Dean. You know as well as I do it can play havoc with memories around the time of the injury. Just cut yourself some slack and give it time. Chances are it'll all come back."

Dean fisted the blankets as he stared past Doc at the open door of his room. "I'd rather have Sam fill in the blanks. Where the hell is he anyway? Did he tell you what happened?"

"No." Doc answered him softly without elaborating. Dean turned his gaze from the doorway back to Doc. She gave him a warm but distracted smile while absent-mindedly twisting the wedding ring she still wore seven years after the death of her husband. Dean recognized her tell – the one nervous habit she had when something was bothering her. If he wasn't worried before, he sure as hell was now.

"Doc? Where's Sam?" Ignoring the pounding in his head and sharp pain in his hip, Dean summoned what little strength he had, pulled the oxygen mask from his face, grabbed hold of the bed's safety rail and hauled himself up. "I need to talk to Sam. Now."

Doc moved in quickly, "Okay, Dean. I need you to calm down. Getting yourself worked up isn't going to help anyone, especially you. Please." She moved to put the oxygen mask back over his face but Dean weakly batted her hand away.

"No." His chest was heaving with the effort of just sitting up, his breathing shallow and rapid. "Doc, where's Sam?"

Doc took a deep breath. Her voice was quiet but steady. "He's missing, Dean."

"What?" The pressure on his chest was increasing and with each rapid breath he was finding it harder to breathe. "What do you mean 'missing.'" Dean's eyes darted back and forth as he tried to sort through his muddled memories. "Sam hauled me out of the water. I saw him. I talked to him."

Doc cast a concerned glance at the cardiac monitor. She moved to the head of Dean's bed, adjusted the flow of oxygen from the panel in the wall, and moved to place the mask back over Dean's face.

Dean batted it angrily away. "I said I need to talk to Sam."

"Dean." Concern tempered the no-nonsense tone of Doc's voice. "I need you to calm down. Now. Another cardiac episode is not going to do you or Sam any good. Now lie down, breathe deeply and I'll tell you what I know."

As much as Dean hated to admit it, she was right. He was on the verge of passing out. His headache had ratcheted back up and it felt like there was a band around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, making it harder and harder to draw a full breath. Sullenly, he allowed Doc to place the oxygen mask over his face and didn't protest as she gently pushed him back onto his pillow.

"Okay, now slow, even breaths…."

"Doc…." Dean's voice was again muffled by the mask, which fogged up as he exhaled.

Doc shook her head. "Uh-uh. I talk. You breathe. Got it?"

Dean nodded curtly.

A nurse appeared in the doorway of Dean's room. "Oh. Dr. Caine. You need some help? The alarm from his cardiac monitor just went off at the nurses' station."

Doc turned and smiled at the nurse. "Thanks. I've got it. He's just a little upset we haven't been able to reach his brother."

The nurse nodded. "You need any meds?"

Doc shook her head. "Thanks, but no. The oxygen seems to be doing the trick. I'm going to stick around for a while so I'll hit the call button if we need anything."

The nurse nodded, smiled and disappeared down the corridor.

Doc turned back to Dean whose hand was raised to take off the oxygen mask. Doc stopped him, pointing to the cardiac monitor. "You see that? Every time you get bent out of shape, it's recorded on that monitor. If I hadn't been here, the night nurse and on-call physician would be sedating you right now and, on a strictly clinical basis, I'd agree with them. As it is, you've just lined yourself up for a whole pile of tests as soon as Dr. Elton sees you EKG record."

Dean's eyes flashed angrily. "Sam?"

Doc gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I know you're worried. I get that. But right now, you're in no shape to go charging out there trying to find your brother. We've got it covered. I need you to concentrate on getting your strength back."

Dean frowned. "We?"

Doc nodded. "When you showed up at the ER, the first thing I did was call Sam. When I couldn't get hold of him, I called Bobby."

Dean yanked down the oxygen mask. "Bobby? Bobby's here? Where? I need to talk to him."

Doc took the mask from Dean's hand and replaced it over his mouth and nose. "Bobby's out there looking for Sam. Given your escapades in Milwaukee earlier this year, we can't exactly launch an official Search and Rescue without the pair of you landing behind bars at the end of it all. Bobby's gathering as much information as he can, trying to figure out what you ran into and where Sam might be. He's even called in a few favors from some hunters in the area."

Dean's mumbled response was muffled further by the oxygen mask but the message was clear. "I need to get out of here and help him find Sam."

Doc sighed. "Look, you know I don't follow rules for rules sake. But, right now, you getting out of bed and getting all worked up is definitely not in your best interest. I know it's hard, but try and relax until Bobby gets here. Let's see what he came up with before you make your next move. Okay?"

This time Dean's response was clear. "No promises." He slumped deeper into his pillows.

As Dean's breathing leveled out and his heart rate steadied, Doc removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with a nasal canula. Dean protested briefly, until Doc told he could have the oxygen mask back if he preferred. He didn't.

Doc grabbed a stool from the far side of the room and rolled it to Dean's bedside. She had yet to sit down when Dean fired off his first question. "I don't get it. When did Sam disappear? He hauled me out of the water, right?"

Doc shook her head. "No. I think with everything you've been through, your mind has scrambled a few things together. You were rescued by a local kid, Jason Tait."

Dean frowned, trying hard to put the pieces together himself, as Doc continued. "They brought both of you here and kept Jason overnight so I got a chance to talk to him. He said when you were semi-conscious, you kept calling him Sam."

Dean turned to face Doc. "Was I that out of it?"

Doc nodded. "Yeah, although in fairness he looks a bit like Sam. Same height, same long dark hair." She smiled. "Nowhere near as good with the puppy dog looks though."

Dean nodded, smiling. "Yeah. Well Sam's been polishing his act since before he could talk."

Doc nodded in agreement. "One good thing. With Jason playing hero, it put him in the spotlight, not you. You slept through it, but the rescue was a pretty big deal around here for the past couple of days – a lot of media interest."

Dean's gaze was steady. "What'd they dig up?"

Doc shook her head. "Nothing we didn't want them to find. And like I said, Jason made a great distraction. He's local – lives in the city now but was home visiting Mom and Dad for the weekend, about to pop the question to his long-time girlfriend, when he risked his life to rescue a complete stranger. It's a great story. The media ate it up."

Dean's frown remained. "And the cops?"

"They bought the story that Dean Remington, environmental studies major, fell in the river while researching his thesis."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds just like me."

Doc shrugged. "Well, it kept you out of their sights and that's what counts."

Dean shook his head. "If they can help find Sam, I'll call them and turn myself in. Hell, they can toss my ass in jail and eat the key for all I care. I just need to know Sam's safe."

"That's what we all want, Dean." Doc looked at him intently. "What does your gut tell you."

"Huh?"

Doc stood up, grasping the bed rails with both hands. "You know your brother better than anyone. What does your gut tell you?"

Dean stared back at Doc. She was right. No one knew his brother better than he did. He'd know if something had happened, right? He'd sense it if Sam was hurt. Feel it if he was ….was…

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched "He's not dead. I don't know where he is, but he's not dead."

Doc smiled and reached over the bedrail to give Dean's arm an affectionate squeeze. "I believe you. I need you to believe it too." She sat down on the stool again, her eyes steady on Dean. "Do you remember coming to while you were still up in the ICU?"

Dean frowned, shaking his head. "Uh-uh. The only place I remember in this hospital is this room." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why."

He could read Doc pretty well. She was trying to decide how to tell him something he probably wasn't going to like. "Spill it, Doc. Whatever it is won't get any easier by dragging it out."

She nodded "You weren't fully conscious, but you said something pretty clearly. Bobby and I both heard you."

Dean tilted his head expectantly. "What?"

"You said, 'Stay with me, Sammy. You're not dying out here. Not on my watch'"

Doc studied Dean's reaction carefully, her gaze darting between Dean himself and the cardiac monitor beside his bed. After the initial shock of the implications of his own words, she watched Dean take in the information, pull it apart and put it back together again, all in the space of a few seconds. She jumped slightly when Dean grabbed her arm.

His green eyes were lit by a determination that hadn't been there moments earlier. And something else too. Hope.

He blew out a breath to steady his voice. "I need to talk to Bobby. Now."

To Be Continued……

A/N: So, finally, Dean's awake and desperate to find Sam. But how much does he remember? Stay tuned…Thanks again for the amazing feedback to this story. You have no idea how much it means to read your comments. Please, send more. And don't worry, I won't keep you waiting too long for the next chapter. It should be up by late weekend.