Chapter Twelve

Dean would happily take on Wendigos, werewolves, vampires, demons and any other evil creature all at once if he never had to sit in another emergency room waiting for word on the condition of his little brother.

The paramedics nearly lost Sam twice on the way to the hospital and when they arrived, doctors immediately rushed him into the back, telling Dean he'd have to remain in the waiting area. John had arrived moments later and, going to Dean, knew they were likely in for a long sit. After all, the whole hospital thing was a been-there-done-that tradition in his family and every time John swore he'd try harder to keep his boys safe.

This hadn't even been an actual hunt. John had not intentionally put his family in danger this time. It was just a case of bad luck (did the Winchesters have any other kind?) and a wrong-place-wrong-time deal. Now his youngest was fighting for his life and John wanted nothing more than to rush through the doors, sweep Sammy into his arms and tell him everything would be alright.

John looked over at Dean, who was a mess. Eyes bloodshot, hands wringing, staring blankly at the floor. John knew how incredibly serious Dean took his responsibility of protecting Sam. After all, that's what John had instilled – drilled, in fact – into his oldest practically every day since he had placed his infant son into his big brother's tiny arms the night of the fire. And he knew, as good a hunter as Dean was becoming, he would simply be lost without that key responsibility. Without Sam. And all John could do was watch it happen until they heard word otherwise on Sam's condition.

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Dean could feel his father's eyes upon him but couldn't bring himself to look back. The floor had his full attention at the moment and if he knew if he moved his stare to any other spot but the dirt stain before him, he'd lose the control he was barely holding onto.

He'd failed his little brother. His father could tell him otherwise but Dean knew that it was his job to watch out for Sam. To protect him, keep him safe. Sam had been so terrified as the ghost tore him away from the window. And it had taken another friggin' ghost to help Dean get to Sam. Too late.

Dean shuddered as he thought about what Sam had gone through. He himself had almost drowned once when he was six, only because he wanted to show his father how good a swimmer he was becoming but overestimated his own ability. Having gone out too far in the water, he grew tired and got a cramp and if John hadn't gotten to him in time he'd have drowned for sure.

But this was different. Sam hadn't been swimming. He'd had his head held under the water in a bathtub by a damn ghost. Freezing cold water at that. Dean shuddered again, this time with pure fury. He had seen the house burn but it just wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted nothing more than to escort Hattie and Albert Drexler to hell and introduce them to Lucifer personally.

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder and finally forced himself to look up. He saw his father looking at the ER doors as a doctor walked through and approached them, her face unreadable.

"Mr. Winchester?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," John said, shaking her hand. "My son, Dean."

"Hi, Dean. I'm Dr. Wolcott. I'm in charge of your brother's case."

"How is he?" Dean asked with baited breath.

"Why don't we sit down?" she motioned to the chairs and all sat.

"Sam's alive. Let me start with that. It was touch and go for a while. There was some residual water in his lungs but it was manageable. He was also slightly hypothermic, which actually may have helped save his life. Hypothermia, you may know, tends to slow body function, so even though Sam had been deprived of oxygen, blood flow was slowed and therefore less damage may have been caused."

"May have been?" Are you saying he could be brain damaged?" Dean asked.

"Unfortunately we won't know anything more until he wakes up and that may not be for a while. Sam's been through a lot and we have to keep an eye out for any adverse reactions like bronchitis and pneumonia."

"Is that likely?" asked John.

"Well, his weakened condition means his immunity is compromised. But we're keeping a very close watch on him, giving him antibiotics, and he hasn't shown any signs of fever or infection, which is good considering."

She took a moment to let the information sink in for the two worried men before continuing.

"The next few days will tell us more. Don't be surprised if he sleeps through most of it. Nearly drowning takes a lot out of a person, so you can imagine what it can do to a little boy. But from what I heard from the paramedics, you've got a fighter on your hands. Let's just wait and see, okay?"

"Can we see him?" Dean asked, not sure if the news was good or bad, just that Sam was alive.

"Absolutely. Follow me." Dr. Wolcott said with a kind smile.

She led them through the doors and down the hall to the Pediatric ICU, explaining that even though Sam was now breathing on his own, they were keeping him in an isolation tent for the next few hours till his immunity strengthened.

As they approached his bed, Dean and John braced themselves against what they saw. Their little Sammy, white as a sheet, still as a statue, numerous tubes and IVs attached to his thin body. Each man took a seat on either side of the bed and reached through two holes in the tent, taking Sam's hands in theirs. Hands that Dean noticed were finally warm. He watched as Sam's chest rose and fell steadily, the only movement he offered at the moment. Dean was thankful to see it but wouldn't truly relax until he saw his brother wake up.

Don't keep us hanging here too long, kid, Dean thought, squeezing Sam's hand. Take all the time you need to recover, but give us a sign that you're at least okay, okay?

And there the Winchesters sat. And waited.

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The next morning Sam had been moved to a private room in the children's ward. He was slowly but steadily improving and the oxygen tent had been removed, leaving Sam with a canula under his nose to continue to help him breath. Dr. Wolcott had been doing regular checks on his lungs and said that other than a slight wheezing she was pleased with his progress.

Dean was proud. He knew Sam would fight back. The kid had a strength beyond his years, strength he hadn't even begun to tap into yet. Now if he would just wake up…

John had gone to get coffee and make some calls to let their friends know how Sam was doing. Dean, who had tried to stay awake for any stirring from Sam, had finally succumbed to his own fatigue, his head falling onto the side of Sam's bed.

Suddenly Dean felt Sam shift and heard a slight whimper. Nightmare, Dean figured. No surprise there. Poor kid was probably gonna be plagued with those for months.

As Sam's distress increased, Dean began to stroke his hair and "shhh" him soothingly. But that only seemed to agitate Sam more. Dean tried harder to quiet Sam, whispering that he was okay and safe, constantly stroking Sam's hair, but the more Dean did to soothe him, the more upset Sam became, though he never fully woke. The heart monitor started beeping like crazy and a nurse came running in.

"What happened?" she asked, trying herself to quiet the near-hysterical boy.

"I don't know…" Dean said, shaking, backing away from the bed. "I think he was having a nightmare and I tried to calm him down but everything I did just made him freak out more."

Dr. Wolcott came in and looked at Sam, then to Dean, who had paled terribly and was visibly shaking. She went to Sam, who was struggling against the nurse, and injected a syringe into his arm. "It's okay, Sam," she said to the now-quieting boy. To Dean she said "I've given him a sedative which should help him fall back asleep." Walking to Dean, she saw him retreat further away from Sam. "This is to be expected, Dean. Your brother has suffered a great trauma, but it's nothing you did. He just needs time to find his bearings. You did nothing wrong."

But she could see the teen wasn't buying it and as John stepped into the room to find the commotion surrounding his youngest, Dean ran past him in a flurry, to the stairs to the front exit and out of the hospital to the Impala. John looked out Sam's window in time to watch the black car tear out of the parking lot.

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Arriving at what was left of the still-smoldering Drexler house, Dean got out of the Impala and ran at the house screaming.

"YOU SONOFABITCH! YOU DID THIS TO HIM! YOU BROKE HIM!"

Dean picked up a thin board and began striking out at the ruins.

"I CAN'T EVEN COMFORT MY OWN BROTHER! YOU STOLE THAT FROM ME, FROM US! HE'S SUFFERING, ALMOST DIED BECAUSE OF YOU! I CAN'T HELP HIM BECAUSE OF WHAT YOU DID! HIS SENSE OF SAFETY, OF TRUST, YOU TOOK THAT AWAY FROM HIM! I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL, YOU BASTARDS!!

Exhausted and out of breath, he chucked the board into the ashes and collapsed to the ground, consumed by sobs and agony. Dean knew he could never stroke Sam's hair that way again because he figured that's what Hattie had to have done to make Sam freak out like he had. And that was Dean's, dammit. That had always been his way of comforting Sam when the boy had a nightmare. Sam would always lean into Dean's hand and instantly relax, but now he'd always be reminded of what had happened to him and Dean couldn't have more hatred and pain over such a terrible loss. True Sammy was still alive, but that precious connection was now forever tainted.

And Dean cried.

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It was several hours before Dean made it back to the hospital. Each step back to Sam's room became more difficult. All he wanted was to take Sam into his arms and rock him and tell him he'd be okay but Dean knew the kid was going to need time. And there was no way Dean was going to push, even if it meant keeping his distance.

As he got to Sam's room, he saw his father sitting beside the bed flipping through a magazine. Sam was still deeply asleep, probably from the sedative, but Dean had to admit he'd gotten some color back.

John stood and walked over to Dean, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"You alright, son?"

"Yeah," Dean half-smiled, glancing briefly at his father before turning his eyes downward. "How is he?"

"Sleeping still. Dr, Wolcott says his lungs sound clear and he should come around anytime. He's gonna be okay, Dean. We got lucky."

"We've always been lucky with Sammy," Dean said, not caring how truly corny it sounded.

"Why don't you sit with him for a while. I've got some more calls to make."

"Oh, I don't…" Dean stammered, backing up ever so slightly.

"Dean, go sit with your brother." John said, giving the order as gently as possible. He knew Sam wasn't the only one who needed to heal at the moment and if he had to pull rank to get Dean to comply, so be it.

Dean took a deep breath and walked tentatively to the bed, sitting down quietly but not reaching out.

John sighed, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

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The next two days left Dean more and more miserable despite the fact that his brother's condition was steadily improving. Every few hours Sam would stir, obviously haunted by memories and/or nightmares, and Dean had tried numerous different ways to comfort him: a touch to the chest or shoulder, then to the leg, then just to the arm, then the hand and finally with just words. Nothing Dean had done his entire life to alleviate Sam's distress now seemed to work, and it was breaking his heart.

His father encouraged him to keep trying, knowing how vital his sons' bond was to their shared existence. Offering his own tentative comfort to Sam now and again, he more often stepped back, giving Dean time to reach Sam and for Sam to recognize his brother's touch, trust it wasn't anyone trying to hurt him again, and accept Dean's tender contact with the same trust and love he always had. John never wavered to believe this was something Sam – always the most emotionally open of the three – could do, even while unconscious.

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It was quiet, except for some kind of beeping. And whatever he was lying on was soft but not terribly so. And something was tickling his nose. And as he opened his eyes slightly, he noticed how bright it was. Lots of white. What the hell?

Sam opened his eyes a bit more, trying to mentally clear the cobwebs out of his brain and the blur out of his eyes. Can't I just wake up with a clear head for once? he thought. His peripheral vision showed him a window to the right and lots of equipment to his left. That's all he needed to know. Hospital. He'd been in enough to recognize the environment. But wait, if he was in a hospital, then he was…alive. Not drowned. Not dead. No longer in the Drexler house. He was safe.

Dean.

Sam turned his head and sure enough, there his brother sat beside his bed in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, fast asleep. Sam tried to call out to him but couldn't yet find his voice. He cleared his throat, which hurt a bit. Ouch, he thought. Let's not do that a lot. He willed his hand to move and reach out to Dean but he was so tired and just wanted to go back to sleep. He wasn't sure exactly how Dean and his dad had gotten him out of the house, but he was very grateful. He knew they'd save him. With a smile and a last look at Dean, he let his eyes close and fell back into sleep.

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He was in the tub, being held under the water. He could see the distorted face of Hattie up through the water and pleaded with his eyes for her to release him. He couldn't breathe and was desperate to do so. No! his mind screamed. Let me go! Please!

"Sammy…"

Sam thought he heard Dean's voice but it was so far away. And he still struggled to breathe.

"Sammy, wake up. It's okay, wake up."

Dean's voice was closer now, but he couldn't feel him. If he were here he'd feel Dean's hand on his head, in his hair. But there was no contact. Only his voice.

"Sam, wake up now. You're safe."

Sam stopped struggling and opened his eyes to find Dean leaning over him with a concerned look on his face. Sitting up, Sam launched himself into Deans' arms and clung to him fiercely.

Dean, taken aback by Sam's quick embrace, hesitated for a moment but then hugged his beloved little brother back, rocking him, rubbing his back and yes, eventually stroking his shaggy hair to calm him. And Sam never flinched once.

Feeling Dean hug him back, Sam finally let go of all the fear, all the pain of the last few days and openly cried into his brother's chest. And Dean let him. He heard the familiar "shhhs" and felt the familiar strokes of his hair, and Sam at last felt home, safe.

John walked in just then and with tears in his eyes, went to the bed and embraced both his sons. It was a rare moment for the Winchesters – they weren't exactly big huggers – but no way were any of them letting go anytime soon.