A/N: I know I have been slow updating. I will make up for it next week with a couple or more chapters of each story. My much loved beta Abni is visiting from halfway around the world, and though we set out with the best of intentions to post and write, we got caught up in tourist-y things and watching the boys together. A little squeeing here and there. But I will make it up to everyone, promise. For those of you following the saga of the novel, I still haven't heard anything, so keep those fingers crossed.

A/N II: Even with the potential end of the strike we still need to let the CW know how we feel about our show. Eric Kripke has openly and in public expressed doubts about a fourth season, so keep those letters, cards and postcards rolling in. Addresses are still up on my bio.

Lachrimae

Chapter Two

And Fear and Grief and Pain

The sound flowed around Sam, eddying occasionally, the noise becoming something intelligible for a moment, then it was lost again. The lighting was surprisingly soft, touching the room with the tones of evening. It was pleasant, soft muted colors, comfortable chairs, the smell of fresh coffee as a backdrop. It was a pleasant place.

Except for one thing.

And the one thing was a rather large thing.

He was in an emergency room waiting area and his brother was behind the doors, condition unknown. Well, not quite unknown. I know he was torn to shreds. I know he blacked out. I know I thought he was dead. He sighed and got up again to pace the room. What happened? It wasn't Polly that did that. How did Dean let it…? He was a mess, how bad is it? Am I overreacting? Just a little? He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories of his brother lying against the wall, covered in blood, nearly unconscious, struggling to tell Sam something before he'd slipped away. I thought he was dead, I thought he was bleeding out, I thought we would never get here. They had arrived about two hours before. Sam had sat with Dean until they had taken his brother for tests or scans or something. Sam was sure they had told him, but the words hadn't really made any sense. He had left the room Dean had been in and wandered into the waiting area, looking for coffee or water or something to take his mind off of what was happening. And it is working so well. Yeah, not thinking about it at all. I wonder how long Dean has been gone? He glanced at the clock, the last twelve hours had actually only been forty-five minutes. Damn.

"Mr. Stixx?" A woman in scrubs approached Sam.

"My name is Sam," he said, looking down at her.

"They will be taking your brother upstairs as soon as they are through. Why don't you go get yourself some dinner?"

"Through?" Sam said, frowning.

"Yes." She smiled a little. "I'm sure the doctor will want to talk to you in awhile."

Oh, thanks. That's really helpful. How about someone tell me what's going on right now? That would actually help a lot. Is he dead? Dying? Ok? Does someone have an answer for me? He was dead, wasn't he? Is he ok? Will he be ok? What's happening? Can I take him home? No, you said they were taking him upstairs, and I think I signed papers to admit him, didn't I? Sam looked at her, she was still standing in front of him with a little smile on her face. Some day in some emergency room somewhere I am going to violently remove that smile from someone's face. She shook her head and walked away, leaving him in the middle of the room.

He turned and walked out the doors, out into the cold night, hoping the soft breeze would take the pain out of his head. As he walked across the parking lot, he thought he saw a shadow slip between the cars. He stopped, watching, nothing moved again. Sam paced the length of the lot, twenty-seven rows and then back towards the hospital again. Dean was trying to tell me something. It must have been important, but what was it? I couldn't hear him and he was gone before he could repeat it. Oh, god, he was nearly gone, I almost lost him, what would I do? What will I do? The year isn't over, he can't leave before the year is over. He can't leave before I save him. He can't. It doesn't work that way. I have to have time to figure this out, I have to. He can't go now, not like this, not yet. No. Please.

Sam stopped just outside the doors, taking several deep breaths of the cold, misty air. Trying to calm himself. And it's working, I am so much calmer now. Oh, yeah, very calm. He took another breath, aware his heart was slamming against his ribcage. Yeah, calm, that's me. The door slid open in front of him. A dark reflection caught his eye for just an instant before fading away. He walked back into the now overly warm room, pausing just inside the doors. The room was unchanged. Of course it is, what was I expecting? Dean to be waiting for me? Actually I think that is exactly what I was expecting. Damn. Sam started pacing. Back and forth and back again. From one side to the other, then the length of the room. He was on his eighteenth lap when another woman with a hospital badge approached him. She smiled and told him Dean was in room 342.

The elevator was slow, Sam punched the call button a dozen times waiting for the doors to open, then punched the floor number six times before the door closed. The hand punching the button was trembling violently. He slid it in his pocket, hoping to hide his nerves. From who? The doctors? The nurses? Dean? Please, Dean, be awake and notice, it's ok to notice, as long as you are ok. He counted slowly in his head, trying to calm himself. His heart was beating faster as the elevator slowed. Please let him be ok, please let him be ok, please let him be ok. The doors slid open and Sam walked, half blind, towards the double doors marked rooms 330-350. A doctor was standing outside of Dean's room talking quietly to a woman in bright green scrubs. As Sam approached he noticed pink and blue butterflies on the fabric. They turned as he got closer.

"Mr. Stixx?"

"Sam," he said, looking from one to another. "How is my brother?" The doctor hesitated, just for a moment, but it was enough to worry Sam. "What is it?"

"Mr. Stixx," the doctor started, then stopped and smiled. "Sam. We have done our best. His shoulder should be fine, and the cuts will heal."

"But?"

"We need to wait and see."

"For?"I am good at the one word question, Dean would be impressed.

"Tomorrow, we'll have a better idea tomorrow."

"Of?"Down to two letters. Can I find a question that is only one letter? I bet Dean could.

"The situation," the doctor said.

"Oh?"Ok, still two letters, should I go up or down? I wonder. Or hey, I could just try hitting someone, maybe then someone would give me an answer. A real answer. Dean might be pissed if I hit the doctor, though. He seems to be more worried than he used to be when I lose my temper these days. I think the doctor is talking to me. "What?"Back to four letters.

"We just need to keep an eye on him tonight."

"Can I go in?" Sam said, giving up on the questioning.

"Of course, he should be awake sometime soon," the nurse said gently.

Sam turned his back on the doctor, knowing the man was frowning at him.And not a good frown, the bad frown, the frown the doctor had before…No. Dean is going to be ok. The room was quiet. Dean was alone even though there was another bed in the room. Sam walked to the bed.

"You are a mess," he said, looking down at Dean. "You did a good job this time." He sighed and sank down beside the bed, resting a hand on the rail. "I think I saw our friend in the parking lot. I wonder what it is? Any ideas?" Sam leaned back in the chair and reached for the TV remote. He flipped around the offerings three times, stopping occasionally and then continuing the hunt. Nothing. Finally, he gave up and walked to the window, looking down at the parking lot.

"Sam?" A soft whisper interrupted his counting of parking spaces.

"Dean?" He turned and walked back over to the bed. "Hey, man, the doc says you're going to be fine."

"It got my charm," Dean whispered.

"What?" Sam said. "I have your necklace." He pulled it out of his pocket and showed Dean. "They took it off before they stitched you up."

"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "My charm, the one Bryn gave me, the one for the onflyge. It took it, pulled it off, and then…" His voice had drifted off to the barest of whispers.

"Dean? And then what?"

"It…there was a… and then it… I felt… it was…" Dean said. Sam was pretty sure Dean thought he was filling in the sentences with words, instead of incoherent phrases. "Bryn would…We need… tomorrow… please, Sam?" Dean looked at him with imploring eyes.

"What, Dean?"

"Bryn…" he whispered as his eyes closed again. His face was drawn up in a frown of pain. "Please, Sammy?"

"Sure, Dean," he said, putting a hand on his brother's arm. Dean relaxed a little, the frown staying on his face as he seemed to drop into an uneasy sleep. Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm as he sat back in the chair. What is he talking about? His charm? Why would it take the charm? Why does he still need it, I thought it was supposed to be better by now? He sighed and looked at the ceiling. What is going on? Should I call her?

Sam looked at the TV with unfocused eyes as he thought about what Dean had said. His mind drifted into something almost like sleep.

"It's not working, we have to do something," Sam said, desperately.

"It's overpowering what I've done, Sam," she said, looking at him with compassionate eyes.

"Please, please help him," Sam said.

"You don't understand, another dose…"

Sam jerked awake when the nurse came in the room to check on Dean. He watched her as she took his brother's vitals, she sensed his eyes on her and smiled at him. "He's doing fine," she said.

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling at her as she left the room.

"Yeah, and I feel fine too. I was sleeping just fine until someone came in and started bugging me," Dean grumbled quietly.

"Hey. How do you feel?"

"Great," Dean said with a small smile. "Just great, when do we leave?"

"Leave? Leave for where, Dean?"

"Bryn's, you said you were going to take me to Bryn's." Dean frowned. "Didn't you?"

"What?" Sam looked at his brother.

"Didn't you say you would take me?" Dean looked confused. "I asked, didn't I?"

So that's what he was asking. "Maybe tomorrow, Dean, they want to keep you in here a little bit longer, just to make sure everything is ok."

"I thought you said I was fine?" Dean's voice was sliding to a whisper again, the confused frown replaced by something a little sharper, his face was getting paper white with a tinge of gray. "Maybe you could find someone and see if I could have a little something for pain?"

Did he just ask for pain meds? Did he just admit to…Sam smiled. "Yeah, be right back." He stepped out of the room and paused beside the door. His brother asking, openly, for something like painkillers was admitting a lot, admitting something Sam didn't want to think about. How bad does it have to be for him to ask? How bad is it? What is it? I mean I know he was torn up, but really, stitches and the like are fairly common for him. And he never asks, I have to sneak the stuff in his food half the time and now…Oh, god, how bad is it? And why is he so focused on getting to Bryn? What's going on? And…He stopped for an instant, a sudden thought making itself known. He was worse, after the spell, something is going on. Could it be… He closed his eyes, no longer in the hallway, but in a bright garden.

"I don't know, Sam, I don't know. No one has ever survived," she said, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

"Does that mean it might come back? I know he said it was just a scar, but what does it mean?"

"I don't know, I really don't."

Sam took a deep breath. "Is it really cured? Or…Could it…" He stopped before he asked the question, he didn't want an answer at that moment.

He pushed himself away from the wall and wandered to the nurses' station and spoke to the petite brunette on duty. She gave him the smile and walked into Dean's room. Sam stopped outside the door again, listening.

"How is your pain? On a scale of one to ten, one being no pain and ten being the worst pain you've ever felt?" she said, reciting the nurse mantra.

"Fourteen," Dean whispered, his voice barely audible to Sam, and yet he could hear the layers of agony that one word covered.

"Really, Mr. Stixx," she said, chiding.

"I meant it," Dean said softly. "Thanks." Sam assumed that meant the nurse had given his brother something for pain. Dean looked over when Sam walked into the room and forced a smile. "Hey, Sammy." The nurse frowned a little and left the room. "Stixx? Nice."

"I thought you'd appreciate that."

"Yep."

Sam sat down beside the bed. He looked closely at Dean, noting the tight lines around his brother's mouth, the pallor of his skin, the slight frown. He put his hand down on Dean's arm and felt the tense muscles under his hand. Not good, Dean. "How are you doing?" Lie to me, Dean, say it's all ok.

"Good drugs, Sam. I'm feeling better now," he smiled. "I'll be fine in the morning, you'll see."

"Yeah, Dean, in the morning, that's what the doctor said, too." Sam smiled at Dean, the smile was false, he knew it, he was sure Dean knew it as well. He leaned back in the chair. "Want to watch TV?"

"Sure, Sam, sounds good."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, he let his eyes drift from the screen over to his brother. Why do I think nothing is going to be better in the morning? The nursing shift changed, Sam left briefly in search of coffee and returned. Dean was awake, Sam was sure he'd been faking it all along. Thanks, Dean, but it might be ok to let me know how things really are.

"Anything on TV?" Dean whispered.

"I doubt we'll find Spinal Tap."

"How about Heavy the Story of Metal?" Dean said with a smirk.

"Oh, look, here's a documentary…" Sam started, Dean groaned. "On alcoholic beverages."

"Documentary? I'd need to be drunk to enjoy it." Dean was trying to smile.

"Yeah." Sam tried smiling back. And it's working, we are both convincing the other it's all ok. Not.

The shift changed again at four in the morning. The nurses kept coming and going. Sam was asked to leave once. That nearly panicked him. Why did they ask me to leave? Why did you ask, Dean? It's easier if I know. Please. It's better if I'm there, I'm not standing here wondering what you are saying. I know what the lies are then, it makes it easier. He kept hoping that once the sun was up, once it was "in the morning" it would be better, holding on to hope like a child wishing for a pony. It will be better, it will be better. It has to be better. Please.

Only it wasn't.

It was worse.

Much, much worse.

And as the day wore on, moving through each nursing shift, it kept getting worse. Dean was not improving. The doctors came and went, talking in quiet voices, looking at Sam with grave concern, muttering quietly and leaving. In and out, throughout the long day. They took Dean for tests and brought him back. Nurses came and went, checking on him, shaking their heads.

"Bryn," Dean said around five that evening. "Take me to Bryn, Sam, before it's too late."

"Dean…"

"This has to do with what that thing did to me, like before with the first wound, they can't help me here. Please, Sam?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea," Sam said.

"She can help, we're safe there, Sammy," Dean said desperately. "We're safe there," he whispered. "This is worse than before. We don't have nearly as much time."

"Dean…" he started. Before he could finish his protest the doctor came in.Oh, god, oh no. The doctor was looking at Dean with compassion. Sam knew that look. No. No. No. No. No. The word was getting louder in his head. He must have said something, he felt Dean's hand touch his arm briefly, his brother's hand was ice cold. "Doctor?"

The doctor started talking. The words flowed into Sam, stopping somewhere before they became part of his conscious thoughts. He heard "pain management." He heard "serious." He heard "we don't know." His brain stopped when he heard "end-of-life care." It just stopped, his thoughts, his heart, everything.

"What?" he said or he thought he did. The doctor kept talking. "What?" Sam said a little louder. The doctor glanced at him with a frown and started again. Before he realized what he was doing Sam was up and striding out of the room. He heard Dean call his name as he left, he also knew that Dean was just letting him know he understood that Sam needed a minute.

Sam walked down the hall, he turned into the public restroom and locked the door. Leaning against the wall he tried to calm his breathing. It didn't work, the shallow gasping breaths were quickly becoming something akin to sobs. He knew. I think they must have spoken with him. He didn't seem surprised at all. He knew. Why the hell didn't he tell me? Dean? Why didn't you just tell me? He put his face in his hands, still trying to calm his breathing. And now he wants me to take him to Bryn. I know he feels safe there, but can she help him? Doesn't he realize… He stopped the thought as it formed, shoving the memories down where they couldn't touch him with their sharp claws, and still a tiny pinprick of pain, of panic, made itself known. Dean screaming in agony, writhing in pain, Sam's voice begging. Begging for what? No, no, no. Bryn's gentle voice saying… No. No. Sam forced the memories down and pushed himself away from the wall.

After splashing water on his face he dragged his hands through his hair and then exited the small room. He glanced at the clock as he walked towards Dean's room. Twenty minutes? I was in there twenty minutes? Sam walked into Dean's room and stopped.

His brother was gone.

He went to the nurses' station. "When will Dean be back?" he asked.

The woman frowned at him. "Back?"

"My brother? He's not in his room?"

"He's not?" The nurse frowned, looking at something on the desk. "He should be."

Sam ran into the room. There was a note sitting on the pillow. It just said "Bryn's" on it. He opened the closet, Dean's clothes were missing. Damn it, Dean. He glanced out the window and noticed a stumbling figure's halting progress across the parking lot. When I catch you, Dean, I am going to kill you. Sam ran out of the room and punched the button repeatedly for the elevator. He counted to fifteen before giving up and heading down the stairs.

Sam was out of the hospital less than two minutes later. Something stopped him as he ran out of the building, a dark shape suddenly appeared before him and shoved him down, the weight landing on his chest and holding him immobile for a minute. "Wait," it said. The voice was deep, resonant, the sound vibrating gently in its chest, almost melodic. It ran sharp claws through his hair. "Wait." Sam pushed up against it, struggling to get free. It laughed, holding him down with ease. "Not yet," it said.

"What did you do to Dean?" Sam asked, looking into its night-black eyes.

"Beautiful things, lovely things," it said with a happy sigh. "It is good." It held up a hand, dark flesh was darker there, looking burned. "Very good. Pain."

"Why?" Sam said, trying to draw a breath.

It laughed, looking at him. "Almost time," it said. The hand disappeared into the soft robes the thing was wearing and came out with a glowing blade. It held the knife in front of Sam's eyes. "Beautiful isn't it? Poison and pain always are, so lovely." And it moved away, as suddenly as it came, vanishing among the cars.

Sam pushed himself up and ran for the Impala. It was there before him. The driver side door was open. Sam heard Dean scream as he ran between the cars. The thing watched Sam get closer, waiting until Sam was almost there before it ran, melting into the darkness like it hadn't even been there.

Dean was slumped against the passenger door. "Dean?" Sam said, reaching over to his brother.

"Am I bleeding?" Dean said, his voice weak, his face a mask of pain.

"Not that I can see," Sam said, running anxious eyes over his brother.

"Good."

"Dean, what the hell were you thinking leaving like that?" Sam shouted, fear for his brother and reaction to the creature making the words harsh and angry.

"Take me to Bryn, Sammy," Dean said without moving.

"Dean…"

"Sam? I…it…" Dean took a deep breath. "I know you were listening to the doctor. There's nothing they can do here. Please, Bryn can solve this, Sammy. And we will be safe from that thing that did it there." Dean opened his eyes and looked at Sam. "Please, Sam?"

What do I do? Can she help? Sam dropped into the driver's seat. "It's a long way from here, Dean."

"It's ok, I know that." Dean put his hand gently on Sam's arm. "She'll be able to help, Sam, I'm sure. She did last time."

"You almost died last time, Dean."

"Almost." Dean leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. "Sleepy." His head dropped to the side.

"Dean?" Sam shook him gently, glancing in the rearview mirror, watching the hospital fade from view. Should I take him back? Can they do anything for him? "Dean?" His brother made a small affirmative sound. Sam pulled onto the freeway. No, not now.He tried to shove the memories away.

The sun was warm, lighting the handmade quilt on the bed, the warm smell of baking bread filling the room. Dean was screaming again, fighting against something, talking to their father, their mother, even Sam. Only he wasn't aware. Sam was holding him down, trying to keep his brother from hurting himself. "Please, please help him," he begged again.

"Sam, you don't understand, another dose…"

"What? Anything would be better…"

"Sam?" Dean's voice pulled him away from the memories.

"Yeah?"

"Do we have any of the swamp muck left?" Dean asked. It was Dean's name for a magical medicine Bryn had provided them with after their first visit. It treated pain. More importantly it treated other things—things that modern medicine didn't consider.

"I think so," Sam said without taking his eyes off the road. A large semi was trying to pass and he was trying to stay focused on what was going on.

"We might need it," Dean said quietly.

"Give me a minute, ok?" Sam said, easing the Impala around the truck.

"Sooner would be better, Sammy," Dean said calmly.

Something in his brother's voice made Sam turn his head and look over. "Dean?"

"I think you should get it."

Something in Dean's tone panicked Sam. The calm was the "don't worry about anything Sam, it's supposed to bleed like that, everything is ok" calm. The very worrying calm that meant the world was quite probably ending, but Dean didn't want Sam to be overly concerned. Of course, it had just the opposite effect. Sam pulled the car onto the shoulder and got out. He ran to the trunk and dug out the bottle of medicine before opening the door on the passenger side of the car.

"This doesn't look right, does it Sammy?" Dean was looking at his chest.

No.His mind refused to accept what he saw before him. Oh, god, no, that can't be real. Dean, why the hell didn't you tell me? When did that start? No, no, it's not real. Dean reached for the bottle with a trembling hand. Sam held the bottle to Dean's lips so he could drink. "Dean? It's not far now."

"I think it might be too far."

"No, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head, feeling tears form in his eyes.We'll make it, Dean. It's going to be ok. No, no it's not. He can lie to me, maybe, but I can't lie to myself, not now. He's…oh, god… he's…

Dean nodded. "Sammy, can you do something about the cold?" he said, looking at Sam. "It's cold."

Sam reached into the backseat and grabbed the old blanket. "Is the swamp muck helping?" See how calm I am Dean? Just as calm as you are, no panic in my voice, just like there is no panic in yours.

Dean looked at him with slightly unfocused eyes, Sam recognized it as an effect of the medicine. "A little. This isn't right, is it?" Dean looked down at his chest before meeting Sam's eyes.

"No, Dean, it's not. But we'll be there soon." Calm, very calm. Only I seem to be screaming in my head, just a little.

"Ok, Sammy." His words like his eyes were losing focus a little, sounding thick as the spell worked to overcome what it was treating. Sam gently pulled Dean's t-shirt over the growing black hole in his brother's chest then tucked the blanket around him. "Thanks." Dean said, letting his head roll towards Sam. "Looks bad?"

"Not really," Sam said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze before closing the door and walking to the other side of the car. He dropped down and started the engine. "Almost there," he said, looking over at Dean.

His brother looked at him with a little smile. "Sure. Sam?" Dean's voice was thick, slurred.

"It's ok, Dean."

"No," Dean said, reaching a hand out from under the blanket and sliding it across the seat. He let it rest against Sam's leg.

"About an hour only," Sam said, pushing the accelerator down, feeling the hopelessness of the situation, fighting to keep his voice calm. He looked over, Dean's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.

No.

He's dying. Before I even get there.

We'll never make it.

Please, no.

To Be Continued