I'm sooooo sorry for not posting this earlier - well, what can I say? Life is what happens, while you make other plans :) - I hope you are all still with me here ;)

Chapter 4

The brightness of the room blinded Dean and made him squint his eyes before he forced his lids a bit apart at least.

Dammit that bright light! His eyes started to water almost instantly and, suffering, he raised a had to shield them. The early winter morning sun immersed the room in its light and made the walls seem a little less cold, but no warmth reached Dean.

The muscles in his neck were tensed and cracked as he straightened and thus lifted his cheek off the side of the bed. It felt crumbled and a little numb and passing over it with his fingertips confirmed this. That side of his face had to look just like the one of pug – he dearly hoped that none of the nurses would spot him like that.

His gaze wandered to the watch on his wrist and then to Sam who hadn't budged an inch. Dean suspected that his little brother only slept so soundly because he was drugged up with pain killer to the brim, but anything was better than sleep that didn't bring any rest at all.

Just like his own sleep for example.

He stood up, feeling exhausted, and winced at the loud noise that the metal legs of the chair made as they scratched across the floor. He stopped briefly in his movement to check whether Sam had woken because of that, but the brown haired man just rolled his head slightly to one side, his eyes still closed.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, gonna go and get some coffee," he told Sam quietly and only to make himself feel like not just leaving.

-S-S-S-

The corridor was busy. Staff and doctors formed a mass of predominately green, blue and white.

For a few seconds, the crowd of people and their behavior tripped Dean up enough to make him stop cold in his tracks in front of the closed door to take in the scene. Laughter from a group of nurses in one corner; people, that hurried by him in both directions, greeting each other and giving him a cheerful nod. Even the two male nurses that were busy with the food trolley had smiles on their faces.

The contrast to the leaden silence from which he had just emerged was way too sharp. A silence that seemed to be corporeal, dampening even the slightest of sounds; a silence that reached out with its fingers of sorrow for the throats of people and rendered them speechless.

The confusing contrast of these two places, which were only a thin wall apart, followed Dean on his way to the coffee vending machine.

The waiting room in which the machine was located was still completely empty at these early hours and Dean sifted through the pockets of his jeans for a few coins. On the first three attempts, the machine refused to take the coins and the blond was close to kicking the metal.

Irritated, he gritted his teeth and tried to calm down. All the worry for Sam and the oppressing memories seemed to want to force their way out in that moment and he couldn't afford to be kicked out of the hospital for blowing a fuse.

He bent down to retrieve the money again and stared at the ad of the company that maintained the machine as he pushed the coins into the slot yet again. The coins clattered through the various sensors and this time landed with an unmistakable sound on a heap of other coins that already had been in there.

Finally.

The digital display sprang to life and black letters scrolled past on green background. Advertisement for some new beverage and the note to please first – if desired – select the roast, milk and sugar, before fixing the selection by pressing the button.

Dean briefly scanned the offered selection of beverages and decided for some black, extra strong coffee. One by one, he pressed the buttons and rested his head against the illuminated front that showed the picture of a cup of steaming cappuccino.

If he didn't get some caffeine into his system within the next five minutes, he'd collapse on the spot.

The machine had to be new. The old one had been of a strange greyish color and had made a hell of a noise; this one here was silent even if the beans were freshly grounded. The deep black paint reminded him of his car.

The plastic cup dropped out of the dispenser into the bracket. The change clattered out.

Had he locked the car? He couldn't remember. Yawning, he stuffed the three coins into the pocket containing his car keys.

The sound of water running through pipes and heater to be pressed through pulverized beans yanked him back into reality. Slowly, he straightened up.

The display flashed a "Please retrieve cup" repeatedly and he crouched down to push up the lid and take the dark blue, ribbed plastic cup out of the machine.

Dean almost scalded his palm on the hot steam. Nevertheless he raised the cup to his lips and sipped black liquid greedily. It was hot enough to make his tongue burn like hell on first contact before it went numb, but he didn't care.

It wasn't just his tongue that was numb after half the cup, everything from his larynx down that had come in touch with the liquid, gave off a hot and in hindsight rather uncomfortable sensation.

His dragging feet took him just a few steps over to one of the wooden chairs on which he slumped down, head put back.

-S-S-S-

Friday, February 15th 2002

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the house and slowly pulled Dean upstairs from his sleep. He rubbed his hand over his face and brushed his fingers through his hair, before he finally sat up.

The sky in front of the window was surprisingly clear. Not like yesterday morning when one could have thought that the clouds had come down to hang around between the houses.

It was a strange feeling to wake up more than once in the same house, the same bed and in the same – healthy – shape. Strange, but good.

Dean had returned almost half a week ago from a hunt that had him tied up at the other end of the States. Until he had stood on Rachel's doorsteps, he hadn't thought that he would really ever returned to her. His job and long-term relationships didn't go together too well, but his car didn't seem to share his point of view. He had been pulled further and further west, back to Medford.

Not to mention that it looked like he had no other obligations. John and himself had been hunting solo for a while now to … as his dad put it so nicely "increase efficiency".

Dean didn't mind; taking some time off was okay – else he might have ended up like Sam. And after all, John always was just a phone call away.

Until the moment, he had rung the bell, he wouldn't have thought that there could be someone who would anchor him in one place ever again like Rachel did it. Even if she hadn't even asked if he would return. She just let him do his thing without demanding anything.

His bare feet touched the floor and he briefly shivered, gazing around the room in search of his jeans and a sweater.

Chaos ruled the room and Dean had quickly learned that this was the way everywhere Rachel showed up.

He found the lost items bundled up on a leather chair and found himself less and less inclined to peel himself out of the warm blanket.

But hunger and the need for caffeine won.

Quickly he threw back the cover and slipped into the cold clothes. They really should turn on the heating …

They?

We? Surprised by his own thoughts, Dean shook his head.

He found the socks half hidden underneath the bed and pulled them on, before he made his way downstairs.

Rachel was nowhere to be found when Dean entered the kitchen, but a mug of coffee was standing on the table and he couldn't help the grin as he homed in on it.

"Hey!" an indignant voice exclaimed as his fingers just were about to close around the hot piece of china and he managed not to flinch or spill everything. He made a show of turning around deliberately slowly to face Rachel, who stood in the doorway, tousled haired and disheveled, the collar slipped down far enough to reveal the fair skin of her shoulders. "Thief! - That's mine!"

"Hm," was the only response Dean gave before he took a sip and instantly scalded his throat. "Ouch," he added considerably quieter and with a grumble, which made Rachel grin gleefully.

"That's what you get for thieving. And now, hand over my coffee!"

Dean was far from doing her that favor and raised the mug above his head – a place that Rachel would never be able to reach, since she didn't even reach up to his nose. "Come 'n' get it," he challenged her without batting an eyelid.

The gray eyes in which Dean had spotted some blue sprinkles sparkled with mischief and she dropped her hands, closing in on him.

"I won't beg, Dean," she replied and was about to turn around to make her way over to the coffeemaker. Dean found himself wondering how she was able to stand the cold tiles with bare feet and in the next moment, felt a finger being poked into his side, right beneath his armpit.

Caught by surprise, he jerked and brought down his arms reflexively, spilling half of the coffee on his hand in doing so and in the very next moment dropped the mug with a curse.

With a loud clattering noise, the mug hit the floor and shattered, the brown liquid painting a pattern of puddles and splashes onto it, and Rachel raised an eyebrow. "That was my favorite mug."

Before he could answer however, Rachel had taken his hand and pulled it close to take a look at the redness. "You should -"

Dean freed his fingers and took half a step towards Rachel, taking her face into his hands and sealing her lips.

For a couple of seconds her hands remained hovering in the air, fixed to the spots that had been in, before she returned the kiss, pulled Dean closer and slid her fingers under his sweater.

Breakfast could wait. This here was much better.

-S-S-S-

"Mr. Sanderson?"

Somehow that rang a bell. No second voice replied. Sanderson. That referred to himself.

Dean blinked a couple of times until he regained his bearings. He still sat in the waiting room, in his hand the almost empty coffee cup, its content only lukewarm by now. In front of him stood Dr. Connor.

"'scuse me," he mumbled and pinched the bridge of his nose before he looked up, almost springing back to his feet. "What's the matter? Anything wrong with Sam?"

"No – no. I just wanted a word with you."

Almost relieved, Dean slumped back down and drained the last bit from his cup before scrunching it up with one hand. "What's up?"

"I'll get right to business, Dean. Sam will need physiotherapy for his arm for some while – and it would be good if he had some place to stay for the next couple of weeks so that he could keep his appointments. In addition, there is not need to keep him in hospital any longer than necessary, he's doing fine. In another three or four days we could discharge him, as long as he'd stay under observation and take it easy. The question is whether you have a place to go to."

Dean hesitate briefly, but didn't avoid the other man's gaze. "Yes."