Here ya'll go. :) You were right; this story is far from being over! So anyway, enjoy this chapter; can't wait to hear from you! Thanks again for all the wonderful support. :)

Chapter 7

It was just past noon Thursday morning when Bobby found the hospital Dean had directed him to, and he hadn't heard anything since. It was enough to worry him, and he couldn't get the car parked fast enough

As he strode into the lobby, Dean was coming in from the other side, back through the double doors that led out to the rooms. He was class only in his jeans, boots, and a t-shirt that all looked like it needed a good washing, and his freshly shaven face looked a little more than annoyed.

"Bobby!" His expression smoothed out when he caught sight of the older hunter, and Bobby met him halfway across the floor with a bear hug.

"Dean! Thank god; you worried me, not answering your phone again."

Dean winced, pulling back from the embrace and rubbing at a lump under his left sleeve. "Yeah…sorry. I was kind of, uhm, unconscious until just know." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, frowned at the missed call messages, then deleted them and shoved the phone back in.

Bobby's eyebrows went up questioningly.

Dean saw him looking at the shoulder he was rubbing, and stopped. "It's just a scratch; the bullet didn't even go in this time."

"Uh huh. Then why were you unconscious?"

"No, seriously, it didn't go in. It's not bad. I just…" he trailed off and grimaced again. "I guess passing out kinda happens when ya go two days without food, water, or sleep."

"And are ya gonna explain how that came about, or leave me wondering?"

"It's a long story."

Bobby crossed his arm authoritatively. "Then at least tell me why you're not getting some sleep right now."

Dean snorted. "I just woke up!"

A nurses scrambled through the doors and swiftly made her way to Dean, looking a little distraught. "Sir, are you sure you're all right? It would really be better if you stayed here under observation for a day or so—"

"Look, lady, I already checked myself out. I'm not staying in there. I'm fine."

The small woman huffed. "If you can call exhaustion, dehydration, malnourishment, and a bullet scrape wound fine."

"I've had worse then this, and the last few hours I spent out in a hospital bed hooked up to IVs took care of everything else."

The nurse rolled her eyes, turned on her heel, and walked away. Dean's stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly, and Bobby couldn't but smirk.

"Okay, I could use some real food too," Dean admitted. He glanced back toward the inner doors anxiously. "But I can't leave."

Bobby sighed. "How's Sam?"

Dean's hands balled into fists at his sides. "I don't know. They haven't let me see him yet. All they've told me so far is that he's stable for now. I mean, for now? What the hell does that mean?"

"What happened to him, Dean?" Bobby asked gently.

Dean looked at him a moment and looked away, eyes misting over. "Don't wanna talk about it," he muttered, jaw clenching. "Just some bitch with apparently nothing better to do than bother us."

He blinked, analyzing that. "Someone did this to you?" he asked, pitching his voice low to avoid anyone overhearing.

Dean shrugged wearily. "Yeah…she was some kind of hunter-gone-wacko. She said she knew you. Name was Leah."

The name came out like a curse, and Bobby scrounged his memory for a reference. It took a moment for it all to come back. "Oh my god," he gasped quietly.

Dean looked up again, quickly, looking Bobby in the eyes. "So you did know her? Was she who she said she was?"

Bobby nodded slowly, a sick feeling in his gut. "I wondered what had happened to her. Your dad and I hunted a couple of demons once—hosts were her parents. We tried to take them alive…" He sighed heavily.

"Leah seemed harmless enough when we left her with a friend of ours; we didn't think she held such a grudge about it all. It only took two years for her to learn everything she thought she needed to know. Then she killed Karen and split. I haven't heard anything of her since."

"There's nothing left to hear." Dean lowered himself into a stuff chair against the wall. "She's dead. It was an accident, but…" He glanced up at Bobby, eyes glistening again. "If you'd seen what she did to Sam…" He groaned and let his head drop into his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. "God, Sammy….If anything happens to him…"

Bobby swallowed. "Dean, I'm sorry. We should have been more careful, back then…I…"

Dean shook his head, though it was still down in his hands. "Don't even start with that. This isn't your fault."

Bobby would have said something, if he hadn't noticed the middle-aged doctor making a beeline for them. He nudged Dean, who stood as soon as he saw the man.

"Well?"

The doctor glanced from Dean to Bobby. "Who is this?"

"It's my uncle," Dean said without hesitation. "He needs to hear anything I do. How's my brother doing?"

Bobby read the nametag—Bennett—and asked a question of his own first. "Have the boys given you any insurance information yet?"

Bennett blinked, and then glanced into the folder he was carrying. "Uhm, no. That was another thing that needed to be taken care of, but I was going to get the receptionist to handle that later."

Bobby glanced at Dean. "I'll get it. They're both covered under my insurance, since their parents passed..."

Usually Sam and Dean used their own forged credit cards and insurance, but from the beginning both of them had always been covered by John's fake insurance as well, just in case. Since their father's death, Bobby had taken on that responsibility—to make sure they were taken care of. All still under fake names, of course, and fudged ages when it was necessary to keep them covered.

"Bobby—"

"I've got it," he repeated.

Dean sighed and turned back to the doctor. "What about my brother."

"He's still on a respirator, but he's stable right now. There were two cracked ribs, and they should both heal nicely…"

"What about his heart? Is his heart okay?" Dean demanded.

Bobby winced to himself, remembering what he had heard of the incident more than a year ago. He watched the doctor warily; something in the set of the man's shoulders was making him uneasy, and he could see that it was having the same effect on Dean.

Bennett hesitated. "His heart is weak, and it was unsteady for a little while there, but it's evening out now. If we put him on meds, we should be able to forego a pacemaker."

Dean scowled. "You mean…it was damaged?"

"To some extent, yes."

He swore quietly. "But it's not gonna like…give out or anything…right?" he continued with difficulty. Bobby put a hand on his good shoulder, squeezing maybe a little too hard.

He couldn't help it. These boys meant as much to him as if they were his own.

Now it was the doctor who looked uneasy. "No. It's shouldn't, but…unfortunately, that's not the real problem."

"Then what is?" Dean asked apprehensively.

Bennett sighed. "It's his lungs. I'm afraid they took the brunt of the damage."

"Meaning what?" Dean prodded, steel in his voice. Bobby knew that tone—the don't-drag-this-out tone—and the doctor seemed to take the hint as well. Still Bobby kept the hand on Dean's shoulder, because suddenly he knew neither of them was going to like what came next.

"It means that even though your brother will have recovered enough to be off the respirator in a few days, the damage itself can't be repaired," Bennett answered gently. "His lungs were put under too much strain, and they're never going to come back from that—not completely."

Dean swallowed. "What?" He wasn't getting it—not immediately—but Bobby already felt his eyes stinging.

"They're going to fail," he said quietly, and looked hard at the doctor. "They're going to fail, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid it's only a matter of time," Bennett answered, as Dean stared at him dumbly. "If he takes it easy and stays on oxygen, at least at night, and takes breathing treatments…it could be months, even a year or two…but I'm afraid that's all I can promise. There's nothing else we can do."

Bobby swallowed hard, glanced uneasily at Dean. The kid wasn't looking at him, and he wasn't looking at the doctor, either. "Where is he? I want to see him," he deadpanned.

Bennett sighed and gave him the room number, and Dean shrugged Bobby's hand off and disappeared through the doors without a word or a single glance back. Bobby would have followed him if he hadn't already known it would do no good right now.

He wanted to see Sam too, but he let Dean go, knowing he needed the time.

Dean picked up speed on the other side of the doors, and didn't stop until he jerked to a halt when he realized he'd overshot his target. He slowly backtracked to Sam's room, hesitating just inside the door.

His brother looked small and pale from here—a frightening contrast from his usual brightness and the fact that he was really a tall, gangly freak of nature compared to Dean's average height.

It didn't make him feel any better, either, to see the IV lines and the mask over Sam's mouth and nose…and the tubes that connected it to the machine that was breathing for him, making sure he didn't suffocate as he nearly had so many times before they'd gotten here.

It all brought back uncomfortable flashbacks from the crash. That had been him then, and he was loathe for either of them to be in this situation again.

Dean pulled a chair from the wall to move it beside the bed, and he sat down in jerky movements, never letting his eyes leave his brother. He leaned over the edge of the bed, and couldn't help reaching up to comb his fingers through Sam's now stringy hair. He pushed it back from his brother's face and pulled his hand away again, gulping back the lump in his throat.

"You're gonna be fine, Sammy," he whispered. "I don't care what any damn doctor says. I mean…what do they know, right?"

He didn't know that his head had dropped onto the edge of the bed until he felt the hand on his shoulder. He jerked up again, straightening in his seat, but relaxed when he saw that it was only Bobby.

"Oh…hey."

"Hey," Bobby nodded. "I gave them the insurance. You're both covered now." He hesitated. "Listen, I know you don't want to talk about this yet, but Dr. Bennett filled me in on what Sam's going need…the uhm, the medicine for his heart, and the equipment…for his lungs. I just wanted you to know that I'm taking care of that, too."

Dean blinked. "Bobby, really; you don't have to do that."

"Dean, I've actually got the money to pay the insurance for it, and the last thing you boys need is more legal trouble. Let me handle this."

"Bobby…" He trailed off. "Thanks." Then he turned back to Sam, and his resolve hardened again. "With any luck, we're not gonna need that stuff long anyway; then you can sell it back, and none of us'll have to worry about it."

There was silence for a long moment.

"So…just what are they saying he's gonna need, anyway?" Dean asked painfully, after a moment.

"An oxygen generator, for one, and it'll have to be one small enough for you two to lug it around in that car of yours. Besides that, there's the medicine, and a smaller machine—a nebulizer for the breathing treatments."

Dean snorted. "And if he didn't do all that stuff?"

"Once he's off the respirator, he wouldn't last more than a couple of weeks without it all," Bobby answered quietly.

He groaned and let his head drop back into his arms on the edge of the bed for a moment. "It's friggin' déjà vu in reverse, Bobby. What the hell is wrong with our luck? Why is this happening to us again?" He blinked tears away, and his voice dropped. "Why does it have to be Sam this time?"

Bobby only squeezed his shoulder, and when Dean looked up he realized that the old man's eyes weren't dry, either.

"Do you need anything? Still hungry?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but I don't think I'd eat it." He shivered.

"Where's your jacket?"

He wracked his brain, because he wasn't sure of that himself.

"The basement," he said finally. "It's back in the basement at that house in…Mize or Taylorsville or whatever the address actually is…the one where we were headed to investigate that ghost? It wasn't a ghost. It was her. That's where she jumped us," he complained, absently rubbing his neck at the memory.

"Some of our other stuff is there too; that's why I didn't give them our insurance before. I never picked up our wallets from the stuff she took off us. I was trying to get Sam here…the rest of it's all still under the stairs on the first floor."

Bobby nodded. "All right. Do you have the address? I'll get your things for you."

Dean patted down his pockets, finally finding the scrap of paper in the last back pocket he searched of his jeans. "Here." He glanced at it. "Oh excuse me; the address is Raleigh," he smirked, looking for any excuse at humor.

Bobby raised an eyebrow at him and took the paper. Then he pulled off his jacket and handed it to Dean, who looked at him questioningly.

"It's cold in here, but it's gettin' pretty warm out there. I won't need it before I get back."

"Oh…okay." He didn't make a big deal of the gesture—but he did pull the coat on right away. Bobby headed for the door, but at the last moment Dean grimaced and followed him out into the hallway.

"Bobby, uhm…"

"I'll need to salt and burn Leah's body; I know," he answered quietly.

"Right…uhm, it's at the foot of the stairs…"

Bobby nodded, then reached into his own pocket and pulled a ten from his wallet. He pressed it back into Dean's hand. "I'll bring back something better, but it'll be a few hours. You go down to that cafeteria and get something to eat before I get back, all right? Sooner rather than later. You need it, even if you don't want it."

"But—"

"Sam's gonna need you when he wakes up, Dean, but you won't do anyone any good if you're still half starved."

Dean sighed and stuffed the bill into his pocket. "Fine. Thanks." Bobby nodded and made his way out toward the lobby again, and Dean went back to his brother.

He wasn't ready to leave yet, even long enough to eat.

Bobby had barely gotten on the road before his mind was reeling.

Sam…

His hands gripped the wheel tighter, and his jaw clenched hard. Who was it that saw fit to put those boys through so much?

He felt the tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away. There was still hope, wasn't there? There had to be. He wouldn't believe otherwise, and he knew Dean wouldn't, either.

What he worried about was how Sam would respond when he woke.

After three or four hours, Dean's stomach complained enough to force him down to the cafeteria. He didn't eat much, but it was enough to quiet the noise. Still, he was nauseated by the time he got back to Sam's room, and questioning the wisdom of Bobby's advice.

Bennett's words kept pounding through his skull over and over, no matter how many times he told himself that they would find a way to fix it.

It's his lungs. I'm afraid they took the brunt of the damage.

I'm afraid it's only a matter of time…could be months, even a year or two…but I'm afraid that's all I can promise. There's nothing else we can do…

Afraid it's only a matter of time…

Only a matter of time…

Could be months, even a year or two…

Could be months…

Months…

Months.

Months!

Dean let go of Sam's wrist hand and lurched out of the chair, barely making it to the toilet in the bathroom off to the side before he threw up all of what little he'd eaten. He quickly grabbed the sink and pulled himself back to his feet, but stumbled and ended up leaning into the wall.

He rammed an elbow back into the wall—once, twice, four times—and let himself drop forward to hang on the doorframe as he caught his breath. He stared across the room at his brother, at Sammy, and the string of profanity that had been streaming through his thoughts was given quiet voice.

"Why, huh?" he called, glancing up and around at no-one in particular. "Why him? Why does he have to worry about something like this? He never did any of the stupid stuff I did to deserve this crap…"

Dean stumbled back into the chair and leaned forward to clamp a gentle hand over Sam's wrist again. He stared intently at his brother's face, willing those eyes to open. "Damnit, Sam. Wake up. Tell me it's all a mistake and you feel fine."

Late that afternoon, when Bobby returned to the hospital, he found Dean asleep in the chair beside Sam's bed, arms wrapped tightly around himself in the borrowed jacket that was much too big. Bobby sighed and woke him with a slight shake of his good shoulder. Dean didn't jerk awake; he only blinked a few times and opened his eyes in confusion.

"You know, there's an empty bed over there if you wanted to sleep."

Dean shrugged groggily and pushed himself to his feet, but if Bobby's eyes weren't fooling him the boy looked downright shaky. Before he had a chance to scold him, Dean clamped a hand over his mouth and bolted for the bathroom. Bobby grimaced as he leaned over the toilet, heaving nothing but air and stomach fluid. He wasn't in there long, but he was paler when he came out, arms clamped around his middle and leaning heavily on the bathroom doorframe.

"Dean?"

Still ever himself, Dean looked up and smirked a little. "Maybe we should investigate the cafeteria ladies. That must have been some epically bad meat."

Bobby crossed his arms.

"Seriously, I'm fine. I just picked the wrong entrée."

He sighed and shook his head. "No, you're getting sick because you're still weak. You need some real food in you."

Dean tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "Well that's what happened last time I tried the whole food thing."

"Just because it was served in a hospital doesn't mean it was the best thing for you." He headed for the door again. "Come on; I've got cold sandwiches and coke in the car. That ought to go a little easier on your stomach."

He looked to Sam. "But—"

Bobby went back and took him by the arm. "I don't think he'll wake up in the next half hour," he said gently. "Come on."

Dean hesitated, but finally nodded silently and followed him out. "What I need is a beer," he muttered.

"Not yet you don't."

There was mostly silence as Dean sat in Bobby's car and both of them ate. He had to admit that the sandwich did go down a lot better than the poorly cooked burger from the cafeteria. The nausea faded as he filled up, and it was one more instance to chalk up on the list of things Bobby was right about.

The silence still hovered even as they fished eating and crumbled their trash into the takeout bag. Dean settled back into the unfamiliar passenger seat.

"Bobby…what are we gonna do?" he asked quietly.

The older man glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "I mean…when Sam wakes up, 'cause…" He grimaced. "I'm not lettin' some doctor tell him he's gonna die when I have no intention of letting that happen."

Bobby sighed and stared into the distance. "We have to let the man tell him what condition he's in. We can't hide that; it's the truth right now."

"I know…" Dean trailed. "But I mean couldn't we like, you know, talk to him first? Before the doc says anything? He needs to know we're gonna fix it. He needs to know to doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it means something, Dean. I don't like it any more than you do, but right now, Sam…Sam is dying. That's going to be true until we find a way to fix it, and you can't change that." Bobby hesitated. "And we have to be prepared for the possibility that we can't fix it."

Dean sat up quickly. "No. I'm not talking about this. He'll be fine."

"Dean—" Bobby's eyes were misted over now, and it wasn't helping his own composure any.

"Just tell me if we can do that. We can talk to him first, right?"

Bobby nodded slowly. "Yeah…we can do that."

Dean snapped one nod in response and climbed out of the car.

Dean passed out in the next bed that night, and the next day was more of the same—waiting. Nearly two days had passed, and there was no change. On the second night Bobby finally convinced Dean to use the motel room he'd already paid for.

"I slept there last night, so I'll stay with Sam tonight. You go get some rest," he'd said—ordered. When Bobby got like that, there really wasn't any saying no.

Dean woke Saturday morning to his cell phone blaring at him from the nightstand, and the clock told him it was almost noon. He sat up immediately, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and cursing himself for oversleeping as he snatched up the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Dean, hey. I've got good news. They were able to take Sam off the respirator this morning; they're saying he should wake up soon," Bobby reported.

Dean was already out of bed and looking for pants. "I'll be right there."

Sam's eyes blinked open on bland white ceiling tile, but he didn't have the energy to panic. In the end he had no need to; in seconds a blurry Dean was leaning into his line of sight, and he felt his brother's hand on his arm.

"De'n?"

"Hey…" Dean said, smiling just a little. "What took you so long?"

The breath he took alerted him to the thin tubes resting just inside his nose, feeding him oxygen that made it much easier to breathe than it had been before he'd passed out last. On the sides of his face he felt the ends of the tube that held them there. Now that he thought about it, he could feel the tape holding an IV in his arm.

Hospital. He was in a hospital.

Oh god, it had to have bad….

"Long…?" he croaked. All that spurred was a small hiccup of a cough, so he supposed that was a good sign, anyway—except for the fact that it still made his chest ache.

"You've been out for a couple of days."

It was another voice that ha answered his question, and Sam forced his head to turn to the left enough to take in the older man standing there.

"Bobby," he smiled. "Good to see you…" Suddenly he realized that his voice was barely audible, but even though he tried, the next sentence didn't come out any louder just yet. "What happened?" Translation: Why had Dean risked bringing him to a hospital.

His eyes shifted back to Dean, who wasn't smiling anymore. He wasn't frowning either, but he was trying to smile—and failing. Somehow that worried him.

Dean finally gave up, and grimaced. "I couldn't keep you breathing. We barely made it here," he admitted.

"Where's here…?"

"Magee, Mississippi," Bobby answered.

Dean nodded. "About fourty miles from where we were."

Sam blinked a few times, and then stared at his brother. "I…barely made it fourty miles?" he questioned uneasily.

"Hey, you're alive," Dean told him, a little more earnestly than Sam thought was necessary. "How are you feeling?" he asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Sam winced, and took stock. The oxygen made it easier to breathe, but the action still wasn't without its discomfort. His chest ached, and he could feel the bandages wrapped tight around his ribcage. Something had to have been cracked, at least. He tried to move, and the bruises that were still there sent a jolt through him.

"Ah! Ah…not so good." He thought that was all that gave Dean the suddenly worried expression—until he realized just how white his brother's face was. Dean's gaze was focused on the hand Sam had pressed over his chest when his cry had sent a stab of pain there.

"Dean?"

Dean snapped out of it, focused on him again. "What?" he asked, almost shakily.

Sam frowned and glanced back to Bobby…who was trying to hide the same expression Dean had been wearing a moment ago.

"Guys…what's wrong? Dean?"