Hey ya'll! I'm headed for the fam's house for a couple days or so, so I wanted to get another chapter up in case I don't have time to write while I'm there. So I hope you enjoy this chapter; I hope to hear from you! Thanks so much! :)

Chapter 8

Sam watched Dean and Bobby exchange uneasy glances.

"Sam…" his brother protested.

"No, Dean, what is it?" he demanded. "Is something wrong with me?" Dean's head ducked, and it was Bobby who answered.

"It's your lungs, Sam. They were damaged…and it's pretty bad."

He felt Dean's hand tighten on his shoulder along with the sudden tightness in his own throat. "How bad?"

Bobby winced, hesitated a long moment before answering. "The doctors are saying that without a transplant, they'll both fail within a year or two."

What? Oh god…that was why it had been so damn hard to breathe. Sam fought back the panic; he knew it wouldn't help him breathe now.

"So…I'll get a transplant. Maybe the recovery would take a while, but if it's the only option…"

Dean huffed out a pent-up breath from his other side, and Sam looked back to his brother. Dean jaw was tight now, his eyes damp. "We're working on that."

Sam swallowed and frowned again. "There's something else, isn't there?"

His brother nodded miserably. "Your heart's weak, too. They won't even consider you for a transplant unless you're receiving both the lungs and a heart, and finding a match for all of it is a little harder, I guess, 'cause it all has to be done at the same time, and I don't even know if you're on the list yet. Bennett hasn't let us know."

"Bennett?"

"Your doctor here."

"Oh…" He stared at the ceiling, not sure how to feel. "So…so what do we do?"

"We do everything we can to get you on that list, we take care of you, and in the meantime we look for some other way to fix this. You're gonna be fine, okay? One way or another, you'll be fine," Dean answered intently.

Bobby's hand came down gently on his other arm and squeezed. "We'll do everything we can, son."

Sam only nodded weakly, because suddenly he didn't seem to have the energy to do anything else.

It wasn't long before Bennett was alerted that Sam was conscious, and the doctor showed up to check him over and explain everything in more detail.

He told Sam his ribs were healing just fine, and then explained everything else. He explained about the oxygen, and the breathing treatments, and the heart medication. Bobby watched on silently, never leaving Sam's side. Dean stood across from him, his hand never leaving his brother's shoulder. Dean looked to be listening attentively, for any sign of hope, while poor Sam listened but seemed to wish he could shut his ears and drown it all out.

"So what about a transplant?" Dean asked finally. "Have you checked that out yet? He can qualify for that, right?"

Bennett flipped through the folder in his hands. "Well, the…sketchy financial situation, for lack of a better term, is a bit of a complication, but there are ways to work around that. Otherwise, his age and the severity of his condition are working in his favor. I think I can still justify having him put on the list for a heart-lung transplant immediately. Of course, I can't promise anything beyond that..."

The doctor closed the folder and tucked it under his arm, then looked at Sam. "Until a donor becomes available, all we can do is keep you as healthy as possible, but if what I've seen is any indication, I think you can count on these two to see to that," he smiled, motioning to Dean and Bobby.

Bobby watched Sam smile a little at that; it made him feel better to see it.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "I can always count on these guys."

Bennett nodded. "I thought so. Just hang in there. As far as time goes, we're still running the blood work on all of you. A live donor transplant is still possible if you all check out. The one good lung could give you a few more years, which unfortunately might be needed waiting for a full transplant through this system," he sighed. "Anyway, the results should be in tomorrow. I'll let you know."

"Thank you," Bobby nodded.

The doctor bowed out, and Sam was silent until he was gone. "What was he talking about?" he asked after a moment. "About the blood work?"

"For live donors giving lungs, it takes two people to donate enough tissue for one lung. They'll only let each donate one lobe, a half a lung," Bobby explained. "Both your brother and I sent in blood work to see if we're compatible."

Sam stared at them, wide-eyed. "Guys, even if that worked, it would lay us all out. Bobby, you said yourself that there's a storm coming. We can't afford to—"

"If it keeps you alive, it doesn't matter," Dean cut in quickly. "We're not the only hunters out there, you know."

Sam seemed to gather that arguing with his brother would be useless, and Dean sat down again in the chair by the bed. Bobby took a seat on the other bed, watching fondly as Dean's natural tendency to fool around helped Sam relax while the brothers fought over the television remote.

He couldn't help but wonder what those two would ever do without each other.

He hoped more than anything that this wouldn't end badly.

When they both grew tired of the afternoon television, Sam asked for his computer. He was sitting up anyway, because the nurses had finally convinced him to eat something, and he seemed to be doing all right that way, so Dean reluctantly agreed. While he was out in the car he picked up John Winchester's journal as well.

Sam frowned at him a little, when he settled back in the chair with the book, but he didn't say anything. Bobby went back to the motel soon after that, and Dean moved to the other bed. He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to the thunder outside the window, sprawled on his back with the journal open on his chest.

Dean sat up slowly, setting the book aside as he stretched his spine and rubbed his eyes. He scowled at what he saw when his vision cleared.

"Sam? Dude, I didn't bring you the computer so you could forego sleep."

The tray attachment was still swung up over Sam's legs, and his computer was plugged in and sitting there as he stared at it. Sam settled back farther against the pillows and shrugged.

"I was asleep for two days, Dean."

"No, you were unconscious for two days. There's a difference." He flinched as a peal of lightning lit up the dim room like the noonday sun, and the thunder that came soon after nearly hurt his ears. The rain was pelting the window in thick sheets, and he was almost sure he heard sleet pinging into the glass amongst it all.

"Damn, that's a storm."

"Welcome to south Mississippi," Sam deadpanned.

"We're smack in the middle of tornado alley, aren't we?"

"Well, not technically in the middle, but—"

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"Great…I hate havin' to worry about those things."

Sam glanced over and smirked. "Why would you be afraid of a tornado?"

"Dude, if I don't like flying how do you think I'd feel about gettin' tossed up in the air without the huge metal thing around me?"

He looked like he wanted to laugh at that, but then his eyes strayed back to the web page his computer was on, and his expression soured.

Dean frowned. "What is it?"

"Nothing…"

"Nothing my ass. That's your I'm-freaked-as-hell-but-not-telling-you face. What's up? Spill it."

When Sam didn't answer he got up and tried to get a look at the web page, but Sam shut the laptop. "Hey…Come on, Sam, what is it?"

Sam visibly gulped and looked away, picking absently at the bandages around the cuts and burns on his wrists. It was a long moment before he said anything as Dean stood, anxiously, waiting.

"In any given year hundreds of people die waiting for the kind of transplant I need," he said slowly, painfully.

Dean grimaced. "I know...I kinda figured."

When Sam looked at him again, his eyes were damp for the first time since he'd woken up. The shock had worn off. "Dean…I'm scared."

He swallowed hard, ignoring the tightness in his chest. "Don't be." He swung the tray out of the way and sat on the edge of the bed facing his brother. "I am not gonna let anything happen to you, no matter how any of this goes down. Why do you think I'm going through that thing again?" he said, pointing to the journal that lay on the other bed.

Sam glanced that way for a moment. "If there were anything in there I would have found it when you were sick."

"Sam, that thing is packed full of scribbling. There's always something we could have missed."

Sam focused on him again, blinking back tears. "Dean, dad wrote the thing. If there were anything in there he wouldn't have done what did; if he'd known of another way to save you, he would have taken advantage of it."

Dean huffed, choosing not to go into that particular open wound. "People don't remember everything they write," he protested.

"Dean—"

He held up a hand to silence Sam, and then took his brother by both shoulders. "Listen a minute, okay? You never gave on me, Sam, with the whole heart thing or after the crash, so don't expect me to give up on you. I won't give up until you're safe and healthy and we're back on the road hunting that yellow-eyed bastard, you hear me?"

Sam looked at him for several moments before he nodded, sobbing once.

Dean sighed. "Come here…" He slid closer and pulled his little brother to his chest, holding Sam's head under his chin. "It's gonna be okay. I'll make it okay. I promise."

"Don't make promises you don't know you can keep," Sam muttered miserably.

Dean couldn't respond to that, but he held on tighter, and as his eyes clenched shut he cursed the single tear that slipped free into his brother's hair.

Both Winchesters had just finished the light breakfast Bobby brought in when Bennett returned the next morning, scowling at a new edition to the ever-present folder. Dean shoved himself from his chair as Bobby turned to the door expectantly.

"Hey, what is it? How'd the blood work come out?" Dean asked anxiously.

Sam was already sitting up again, but he leaned forward some to listen. He only winced a little when he did it, so…well, maybe that was a good sign.

The doctor let out a breath and shook his head. "To begin with, only you matched in blood type," he said, nodding to Bobby.

"Wait, I'm the one that didn't match?" Dean scowled. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It's perfectly normal to not have the same blood type as a sibling."

He snorted. Wasn't that just brilliant? He couldn't help his own brother. Damnit! He felt his fists clenching, and noticed Bobby trying to catch his eye, but he ignored it. He didn't need sympathetic looks right now.

"But that's not relevant; we wouldn't have been able to do a transplant even if you both had matched in blood type."

Dean blinked in surprise, and then scowled at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Bennett looked at Sam now. "It's your blood work. Your blood type isn't abnormal, but it seems you have a rare antigen that's extremely hard to match. It's only shown up recently, really, usually in patients about your age or so."

Sam licked his lips nervously. "So what does that mean for me?"

He sighed. "It's properties are like nothing the medical community has seen before. Unfortunately, one side effect causes the body to reject any transplant not from a specifically matching donor—though that we weren't even aware of for the longest time. No one with this new antigen had been given any type of transplant until last year. There were two cases: one was only a heart transplant, and one was a heart-lung, but…both had passed away from complications within a week. "

Bennett looked at them apologetically. "Since then there has only been one successful transplant, between a patient and donor with this same antigen. The good news is, that means we know that a matching donor with the antigen will be compatible. The bad news, of course, is that there is no way to know if such a donor will become available in time."

Sam stared the doctor for a long moment, and then looked away. Dean watched his brother warily, his own heart pounding hard in his chest. This couldn't be happening…

"So…I'm still on the list, but you're saying there's not much chance…because of this…whatever-it-is in my blood," Sam said slowly.

"An antigen. It's a type of marker; you might call it a sub-type."

"Right. So…?"

Bennett nodded once. "Yes, I'm afraid that's what I'm saying. I'm sorry…"

Now it was Sam who nodded once, and Dean kicked and screamed inside to see the expression in his brother's eyes shutter off. He exchanged a panicked glance with Bobby and ran after the doctor when he left.

"Wait, wait!" he called, stopping the man in the hallway. Bennett turned. "Wait…are you sure? I mean, isn't there another way? Something else we can do? Or, you know, isn't there some way to get around that anti-thing?"

"I'm afraid not. Now that we know the danger of it, labs are only just now beginning to really experiment with it. Perhaps in a few years some kind if treatment will develop, but…that would be too late for your brother."

His fists curled tighter; he could feel his short fingernails biting into the skin of his palms, but he didn't care. "So you're saying the only way you know of that he's going survive more than another year or two is if he gets a transplant from someone with this exact same…marker or whatever?"

"As well as the same basic blood type, yes."

"Damnit…"

Because Sam was right; the chances of finding a supernatural way to fix this were just as slim. Dad wouldn't have sold his soul if there were anything else he thought he could have done.

Dean furiously gulped back the lump in his throat. "So…how much longer does he have to stay here?"

"I would recommend another week, at least. The equipment he'll need once he leaves has already been applied for, and we'll make sure you have it and know how to use it before he goes."

He nodded silently.

Bennett sighed again. "I truly am sorry we can't do more for him."

Dean only shrugged, but he had to force himself to just walk away. Even though he knew, intellectually, that this wasn't Bennett's fault, part of him wanted to wring the man's neck—force out of him something, anything, maybe an admission he'd been wrong, or missed something, or that there was something else that could be done…

When he got back to the room Sam was still staring straight ahead, unmoving. Bobby was pacing the floor on the other side of the bed, and he didn't look up. Dean moved to his brother's side and sat beside him, hoping to jar him into some kind of motion.

He would have counted himself successful, if he'd only wanted Sam to talk.

"Something that's shown up recently in people my age…properties they've never seen before…Do you think it could have something to do with my powers? Could it leave a marker in my blood like that?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Dean sighed. "But that's my only guess right now."

"It's the only explanation. We could all have something in our blood; me and all of the children like me."

"But why the hell would that screw with something like transplant compatibility?"

"I don't know any more than you do…" He trailed off and looked away. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" he choked quietly.

Before he knew what he was doing Dean had spun around, fisted his hands in the front of Sam's hospital gown, and shoved him hard back against the pillows. "Don't you ever say that again! You are not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it! You can't say that; do you understand me!"

"Dean!"

That was Bobby's voice, cutting through the haze of anger and making him hear through the buzzing in his ears. It wasn't until then that he realized Sam had wilted in his grasp, gasping in pain, and now that he was listening again he could still hear his brother's shout echoing in his ears.

Dean let go quickly and backed away, wide-eyed. Sam sank down on his side in the bed with a moan, with a hand to his chest as he focused on carefully pulling in the oxygen from the tubes in his nose.

"Sammy…?" he asked weakly. There was no answer and Bobby came up behind Sam and clamped a gentle hand on his shoulder until his breathing evened out again. After another moment his eyes flickered open, and Dean sobbed dryly.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"-t's okay," he grunted quietly.

"No, it's not."

Sam grimaced.

Bobby seemed to gather that the boys needed some time to themselves, and he quietly stepped out. Dean hesitantly sat down again, in his chair, and ran a hand anxiously over his face.

"I just—I'm not giving up," he reiterated. "Not Now. Not ever."

"I know…that's why you're my brother." Sam held out a hand, and Dean stared at it for a moment before he took and squeezed it.

"So we're good?"

Sam smiled softly. "Yeah. We're good."

Thursday afternoon marked a more than a week since the Winchesters had first pulled into the hospital parking lot, and Dean was growing restless. Sam's equipment had arrived the afternoon before, and Dean and Bobby had both been with a nurse all morning as she explained what Sam would need, and how to use the equipment.

Apparently someone else had been explaining the same things to Sam. When they got back to his room he'd seemed more depressed than usual, and when he'd mentioned that someone had been in to explain everything, it was obvious why.

None of it was helping any of them forget Sam's condition. Listening while the woman told them how to put the medicine into the nebulizer for the breathing treatments, and how to maintain and use the oxygen generator, when to use it, when to give Sam the breathing treatments, and watching the delivery guys load the equipment into the back seat of the Impala…

It was all one big slap in the face that told Dean that nothing was going to be exactly the same—not until they fixed this. Maybe not ever. But he pushed that thought away before it took root.

He and Bobby were at lunch now, in the cafeteria because they hadn't wanted to leave the hospital with Sam being down like that, but not in his room because he had all but made it clear he would rather have some time alone.

"So…where are you boys headed once Sam's released?" Bobby asked eventually.

Dean shrugged. "We haven't talked about that."

"You haven't?"

"No…"

"You could stay at my place for a while," he offered.

To be honest, that sounded perfect to a good part of him—while the rest of him wanted to hit the road immediately in search of some way to help Sam. Finally that part won out.

"I don't know; we need to start looking." Bobby knew what he meant.

"That's true, but it would be better if Sam stayed put."

"You want me to leave him there by himself?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Not by himself; with me, you idjit."

Dean's face must have suddenly looked even scarier than he though it did, because Bobby quickly backtracked.

"Or you two could stay there, and I'll go out looking. I'll help any way you want me to. I want to see Sam healthy as much as you do, but we both know he'll have a better chance if he stays put somewhere and takes it easy. If we're going to be looking for a way to help him, I don't think we can all stay together on this. One of us has to stay with him. We could take turns…"

Dean already felt his shoulders tightening into a hunch as he thought about it. Things really were changing. This was going to be a lot more complicated than he'd let himself think about yet.

"Yeah…maybe."

"You should talk to Sam," Bobby said gently.

"I know," he grumbled.

Sam was leaning back, staring at the ceiling when Dean made it back to the room, but he sat up when he noticed his brother was there. "Hey."

"Hey." Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled over to the side of the bed, but he didn't sit down this time. "We uh, we need to talk."

"Yes we do."

"We do?"

"You said it first."

Dean shook his head in confusion. "Look, Bobby thinks we should go to his house from here." He rocked back uneasily on his heels. "I think I agree with him. Maybe you should just stay there."

Sam looked at him strangely. "You think I should stay there? What about you?"

"Well, me sometimes too. I guess Bobby and I'll take turns going out for a while. We're not gonna find a way to get you better sitting on our asses."

He sat up a little straighter. "I know that. That's why I don't want to stay at Bobby's. I want to come with you."

"Sam, you know I wish you could, but—"

"But what? That stuff is portable enough to haul in the car; why should we go together?"

Dean let out a tense breath. "Because the doc said you'd have more time if you took it easy! Besides that, you need to be somewhere close to a hospital, in case they call. You know that."

"Yeah. I know it," Sam answered, staring straight at him.

"Then why the hell is there even an argument here?"

"Dean…" He let out a slow breath between pursed lips, and looked away for just a moment. "Dean, I don't want to spend the next year or two of my life—maybe what's left of my life—sitting around waiting for something that might not happen. I want to keep going. I want to hunt; I want the yellow-eyed demon dead, and we can't do that if I'm sitting at Bobby's place and you're only concerned with looking for something you might never find."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear. He didn't want to hear that Sam was dealing with this better than he was, or that he really might lose his brother. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to think about it—didn't want to consider anything that would give Sam any less than the most chance he had of surviving.

"We can hunt the demon when you're healthy."

"They're saying I'll be healthy enough for regular activity soon—maybe nothing strenuous, but I'm not an invalid, Dean. There's no reason I can't go on the road like before."

"That's the point, Sam; it's not like before. Hunting is physically strenuous sometimes, in case you haven't noticed. Maybe you'll be able to walk around and act normal all you want, but that doesn't mean you'll be able to handle our usual gigs."

"Why not? I can be careful."

"It doesn't matter how careful we are; something always happens."

Sam glared. "Dean, I can't just twiddle my thumbs. I won't."

Dean glowered right back, turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. "I'm not having this discussion."

"Dean—!"

He heard his brother shout after him—even heard the faint gasp of pain that followed the outburst—but he didn't stop. If he'd stopped, Sam would have heard the sobs that broke from his throat.