* I apologize for not writing anything in forever. It's not easy when you're at the end of your junior year of high school. Life demanded a lot from me. But...ta da! Here's a brand new chapter. Enjoy! *

CHAPTER TWO

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

The intelligent American poet Carl Sandburg once stated, "Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." From my perspective, I believe as a young teenager that it's important not only to learn as much as you can about yourself, but it's also key that you at least try to understand other people as well. To shorten up my enhanced language, you simple need to walk a mile in their shoes.

Mind you, some styles of shoes are harder to hike in than others, both literally and figuratively. For instance, it might be a breeze to tour the shoes of a person having a living on the school track team, but a soldier who just returned home from a war and lost a leg might not be so effortless. The world does not always satisfy your wishes.

I dare-say that's all that my brother had on his mind the night before his surgery. When you go down under while they work on you, all you focus on is finding the light at the end of the tunnel, no matter if you see it or not. Whether you know if there's a future for you or are unsure, the escape route is always the course to take. Sometimes, when you get stuck in between life and death like me in terms of my coma, the middle, you pray that when the fight ends and you wake up that you come back to the world with amnesia; just forget about it all and throw it in the trash.

The window in The Bunker let a dusty glow penetrate its borders that evening, and Castiel stared at the ceiling blankly while Dean picked at the chipping skin around his fingernails. A record sent waves of static through the air, and the door had been closed so the two roommates were enclosed thanks to the sturdy barrier.

The alarm clock across the sleeping quarters on the bookcase read 10:34 P.M., the sparkling cider from their party gently sloshing around in the Winchester's stomach. He let out an inaudible burp and got an uncomfortable feeling in his nostrils as the bubbles rose up in his throat. The aftermath of the party reeked on both of the boys. He could see the glowing red dot on his emergency call button out of his peripheral vision, the summoning device lying on the corner of his mattress. Dean was tempted to announce that he was going to bed, but Cas spoke out loud sooner, his fist tucked behind his skull.

"Does it hurt?" The older boy stopped dead, the blanket draped around his shoulders forming new wrinkles as he craned his neck.

"You want to elaborate?" he questioned.

Cas hesitated and exhaled dramatically before carrying on. "I perfectly understand if you wish to remain silent. Surgery, I mean."

Dean hugged his knees tightly into his chest and squeezed his eyes shut so fiercely that he saw brown spots. How was he supposed to explain the process to a kid who hadn't even been at the hospital for 48 hours?

"It's hard to piece together an accurate comparison over the sound of your lingering curiosity," he let out, sliding down on his bed so he too had his gaze fixed on the roof. "But if you really want to know, fundamentally it hurts more mentally than physically. Painkillers man, I'm telling you they're life savers. That sounds controversial, but I mean it with all honesty."

"I believe you," Novak interrupted, playing with his bare feet under the sheets.

Dean opened his mouth a hair to consider what else to tell the other patient. He felt his steady breaths release and skim over his dry lips. "The worst part is knowing. Knowing that when it's all over, some part of you will never remain the same. You'll be damaged emotionally, and you never know if the change did any good for you in the end. To hear the news that it all was a misfortune tears at you in ways that…there are no words for."

He paused to restrain himself from cracking his voice, blinking back tears. "That's all a kid in a hospital wants to hear. Four little words. 'Everything will be okay.' It's a miracle how one tiny phrase can alter a sick kid's future."

The Winchester was pouring out facts so freshly that his listener had no clue how to react.

"Thankfully, it's only a matter of time before the memory stops prodding at you." Castiel rotated his cheek into his pillow to stare across the room. Dean's face was ghostly pale and lost, green irises broken and bearing a wounded mask.

"But I can let you in on something," he hinted, tilting his focus ever so slightly in the direction of his new friend.

"If it's not too much to ask."

"Not at all. And this is your first lesson about what I wouldn't let you in on earlier. You will always be yourself. No matter how many times they cut into you, how many times you bleed, how many times you want to die rather than suffer through all the pain it causes you and the people who love you, you'll come out of that operation room just as you were initially."

"Interesting theory," Cas smiled.

"Yeah. I'll let you in on a little secret. You look in the mirror every morning and see a familiar face staring back at you, but the overall appearance and everything else beneath it isn't you. Your skin, your cells, none of that matters. What defines you is your soul. No one can ever take that from you; no doctor can scratch it, no blade can pierce it, nothing can touch it. It's protected, because a human soul is a valuable and fragile thing of creation."

Cas was still tuned in, but his eyelids had slowly drifted closed as he took it all in soothingly, his spine sinking into his padded bedding.

"I want you to remember that, Cas," Dean said, offering some advice to the novice, "always. A soul is the greatest thing you can possess. Essentially, a great mass of energy can neither be created nor destroyed. And what's a soul besides your own personal energy? It's one on the most remarkable things on this earth. You are unrepeatable. The magic in your bones is all your own, no one else can claim it."

Castiel Novak hummed, a warmness pulsing through his veins, as if his very own soul was fluttering in his chest.

"Nah," Dean muttered, rolling over and thinking the way he gave his speech was rubbish. "Go to sleep before you tell me how sappy that was."

"But I didn't think it was sappy," came the echo from the other bed.

Dean darted his eyes around in an uptight gesture. "Really?" His tone implied that he respectfully disagreed.

"When you talk like that, how could I ignore it?"

"Well that's…comforting."

"I'll take it as a sign. A heads up."

"If you choose to."

"It was actually kind of…moving."

Dean wanted to make his roommate take that confession back. Although, he got right back at him. "Oh please, don't try to bring up some cheesy version of 'The Fault In Our Stars' here." Sadly, Dean's attempt to avoid such storylines is almost how this tale ends up playing out. Minus all the intense personal relationships and what not.

Cas squinted and scrunched up his eyebrows. "I don't understand that reference," he admitted.

My brother's whole face expanded in disbelief. After a few long, drawn-out breaths and a chuckle or two, he responded with, "Wow. I'd never thought I'd hear that come out of your mouth."

Cas didn't ask and flicked the switch on the lamp to his right. Before turning away to face the decorative wall, he eavesdropped on his buddy who was still lying in a frozen pose.

"That's unbelievable," he sing-songed, running a muscular hand through his jagged hair. But Castiel grinned, knowing that the older boy who was planning to undergo surgery in less than 12 hours was amused. The newbie had picked up a lot from his first weekend, and if one thing was blatantly obvious, it was the fact that while Dean tried to be unbreakable on the outside, he was a giant teddy bear stuffed with humor on the inside.

Sure enough when Cas woke, the startling sun blinding his sluggish daze, Dean had left an unmade bed behind and no doubt had been summoned by Dr. River Song for the operation. The time was five past nine, and if he hurried he could maybe catch his roommate before he was wheeled into the surgery ward. Slipping on a flimsy pair of sweatpants and a polo shirt, Cas didn't bother to fix his untidy brown locks as he rushed out in a jiffy, his Adidas sneakers thumping on the wooden tiles.

That's one of the things that is glorious about living in a hospital: you can remain in your pajamas whenever you wish at any hour of the day. However, going downstairs to breakfast a) makes you feel embarrassed, and b) technically it's a 'public facility' along with multiple others since tourists and what not drop by once in a while. Regardless, you still see children screaming and prowling on the hospital property in pajamas round the clock.

If you could have turned the dial and set Cas' run on 'slow-motion', it would've reminded you of one of those dramatic movie moments, like the hero rushing to save the lost princess or something similar. He flew past the physical therapy room, down the observation deck hall, a large bridge connecting buildings that overlooked the city, and paced himself as a roundabout route came to dominate his vision. The silver railings had glass panels from their underneath side to the ground, and a cutout space dropped off below with a staircase to the lower levels. Lightly jogging around the outer edge, a square space emerged before him, which could have been titled as a waiting area. The blue couches with golden pillows were relatively unoccupied, but it wasn't hard to spot the bulky, lonely figure of my older brother on the nearest seat, hands clasped together while his elbows dug into his knees.

"Hey, Dean!" Cas slowed to a halt, heaves of air becoming uncontrollable. His call was greeted with an automatic response from his colleague, the patient resting in his chair, dressed only in a blue hospital gown and a checkered-pattern pair of boxers. Castiel, his polo shirt buttons looking like they might burst off the fabric, lifted his left wrist to show off the red paper band tied around his arm, passing on the message that no matter what Dean went through that day, 'Team Free Will' would be there for him.

The Winchester cracked a smile, showing his new buddy his own accessory that gleamed on his smooth, tan skin. It looked like the shorter boy was going to take off running, but instead he galloped over and joined my brother to keep him company.

"How are you doing?" the kid with the blue eyes questioned after a much-too-long gap of silence.

"Besides the fact that I'll be unconscious in a mere number of minutes and there's a 50% chance I won't wake up again? I'm grand," he sighed sarcastically, rubbing his eyelids. The fragile newbie didn't know what to say in return. The large windows on the outside wall let the morning glow spill onto their laps.

"Dean, you can't leave. Not before I just got to know you."

My sibling snorted. "Kiddo you barely know me," he commented.

"Well, that doesn't mean I can't be here by your side. To support you. And to protect you."

The green irises became fuzzy. "Protect me from what?" The slow, tense query rolled off his tongue.

"Not from anything. I —"

"He means to protect your heart, Dean." The indicated teenager snapped around to lock his gaze on Doctor Song, who stood in the entrance to the surgery ward.

His head shook back and forth. "How do you mean?"

"Don't you see? You've got a little brother who needs you. Friends who need you," she spoke, putting emphasis on the word. "All of us are here to make sure you don't damage yourself in any way. You wouldn't want to be responsible for breaking their hearts by leaving this world now, would you?"

Dean froze, focusing on the floor, his mind racing with a jumbled pile of considerations.

River Song strolled down the hall a ways to stand by an empty bed, ready for her patient to hop on. The Winchester turned back around to the person sitting by his side, his expression blank and concentration gone.

"Whether you believe it or not, she's got a point you know," Cas inputted.

"Peachy," my brother considered, and he leapt up to accept that his operation time had arrived.

"Damn," John swore, muttering to himself as his PS4 controller fell onto his thighs. 'FIFA 15' was paused on the television, the final score of the soccer match showing that Watson had lost 3 – 1 playing Sherlock. Amelia sat on the arm of a recliner while Molly had her nose buried in a book, listening to the best friends argue over stupid penalties throughout the duration of the game.

"And the crowd goes wild! It's Sherlock Holmes for the win!" Pond commentated, throwing her arms in the air enthusiastically. Her fingers suddenly rapidly typed, her mobile phone dancing in her possessive grip.

"How the hell do you text that fast, woman?" John asked, his oxygen tube creeping around his body as he twisted his spine.

Amy's chewing gum popped as she formed a bubble with her teeth. "Please," she rolled her eyes, "with technology these days, it's not hard to catch up on basic skills." The blond hid his face so she couldn't see his alarmed reaction.

Molly felt brave enough to step in and interfere. "Who indeed are you even texting?"

"Someone we all know," Amelia assured, swinging her legs over so they folded neatly.

"Amy, please don't leave us all guessing. It's really not your area," Sherlock piped up.

"Hashtag don't care," she replied, using typical teenage social media language. "Greg Lestrade, you clueless peeps."

"Rock on!" John happily exclaimed. "Is he coming to visit soon as he promised?"

"Give it a week," the red-head suggested.

"Hang on, you all do realize what is going on now, correct?" Molly directed.

"Senseless humans?"

"Now let's not get too critical, Sherlock!" Watson punched him for his rude remark.

"Pestering nurses?" he offered as a replacement option.

"Abysmal pop artists whining while they sing?"

"Tacky fashion statements?"

"Rigged video games?"

"Irrelevant movie sequels?"

"Oooh, selfies?" Sherlock was a notch away from lunging at Amy in frustration.

"No!" Molly cut the three of them off, brushing off all of their reminders.

"Me dying?" I felt like secretly adding in my mind, at least being included some way or another.

"Haven't you even considered that Dean is having surgery today?" A switch had been messed with; the entire sleeping quarters went noiseless.

"Oh you mean like now, now? True," Pond whispered, letting her electronic device slide down onto the cushions.

"Shouldn't we be there for him? After all, as if it hasn't already, his life is about to change."

"He's experienced it before though," Holmes notified. "So if there's any one of us who knows how to pull out of a fight, it's him."

"Then why are we all sitting around like a bunch of idiots today of all days?" John pointed out, making his thumb move the video game controller's joystick in circles.

"I believe the proper term you're looking for is 'idjits."

Now would be the appropriate time to introduce you to the man we all identify as 'the uncle' of Ocean Park Hospital. Bobby Singer is considered a family member to all of us, and he hangs around the building in case we ever need someone to talk to. He keeps saying that one day he'll donate a good chunk of his money to the hospital, but I'm convinced that he doesn't have a large sum. Mind you he's not broke, but he doesn't earn much running a garage right up the highway. A portion of it is also because he tends to drink beer often, and even if he never had kids of his own, he's the kind of man you'd want as a father. A scruffy, ginger beard matched his hair, which he always kept hidden under a baseball cap.

"Bobby!" The team of teenagers chimed a synchronized chorus as he made his presence at the door.

"Hey, gang!" His cocky attitude showed that he was tempted to dissect their conversation from the clues he was given with eavesdropping. "Now tell me, why do you all feel like a bunch of idjits?"

"Well, nobody considered this, until miss mouse over there brought it up, but Dean's having surgery today," John spread the news, leaning forwards in his seat. Hey, I did! He's my brother!

"Oh boo hoo, princess. Cry me a river. He'll live." Yep. That's Bobby Singer for you.

"Yeah, and in case you haven't noticed, Castiel isn't here," Molly pointed out.

"Neither is Clara," Holmes added. "I'm sure she's just stuffing her face full of cookies." John looked around in horror for two reasons.

"Oh for God's sake, how many times do we need to remind you, John? Not your sister, Clara. The Clara who's currently here, living in this dreaded hospital."

"Shut up, I know" he mumbled. "That was an unnecessary comment though. Don't make fun of a girl with an eating disorder. You can't even relate to what she's going through."

"Who's this Castiel you keep discussing?" Bobby raised an eyebrow, flannel shirt parting open to reveal his slightly chubby stomach. Give him break, the guy's in his late forties.

"Oh you aren't caught up on the news?" Amy wondered. "If you really want to know the scoop, Dean has made a new, pal. He showed up not five days ago."

"Balls!" Molly tried not to laugh too harshly. Just for your information, that's like Bobby's code for something being wrong. Or you can prefer for it to be his most favored swear word.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"This must mean I'll have another one of you troublemakers to look after."

"Yeah, but that's your job, right?" John said to clarify.

"That's what I'm here for." They all smiled at his soothing affirmation. Dead silence filled the bedroom, and I was glad I wasn't present for the next question to be answered. Not something a teenager wants to freely talk about; no doubt downright boring.

"So how was school today?"

"The usual," Molly gingerly spoke up for the rest of them, marking her chapter and setting the object aside.

"Well, how about we make up for it tonight? I'll put together a satisfying dinner for us all."

"Deal," John announced first.

"I'm in," Amy raised her voice, taking no opportunity to miss out on food.

Bobby turned to leave but paused to finish his thought. "Oh, and be sure to bring along this Castiel fellow. It's about time I met him."

I suppose I can't leave out such an important character to this plot forever. You have to meet my dad, John Winchester, sooner or later. It may as well be now. He had to enter the building anyways that day to sign the papers and confirm that Dean's surgery was officially going to happen, so it shouldn't have been a shocker to Nurse Morstan when she walked into my room and found my father gripping my hand.

"Mr. Winchester," she stuttered, doing a double-take the minute her brain comprehended his appearance. "What a pleasant surprise."

"If that's what you'd like to call it." He had a deep, manly voice, his leather jacket slumped over the back of his chair.

Mary flexed and contracted her hands repeatedly. "Is this a bad time?" she gingerly wondered.

"Yeah…" my dad admitted, hesitating. He squeezed the crook between my elbow. For understanding how other people feel, you first have to consider how you feel inside. And in my case, feelings are all I've got. Once the female adult had vanished, he found it safe to speak up once more.

"Hey, Sammy."

"I miss you, Dad." If only he could hear those words from my own mouth.

A clank noise told me that he'd set something metal on my bedside table. "Well, I have some thrilling news," he started, tracing the line that made up my forehead. "My service in the Marines has officially ended. I am no longer required to follow orders."

"Dad, that's fantastic!" That doesn't have much meaning when you can't jump up and wrap your arms around him. My father had been at war for years, but his long break on leave showed that he was recovering from injuries, both physical and mental. Now we didn't have to worry about him being shipped off any longer.

"I figured you should have these," he continued, patting whatever he'd laid down on the piece of furniture to my left. Right, his dog tags.

"One for you, one for Dean," he commanded, scraping them against each other. Their encrypted text read:

WINCHESTER

JOHN

306-00-3894

TYPE AB

NON-RELIGIOUS

He'd actually received a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart for his military services.

"So from now on, I promise to stay right here and protect my boys."

His comfort felt like a broken lock in my mind; one step closer to bursting free out of my cage. He broke out in a fit of tremors and couldn't collect the nerve to spit out the information of significance. The gulp was so loud Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games could have shot it down with one arrow in a flash.

"I think it's about time you were told the truth, Sam. About your mother." My eyes wanted to bulge, but they were glued shut. "When you were younger, you just started asking questions to Dean. He kept begging you to stop, but we could never hold back your curiosity." I was grinning in disguise.

"You gotta understand something. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And the only thing that I concentrated on was keeping you boys safe. Sadly, I couldn't accept the fact that…you and me, we're just different."

You can imagine that my throat would have croaked in that instant. It's awkward when long, sentimental chats are one-sided.

"But I get it now, Sammy."

"Get what?" is what I truly wanted to ask him.

"Look I realize that I haven't been there for you lately. Or Dean for that matter…However, from here on out, I am going to do my best to become a better father." I wanted my eyes to boil up in tears. Any kind of emotion would have been more fitting than just lying there in a coma.

And then he began to sing the marvelous rendition of my favorite Kansas song, the tune peaceful sounding to my ears.

"Alright, Dean." He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling and avoiding the blazing lamp that was pointed right on his face. Doctor River Song stooped over him, cap covering her bushy hair and mask tucked under her chin. "You know the drill," she told her patient, pressing her knuckles into the pillow. About five wires snuck under my brother's hospital gown, and another one was at the ready to help him breathe after the induction was over.

"Now, do you remember what I told you about the surgery process?"

"Yeah. All's good," the Winchester assured her.

"Excellent. The key is simply to remain calm." He smiled and wiggled his bare toes. "So, can you do something for me while we get all the supplies prepared?"

"Sure thing."

"I know you've probably used a ton already, but I want you to select a happy memory. A time, place, or person that makes you feel uplifted. Some case when everything seemed, perfect. Can you do that for me?"

My sibling licked his lips and showed the doctor his pearly-white teeth. "I'm on it," he informed.

"Great." She winked and left the teenager alone to his deep thinking.

Clara Oswin Oswald's bedroom is filled with spare pieces of paper pinned to the walls. They're drawings, theories, lists, all drawn or written in blue pen. There's ink stains on her desk, red string connected to other dots on the bulletin board, and most importantly, a clay model of a box.

A 1963 blue police telephone call box.

It's partially why we all think she's insane. But she tends to just sit there for hours on end, trying to decipher what all of it could mean. She claims it's been seen by dozens of other people in America, but there's no proof. No evidence.

But what can I say? She's convinced. And a thirteen-year-old girl will not let that go so easily. There's an exception to that in this specific situation, however. Some massive weight was on her shoulders, and it was approaching right around the corner.

"Time for your weigh-in," Craig Owens pronounced. See that twist I just threw on you?

"Yeah. I'm coming," she sheepishly responded, though she definitely dreaded the event.

It felt a little awkward to follow a college-aged man into the exercising room, but at least there was a slim amount of relief when Clara spotted Amelia walking on a treadmill, her hands secured onto the handlebars.

"Are you ready to pick up the pace?" her instructor pressed.

"Seriously? You can't keep bugging me about that. If I remotely go over the limit it might ignite a spasm. You sure you want to be the guy who will be known by my dreadful incident?" She flipped her electric locks and didn't so much as touch any of the buttons.

"Alright, Clara." Craig placed a hand on the complex scale and nodded for her to follow his lead. "Step on up. Let's see your progress."

Acting as if it were a rigorous task, Oswald tapped one foot onto the platform and placed the other one beside it. She held in her inhale, crossing her fingers that the numbers would stop blinking and show a decent average.

Craig gasped as his mouth hung open. "Look at that!" he exclaimed, pointing to the screen, "you gained a full pound!" The patient's heart fluttered.

"Clara, I am so proud of you," he acknowledged, and she stepped down to embrace her nurse in a hug.

"I'm going to make it aware to all the other employees straight away," he barked, and within a jiffy his legs had carried him down the nearest hall.

"And…we're done here," Pond ordered, leaping off the machine and rushing over to her fellow group member. "So, you gained a full pound, huh?"

Clara shrank back as if Amy was about to clobber her. "Yes," she said rather quietly.

"Brilliant…" she grinned, swaying back and forth like she couldn't believe it. "Give me a high five girl!"

The slap of their palms together reminded me of the last thing I heard before the car crash happened; the sound of metal crunching from the impact of a huge force.

The shuffling of shoes was heard on the tiles as a bunch of doctors came to surround my older brother, wearing protective gear and securing observation glasses onto the bridges of their noses. Nevertheless, the first to come into his peripheral vision was River.

"Selected that positive memory yet?" she asked, bending over to check his condition.

"You can count on it. When we were little, Sam and I dressed up as Batman and Superman and flew around our house. Eventually we ended up on the shed roof."

"Oooh, risky little devils, are you?" Doctor Song giggled, poking him on his collar bone.

"We try."

"Alright, well we're going to begin the operation now. All I want you to concentrate on is that memory. Hold it close. It'll secure you in a place while we fix you up for a while. Keep you nice and comfy."

"Will do."

"That's it, sweetie. Now on my count," she began, raising her arm to give the signal to her partner. "Ten — nine — eight — seven —"

By that point, Dean had already sunk under, unconscious.

"Really?" Everything was a mass of white, glowing and wide. Pure white. "I was just in surgery…" he mumbled. The usual sofas and manager desks were missing; they had been removed from the bottom floor of the hospital, and instead all that remained was a blank space. The sky above in the entire ceiling sunroof showed a pleasant, puffy set of clouds, ones that could have been conjured up by an artist's delicate paintbrush strokes.

"Sheesh, I know I've been here before, but it doesn't have to look the same every damn time!" he screamed to no one in particular, and the echo of his boasting tone reverberated back at him. The structure was all still there: spiral ramp in the cylinder tower, elevators just past the restrooms, the cafeteria round the bend, all of it. A soft, pitter-patter of feet welcomed him, but the Winchester couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Every instance he'd been here, not once did another being disturb him.

And then he glanced upwards and saw something that startled his teased brain.

"Hi, Dean." His green eyes had soaked up all the shock in the world.

There I was. Yes, me. Standing in a matching pajama shirt with pants, red band clipped around my wrist and everything. My hair was parted in the middle, and it was the first time I had laid eyes on my sibling since we'd arrived at the hospital.

My brother had trouble saying my name, like it was permanently removed from his existence. "Sammy?" he clarified, shuffling around as if to get a better view.

"Boy is it good to see you."

Dean grabbed his spikey locks in tuffs. "I'm losing my mind," he told himself, his watch surface reflecting the sun rays.

"Hey, I don't know how much time we have," I stated, suddenly appearing by his side as if I could apparate like in Harry Potter. It made my brother jump out of his skin. "Why don't we talk or play a game while we have the opportunity?" I suggested.

"I don't understand," Dean muttered. "Is this some sort of sign? I was in surgery! This has never happened to me before! Never did you pop out of nowhere!"

"Ever heard of changing things up a bit?"

"A bit? Sam, this is like receiving a blow to the head."

"I see your point. Sorry I disturbed you." I found his focus violently directed towards me.

"Are you kidding me? Don't apologize, Sammy. I've never been happier to see you." There was no chance to come back with a saying because he had me in a hug too tight to escape from. His presence, his company, was soothing as I let it sink through my skin.

When he let go, I offered him a little tip. "Just don't freak out on me or something like a fangirl."

He chuckled. "You've got my word."

"So," I started unsurely, "would you prefer chess or monopoly?"

"Well, looks like I'm going to be stuck here for a good chunk of time. Hell, let's break out the cash." I laughed at his mild humor.

"It sure does feel nice to hear you speak again, little brother." He ruffled my hair and I pushed him away.

Before I could snap my fingers and make the board appear, Dean swayed, gripping onto my shoulder as he tensed up. I'd never seen him so worried.

"Sam, I feel dizzy," he told me, and I took that as a warning.

"Hey!" I yelled, hooking my arm aside his hip to give him some support. His balance was uncontrollable; his knees had transformed into jelly. "Dean!" Too late. He was already on the ground, arm over his chest, and I knew his mental picture, his trip of staying in between life and death, had cut off sharply. Sooner than he would have enjoyed.

"It's okay, Dean," I comforted, crouching beside his limp figure. "I'm not going anywhere."

I never let his hand go until his physical body faded into nothingness.

A skull. That was the initial thing Castiel saw when he entered Sherlock Holmes's dingy room on the third floor. There was a large collection of junk scattered around in piles: chemistry test tubes, old cups of tea, moldy jars of jam, you name it. A secluded violin was stationed in the far corner, and an expensive laptop was thrown onto the leather couch.

And the one and only himself sat curled up on his bed, head tipped back and eyes closed. Novak thought he was possibly meditating, but he stood corrected when his knock on the window served as an interference.

Holmes watched him scrupulously for a few moments before throwing his opinion out there. "Never thought I'd catch an adrift puppy like you in this room of all places."

Castiel tried to ignore the offensive outburst and crept into the square area, hands clasped behind his back, hidden. "Uh, there is a reason why I came, regardless of your efforts to push me away."

Sherlock ruffled the sheets. "Alright. Spill the beans."

Out of the corner of his vision Cas spotted a yellow smiley face, clearly having been spray painted on the wall. It was with great effort that the boy finally got the courage to speak out. With a trembling lower lip, he asked, "Has anyone failed to make it back?" His knuckles shoot, warning signs of his Parkinson's disease coming back.

Sherlock paused, clearly knowing what was on the newcomer's mind. "You're talking about death, aren't you?" he checked to make sure. Cas nodded, frightened.

Holmes's stomach grumbled. He grunted as a reaction and apologized. "Sorry, didn't have breakfast today. It's just a…symptom," the curly-haired patient admitted, unwillingly.

"Symptom?"

All the questions needed to be answered, only for Novak's sake. "You can't exactly expect perfection from a teenager with ADHD now, can you?" Sherlock sighed, poking at the thread stitches in his duvet.

Cas stared at his bony knees, drained of comebacks. "I'm…I'm sorry," he finally managed. They both sat with an intense gap of air between them, the older boy slightly beating himself up with his behavior. To escape his miniature torture, he decided to get back on track.

"Um…I don't mean to budge in, but will you answer my previous question?"

"Yes. Right. Get…easily…distracted," Holmes mumbled, not forming complete sentences. Cas inhaled, preparing for the blow to come like a hurricane. "We've never had anyone close to us leave," the taller kid shared, and there was a fraction of a second where the other regained his wavering emotions. "There's no doubt that, unfortunately, people do come and go weekly here. That's just the environment." There wasn't an appropriate response to Holmes's fact.

"Think about it though," Sherlock urged. "There's always a proper time to die. That's just one of the stages of life. And, even if it may be impossible, we must learn to embrace it when it does approach us."

He slapped Cas on the back harder than was intended, rising from the mattress and crossing the room to retrieve an object from his desk.

"For you," he exclaimed, handing over a crinkled envelope to the boy who tried to steady his violent arms. Novak took it in confusion, breaking the seal and slipping his fingers inside. He expected a letter to emerge, but instead it was a page of sheet music, bearing no name, but the words 'Written For Practice By Sherlock Holmes' caught his eye.

"You wrote this?" Cas beamed, pointing to the treble clef in the top left corner.

"No." The older kid's mind shut down a little. "I copied the notes from one of my favorite songs onto the paper. It's your job to figure out the song and how to play it."

Pause. "And what if I can't read them?" the new friend wondered.

Sherlock smirked from across the bedroom, his hands in his pockets and his gaze scanning the darkening sky through the window. "I believe," he said, taking a few moments to build up a dramatic effect, "you will come to read the notes along the way. You must observe, not just see."

Dinner Bobby Singer had promised followed about a little less than three hours later in an office-sized lounge on the floor below us. Everyone attended, even Clara, except for us Winchester brothers.

Bobby had removed his baseball cap and had his sock-protected feet perched up on the light brown coffee table. He occupied one of the two recliners, and the rest of the group was spread out on a set of couches. The only person who sat on the floor for pleasure was Sherlock.

The smell of rice and steak filled the boarded-in room, and Clara Oswald picked at her dinner with a silver fork, leaving a perfectly-cooked piece of meat untouched.

"Ya know, if Dean were here, he'd gobble down that steak without hesitation," Singer explained, flashing his gaze at the girl's plate. The only sound besides the silence was Molly sipping her lemonade.

"How's he doing, by the way?" the uncle asked curiously, no expecting any uplifting updates.

"Still under," John reported. Cas slowed his chewing, the rice fitting between every crevice in his mouth.

Bobby removed a flask from inside his plaid jacket, taking a swig of whatever liquid was in its contents, probably beer or whiskey.

There was a loud crash as Amy dropped her knife, missing her knee by inches. "Can you please keep a secure grip on a weapon even as small as that?" Singer belted, which made Holmes snicker. "I'd rather not be a witness to a stabbing."

"A self-stabbing even?" John joined in.

"Look, I just don't want any of you kids accidently hurting yourselves." Molly and Clara both exchanged small smiles of appreciation.

"Now that you've all been fed, you kids better get your asses back to level five before the nurses go all sappy on me."

"Ah, they all know we're here," Sherlock told, standing up regardless and flattening out his blazer.

"Well, we've certainly had a wonderful evening," Molly admitted. "Thank you so much for a satisfying meal."

"Don't mention it," the bearded man spoke, sharing his loving smile at their departure.

"I feel fat," Amy let out, rubbing her lower abdominal area that contained a little bump from consuming too much delicious food. She had stolen the couch in Molly's room, who was nestled within her pillow and the figure of someone unfamiliar to you was sprawled on the wooden floorboards. He is a fair friend to Sherlock and John, and Molly is very fond of him, but I've never known him personally. He's the boastful, humorous, energetic Greg Lestrade.

"Well, you've never exactly been the skinniest of girls," the distinct, thick accent replied.

Pond raised her head slowly from the cushion, giving Lestrade the most appalled face she could muster. "I ought to smack you," her voice fired, making every syllable sharp.

"Oh please, it's called sarcasm," Greg explained, rolling his eyes and running his hands through his spikey hair. "Learn to take a joke when you hear one."

Altogether, the threesome heard the grinding of a set of tiny wheels coming round the corner, the person not in sight until John's blond crown appeared between the door frames. He was inhaling massively and his eyes were popping from his sockets.

"What is it?" Hooper questioned, tossing her long, silky locks over her shoulder, which she'd let down to dry out after a shower.

John jerked his thumb in the direction of the hallway, almost as if the news had drifted down a path and into my sleeping quarters where I was able to listen.

And then he finally managed to spit it out. "It's Dean. He's awake."

Sounds of beeps filled the older Winchester's eardrums as the consciousness transformed from pitch black to faded colors. At first they weren't even colors, they were gradients. The blues and reds mingled like some cinematography trick cameramen show in movies. His apple green irises found it relatively impossible to absorb the setting he was in because his mind had not reset from his encounter with me, Sammy.

Abruptly, as if a pair of car windshield wipers had scrubbed his vision clean, the world unfolded before him. A transparent tube snaked around his ears and connected in his nostrils, and a collection of about half-a-dozen wires slid under his hospital gown and were taped to his chest somewhere. The gentle palm of a hand rested on his collarbone, and he couldn't quite make out what sort of figure-fitting object covered his forehead. A semi blurry figure stood with perfect posture on his left.

"Is that you, Dr. Song?" my brother questioned, examining the mass of bushy curls sprouting from her head.

"Yes, sweetie," the adult comforted, stroking his cheek, which had sprouted a fresh, scruffy stubble from his previous shave. He couldn't quite interpret why she was avoiding the top of his head altogether.

"You were spectacular," River commented, leaning in closer to inspect her patient's status. "Especially for a man your age." He gave his doctor a weak smile in response.

"What can I say? I'm a natural," the Winchester wise-cracked.

There was a small 'humph' from the woman. "Brain hurt?" she wondered, spotting the surgery scar just above his ear. He raised a shaky finger to gingerly tap where his hairline was, only to find a stretchy material that wrapped his upper skull like a mummy.

"Bandages," Dean whispered, slightly irritated. Dr. Song let the teenager recharge his batteries a bit before noticing he'd gone a ghostly pale.

"I feel like I'm gonna throw up," my brother shared, letting his arm hit the mattress violently as he sank back and a rush of heat controlled his body. The adult pushed him back to a resting position, keeping the boy locked in a cocoon of blankets.

"Alright, Dean. Just relax." He closed his eyelids tight, squeezing them until wrinkles appeared close to his eyebrows. "Breathe in and exhale smoothly." My sibling did so, comprehending her orders as if he were in a yoga class.

"Your operation went well. We'll just discuss it later, okay?" The Winchester gave her a faint nod, feeling the tube scrap the inside of his nose.

Dean had no clue that he would fall asleep for another four hours.

When my brother had enough strength to wake up and remain in a conscious state without feeling limp, River Song gave Team Free Will permission to go visit him. Even my nurse, Mary Morstan came in to tell me about my brother's situation.

"Dean did very well with his surgery," she explained, checking my pulse and adjusting my duvet. "You know, not very many boys his age make it through with as many operations as he has. Your brother is…incredible."

"I know."

"You're hanging on too, little man." She patted my shoulder. Her light smile suddenly turned into a frown. "It's been three weeks now. You've got to snap out of it soon."

"I can't! I'm trapped!"

Mary recalled all the friends I had fighting for me. "Can I let you in on a secret, Sam?"

"You know I love 'em."

"I believe you're in there somewhere. You just have to, reach that last step, my friend."

Steps…

In reality, I see…a light at the end of this tunnel…

"There it is." An x-ray popped up on the display screen before Dean's bed, showing the outline of a head and the scribbly lines that made up a brain. His brain.

Not a single splash of color was visible on the MRI.

"Dean, do you know what this means?" my sibling's doctor asked. The Winchester stared, stunned. The next sentence, five simple words, would make my brother's heart fill with an endless supply of hope.

"We removed the tumor completely."

His mouth was agape, and he trembled in disbelief as he tried to get the words out. "Are you serious?"

River smiled. "I would not lie about life-changing news like this."

Dean had never let his emotions show so quickly in all his life, not even when he held me, his newborn brother, in his arms for the first time.

"And, I believe you have a visitor. He's been sitting outside all morning." She stepped aside to reveal the figure of a skinny boy, ruffled hair and blue eyes as distinct as always. Castiel gave a little wave, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Congratulations, my boy," Dr. Song expressed, giving him one last punch before leaving the boys to their business.

"Hey," Cas muttered.

"Hey."

"Rough night I presume?"

"You have no idea," his roommate responded. The tube had been disposed of, leaving the taller boy to inhale air on his own.

"Bit overdressed, don't you think?" He indicated his message at Novak's suit. "Especially just for a visit."

"Oh." Cas glanced down awkwardly, speaking gibberish.

"Forget it," Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

Castiel crossed the room and settled in the stool on his friend's right side. "So, tumor free. How does it feel?"

My brother tried to hide his excited smile. His appearance made Novak show his teeth as well. "In all honesty," Dean began, leaning a little closer so Cas could examine his fictitious hazel irises, "it feels like a fantasy. Magical and real."

It may be hard to walk in someone else's shoes, but you don't always have to. In Dean's case, Castiel did the right thing. All he had to do was sit beside his recovering friend.

And later when Cas came into my room to celebrate the glory with me, he gripped my hand gloriously and praised, "Dean Winchester is saved."