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"Well, your brother was really very lucky. From the way he was bleeding from the mouth we thought he might be bleeding internally, but it turned out that he only bit his tongue as he landed. He has a few cracked ribs and a broken arm - you'll have to be careful of those over the next few weeks - but its only really the head wound that should cause any concern. He must have hit it on a rock or suchlike, since the gash was quite deep, but there was no brain damage. He does have a bad concussion, though, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had a little memory loss when he wakes up... of course, you're aware of the fact that a blow to the head this severe and the sheer shock of the trauma to his body could put him in a coma from which he may not recover, and that gunshot wound in his shoulder didn't help much... but, we'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I'm really feeling very positive, Mr. Elk, your brother is young and healthy and I have high hopes that he'll make a full recovery... Now, were there any questions at all you have to ask me?"

Dr. Katlin Marshall came to a halt outside one of the many rooms in the ICU, finally peeling her brown eyes from the chart she carried in her left hand and focusing on the man who had followed her up from reception. The corridors and rooms were dark now - it was way past visiting hours and only small circular lights on the ceiling cast a dim glow for the nurses. What she saw in this eerie glare were green eyes dulled with tears gazing down at the floor, the skin around them red from crying, clothes stained with dried blood and dirt, hands hanging loosely at his sides, mouth stuck in a dejected line. Slowly, the man lifted his head and fixed her with a broken stare.

"Is this his room?" Dean Winchester croaked, his voice thick and rasping.

Dr. Marshall nodded, still trying to get over the alarming sight of him. She rarely saw visitors in such a state. She would have suggested that he should go home, maybe get some rest or at least change out of the bloodstained T-shirt, but somehow she already knew his reply. She stepped back to let him pass, and he walked to the door. It wasn't until the door had swung shut behind him that she shook herself and then continued on her way, scraping her hair back behind her ear.

Dean made his way slowly to Sam's side and looked down at his brother, fresh tears running from his eyes. Sam's face was pale, a clear plastic mask fixed over his nose and mouth, his hands arranged neatly over his stomach. His eyelashes formed smooth cresents on his cheeks and his hair splayed against the crisp white pillow. A heart monitor bleeped softly beside him. Dean reached for his hand and squeezed it, fighting to keep the sob that was rising in his chest down.

"Hey, Sam. I'm back," he said quietly. "They said you're gonna be okay. Thing is, I'm having a little trouble believing them when I have to come in and see you like... like this. So maybe you should wake up and tell me yourself, just to clinch it."

He smoothed his thumb over Sam's limp hand. He suddenly felt unbearably tired, his legs trembling beneath him. Two hours of pacing blindly around the waiting room and the drama of the last couple of days were finally taking their toll. There was a chair on the other side of the room, but he couldn't let go yet. Instead, he eased himself down onto his knees beside the bed and knelt there, the floor hard beneath him. He rested his forehead against his and Sam's entwined hands.

"Christ, Sammy," he whispered. "I thought you were dead. I was so sure. I mean you looked like... and..." His mind was moving too fast for his mouth, showing him flashes of Sam lying broken and bloody on the ground before he could finish his sentences. He shook his head. "You have to stop doing this to me, Sammy. I just can't take it anymore. I can't watch you die again. The whole point of this god-damned deal was that you would be okay..." He opened his eyes, forcing the words out. "But you're never going to be okay, are you? When I... when my deal comes due, you'll be alone. No one's gonna be there to sheild you anymore. How can I deal with that?" His emotions bubbled up once more and he shut his eyes as more tears coursed down his cheeks. His voice cracked as he spoke again. "I just wanted to save you, Sammy... Dad thought I couldn't, but I swore to myself that I would. I just wanted to save you... Sammy..." He rose up from his slouched position, gazing blearily at Sam's face. "Can you hear me, bro? Sammy, please say you can hear me."

Sam made no response. Dean let out a choking sob. Part of his brain told him that he was just tired, that was the only reason he was overreacting so much. Another part made him feel like all he wanted to do was fall and keep falling forever. He sat back against the wall, still clutching Sam's hand.

"I just wanted to save you," he mumbled. He knew Sam couldn't hear him... but he had to know. He tried again, but his voice was getting smaller. "I just wanted... Sammy... I wanted to..."

The wind tore at Sam like the ferocious claws of a monster as he fell. He could hear himself screaming, in fact he could hear millions of voices screaming all around him... he hit the ground so hard that his head snapped backwards and darkness clouded over his vision. Blood flowed from his mouth as he gasped and choked, weakly trying to push himself over onto his back. He could feel hard, gritty rock against his skin and a strange, searing heat in his side. He needed to find Dean. Dean might be in trouble... shit, why couldn't he remember what had just happened? His whole brain felt as if it was on fire, his memory of the last few moments a writhing, shifting mass of confusion. Dimly, he heard the purr of a engine and the squeal of tyres...

He opened his eyes, lifting himself up onto his hands and knees as he did so. Blood dripped steadily from his lips onto the floor. He turned his head, breathing raggedlly. He was crouched on a dirt road in the middle of a desert. The sun beat down mercilessly on his body, so hot that he could almost feel his skin sizzling with each labourous thud of his heart. In the distance he could see a dark shape speeding towards him. Sam tried to take a breath but blood clogged his throat. He spat onto the floor and swallowed, spat and swallowed, tried to clear his throat enough to breathe. Suddenly the ground began to tremble and he looked up in shock to see the dark shape - a car - rushing towards him. With a huge effort he rose to his feet and launched himself to the side. He came down hard on the rocky ground clear of the road and the car sped past, lights blazing.

Sam scrambled to his feet, staggering as his head pounded. He looked around, panicking.

"Dean!" he yelled. His voice echoed and sang in the air around him. "DEAN! Dean, help me!"

"Sam."

He whirled around, gasping as pain flared up in his side. Dean stood behind him. No, not Dean... vampire-Dean. The vampire cocked its head and watched as Sam swayed, blood trickling down his chin.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said ruefully, shaking his head. "What's dead should stay dead. No shades of grey."

Sam stared at him. No, Dean didn't say that. Someone else had said that, someone who Dean hated. "What?" he managed, speaking thickly through the blood.

"We find something evil and we kill it. That's our job," Dean explained patiently, as if talking to a child. "Its okay, Sam. You asked me to do it anyway."

He pulled his gun from his belt and levelled it at Sam. Sam flinched, his mouth dropping open.

"Wh-What?" he repeated. "Dean, please, what're you-"

"Sorry, Sam," another voice from behind him said. "But you're evil. Tough break but hell..."

Sam turned. Gordon stood behind him, holding a large machette in one hand and a rifle in the other. Sam took a step backwards and his feet caught around something heavy and limp. He stumbled and fell to the ground, hitting it hard on his injured side. He let out a yell of pain and then froze as he took in the thing he had fallen over. Dean's severred head lay on the ground beside him, mouth gaping open to reveal his fangs, eyes burning red with bloodlust. His body lay a few meters away, still twitching with reflexes. Sam let out a scream.

"Dean! No! DEAN!"

"One down," Gordon said calmly, moving forwards. "One to go... come on now, Sam, don't make this harder than it has to be..."

Sam shut his eyes tightly - and opened them in the passengar seat of the Impala. No one was driving, and yet the car was speeding along the road... Sam yelped and lurched over to the wheel, catching at it. A hand closed over his shoulder and he twisted to see Dean sitting behind him, fangs glinting.

"I can live forever as a monster, Sammy."

Sam could feel tears pricking at his eyes. "Dean, please, stop it," he whispered. "I can't dream this anymore... I want to wake up..."

"But," Dean said, frowning. "I thought you said you would save me."

"I will-"

Sam broke off as a bullet hit the seat beside him and turned to stare through the windscreen. The car was plummetting straight towards Lusing, who stood in the middle of the road with a gun lifted... Sam let out a harsh scream and let go of the wheel. He burried his head in his arms, curling his body right over.

"Dean," he whimpered. "Dean... please..."

Dean flinched awake as a hand touched his shoulder and jerked back against the wall, fear sparking through him. He was staring up into two hazel eyes. He let out a yelp and tried to scramble up but his boots slipped on the slick polished floor and he dropped back down again, gasping as pain shot up his spine.

"Hey, hey, relax!" The stranger drew back, lifting her hands. Dean had enough time to take in the nurse's uniform before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you. We didn't realize you were still here. You don't have to sleep on the floor there, by the way, we can bring in a camp bed for you."

Dean realized that he had done just that. He had fallen asleep where he sat, one hand still clutching Sam's. Sam's discarded hand now hung from the bed, swinging slightly. Dean rose to his feet unsteadily, reaching for it again. He placed it carefully back on the bed before turning to face the nurse, running a hand through his hair. It was considerably lighter now, the glow of dawn seeping in through the window. Dean felt for his mobile, and then remembered that he'd had to turn it off when he got to the hospital.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Eight thirty," the nurse replied. "I was just checking on your brother. His results are looking good considering everything he's been through." She fixed her gaze on him. "What about you?"

He remembered his bruised face, the gash that was still lingering on his cheekbone. He forced a smile - all he managed was a small quirk of his lips - and nodded. The nurse didn't look at all convinced but left the subject of his rearranged face alone. She moved away to stand at the end of Sam's bed, noting down the results of the machines on her chart. Dean sighed heavily and stepped to the side of the bed, pushing his hands into his pockets. He studied Sam's face critically, pressing his lips together. His brother was still abnormally pale and sweat was standing out on his forehead, sticking strands of his hair to his skin. Dean could see the shallow, harsh rise and fall of his chest and the small shivers that ran over his body every so often.

"He doesn't look so good," Dean said, his voice sharpening with worry. "Think he might have a fever..." He reached forwards without waiting for the nurse to reply and pressed his hand against Sam's forehead. It was distinctly warm. He pushed the sweat-slicked hair back, his hand shaking slightly. "Yeah, he does..."

"Its alright, Sir," she replied calmly. "He's probably just got a slight infection. He's on antibiotics and he'll be just fine in a few hours."

Dean bit his lip. He was sure she knew what she was doing, but he couldn't help but worry. Whenever something was wrong with Sam, Dean was always the one who looked after him. Dean was the one who administered the painkillers and the antibiotics and fixed the bandages in place and kept him hydrated. When someone else was in charge, Dean didn't know what was being done to his brother. He just didn't like it. He watched his brother's eyes flicker beneath their lids.

"Do you think he'll be waking up soon?"

The nurse shrugged. "I'm sorry. Head wounds can be very unpredictable. It could be an hour, it could be a week, it could be a month. After a month we'll begin to discuss other options..."

Dean closed her off. Whenever doctors spoke that dreaded sentence, he stopped listening. There were no other options. He would wait forever if he had to. The nurse seemed to have realized that he wasn't listening because she turned to leave. Halfway to the door she stopped, looked back at him.

"Oh, someone called to ask about your brother. They wanted to speak to you, but it was after hours. A girl called Vicky, asked if you could call her back."

"Right," Dean said numbly. "Right. Thanks."

She nodded to him sympathetically and then left. Dean reached for Sam's hand once more. Calling Vicky was the last thing on his mind right now. He could call Vicky after he knew that Sam was going to be okay... but Gordon was still out there somewhere. He could hide away in this white-washed hospital all he liked, but he couldn't hide from reality. They were still in danger - all of them. He couldn't ignore that.

He stood motionless for a few moments, battling with himself. Then, with a heavy sigh, he squeezed Sam's hand.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," he muttered. "I promise. You be okay on your own?"

No answer. Dean steeled himself and then slowly drew his hand away. He turned and strode towards the door. He made his way down the corridor, into the lift, down to reception. He headed straight for the doors and ducked out of them into the parking lot, feeling for his mobile. He located it in his back pocket and turned it on. Instantly it began to beep loudly, signalling several waiting messages. He glanced over them. All were from Vicky, asking for a call or some sign from him as to what was happening. They had probably been worried. He glanced around and caught sight of the Impala parked not far away. At least they'd left him his car. He made his way over to it, dialling her number as he went.

She picked up almost at once. "Dean?"

"Hey, Vicky."

"Finally," she breathed in relief. "We've been worried sick. Listen, I'm so, so sorry we didn't stay but Opium can't bear hospitals. There's just too much blood. You must understand. And after being in the car with Sam his bloodlust was just too high to take anymore-"

"I know, its okay," he said, cutting her off. He had reached the Impala by now, and a thought hit him. "Have you guys got the keys for my car?"

"Uh..." She paused, and he heard her voice in the background. Someone answered and she returned to the phone. "Opium says to check behind the back right wheel."

Dean squatted down on his haunches and peered under the car. His keys were taped behind the wheel, just out of sight. He managed a small smile and picked them off, rising to his feet once more.

"Thanks."

"How's Sam?"

Dean wet his lips. "He's... he's better than he could have been. He's beaten up, unconscious, got a small fever but the doctor said that she thought he'd be okay."

"Oh, Dean." Her voice practically sang with sympathy, and it made Dean's stomach twist. He didn't like people pitying him. There was Sam and there was Dean, no one else got into the equation and no one else should feel that they could barge in with, 'so sorry's or 'keep your chin up's. He opened the trunk of the Impala and began sifting through it.

"Any sign from Gordon?"

"No, nothing. Opium's been looking for his scent but its hard to trace."

"Okay. I'm gonna give you the number of a friend of mine. His name's Bobby, he'll help you out with a few tips. I'd come down there but..."

"I know. Its fine, really. What was the number?"

He reeled it off. He had known it by heart since he was eight. Since Uncle Bobby became emergency contact number two. Vicky noted the number down.

"We'll call him now."

"I'll call later," Dean replied. "See you."

He hung up halfway through her 'bye.' By now he had put together a small bag containing neccessities only, and he slammed the trunk shut and locked his baby before heading back into the hospital. In the toilets he changed into new clothes and cleaned himself up a little before pulling out his mobile once more. He sent Bobby a quick text. He had to try three times before he got the words down properly.

Hunt got sticky. Gordon. Vicky and Opium calling with details - friends. Sam's in hospital. Doesn't look good.

Dean.

He hated passing out Bobby's number, but this counted as an emergency. He left the bathroom, grabbing a sandwich and power juice from the tiny hospital shop on his way back up to Sam's room.

Sam hadn't moved an inch since Dean had left. His hand lay in on the bed in the place where Dean had put it, strangely folorn looking now that it was no longer being held. Dean dumped his bag on the floor and dragged a chair over to the side of the bed. He sat down and took Sam's hand once more.

"I'm back," he said softly. "Feeling any better?"

Sam's eyelids twitched and his head rolled to one side. Dean watched him silently. He'd had enough experience with this to know that it was probably just Sam's unconscious body settling. It didn't mean he was waking up.

He sat back in the chair, still holding Sam's hand, and shut his aching eyes. Maybe he would try and get just a few more minutes before the doctor came in for the morning check up...

He was just beginning to drift off when a cracked, rasping voice broke the comfortable silence of the room.

"Unh... D-Dean..."

Sorry not much happened in this chapter. Promise there will be more in the next!

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