Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait! This chapter would not cooperate at first, and then Christmas happened (Merry Christmas guys!) which threw me off track again. But (again) this chapter is really, really long. Longer than the last one, even. So enjoy!

Sam was in trouble, and he knew it. It wasn't that he had actually screwed anything up (he was surprisingly in the clear as far as that went). He was in trouble because Dean was in one of those moods he had long ago deemed explosive and therefore should be avoided at all costs, unless of course you enjoyed getting punched. He'd been that way for days; pissed off because he was stuck in the hospital, restless because he wasn't back to normal, livid because he couldn't talk. Sam had learned long ago that messing with his agitated older brother was about as fun as poking a grizzly in the forehead with a stick.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean protested as soon as the door to the kitchen was shut, "I'm fine."

"Oh, I know that," Sam lied, making his voice as light as it could without sounding forced.

Poke…poke…poke…poke…

Dean didn't go for it. "You know? Then why are you here?" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Sam, "Cause let me tell you, that damn delusion out there in the kitchen doesn't know what he's talking about, got it? I'm not freaking out."

Sam groaned inwardly and said something noncommittal in response as he prepared himself for a rant—a long, long, heated rant. Dean hadn't actually talked to anyone since the small bottle of dream root had run out (not counting the mouthful Sam had saved for this very occasion) a week ago. That meant he had spent seven days angry, in pain, and (for the most part) unable to communicate.

Forget the bear. Sam might as well have been trying to talk to a nuclear bomb.

"Why'd you save some of the dream root?"

"I just…did," Sam said, shrugging, "I figured it might be a good idea to make sure I could—"

"You wanted to make sure I'm still not a mental case, didn't you?"

Oh yeah, Dean. That's it. Surprise! I'm such a wonderful little brother that I'd just toss you in a psych ward. Come on man, you know me better than that. "You're not a mental case," Sam said instead, resigning himself to the notion that Dean's mood was probably going to twist everything he said.

"Right. Of course not," Dean said as he paced to the other side of the room, "I guess it slipped your mind that my brain is shot, huh? That Bobby guy you keep talking about? I still have no idea who the hell he is."

Sam fought to keep his expression neutral as his disappointment flared. He had expected Dean to remember Bobby by now."You'll remember," he said lamely.

"When? Next month? Next year? I don't remember anyone."

"You remember me."

"Of course I remember you," Dean snapped, "You're…you. I wouldn't forget you."

Sam's gut churned. "Dean—"

"And for god's sake, would it kill you to bring me edible food? The hospital doesn't serve food. It serves boiled shit."

"I do bring you food," Sam said, "I sneak burgers and pie and all kinds of artery clogging stuff in to you. The nurses all hate me, dude. They keep telling me I'm killing you."

"Pffft," Dean said dismissively, "We're talking about my starvation here, not your golden boy reputation."

"I'm sorry," he said exasperatedly, spreading his arms wide, "I'll bring you something dripping with grease tomorrow."

"I'm out of movies," Dean said, switching topics nearly as quickly as he could draw a breath, "And the only damn thing on the damn miniature tv is a damn news channel and the damn shopping network. Today they were selling tiny cake pop grills and these mystical leggings designed to slim any figure by two dress sizes."

"Dean—"

"Two dress sizes, Sam. Does it look like I'm the kind of guy that needs to know about dress sizes or…or freaking tiny ass deserts?"

"I don't think—"

"I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

"I'll bring you more movies. Just tell me what you want and I'll get it," Sam pleaded, not just talking about the movies anymore.

"Tell you?" Dean repeated, looking a little like he might explode. "I can't tell you, Sam! I can't say anything."

Ah hell. "I meant now," Sam amended quickly, "Just…just tell me now."

"Whatever," Dean said dismissively, turning away to the window, "I don't need you to bring me anything, and I certainly don't need you here now. Got it? I'm fine. I am doing perfectly fine dealing with this on my own, and I don't need you to barge into my dream and try to make me feel better. Dreams are personal. Did it occur to you that I might not want you in my head?"

He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it. Sam took a breath. "Sorry."

"You…you should be," Dean said, growing more upset at Sam's calm responses than anything else, "Cause I'm not freaking out."

"I got it, Dean. You're not freaking out," Sam said softly.

"Don't you…don't patronize me!"

Sam cringed. "I'm not."

"You are. You're using that tone."

"What tone?"

"What tone?" Dean sputtered, "The…the one that you…your tone, damn it! The one that you use."

Oh, that tone. That he used. Right. Well, that cleared that up. "I swear I'm not trying to use a tone," he said, attempting to change his inflection.

"You did use it. You're still using it, and…and I don't need your help!"

"I'm sorry," Sam said weakly for what felt like the hundredth time.

The kitchen door swung open. "How's the freak out session going?" Nick said sweetly, twirling his knife.

"I'm not freaking out!" Dean shouted back, chest heaving.

Nick grinned. He licked a streak of blood off the blade. "Ah. So it's going well. Glad to hear it."

Dean shoved him backward. "Get out! You're not…you're not even real, damn it! You're dead. Get out of my mind!"

Nick turned to Sam and made a big deal of whispering not-so secretly to him, "Sorry kid, your brother's gone totally wacko. You might want to start accepting applications for a new hunting partner—"

Dean's expression grew even more livid. "Shut up!"

Nick ignored him. "Or, you know what, Sammy? Why don't you just head out now and leave your ex-brother at the hospital? I'm sure the nurses will watch out for him and…you know…try their hardest to understand the gibberish he tries to tell them."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I would never—"

Dean darted forward and slammed Nick against the wall, hard enough that the beams shook. "Stop," he hissed.

Nick continued looking cheerfully at Sam, "Don't feel bad, Dean probably won't even remember you after you've been gone for a month or two. His mind is really going downhill these days—"

That was enough. Shaking with fury, Dean snatched the butcher knife out of Nick's hand and stabbed it deep into his chest. "Stop. Talking!" he shouted.

Nick laughed. He laughed a high pitched, squealing laugh that set every nerve in Sam's body on edge. He watched as his brother twisted the knife violently, marring Nick's chest cavity. The man just kept laughing even as his intestines snaked out onto the hardwood floor.

"Leave me the hell alone!" Dean screamed at him, at the end of his rope. His eyes were wild and bloodshot.

"You're never going to get better," Nick said, blood dripping in between his teeth and pouring from his lips, "We're roommates for life. Get used to it, because Sammy's not going to put up with you for much longer."

Sam had had it. Wordlessly, he closed the distance between them and snatched the knife out of Dean's hand.

Nick grinned. "Oh, hey there Sammy—"

Sam sawed the blade through Nick's throat, ignoring the blood that rushed all over his arms and clothes as he worked to cut through bone. Once severed, Nick's head dropped to the ground, bouncing once before rolling to a stop at Dean's feet.

"Can't get rid of me," Nick's head taunted him, "But nice try."

Sam snatched up the head by the hair and charged to the nearest window. He thrust the pane open and threw the head as far away as he could into the fog. It landed in the driveway. Before he could slam the frame back down the face swiveled towards him and grinned. Sam pulled the curtains shut. Stomach churning, he turned away from the window to look for Dean—who was gone.

Sam groaned. For god's sake, he was in Dean's dream. You'd think the easiest thing about being in Dean's dream would be knowing where Dean was in it. Why was it always so difficult to keep track of him? "Dean?" he called. There was no answer, so he walked briskly out of the room and into the dim hallway. Still no older brother. He continued forward under the old chandeliers, following the stretch of carpet around the corner, where he found him crouched down against the base of a wall, eyes locked straight ahead. He sank down beside him and wiped Nick's blood from his arms onto his jeans.

Dean didn't look at him. In fact, his eyes looked anywhere but where he was. The silence stretched awkwardly.

Sam had spent one painful week unable to talk with his brother. He wasn't going to waste what might be his last chance in a while to do just that. "You're right," he said, "Killing Nick does make for great stress relief."

Dean fidgeted with his watch. "Yeah," he said finally, but stopped. He groaned. "Sam…"

Sam leaned back, shutting his eyes tiredly. "I know," he said, "This is the worst."

"Ever," Dean said dejectedly.

Sam fell silent, his mind scrambling to put everything together about Dean's recent behavior and the freak out that had just occurred in the living room. He could've kicked himself. All this time he had thought Dean was mainly worried about recovering and talking again, when he was really worried about…about something completely stupid,something Sam hadn't even considered until Nick had started shouting it at him.

Dean honestly thought that his brother was going to get impatient and leave. To Sam, it was like a smack in the face, because—god—how could Dean even think he would do that? Of course, Sam remembered guiltily, it wasn't like he had the best track record when it came to staying put…

Dean misinterpreted his silence to mean his fears held some weight. His expression morphed into something even more miserable. "Look," he said, "I get it if you're going…stir crazy in the hospital with me."

Oh hell. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," he said, because he wasn't, and he needed his brother to get that. "You know that, right?"

"Sam," Dean said tonelessly, staring straight ahead, "It's been two weeks."

Yeah. He knew that. It had been a tough couple of weeks. "So what?"

"So…so I can't talk," Dean said, "And you're…fine. Mostly healed up and everything."

"So what?" Sam said again, more testily.

Exasperated, Dean finally looked at Sam. "What part of this aren't you getting? I. Can't. Talk," he said slowly, like Sam was a little kid who couldn't see why two plus two had to equal four.

"Yeah Dean, I know that," Sam said (like I could have ever forgotten), "And my question still stands."

"Question?"

"Yeah," Sam repeated, "So what?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'so what?' It's…I can't talk yet."

"I'm sorry, let me rephrase," Sam said, "So the fuck what?"

Dean stared.

Sam took a moment to calm down. His words had come out a bit more harshly than he'd intended, but it wasn't actual anger, just little brother being misunderstood anger, and he knew Dean would be able to tell the difference, "Listen. I don't care if you can't talk now, or a month from now…hell, I don't care if you never talk again. I just want you to be alive, Dean, talking is a damn bonus."

"But…hunting…"

"Screw hunting," Sam said, and paused, "No, you know what? We're so good at hunting together we could probably take down god-awful apparitions and Stephen King monsters without saying a single word to each other."

"That's not true."

"Yeah, yeah it is," Sam said defensively, "I usually do all the talking to families and ghosts without violence crap anyway, so it wouldn't even be changing our routine all that much."

"Too dangerous."

"Is it really? I mean, yeah, I'd have to do all the Latin stuff, but do you need your voice to draw a devils trap? Or dig graves? Or light corpses on fire?"

"Sam…"

"I'm pretty sure that guns aren't voice activated yet either, so you're still more than welcome to go trigger happy on everything."

"It would be dangerous," Dean repeated, but with less conviction this time.

"Like everything we do isn't dangerous?" Sam scoffed.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And what I'm saying is that your sight is back to ninety percent, you can hear me whisper things to the nurses—don't give me that look, I know you keep eavesdropping on me—and you can walk around pretty fine, although you do have a little trouble getting started and you won't be running anytime soon."

Dean stared, indignation creeping into his voice. "You were spying on me?"

"Of course I was."

"Yes. Right. Of course you were," Dean said mockingly.

"Now who sounds all pissy?" Sam shot at him.

"That would be you."

Sam smiled, relieved that Dean was back to being…Dean. "In your dreams," he said.

"Really? Really? You're not funny, you know. Not at all."

"Me? I'm always funny."

"Right, aside from the small problem of you always boring people to death," Dean said, "And let me just say right now that as long as I can't talk, we are not hunting. I'm not going to star in some Helen Keller ghost hunting flop."

"I do not bore people to death, Dean. That has not happened once. Not once. And I'm sorry, but in order to be Helen Keller you'd need to be blind and deaf and unable to talk and…oh yes, a girl—"

"There you go again, boring people to death."

"Oh, I'm sorry, who exactly did I just bore to death?"

"Me."

"You don't look dead."

"Yes, I wouldn't look dead here, but in the real world I just flat lined."

Sam growled. "Don't even joke about that."

"Why?"

"Because if you do I'm going to tell you about the complications the doctors had fixing up all my knife wounds."

Dean's eyebrows narrowed. "What complications?"

"Oh, how 'bout when they kept losing me on the operating table and they had to keep pumping me full of donated blood—"

Dean blanched. "What?"

"Ha! In your face!" Sam finished, poking his brother hard in the arm.

Dean stared at the teasing expression on Sam's face for a moment, and then he smirked. He leaned back again and stretched his legs out in front of him. "You have a screwy sense of humor."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. It's your fault," he said. He waited a moment and then poked him again, more softly this time. "So…you ready to bust out of the hospital?"

Dean looked up roughly. "What?"

"We're free to go; I already signed your release papers and everything."

"That…better not be another bad joke," Dean said, eying his expression wearily.

"You can leave either tomorrow or Wednesday, it's your choice."

To Dean, it was like twenty Victoria's Secret models had sauntered into the room. "Seriously? But they said I was going to be under observation for at least a month."

"Wellllll…" Sam said sheepishly, "I presented them with a series of evidence on why you don't have to be hospitalized anymore and they couldn't come up with a life threatening reason you couldn't leave."

The words went in one ear and out the other. Dean looked at him, smirking as he read between the lines. "You yelled at them, didn't you?"

Sam's mouth opened, then shut again. "I didn't…I just…"

Dean started laughing.

"Shut up," Sam said, hitting him lightly, "Fine, I yelled. I can't stand the staff at this hospital. Can't. Stand. Them. They're inept and tactless and I'm pretty sure they're all sleeping together—"

"Dude," Dean interrupted, making a face.

"Don't even ask me how I know," Sam said, shuddering, "So I signed the form because you're conscious and breathing on your own and they can't stop me."

"Good. We'll leave tomorrow."

"Are you sure? I hear Wednesday's lunch is meatloaf on a stick. Sounds epic—"

Dean shoved his laughing brother away.

"Oh…and I guess there's one more thing I should mention."

"What?"

Sam paused, thinking about how to word it. You know the Impala…well…it sorta looks like it came out of a slasher film…

"What?" Dean said again.

Sam lost his nerve. "Nothing."

SNSNSN

An hour later, Sam walked out of Dean's room and headed toward the cafeteria for caffeine. His brother was sleeping again, for which Sam was glad since he needed the rest (and, really, there was nothing else for Dean to do in the room). As he passed the main desk the nurses all turned to glare at him, one by one.

Sam fought the urge to perform an exorcism.

"Hey, Sam. Wait up! I have something I need to talk to you about, I need your help."

Turning around, he saw Chris striding toward him. The guy looked terrible, like he hadn't slept in days. He probably hadn't. "Hey," Sam said, tilting his head wearily toward the nurses' station in a subliminal 'for the love of god, don't say anything weird' kind of way. "Ahem. What is it?"

Chris followed Sam's gaze toward all the women that were still glaring them down with their judgmental, beady eyes. "Oh, I just wanted to say hi," he said, sidestepping his actual, supernatural (and most definitely weird) concern. He thought for a moment, trying to recall normal things that normal people talked about. Normally. "I haven't seen you in a few days. How are things? How's your brother? I hope your…um, grandmother is well. I can't wait till Christmas, can you? Nice weather we're having."

Sam blinked. He tried to come up with the proper response. "Uh…yes?"

"Let's go for a walk."

"Alright," Sam said.

Chris dragged him out into the parking lot and only stopped his frantic pace when he reached the Impala (which Sam had tried to clean, really, but there was only so much he could do when it came to blood and shattered windows). "Sam, you have to help," he pleaded.

Sam's expression morphed into sympathy. "Chris, I told you. I'm still searching for how we can get Brandon to wake up. It might take a while—"

"No. No you don't…you don't get it. They want to kill him," Chris interrupted him desperately, moving closer to Sam, "You have to stop them somehow."

Sam's brain did a three-sixty degree turn and flipped into hunter mode. "What? Who wants to kill him?"

"The doctors and nurses and…hell, maybe the janitor's even in on it, I don't know."

His brain stalled. "Those doctors and nurses?" he asked, pointing back at the building.

"Yes!" Chris snapped. "What other people would I be talking about?"

Sam looked at Chris more closely, taking in the dark bags under his eyes and the way he couldn't seem to stand still for more than a few seconds at a time. "Listen," he said softly, "I know their bedside manner leaves…a lot to be desired, but they're not evil or anything; believe me, I checked. The holy water did nothing to them."

"No, you don't understand," Chris nearly shouted at him, "They want to pull the plug."

It clicked. "What?"

"Yes, damn it! They…they want to…" he said, and choked off. He felt Brandon grab his arm and squeeze, and the contact gave him the reassurance to continue, "She said they can do it, because he doesn't have brain activity or a…or a family."

Sam could feel anger snaking through his veins; he tried conceal it, because the last thing Chris needed was for him to freak out. "Whoa. Take a deep breath, alright? He's only been in here two weeks," he said, "They won't have the clearance for that yet. It's too soon."

"No. Sam, I checked, okay? They're trying to clear it already, passing him off as some homeless guy that no one cares enough to find," he finished, voice cracking.

Brandon flinched at the raw emotion in his brother's voice. Before Sam could answer he grabbed his brother's wrist and spelled meticulously into his palm, "You care."

Chris shook his head, disgusted with the whole situation. "It doesn't matter if I care! As far as they know, I'm just some guy off the street that found you. And for all the good I am at all this supernatural shit, I might as well be a stranger. I don't know what to do!"

"You're a doctor," Sam said softly.

"A fat load of good that's done me," Chris shot back, not really hearing him.

"No, Chris," Sam said patiently, "You're a doctor. You know how to treat patients, how life support machines work."

Chris paused. His expression became even more upset, "No. No way," he said, shaking his wrist from his brother, and stepping away, "You want me to…no."

"I don't think they'll be able to legally pull the plug yet—they're probably just all talk—but just in case the bastards manage to get clearance somehow or—more likely, considering the freaks they have working here—just shut off one of his machines and call it an accident, we should get him out. I'm actually having Dean released tomorrow; we can come up with a scheme to get Brandon out later that night. The place is practically a graveyard after midnight, right? And since you're a doctor and you'll have the needed equipment, you can take care of Brandon until we figure something out."

"No. I can't."

"Why?"

"Sam…it's…there's too much…"

"Spit it out."

"His body's got too much damage!" Chris exploded finally, "I don't…I tried pretending, that it's not that bad, but they're right. The nurses. There isn't any brain activity and he doesn't breathe on his own and the only reason he's still physically even there and isn't under six feet of dirt is because of a crap load of complicated machines that all do complicated things, and I'll do something wrong. I know I'll do something wrong, and he'll die and it'll be my fault."

Brandon stared. "Chris…no."

"He's not going to die," Sam said.

"You don't know."

"Maybe I had a vision about it."

"You didn't."

"I might have."

"But you didn't—"

"Fine," Sam conceded, "I didn't. But if you really want my opinion, I think he'd be better off away from the hospital until we figure something out or the antidote kicks in and he wakes up on his own. I think he'd be better off if you were the one watching out for him instead of the weirdoes in there."

Chris made a face.

"At least…that's what I'd do. If I was in your shoes right now."

He was silent for a minute, thinking. He didn't like any of it, but there really wasn't a choice. He wasn't leaving his brother in the hospital any longer than necessary. Brandon would back him up in whatever action he decided to take. That only made it harder to decide. "It'll be easy getting him out?"

"With the losers they have staffing this place?" Sam said, leaning against the Impala, "Too easy."

Chris looked down. "Alright," he said, "I…I trust you."

Sam nodded.

"And…one more thing," Chris said, "You did…tell…Dean about his car...didn't you?"

Sam hesitated. "Uh…"

"You didn't?"

"What? I mean…I might have," he lied badly, nervous, "Er…define tell."

"Ah hell."

SNSNSN

The Next Day

Getting out of the hospital was the easy part. Dean (for once in his life) sat back and allowed Sam to take care of all the tedious protocol the nurses shoved at him—mainly signing stacks of paperwork and sidestepping wheelchair policies (just because Dean may have been half dead a few weeks ago didn't mean he was going to let anyone wheel him down any hallways, damn it).

No, it was a breeze getting out of the hospital. That is, until they reached the parking lot.

The Impala was underneath a black tarp. That set off the first round of warning bells, and he stopped dead as Sam pulled the plastic off their ride. He stared.

"Um…" Sam said awkwardly, looking away, as he folded the cover, "Yeah. I did…tell you, didn't I?"

Dean hovered a hand over the severely dented, window shattered, blood splotched side of the Impala. He looked at Sam.

Sam didn't need a single word from his brother to get what he wanted to say. "Okay, I know I didn't say anything, but I didn't want to make you freak," he said quickly, unconsciously stepping back away from Dean, "And you didn't…er…bring her up in any of the dreams, so…"

Dean opened the front passenger side door and gripped the roof of the car to take a look inside. At all the blood.

"It's mainly just cosmetic damage," Sam continued desperately, "We'll just need to replace the windows and…uh…clean up the blood. I tried to get it off, but…you know how blood can be. There was just too much of it…kinda soaked through."

Dean stared, horrified. The Impala was a disaster—to the extent that Sam had needed to hide it underneath a cover to stop people from inquiring about it—and yeah, it was a nightmarish situation and he'd definitely get pissed about it later, but he was finding it impossible to reach his usual state of fury when so much blood was leering at him from every surface.

He knew it was Sam's. Yeah, there was the single stain on the backseat that he vaguely remembered making when they left the hotel, but the rest—caked down between the seats, on the floor, under the windows, on the damn ceiling—was Sam's. How much blood had his brother lost? No, scratch that, how much blood was it possible to lose before kicking the bucket, because this had to be right at that line.

Sam watched him—from a safe distance, because he wasn't stupid—and tried to figure out what to do next. He had said everything he had rehearsed (multiple times, in front of mirrors) and appeared to still be alive (which was a plus) but had no idea what to do now. Dean's expression wasn't helping. "What?" he asked.

Dean's mouth opened and he breathed in—and stopped, remembering. No talking. His frustration skyrocketed as he contemplated how the hell he was going to learn to communicate solely through charades. He had never been good at charades. Talking? Yes. Acting? No. It was too slow, too frustrating, and Sam was being unusually thick headed today. Besides, how did you act out a sentence like 'Well Sam, I guess I'm just a teeny bit upset at the river of blood you left in the Impala. You know, that you didn't tell me about. Any additional injuries you want fess up about before I find out myself and beat the living shit out of you?'

Yeah. Like that was plausible.

"Dean?" Sam said, stepping closer when his brother said nothing. "I…we can fix it."

Dean shook his head, irritated. That's not it.

Sam took on an equal look of frustration. "Dean…I can't…I don't know…it's hard to read you right now, man. You're just…"

Dean's glare deepened.

Sam wished he had more dream root. "I'm sorry about the blood?" he hazarded, noting that he must've guessed wrong when Dean's expression darkened further. He glanced back at the hospital. The nurses were all standing on the sidewalk. Staring. He gave them a quick wave. One especially old woman flipped him the bird.

Dean snapped his fingers impatiently in front of Sam's face.

"Oh…uh…what?"

He gestured angrily at the car again, then slid into his seat—that is, the seat that most definitely was not his, but which he was resigned to ride in until Sam thought he could see right (or until he just stole the keys back). He sat, keeping his hands on his knees, and tried to pretend he wasn't sitting in a cocoon of his brother's blood.

Sam slid into the driver's seat and started the car. "Are you sure that…uh…you…I mean…"

Now who can't speak in sentences? He stiffly gestured for Sam to just move the hell out of the parking lot. As he drew in another breath he found himself oddly thankful that the windows were shattered, because the smell of the interior alone was enough to set him on edge. The thought was ridiculous enough to make him laugh.

Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye.

Just wait, Sammy. Once I'm back to normal you are so dead.

SNSNSN

Chris was going to projectile vomit. He wasn't sure when, and he wasn't sure where, but it was coming. The action was well overdue.

It didn't seem to be forthcoming yet, so he paced back and forth in the deserted ICU instead. Waiting. "Sam should be here soon," he said, glancing at the clock for the millionth time that hour. It was after two a.m.

He didn't want it to be after two a.m. He didn't want to do this.

Brandon sat on one of the empty cots, dangling his legs over the edge. "Stop freaking," he said, unheard, "You're starting to make me nervous."

As Chris started a fresh round of wearing the tile thin, Brandon threw a pencil at him.

Chris stopped and rubbed at the back of his head. "Ow," he muttered, turning back toward his brother (assuming, of course, that he was beside the laptop screen). "That hurt."

Brandon snorted. "Don't be such a baby," he typed out, "It was a pencil."

"Yeah? So what?" Chris said defensively, "It was a…big pencil."

It wasn't. It was barely a stub.

"Next time I'll hit you with the fire extinguisher."

Chris laughed. "Yeah right," he said, unable to stop his eyes from straying to the extinguisher where it was stationed at the far wall.

"At least then it would be a bit more manly to say 'ow' than after getting hit by a pencil."

Chris raised his hand and swooped it through the space above the cot where he knew Brandon was. "Shut it."

"Missed me."

"No way, I just beat the stuffing out of you, admit it."

"Whatever," Brandon typed.

Chris turned away again, ready to resume pacing.

Brandon chucked another pencil at him.

"For god's sake, Brandon," Chris exclaimed, turning back, "How old are you, anyway? Where are you hiding those things?"

"Stop worrying. You've got everything all ready to go."

He shrugged.

"And you checked it fifty times."

"It wasn't that many…"

"Thirty, then."

Chris shrugged. "Sounds right," he concluded. He paused, listening as he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Ah hell," he groaned.

"Stop acting like he wants to execute you."

"I'm not," he said, "It's just…you know. Don't you dare do something dumb like flatline."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Don't," Chris emphasized sternly, then turned to the door in time to see Sam come in—followed closely by Dean. That was unexpected. "Uh…"

"Hey," Sam said, slinging his pack down off his arm, "You ready? We've got the van waiting out in the lot, and the only nurse watching the place is…occupied."

Sexing it up, Dean added silently, frowning at all the wires that were attached to machines that were attached to Brandon's body. Well doesn't this look fun…

"Oh. Good," Chris said, nervously slipping his watch on and off. He nodded at Dean. "I wasn't aware you were…coming."

Dean's expression tightened.

"He's fine," Sam said, slipping between them before Chris said something stupid and got slugged, "He's good. He wanted to come—I wanted him to come—we need someone to keep a look out. Plus, we might need a diversion before the night's over. He's good at those. Trust me."

"I thought you said the one nurse was occupied."

"Yeah…well…it's all a matter of…" Sam dropped off awkwardly.

"How long tonight's mystery man can keep her satisfied?" Brandon typed.

Sam squinted at the screen. He laughed. "Pretty much," he said, and walked over to Brandon's body. "So…what now, doc?"

"Well," Chris said, "It should be pretty simple…barring some demon leaping up from the ground and blasting us with brimstone—"

"Huh?" Sam interrupted, "Dude…why would you even say that? We have bad enough luck as it is."

"I never know with you people. Anyhow, Brandon and I attached wheels to the machines he needs…you know, the ones that keep beeping and lighting up and get super annoying—"

Dean peeked out into the hallway. He nodded to Sam and motioned for him to hurry things the hell up before he walked in there and dragged them all out.

"I see them," Sam interrupted Chris, "Just give me the Spark Notes version."

"Right. Well. They're on wheels just like the gurney so everything should just move when we push it, we just have to make sure nothing detaches. And earlier I unplugged everything and switched it all over to battery power, so—"

"I get it," Sam interrupted again, grabbing onto the top of the gurney. "I got this side. You get the bottom half and whatever that machine is that's doing all the manic beeping, and Brandon can keep hold of the other machines. Dean, we good?"

Dean turned and gave him an over exaggerated thumbs up. He crept out into the hallway, listening as the others began their tedious journey down to the van.

Later, when he looked back on that night, it was amusing that he had believed getting out of the hospital would be their biggest problem.

REVIEW PLEASE! Thanks for reading. :)