Thank you for all your feedback! I'm happy to say that the boys get out of the hospital in this chapter (finally). Enjoy.

The group inched their way down the dim hallway, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. The main nurses' desk was empty as expected, along with half the patients' rooms.

Dean was glad. It was about time they ran into a speck of luck.

He turned the corner peered down the last main stretch toward the elevator. Only one room was lit, casting slants of light against the walls. They were in the clear—as long as the ditsy nurse and her boy toy kept themselves occupied. He caught Sam's inquisitive gaze and motioned him forward. Only then did he notice music drifting out from underneath the door. At first he was appreciative, since it covered up the beeping machines, but then…

Pour some sugar on me…In the name of loooove—

He cringed. The guy was singing along. Badly. Volume increased as he neared, blaring a tone deaf, straining falsetto into his newly recovered ears. He couldn't bring himself to wish he was deaf again—there were some things he would rather just die than repeat—but come on. Forget Nick, this abysmal place was going to terrorize his dreams for months.

He and Sam were never stopping at any hospital ever again. End of story.

Come over here, you bad, bad boy.

Maria's voice drifted through, deep, gravelly, and struggling so hard to be sexy that she wound up sounding more like Attila the Hun. Dean snorted. Though he would have liked nothing more than to see his little brother's facial expression at the moment, he didn't dare let himself turn around.

Should I tie you up and make you take it, or are you going to be good?

Oh god. Unable to resist, Dean peeked back at Sam. His brother met his gaze, lips twitching from barely held back laughter. A red blush was creeping steadily across his cheeks.

Smirking, Dean raised his eyebrows at him.

Sam flipped him off.

Still trying not to laugh, Dean needled the elevator button with his fist. Against all odds (their odds, anyway), the doors opened right away, and the bunch of them crammed into the small space as fast as humanly possible.

The doors shut. The box descended toward the ground floor, accompanied by a jolly piano tune that ran up and down octaves so frequently that the composer had to have been on drugs or, at the very least, dealing them.

"I'm going to switch professions," Chris said, eyes squeezed shut.

The laugh Dean had held back finally exploded through his lips, and he leaned back against the cool metal wall. Sam looked miserably embarrassed, which just made the situation all the more glorious.

Damn, he'd missed this. Well, not that…thing…up there, but doing something—anything—that didn't involve being helpless or stuck in a hospital bed.

They crept out the main doors and into the parking lot without seeing a single soul. The gurney's wheels made a dull scraping sound against the pavement as they pushed everything over toward the white van he and Sam had rented earlier that day as parking lights mimicked accusing search beams.

It didn't matter. No one was around.

Sam pulled the back doors open with the squeal of old hinges. A gust of cold wind whipped around them, tugging slightly at the blanket around Brandon's body. Chris tucked the misbehaving fabric back around his brother as Sam began gingerly lifting the front two machines into the rear of the vehicle. "Where's the free candy?" he asked.

Dean glanced at him questioningly.

Chris gestured to the white van. "If I'm supposed to get in this piece of crap, the least you guys can do is follow through with the stereotype," he said with a halfhearted smirk. He stumbled back a bit, glared around. "Brandon...don't push me."

"Can you give me a hand?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

Dean's eyebrows rose. Sam—his overprotective little brother—wanted him to help lift something heavier than a sandwich? Yeah right. This was a little brother trick he knew quite well. Sam was deliberately including him, trying to prove to him that he was still useful. Sometimes it was too easy to see through the kid.

Didn't mean he didn't appreciate it, though.

Dean nodded. He walked unsteadily over to Sam and grabbed a corner of the gurney.

"Coming," Chris said in answer to Sam's question, having completely missed the silent conversation between the brothers. He grabbed the other side of the gurney, and together the three of them folded the legs up and began heaving the makeshift bed up into the van.

Sam winced.

Dean froze, catching the expression on his brother's face. He'd seen that expression before.

Shit.

"Dean…" Sam cried out to him, squeezing his eyes shut, "Gah…"

"What?" Chris said, concerned, "What's wrong?"

Unable to hold the gurney up any longer, Sam reached up and grabbed his head with both hands, leaving Dean—who had just gotten out of the hospital prematurely—with half the weight. He strained, the tip of the gurney almost resting on the back lip of the vehicle. So close.

"What are you…Sam!" Chris grunted, noting that Dean wasn't going to be able to hold up the side by himself. "Damn—Brandon—"

Dean's arms quivered uncontrollably from exertion, and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. He considered trying to sit the stretcher down on the ground so that he wouldn't drop it, but before he could decide something else took the weight.

Brandon. Thanking whichever god happened to be awake at this early hour, Dean allowed his trembling limbs to drop. As soon as he was sure that the invisible man could handle his half by himself, Dean left his post and limped around the side of the van, where Sam had fallen on his hands and knees and was gasping like a fish out of water.

Gingerly, Dean knelt on the blacktop and grabbed his shoulders, pushing his brother upright against the van. "Sam," He said aloud, then frowned, disgusted. A syllable had come out of his mouth, but it hadn't formed his brother's name. He noted that at least he sounded more like himself, but that was little consolation when couldn't even say his brother's name.

Feeling useless, he grabbed Sam and pulled him into a—a not hug, definitely not. He tucked Sam's head underneath his chin and tightened his grip as the kid dug his fingernails painfully into his wrist and let out the occasional distressed whimper. Shouldn't the damn thing be over already? They never lasted this long.

Finally, Sam jerked and opened his eyes, sputtering like he forgot how to take a breath.

Relieved, Dean tightened his hold and continued to hold his brother up. Sammy, c'mon…breathe, alright? Frustration quickly replaced relief when it took too damn long for Sam to look at him, because he wanted to know—he needed to know—what happened, and he couldn't give voice to the routine questions.

"Is Voldemort nearby?" Chris enquired.

Dean snarled, effectively managing to convey exactly what he thought about that question.

Chris looked sheepish. "I just…when Voldemort's nearby Harry always groans and clutches at his head, and—" he cut off abruptly, looked to his left and rubbed his arm, "Ow. Okay, fine, I'll be quiet. Sorry," he addressed Dean, and then turned and hissed, "Quit hitting me, Brandon."

"D'n," Sam muttered at last, pushing himself back so that he could see his brother's face, "Gotta go. Now."

Why?

Sam saw the question in his eyes. "I'll explain…ahh…in the van."

Alright then. Dean climbed to his feet (slowly and painfully) and then held his good arm out for Sam to take.

Sam reached out and allowed Dean to half pull him up. "Forgot how those hurt," he muttered, stumbling over to the other side of the van. He tossed Dean the keys.

Dean stared, unable to stop a small grin of triumph from spreading across his face.

"Shut up," Sam said, getting in his side, "I can't see straight to drive with my head pounding like this."

"So…we're leaving?" Chris said uncertainly. "But you just had one of those…thingies, didn't you?"

"Get in," Sam ordered, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes, "Make sure nothing moves around back there."

Chris dutifully got in the back with his brother's body and pulled the squeaky doors closed. "How long till we get to the hotel?" he asked.

"We're not going to the hotel," Sam said as Dean drove the van out of the lot.

Dean shot him a questioning glance.

"We're being followed dude," Sam told him, "You gotta pull out on the highway and just go."

"Followed?" Chris repeated, knocking his head against the side as they hit a bump, "Followed…who would want to follow us? Who is following us?"

"I didn't recognize her," Sam said, trying to massage away some of the pain in his temple.

"Her?" Chris snorted, "It's just a girl? That can't be too dangerous."

"She had a bunch of explosives rigged up at our hotel room," Sam countered flatly, "Blew us all to hell and then proceeded to shower the room with bullets from an M-16."

Dean grunted. Bet that was fun to witness…

"Ohhh," Chris said. "Yeah. I'm with Sam on this 'avoid the hotel' thing. Good plan."

Who did we piss off this time? Dean fumed, taking the road out of the town. Was Nick working with someone?

"I don't get it, man," Sam said, glancing at him. "You don't think Nick was working with anyone, do you?"

Dean sighed in relief. At least Sam seemed to be riding on his wavelength at the moment. Or they really did have some kind of brotherly ESP. In any case, he was in the dark about the mystery girl just as much as Sam. He shrugged, shaking his head.

"I can't believe you would've missed something like that," Chris said.

Dean shot daggers at him in the rearview mirror.

"I meant us," he amended quickly, "Us. As in, I can't believe we as an intelligent group of individuals would miss something like that. It didn't look like anyone else was living at the cabin."

"Maybe they weren't living there, maybe…oh I don't know," Sam admitted, thinking aloud for Dean's sake, "She could be anyone. It's not like we don't have enemies."

"People hate you?"

Sam snorted.

"Well let's just…narrow it down. It can't be that hard. How many people do you two normally piss off?"

"Lots," Sam said wearily.

"I mean in the last year. People that have guns."

"Tons."

"Really? But you…Okay. How 'bout just women?"

"Pfft. With this guy around?" Sam said, pointing his thumb at Dean.

"Great. Some hooker is after us. Was she wearing fishnet stockings? Look a bit like Lady Gaga?"

Sam glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "That would be freaky, but no. Brown hair, brown eyes. Ordinary."

"Well that sucks. I would have felt a little better if a smoking hot brunette was coming to blow us off the face of…uh…North America."

Sam blinked.

"What? I don't know what state we're going to end up in. You two like to travel the country, so…"

Dean drowned his voice out, clenched the wheel tighter. Who had they pissed off lately? He had no idea—he still couldn't remember anyone from his past but Sam. He glanced over at his brother.

"I'm thinking," Sam told him, biting a hole into his lip.

"Why didn't she attack us when we were at the hospital for weeks?" Chris pondered, grabbing onto one of the life support machines when it started sliding as Dean took a corner. "Damn it, drive slower man!"

Dean's expression tightened, but he did slow down. A little.

They drove for two tense hours, then stopped at a small motel on the side of a crossroads. Krusty's Korner. It was slightly after five in the morning, and the black sky had lightened into darker blue. It was still too cold. When Sam stepped down out of the vehicle his breath curled around him as he exhaled. "I'll check in," he told Dean, and shut the door.

The gravel crunched underneath his boots as he made his way to the door. A kid in middle teens sat in a wheelchair at the front desk, bouncing a ratty tennis ball off the floor and onto the wall with a hollow thunking sound.

Thump thud—thump thud—thump thud—

"Hi," Sam said, stomping his wet shoes on the mat and walking closer.

The kid caught the ball and slapped it down in front of him on the marble countertop. He eyed Sam. "Morning."

Sam placed his hands on the counter. "Uh…I'd like a room."

"You got it," he said, turning on the computer monitor and making a few clicks. "Single or double, smoking or non?"

"Double. Non," Sam answered, glancing around wearily. The place smelled like lemon cleaner and looked like it had been recently remodeled.

"You don't have any pets, do you, 'cause that's an extra ten bucks a night. We had an old woman stay here for a month, and she kept her cat here the whole time…we had to completely rip up the carpet after she left, if you know what I mean.

"No. No pets," Sam said. Just a coma victim. And an annoying older brother that sometimes acts like a riled up puppy.

The guy made a few more clicks and then wheeled his chair to the back shelf. He pulled out an envelope and shoved a couple key cards inside. "Alright, Mr…?"

Sam sidestepped the question. "I'd like to pay with cash. Two nights." Just in case…

He grinned. "Alright. You want to remain creepy and mysterious, that's fine with me. That'll be 160 dollars upfront."

Sam got out his wallet. "Sorry," he said, "It's been a rough night."

"Says the creepy guy," he added as he took Sam's money. He gestured at the van out front. "What kind of candy you giving away?"

Sam ran a hand over his eyes. "It's a rental."

"Of course it is," he said, slapping the key cards down in front of Sam. "Well, there you are, Mr. No Name. Room twelve, it's just around the left side. If you come down between seven and eight we set out a cold breakfast. Cereal and yogurt. Coffee. Nothing to write home about. You got any problems just pop in here."

"Thanks," Sam said, and walked out the door as the kid resumed hitting the ball against the wall.

Chris was outside leaning against the van. "Shouldn't we be staying somewhere…populated?"

"More people would get hurt if she catches us," Sam said simply, looking at the numbers on the doors. They were parked catty-corner to room twelve, and he motioned Dean where he should park.

"Uh…the kid's still watching us."

Sam shrugged. "He's fine. Let's get your brother inside so you can check on how much battery power is left…and I'll hide the scary van around back."

SNSNSN

Sam waited until they were settled into the room before he walked out into the lot and called Bobby.

The phone didn't even ring this time; just went straight to voicemail. Leave a message after the beep? Why yes, yes I will. "Hey Bobby, it's Sam. Sam Winchester. Remember me?" he paused for effect, and his bright tone soured, "You better have a Damn. Good. Explanation. for this whole ignoring us thing—it's been a month man! A goddamn month! And you…you better not be dead. You got that? Do you? 'Cause when I do find you—assuming of course that you're trapped half-dead in the mountains or decided to take a hunt deep in the damn Amazon Rainforest where technology breaks down to rubbing sticks together to make fire—I'm going to…to…to beat the living shit out of you! You got that? Answer your damn phone, asshole!"

He ended the call and folded his arms across his chest (which still throbbed from all the bullet and knife wounds) and stood there a moment, breath still fogging the air as the fury and helplessness raged. He stuffed his hands into warm pockets and half turned around. "You tryin' to be stealthy?" he shot out.

Dean stood behind him, where he had been for the duration of the call, leaning against the siding. He shook his head. Nah Sammy. Just watching out for you.

"Good," he said, carefully sitting atop the curb, "Cause you're terrible at it. I heard you coming a mile away."

Where do you think you learned that from? He stepped up and sat beside his brother, who was staring at his phone like it had announced that it would self-destruct in ten seconds.

"I'm gonna kill Bobby," Sam muttered, a slight hysterical twinge to his voice, "Just so you know, if you don't remember him soon, you're probably not going to get the chance to meet him."

Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed.

He angrily kicked a loose stone, subconsciously leaning closer to his brother. The icy air stuck in his lungs and made him cough, but when he spoke again his voice was level. "Okay. Right. What do you think we should do? About the girl. I mean…I don't have a clue who she is, and unless you've had a sudden memory surge…?"

Dean winced.

"Yeah, that's…that's fine. It'll come back," Sam said, all too hopefully. "I don't know if you would have known her anyway…I didn't recognize her from a hunt. Recent, anyway. And I doubt she's one of your one night stands. Too plain, ordinary…you know, disregarding the fact that she was packing explosives. That's a little too kinky even for you."

He snorted.

Sam hesitated, then, "Do you even…remember…having one night stands? Drinking in bars? Conning drunks at pool?"

The questions caught him off guard, though not as much as the answer that, in fact, he didn't remember doing any of those things. It must've shone in his eyes before he could hide it, because Sam turned away.

"Damn it," Sam hissed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's like half your mind is missing."

Dean shrugged, close enough to his brother that he was sure Sam would feel the movement. Not the half that matters, Sammy.

"Do you…think it'll get worse?" Sam said slowly, and god, he sounded like he was seven again, "It won't, will it? 'Cause you're getting better. A lot better. Only…when I was signing all the release forms the doctor kept telling me that there's a possibility you'll relapse and your memory will fail further, and you'll forget more stuff, like…like…"

Like me.

Dean saw what his brother was trying to say. His desire to pummel the staff of that inept hospital erupted once again. Furious, he grabbed both of Sam's shoulders and roughly spun him so that they were facing each other. He shook his head, eyes burning into Sam's. No. Goddamn it Sam, no. Never gonna happen. I don't give a shit what those freaks said, got it? They don't know me, and they don't know you. You got that?

Sam got the message. He tried to smile, but ended up sniffing instead. "Okay," he said, embarrassed by how pathetic his voice came out. Before he could end the dreaded conversation there, the thing that had bothered him the most for weeks tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden, "Can you please just…talk soon? I can't stand all this silence, you're never silent. You keep me calm in situations like this by being an annoying loudmouth jerk, and I'm…I'm used to that. I need that, or I'm going to lose my mind here, man. I know it might be selfish, but I don't care if you never remember Bobby, or Dad, or…or whatever else, as long as you can just talk to me, okay?"

Dean felt sick. The past couple weeks, packed to the brim with moments of Sam desperately trying to cheer him up, slammed back into his face. Sam had been hurting, and he hadn't paid attention.

"Okay?" Sam repeated, desperate.

Unsure of what else he could do, Dean nodded. His insides clenched tighter. Yeah Sammy. I'm with you, and I'm gonna try harder. Promise.

Chris opened the door behind them—lacking stealth because it was old and broken and didn't open unless you really heaved against it. "Uh…guys? What are you doing?" he asked, slamming his body against the door until it closed again. The last thing he needed right now was for Brandon to catch a cold.

"Talking."

"Oh," Chris paused. He thought a second, putting things together, "Is that…possible?"

"Fine," Sam amended, swiveling to face him, "We're ESPing. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Well, I'll be happier when the stripper—"

"She wasn't a stripper—"

"Fine! When the ugly girl is dead and we're all still miraculously unexploded."

"I know, okay? I know. But since we don't know who she is or what she wants and we're…at a slight disadvantage—"

"Oh, you mean because one of us is a coma victim and you two just got out of the hospital? That disadvantage? Right, that's not so much a disadvantage as it is an inevitable catastrophe—"

"We're going to have to take precautions," Sam said.

"For our impending doom? Great. Do these precautions involve sitting in the parking lot—"

"I was calling for—"

"Could you stop interrupting everything I say?"

"I was calling for backup," Sam finished.

"Someone's coming?"

"No. He's not," Sam said bitterly.

Dean gently bumped his shoulder. It'll be fine, Sammy. We don't need him.

"What do you mean he's not coming?" Chris demanded, expression souring.

"He hasn't been answering his phone."

"So call someone else."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Dean.

"Seriously? You two only know one person that could help?" Chris said flatly, interpreting the silence. "I thought you did this hunting goblins and ghouls thing for a living."

"People we know usually end up…dead," Sam admitted.

Chris groaned. "You are so…comforting, you know that? A walking inspirational billboard of comfort."

"Sorry," Sam said, meaning it. He stood up and looked at Dean. "Let's just go back in the room and brainstorm."

Dean wholeheartedly agreed. He stood up—with a little help from Sam—and watched Chris proceed to force entry into their own room.

"This place," Chris growled, shoving his shoulder against the wood, "Is such," he twisted the knob, shoved again, "A dive!"

Sam laughed. "C'mon man, it's just a door."

"'C'mon man it's just a door," Chris mocked him in falsetto as he finally managed to wrench the door open, "You suck, Winchester."

Sam shrugged. He started after them into the room.

A towel sailed across the dimly lit room and hit Chris in the chest. "Oh yeah, thanks Brandon," Chris said, turning back to Sam, "I forgot. We need more towels—assuming you two believe in showers as well as ghosts—and there's only one in here. If, of course, you can even call this ratty cloth a—"

"I'll get more," Sam said, already heading toward the office.

"Stop interrupting me!" Chris shouted at his back.

Half smiling, Sam walked around the lot to the lobby, discreetly checking the cars as he went. Nothing new had arrived, and nothing had left. They were alright; just needed a plan. He arrived in front of the glass doors, reached for the handle—

And saw her in the reflection of the glass.

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