Jim slammed the front door, his keys dropping to the floor in his rushed attempt to extract his phone from his coat pocket.
"Undisclosed number," he read aloud and then answered anyway in case it was Dean calling back from a different phone. "Dean? I've got another shirt for you. Do you need something else?"
"Jim..."
Jim blinked. "John?"
"Yeah. Where's Dean?"
Jim answered with a question, with the question. "Where are you?"
"Where's Dean?" John asked again, a margin of alarm in his voice.
"Never mind, Dean!" Jim barked, feeling anger rise to an unaccustomed level. "Where are you?"
"At the motel in Ida Grove." John paused. "What the hell crawled up your ass, Jim? And where the hell is Dean? He's not answering his phone."
"Oh, that complaint is rich, especially coming from you," Jim responded, his tone sharp with sarcasm.
"Jim, I don't have time for this."
"No, of course you don't. You only have time for the hunt or to call if you need something, but otherwise the rest of us are just – "
"Jim!" John interrupted, yelling to be heard over the Pastor's rant. "Where's Dean?"
"At the hospital!" Jim yelled back, his harsh breathing filling the silence that followed.
"He's what?"
"At the hospital," Jim repeated more evenly. "And if you would've checked your messages, you would've already known that. You would know that Dean's phone is off because he's at United in the Intensive Care Unit with Sam, which is where you should be."
"I can't check my messages because my phone is at the bottom of a damn lake, and I – " John's voice faded as if he just comprehended the second part of Jim's statement. "Wait, why is Sam in the hospital?"
Because he's dying, Jim silently answered feeling the anger dissipate just as quickly as it had arrived. This was the hard part.
John Winchester was competent, practical, and generous in an impersonal way that focused on the good that needed to be done. He was also tough, arrogant, and strong-willed. He was stubborn and infuriating and was not prone to having soft spots...except when it came to his boys.
Dean was his oldest, his right-hand man, his dependable soldier. Sam was and always would be the protected youngest, but he was a mystery to John – which was ironic since they were two sides of the same card, more alike than different...but neither liked what he saw.
Over the past few years, Jim knew John's relationship with Sam had become strained, constantly clashing over direct orders given and immediate obedience denied. Even so, Sam meant more to John than even John realized, and this was going to devastate him.
"Jim!" John yelled over the phone. "What's wrong with Sam?"
Jim leaned against the door and sighed. "He's bleeding internally."
"What? What the hell happened?"
"He was misdiagnosed a few days ago, John. He didn't have strep and didn't need a tonsillectomy; he had – well, has – mononucleosis and so when he fell on the stairs last night, he ruptured his spleen."
"Sonuvabitch," John hissed, resisting the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Why did everything always happen to Sam? He breathed deeply. "Why did he fall? Did they do surgery? Is he gonna be okay?"
"They're holding off on surgery right now, trying to keep him stable, but it's not looking good, John," Jim answered honestly. "I'm sorry..."
There was silence.
"Ah, Sam..." John sighed.
And then there was more silence.
Followed by more silence.
"John?"
John cleared his throat. "Yeah..." he answered hoarsely.
"You need to get here," Jim urged gently.
"I'm on my way," John responded immediately, the sound of swift movement muffling his voice.
"Good. I'll let Dean know, try to smooth things over."
"Yeah, thanks," John replied, acknowledging his appreciation of the Pastor's warning but knowing as well as Jim that this wasn't a situation to be smoothed over.
John knew his sons, especially his oldest, and Dean was undoubtedly pissed; by this point, Dean would be livid at what he perceived to be indifference from John over Sam's deteriorating condition.
Fuck.
"I'll be there soon," John promised, ending the call and snatching up his and Dean's duffles as he crossed to the door.
He understood now why his oldest wasn't at the motel and hadn't checked out, why he hadn't left a note and wasn't answering his phone. It wasn't because Dean was in danger; it was because Sam was.
John shook his head. There was no telling how many voicemails he had from Dean – and from Jim, judging the Pastor's initial reaction to his call just now – trying to tell him about Sam.
"Shit," John hissed as he grabbed the weapons bag and sighed.
Maybe he couldn't help that his cell phone had been destroyed when the water sprite had unceremoniously dumped his ass in the lake – before he banished the bitch; maybe he couldn't help that he was clueless about how to check his messages from any phone but his own; but he could certainly help the order of his priorities.
"I oughta kick my own ass," John muttered as he opened the door, preparing to leave.
"Me first," came the unexpected response as the door swung wide, followed by an equally unexpected right cross punch to his face.
John staggered back, dropping the bags as he regained his balance and assumed a defensive pose before realizing the identity of his attacker.
"Bobby?" he asked, confused and pissed. "What the fu – "
Another right cross punch, followed by a left uppercut, a right jab, and then a leg sweep left John Winchester on his ass.
"Holy shit, Singer!" John panted, wiping the back of his hand across his bloody lip. "What the fuck is your problem?"
"You are, asshole."
"Bobby – "
"Shut up. Next time it'll be buckshot in your ass. Now get your shit, and let's go," Bobby ordered gruffly.
John resisted the urge to rub his ass as he stood and rubbed his jaw instead, still confused by the turn of events. "Where are we going?"
"To see the Wizard," Bobby deadpanned before rolling his eyes. "To the hospital, you damned idjit. Sam needs you."
John narrowed his eyes, feeling warmth and tightness on the left side of his face as he did so, compliments of Bobby Singer. "You know about Sam?"
Bobby nodded. "Dean and Jim couldn't get in touch with you, so – "
" – so they sent you to find me," John finished, his heart beating faster, pulsing in his bruised jaw, in his split lip, in his swelling left eye as fear clenched his gut.
He stared at his fellow hunter in silence. It's worse than Jim said.
"It is," Bobby confirmed softly, remembering the last update he had received from Jim less than an hour ago. He turned, heading toward his truck. "So get your shit and move your ass."
And for once, John Winchester followed orders.
The steady rhythm of the monitors filled the room as Dean sat beside Sam's bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between legs. He leaned his forehead against his hands, looking down and closing his eyes at the sight of his brother's blood smeared on his shirt.
Although the bloodstained blanket had been replaced with clean linens, Dean could still see the bright red splatters on that fabric as well, could still picture the fear and panic that had shown so clearly on Sam's face. He could still hear his little brother's harsh gasps for air, the echo of his desperate, frantic plea.
Please...don't...leave me.
Dean sighed and raised his head, shaking it slightly as if to disperse the memory. He checked the clock and then looked back at Sam.
"Jim should be here soon, Sammy," he stated conversationally, knowing that Sam was asleep, yet needing to talk, remembering the call he had made to Jim half an hour ago.
"You need to come back," he had said when the Pastor had answered the phone on the first ring. "And I need a fresh shirt."
"What? Why?" Jim's tone had been panicked. "Is he worse?"
"He's coughing up blood."
"He's what?" Jim had asked sharply.
Dean had remained silent, knowing Jim had heard him and thinking that hearing such news once was enough. "They've paged Dr. Collins, and they're taking him downstairs for a chest x-ray and a CT scan."
The sound of keys being snatched and a door being opened had preceded Jim's response. "I'm on my way."
Dean sighed. "He's on his way," he said, more to himself than to his brother, as his thoughts turned to what Jim's reaction would be to the news that Sam had never made it downstairs, had never even made it out of his room.
Dean stood up suddenly and moved to the window, staring out at the darkness as he massaged his temples and remembered; remembered how he had lowered his brother back to the bed, how he had stood and allowed Karen and the orderlies to set about their work...and how Sam had suddenly started shaking.
Tiny tremors had run through Sam's body, intensifying in strength as the monitors had increased in tempo and volume, screaming out their warnings at a deafening pitch as Sam flailed on the bed.
"He's seizing!" Karen had yelled over the din, and two more nurses had rushed into the room.
As they had entered, one of the orderlies had gently, but firmly, pushed Dean out into the hall and then had proceeded to block the doorway.
"They'll take care of him," the orderly had reassured as Dean had stared at him, speechless.
Minutes had passed – feeling like hours – before the monitors had slowed and Sam had quieted. There had been a flurry of activity around Sam for several more minutes, and then Karen had called to the orderly.
"It's okay, Mike," she had said. "He can come back in now."
Mike had nodded at Dean, and Dean had approached the bed slowly, hating how shaky and scared he felt as his eyes had scanned his brother.
Karen had turned to Dean as the other nurses and orderly had left the room. "He had a seizure."
"Well, no shit," Dean had said harshly, fear sinking its talons deeper into his heart.
"It's okay," Karen had reassured him. "Seeing something like that can be scary."
Dean snorted, thinking that was the understatement of the year. "Why did he have the seizure?"
Karen had shrugged. "Hard to say the exact reason. Of all the seizures that occur, 66% have no known cause."
Dean had stared at her. Was she serious? His little brother...his kid...his Sammy had just had a fucking seizure, and she was quoting statistics to him?
Karen had seemed to sense Dean's frustration. "Well..." she had sighed. "His urea and creatinine levels were elevated in the last blood panel we did, as well as his potassium, so an electrolyte imbalance could've caused it. Or he could have been hypoxic from nearly hyperventilating. Or he could be developing pulmonary edema from the acute renal failure, which would make it more difficult to breathe, which could lead to hypoxia. Plus, we can't forget about the thrombocytopenia, which means there aren't enough platelets in his blood, which is a direct result of his enlarged spleen and is leading to the excessive internal bleeding. His Factor V...which is a protein of the coagulation system...those levels are off as well as a few other things which would indicate that Sam's also beginning to show signs of acute liver failure, which is common and occurs in 50% of acute renal failure patients and would also lead to – "
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" Dean had snapped, his voice echoing into the hall. "Jesus..."
And it was in that moment that Dean hadn't known which was worse – not knowing...or knowing.
Karen had blinked at him, biting her lip and shifting uncomfortably. "I'm..." She had cleared her throat. "I'm sorry."
Dean had ignored the apology, knowing he should have offered his own – and knowing if Sam had been awake, his little brother would've bitchfaced him into submission; but Dean had been well beyond minding his manners.
"Won't the CT scan tell the cause?" he had asked, irritated and pissed...at her, at himself, at the entire situation.
"Possibly..." Karen had answered, regaining her composure. "But the orders weren't for a head CT. Anyway, it doesn't matter now; we're not moving him. We've replaced the nasal cannula with an oxygen mask to help increase his O2 sats. He'll probably end up on a vent later, but right now we're just trying to keep him stable and wait for Dr. Collins to arrive to see how he wants to proceed."
There had been a pause before Dean had blurted a question that had surprised even him.
"Is he dying?"
Karen had shaken her head frantically. "Don't think like that."
Dean had stepped closer to her. "I need to know. Because if he is..."
His voice had faded, unable to fathom a world without Sam.
Karen had stared at him for a moment – clearly at a loss for what to say – before shrugging in resignation. "I don't know," she had said softly as she had quickly left the room.
I don't know.
Dean sighed as he moved back toward the bed, his gaze flickering to the monitors before coming to rest on his sleeping brother.
For most people in most situations, knowing was easy; saying it aloud was the hard part. And whether Karen or Dr. Collins or Jim or even himself wanted to say it, they all still knew the truth: Sam was dying.
Dean sank back into the chair.
Over the years, he had learned one of the most important lessons when it came to Sam – wait and see. If Sam was in one of his moods, just wait and see when he'd snap out of it. If he was arguing with John, just wait and see how long it took him to get over it. It was true with just about anything. The old adage was right – time often had a way of working things out, of making things better.
And yet now, time, rather than diminishing the hurt, only seemed to sharpen the pain. There was no time to wait and see. His brother was slipping away, and the emotions Dean felt were so strong it were as though his soul actually spasmed with unbearable sadness. How much did heartache weigh? How heavy was the burden when the person you loved most was slipping away before your eyes?
Suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, Dean leaned forward, putting his head down on Sam's bed.
"I can't lose you, Sam. I just can't..." he whispered as the soft sound of his weeping penetrated the silence, a slow-growing release of anguish that knew no boundaries, no comfort.
Dean wasn't being overdramatic when he said he couldn't live without Sam – he literally couldn't – and his own desperation and fragility in that moment unnerved him. He allowed tears to slip through his lashes and felt them glide down his cheeks as he silently cried, releasing a flood of emotion that rarely surfaced.
Several minutes passed before Dean drew a quiet, shuddering breath and then became aware of a feather-light touch on his head.
Looking up, he saw Sam had opened his eyes just a slit and was watching him. With great effort, Sam slowly lifted his hand and slid the oxygen mask from his face, pushing it down so it hung awkwardly around his neck.
"Love you...too," Sam said faintly, his voice hoarser than normal.
Dean laughed wetly and smiled. His little brother could always see right through him. He nodded in response, unable to trust his voice, and placed his hand on Sam's head, fingers splayed beneath damp bangs, his thumb gently rubbing his brother's warm forehead as silence settled between them.
Sam moved restlessly as he wheezed and then coughed.
Dean frowned, reaching for the mask around his brother's neck. "You need to keep this on, Sam," he gently chastised, moving it up to the kid's face but pausing when Sam turned away. "Sammy..."
"I'm s-sorry."
Dean shook his head slightly. "For what, kiddo?"
"Scaring you." Sam's eyes closed briefly. "Know you...hate that."
"Shhh...it's alright, Sammy," Dean soothed, his voice quiet. "I'm alright."
Sam's eyes cracked open again as he smiled weakly. "Liar."
Dean returned the smile and chuckled, his heart constricting as he stared into the tired eyes of his little brother and carded his fingers through the kid's floppy hair. Sam was being so brave it hurt.
Dean scowled in mock irritation even as one corner of his mouth turned up. "Who you callin' a liar, bitch?"
"You...jerk." Sam closed his eyes. "Where's Dad?"
Dean blinked, startled by the question. It was the first time Sam had mentioned John, and Dean wasn't sure if him asking now was a sign of concern, curiosity, or finality.
Sam opened his eyes again, waiting.
"I don't know," Dean admitted.
Sam didn't look surprised. It was the answer he had been given most of his life whenever he asked about the whereabouts of their father.
"Is...he coming?"
Dean sighed, hating this. "I've left messages, but..." He shrugged, not knowing what to say and feeling simultaneously helpless and pissed. "I don't know."
Sam seemed to consider the information. "Is he...mad...at me?"
Dean stared at his brother, feeling the warmth of anger blossom in his chest and slowly spread through him, only to be chased by the chill of sadness.
John wasn't there, might not even be on his way, and Sam immediately assumed it was because their dad was mad at him. Mad at him for not sucking up a sore throat; for disrupting a hunt in favor of "routine surgery"; for not recovering fast enough; for getting injured and then having the nerve to get even sicker; for not being strong enough and tough enough and everything else John Winchester expected of his sons.
Dean shook his head. "No," he responded, louder than he intended. "He's not mad at you, Sammy, you hear me?"
But I am fucking pissed at him, Dean silently seethed.
Sam nodded, but his eyes misted and his voice hitched as he spoke. "I kinda...wanna...s-see him."
"I know," Dean soothed, blinking against the sting of tears in his own eyes as he lightly squeezed his brother's arm.
Sam wheezed a sigh, his eyes dipping closed. "I'm tired."
"I bet you are," Dean agreed, wondering if Sam remembered what had happened, if he remembered the coughing...the blood...the seizure. "Go back to sleep."
Sam gave a slight nod, and Dean positioned the oxygen mask over his brother's face before he leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs in front of him, trying to relieve the stiffness that had settled in his muscles from sitting too long.
After a few moments, Sam sighed again, but Dean knew he wasn't sleeping; he was thinking.
"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice muffled by the mask.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
Sam's hand fluttered, motioning toward his face, and Dean lowered the mask.
"Sam, you can't keep talking. You need to leave this on and rest."
Sam opened his eyes and shook his head weakly. "I have...to say...something." He swallowed. "Need you...to...do something...for me."
Dean leaned closer to his brother, his face compassionate and attentive, as it always was when Sam used that tone. "Of course, Sam. You name it."
Sam moved restlessly on the bed, his breaths beginning to come in short bursts, his sides and chest pulling painfully in warning. "I need you...to promise..." he swallowed again, "...to promise...me something."
Dean nodded slowly, a feeling of dread rising in his stomach. "What, Sam?"
Sam stared at his brother, tears welling in his eyes and then spilling over, gliding down his cheeks.
"Hey..." Dean soothed, rubbing his brother's arm as his thumb swept the moisture from the kid's flushed cheeks. He could take anyone's tears but Sam's. "C'mon, kiddo. It's okay..."
"I'm sorry," Sam apologized as tears continued to rim his eyes.
"You don't have to keep apologizing, Sam."
"I know. It's just..."
Sam hesitated.
Dean smiled encouragingly, his thumb slowly rubbing the crook of his brother's elbow. "It's just what, Sammy?"
"I'm...I'm s-scared, Dean."
Dean clenched his jaw. So am I.
"That's normal, Sam," Dean said as much to himself as to his brother.
"No," Sam responded, shaking his head slightly. "Not...for me...not really."
Who's the liar now, Dean thought affectionately.
Sam wheezed, breathless. "I'm...more afraid...for you."
Dean narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, confused. "Me?"
Sam nodded.
"Don't worry about me, Sam," Dean reassured. "You need to worry about you. You need to get better, huh?"
Sam shook his head weakly. "I'm not...getting...better."
"You will," Dean replied instantly, his tone harsh from fear and anxiety. "You will."
"I won't," Sam stated simply as fatigue pulled at him, as his breath teased him. "And...I'm afraid...that..." He breathed noisily. "...when...the time...comes...you won't...let me go."
Dean stared at his little brother, speechless. His eyes glistened with emotion, and his heart slammed in his chest. He didn't want to have this conversation. Sam knew him too well.
"P-promise me..." Sam said, his hand seeking his brother's.
Dean's fingers laced with Sam's as he grasped the kid's hand, palm against palm. "Promise what, Sam?"
Tears welled again in Sam's huge eyes. "Promise me...you...will let...me go."
Dean bowed his head and pressed their clasped hands to his forehead. "Sammy – "
"Dean...please...please...promise."
Dean said nothing, his harsh breaths mixing with the wheezes of his brother and the constant hum of the medical equipment. Anyone that knew him knew how much he loved his little brother and how he would do anything for Sam – but not this. He couldn't promise this. There was no way in hell he was letting Sam go – certainly not now...and maybe not ever.
Dean lifted his head, stubborn determination flooding his heart. "No."
"Dean – "
"No," Dean repeated, shaking his head for emphasis. "It's you and me against the world, remember? And I'm not letting you leave me here alone."
Sam shifted on the bed, coughing as he became more agitated, and then flexed his head back, pushing into the pillow as he tried to draw a deep breath. "But...Dean...I – "
"Hey. Easy..." Dean stood, releasing Sam's hand as he slipped the oxygen mask up over his brother's chin, carefully adjusting it over the kid's nose and mouth. "Deep breaths, huh? Calm down, you're okay."
"No." Sam shook his head, legs moving restlessly beneath the sheets, hands bunching the blanket as fresh tears appeared. "Not...okay," he sobbed, the mask fogging. "I'm...not...o-okay." Sam's brave front completely crumbled. "Dean..."
"Ah, Sammy..." Dean sighed, feeling his heart constrict at Sam's expression and tone as he lowered the bedrail and gently pushed against his brother. "Make room," he said as he settled beside Sam, mindful of the wires and IV lines.
Dr. Collins or Karen or whoever could bitch all they wanted about hospital rules forbidding visitors to be on patients' beds. But Dean knew his little brother, and this was what Sam needed.
"C'mere, kiddo..." Dean whispered as he lifted his arm and felt Sam immediately latch on to him, curling against his side, head resting on his chest, hand grasping the amulet.
Dean pulled the blanket closer around his brother as Sam sighed shakily in a mixture of tears and exhaustion and nestled even closer. Dean smiled affectionately and was reminded of that night at Jim's house when all they had to worry about was Sam recovering from a routine tonsillectomy. It was hard to believe that was only four days ago; that only four days ago, Sam was relatively okay.
Dean sat there several minutes, lightly resting his chin on Sam's head as he softly hummed – over and over – the opening chords of "Smoke On the Water," while he rubbed his little brother's back and listened as the kid's breaths slowly evened out.
"Better?"
Sam's head moved along Dean's collarbone, his hair tickling Dean's neck and chin as he nodded and then relaxed more heavily against his big brother.
"Good." Dean paused. "Now you listen to me. I know you're sick and you feel like shit and you're so tired you just want to stop fighting, but you can't. I cannot lose you, Sammy." Dean glanced down, seeing Sam's eyes were closed but knowing the kid was still listening. "You wanna know why I can't lose you?"
Dean didn't wait for a response.
"I can't lose you because I haven't taught you how to drive yet...or how to hustle pool...or how to kick ass, then haul ass after you've hustled pool." Dean chuckled. "I haven't given you tips on how to make it to third base on the first date...or in your case, how to even get a first date." He carded his fingers through Sam's hair. "I haven't had the chance to get you drunk yet – even though I'm pretty sure you're gonna be a lightweight and incredibly sappy when you're wasted – but that'll just make it easier to talk you into karaoke before taking you home, cleaning you up, putting you to bed...and then making you feel even worse the next morning."
Dean grinned at the future fun he would have at his brother's expense and then sighed, feeling tears prick his eyes at the all-too-real possibility that, given Sam's current condition, it would never happen.
And that wasn't going to happen. Not on his watch.
"But the main reason I can't lose you, Sammy, is because you're the reason I get up every morning. It's all you, little bro. Without you, there's no me." Dean's hand covered his brother's as it rested on his chest. "So, here's the deal, kiddo: I'm not giving up, so you're not giving up. I'm gonna figure this out...I'm gonna figure out the best thing for us to do to beat this...but I need you to fight just a little while longer, okay?"
Several moments passed before Sam swallowed noisily and drew a labored breath, fingers twitching as he weakly squeezed Dean's hand in response. For you...okay.
TBC