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Chapter III: Tapping at My Chamber Door

The storm that had started while Dean was driving had intensified, and that was the only reason they were still in the hotel. Sam's fever had risen quickly, barely even stopping at doctor fever and hospital fever in its headlong rush to get to Dean-killed-puppies-in-a-previous-life-and-this-is -his-punishment fever.

But the roads were impassable, and the idiots at the hospital had said that, no, they could not send air evacuation out to them in a raging thunderstorm, and while they understood Dean's anxiety for his brother, they had to insist that he stop calling them heartless soulless douchebags.

Dean made sure Sam was comfortable and asleep. Then he went downstairs to the front desk.

"No," the bored-looking girl said before he'd even had a chance to open his mouth. "It's still raining and it needs to stop raining before we can move anyone in or out." She made a face. "I don't even get it. It's never rained like this before. I tried to go outside to make sure the shutters were closed and the water's ankle-deep. Totally ruined my new boots." She frowned at Dean. "And no, we still don't have a doctor. Like I've told you, what, a hundred times already? The doctor isn't due to come until right before we open."

"Well, is there anything you can do?"

She sighed, looking sympathetic. "Look, I get it. You're brother's sick and we can't get him to help because of this stupid storm. But there's nothing to do but wait it out. Is he comfortable? I can have pillows and blankets and things sent up to you if you need them."

"He's fine," Dean said, because, other than the terrifyingly high fever, Sam was fine. He wasn't delirious, when he was awake he spoke to Dean normally, he even said his headache was gone. He was just tired. "Just… Let me know if a doctor miraculously shows up."

He went back up to Sam, who was now awake and demanding his laptop so he could start going through the photographs. One hand to the back of his neck was all it took for Dean to shake his head firmly.

"Still running a fever, Sammy. No laptop."

"But, Dean," Sam said, as though Dean was the one being unreasonable, "I'm bored."

"You've been awake for four seconds. How can you be bored?"

"Actually, I've been awake for at least five minutes. You were downstairs flirting with Rhonda –"

"I wasn't flirting, and who the hell is Rhonda?"

"Girl on night shift at the desk? Blonde, blue eyes?"

"Dude, how do you even know her name? We haven't even been here a full night, and since this afternoon you've been stuck upstairs."

"I pay attention, Dean." Sam snuggled down. "Dude, go to sleep. You look exhausted."

"I will when you let me. I swear, you were less trouble when you were a toddler."

"Dean. I'm fine. You can sleep."

"You're hot enough to fry eggs on. If this freaking rain doesn't stop in the next five minutes, I'm going to get you to the hospital by boat."

"Where are you going to get a boat?"

"I'll get Rhonda to build me one."

Sam opened his mouth, probably to say something stupidly geeky involving Rhonda, Archimedes and boats, but before he could, somebody knocked sharply on the door.

Exchanging a glance with Sam, Dean went to see who it was.

Opening the door revealed a tall, dark-haired man, around Sam's age, wearing a massive greatcoat that hid most of his clothes. He had a black bowler hat and was carrying a little black bag.

"Yeah?" Dean said.

"Are you Dean Smith? You asked for a doctor?"

"Yeah, do you know any?"

"I am a doctor. Dr. Underhill at your service." He tried to step into the room, but Dean blocked him.

"You're a doctor?" he asked suspiciously. "What, from the eighteen hundreds? And what the hell kind of name is Underhill?"

"Mr. Smith –"

"Let me see your license."

Underhill frowned, just for a moment. Then he said, "My license is the fact that I am the only medical professional available to treat your brother until the storm blows itself out. If you want me to leave, I will."

Dean scowled. "Fine, come in."

Underhill walked past Dean into the room. Sam's eyes widened and he turned to Dean pleadingly.

Dean shook his head. "I don't like it either, but I don't want you getting sicker. Can't hurt to let him look at you."

Ignoring Dean, Underhill reached out and put a hand on Sam's forehead. Sam yelped and pushed himself away. Dean was there in an instant, keeping Sam from actually falling off the bed.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Cold," Sam gasped, staring at Underhill. "Your hands are like ice."

Underhill shrugged, unconcerned. "It feels that way to you because of your fever." He pulled a stethoscope out of his bag. "I need to listen to your heart."

Ten minutes later, Underhill was handing Dean a bottle of small white pills. "Give him two of those. He'll be fine in the morning."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing serious. He'll be fine." Underhill shook Dean's hand, and Dean fought the urge to flinch at how clammy it was. No wonder it had bothered Sam. "I'll come by in the morning. Good night, Mr. Smith."

Dean shut the door behind him.

"Dude," Sam said.

"Yeah, I know. Weirdo." Dean examined the bottle. "It doesn't even have a label," he told Sam. "Screw it. You're not taking these. For all we know he's a dealer looking to get himself a new client. Until we can get you to a hospital we're sticking to Tylenol."

A couple of hours later, the storm hadn't let up, and Sam had dozed off again. Dean appropriated his cell phone and loaded the pictures from the haunted house onto Sam's laptop. He might not know as much obscure lore as Sammy did, but he wasn't an idiot and he'd been part of enough summoning rituals to recognize the basic signs.

He kept at it as long as he could, but eventually he was sleepy enough that the red-painted symbols were blurring together.

Dean rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. Sammy could handle the rest of it in the morning. He stumbled in the direction of his bed, pausing long enough to palm Sam's cheek. It was damp with sweat. Dean let out a sigh of relief. The fever was breaking.

He collapsed onto his own bed and fell asleep.

A loud, incessant rapping woke Dean. He groaned and buried his head under his pillow. "See who it is, Sam." The rapping didn't stop. "Sammy! Go find out –"

Dean cut himself off as the memory of the previous day came flooding back.

He scrambled out of bed, casting a quick glance at Sam, who was still asleep, before going to the door.

It was Underhill.

"You again? What the hell, man?"

"Good morning, Mr. Smith. I'm pleased to see you, too. Is your brother any better?"

"What? What time is it?"

"It's nine in the morning. You'd know if you drew the curtains and let some light in." Underhill pushed past him into the room. "Did he have a rough night?"

"No…" Dean said doubtfully. "No, he just slept through. Why?" Underhill ignored him in favour of resting his hand on Sam's forehead. Sam didn't stir. "Is he OK?" Underhill pursed his lips but didn't answer. "Dude? Is he OK?"

Underhill shook his head, reaching under the blanket for Sam's hand. Dean watched with uncomprehending eyes as the doctor rested a finger on his brother's pulse point.

"What?" he asked again, forcefully. "Dude, you can't just shake your head and not tell me what's going on. Is he OK? Is he getting worse? Last night I thought the fever was breaking."

Underhill laid Sam's hand down on the bed very gently, took off his hat, and turned to Dean. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"He's… Your brother is in a better place."

Biting back the automatic response that heaven wasn't a better place for anyone except masochistic lunatics, not from what they'd seen of it, anyway, Dean said, "Don't be stupid."

His voice didn't shake, because there was no reason to be upset. The doctor was an ass who ought to have his medical degree rescinded, and Sam was fine.

"I'm sorry. I know this must be hard to accept –"

"Sam's fine. His fever was breaking last night. He wouldn't just up and die on me."

"Mr. Smith, I can give you something to calm you down –"

"Calm me down? You show up out of the blue, tell me my brother's dead in his bed right next to me, and you expect me to calm down?"

Underhill's eyes darkened. "Mr. Smith, I'm sorry. I know this is difficult. And I know you don't want to think of these things now, but we should remove the mortal remains, and perhaps you would consider a different room."

"We – what?"

"I can recommend an excellent undertaker –"

"Get out," Dean snarled.

"Mr. Smith, it is insanitary for you to share a room with a dead body –"

"I said get the hell out. Go, before I turn you into a dead body." Dean took a step forward, grabbed Underhill, and shoved him out the door. "You show up here again and I will personally wring your neck, you hear me? And then I'll send you to the undertaker! You stay away from my brother!"

With one final glare, he slammed the door shut.

He was shaking by the time he got to Sam's side. It was ridiculous – beyond ridiculous, some quack with a stethoscope showing up and trying to tell him to embalm his brother – but he couldn't help a flicker of fear. You didn't need a medical degree to know when someone didn't have a heartbeat.

Trembling fingers found Sam's neck.

For a moment Dean thought there was nothing. His heart climbed up into his throat, tears building in his eyes –

And then he felt the thrum of Sam's pulse, a little uneven but still strong.

Dean did not sob in relief. He also didn't let his hand linger on Sam's jaw, feeling the life humming through his brother's veins.

What he did was heave himself to his feet and go downstairs with every intention of tracking Underhill down, ripping his head off and feeding his mortal remains to stray dogs. And then maybe doing the same to Lou West for letting evil dicks stay in his hotel and get close to Sammy.

Rhonda was gone now. The girl sitting at the front desk was hot, and normally Dean would have stopped to admire and flirt, but just then he had more important things on his mind.

"Underhill," he growled, slamming a hand down on the desk hard enough to make the drawers rattle. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Dr. Underhill," Dean repeated impatiently. He really wasn't in the mood for bureaucratic incompetence. "The idiot you sent up to look at my brother."

"Your – oh, Dean Smith!" She looked down at a notepad on her desk. "Rhonda told me you'd wanted to get your brother to a hospital, but then we got a call from you saying he was better."

"What? I didn't call."

"Dean Smith, Room 504?"

"Yeah, but –"

"You called. It's right here." Then she frowned. "Or maybe your brother called?"

"Sam's been out like a light all night. And don't change the subject! Where's Underhill?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, I don't know what you're talking about. We don't have an in-house doctor yet, as Rhonda must have told you last night. We couldn't have sent anyone to your room. There isn't anyone."

"Maybe Rhonda called him in from somewhere?"

"Nobody would have come out last night, Mr. Smith. Nobody could have come in that storm. Are you sure you really saw this person?"

Dean would have retorted, but he realized that this was getting him nowhere. Sam was alone in their room while he stood around here making small talk.

"Tell Lou I want talk to him," he said brusquely, walking away.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting. Dean got in and jabbed the button for the fifth floor viciously. He stalked down the corridor to their room, opened the door, and –

Stopped short, cursing.

Sam's bed was empty.

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