A/N I apologize in advance for any and all mistakes. I'm not feeling that great today and my brain has felt like sludge, so the last round of editing that was supposed to fix everything probably didn't do that. I just hope that it all makes sense :) Thank you so much for all the reviews and the love, you guys keep me going!
Chapter Five
Sam stared at the now closed door with disbelief and then anger.
Dean hadn't even tried to listen to him. He'd just walked out.
It hurt and felt far too much like the weeks right after Dean had gotten back, when one of them was leaving in a huff of anger, hurt feelings on both sides. Only, this time it was because Sam might be dying, and Dean was scared.
Letting his head drop back against the pillow, Sam pressed his knuckles into his eyes. Things had been going so well between them, and then he had to go and eat a bunch of toxic mushrooms.
It had been stupid. He had been stupid. They should have been smarter than this. They had come here to hunt a dangerous monster and they should have been more watchful. Instead, they had walked right into a trap, and the only reason that both of them weren't down for the count was because Dean didn't like mushrooms.
They had stopped Lucifer and the Leviathans; this was an idiotic way to get taken out. Dad had tried to drill it into them that there was danger everywhere they looked, that nothing was safe or good or just a simple offer of kindness.
Sam dropped his hands, the anger simmering back down. He had never subscribed to that kind of thinking, and he had butted heads with his Dad about it more than once. Dean did more so, especially in hard times, and coming back from Purgatory had not been easy for him. It had been a good thing that Dean had accepted lunch.
The outcome just really, really, sucked.
He just wished that Dean had stuck around. They needed to talk about what was going to happen and about precautionary measures that they should be taking. Just leaving had always been Dad's move and it had driven Sam crazy growing up.
He didn't like it any better on Dean, but it scared him more so than it had with John.
Dean was the best hunter Sam knew, and he could be downright terrifying when he got into the hunting zone, but that didn't mean that he didn't make mistakes. Right now, he wasn't going to be watching his back. Instead, he was going to let his emotions run away with him and obsess over killing the creature that had hurt Sam, consequences be damned.
And there wasn't going to be a damn thing that Sam could do about it from a hospital bed, especially if Dean started cutting him out.
It wasn't like he didn't get it. Sam did. He wasn't hypocritical enough not to acknowledge the things that he had said and done in the name of revenge for his brother, so he could understand.
But the thought of Dean doing that, of not caring about what happened to him as long as he got the monster…that scared Sam. It scared him more than the mushrooms did. If Dean did something stupid and died over something as petty as revenge for him then Sam wasn't sure that he could live with himself.
He had lived life with Dean being dead a couple of times, and horrible seemed like too small of a word to describe those experiences. It was like living a life devoid of color, of anything good or joyful even. All that was left behind was the dullness of attempting to survive. It didn't matter if he was hell-bent on revenge or if he had left hunting—life with Dean dead just wasn't good.
His experience during the year that Dean had been in Purgatory had only reinforced that. His relationship with Amelia had been muted down to a desperate attempt to feel something. Anything but the dark despair and crushing grief. There had been none of the deep love or friendship or even excitement that had been in his relationship with Jess or with Sarah.
Amelia and he had both found comfort in trying to live that colorless life together and Sam still didn't see anything wrong with that, not inherently. Not if Dean had truly been dead and in Heaven like Sam had thought.
But he hadn't been.
Sam shook his head. That had been his true mistake, assuming that Dean was dead, but he wasn't about to let it get that far this time. Dean wasn't dying for Sam again.
Shoving the blankets off his legs, Sam gingerly sat up. His head was still decidedly unhappy with him, and it gave a particularly vicious throb as he moved, but he ignored it. Standing, he grabbed the IV pole and, after the slight dizziness had passed, tugged it along with him until he reached the chair that Dean had tossed the plastic bag filled with his belongings onto earlier.
Digging through it, he pulled out his phone and shuffled back to the bed.
His little field trip left him feeling slightly nauseated, but besides that it was fine. He was fine.
Sam dialed Dean's number and waited. He didn't pick up, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. "Dude, call me back. Schneider could either be possessed or a shifter, so be careful. Don't go in unprepared."
Chewing absently on the fingernails of his right hand, Sam couldn't escape the sinking feeling in his gut. He didn't like this. He didn't want Dean out hunting alone. He also didn't want to be here, he'd much prefer to be with Dean, watching his back. They'd already been played once, what was to say that it couldn't happen again?
The thought of Schneider being a monster wasn't leaving, and Sam didn't feel right about any of this.
Picking up his phone again, he pulled up the NYPD database and began to skim through it for Schneider's office number.
There was no way in hell that he was just going to sit back on the sidelines this time. He'd start by checking up on Schneider to make sure that he hadn't been acting strange over the last few days. After talking with Schneider's secretary, his deputy, and the police commissioner, Sam assured himself that at the very least, Schneider wasn't acting odd. It was a cold comfort, but he took it.
Dean still hadn't called him back, but Sam had no shortage of things that he could do research on to kill the time until then. He could look into the Cobble-Hill thieves, the break-in at Colombia University, or the Monx robbery. They all had to be connected somehow, and if it was the same creature doing all the break-ins, a group of them, or something else completely, Sam didn't know, but he was going to find out.
Deciding to start with the break-in at Colombia, Sam dived in.
There was no one to distract him from his research as the nurses only checked on him periodically, but instead of leaving Sam feeling accomplished, he just felt alone. Dean filled the spaces in between like nothing else did, and Sam thought best when he was talking things through or bouncing ideas off of his brother.
Dinner was brought—Sam didn't eat much, he didn't feel that hungry—and then visiting hours were over.
Dean still hadn't returned, nor had he called back.
Sam didn't try to call him again.
He'd thought about it—it was on the back of his mind almost constantly—but worry that Dean wouldn't pick up because he wouldn't or couldn't, and his bruised ego, stopped him. It had been his downfall at Stanford as well.
Besides, he tried to assure himself, Dean was probably just at the motel, doing research as well after his visit with Chief Schneider and Monx. Visiting hours were over at the hospital, and there was no point in Dean trying to come back to see him. Sam wasn't actively dying just yet, so there was no reason for the hospital to allow him the special privilege to stay.
Not that it had ever stopped Dean before.
Huffing out a sigh of frustration, Sam switch screens on his phone to another police record and then winced and looked away as his head throbbed in protest. His headache had steadily been getting worse all day, and it wasn't getting any better as he continued to stare at his phone. He dug the fingers of his free hand into his temple, trying to rub away the pain so that he could get back to work.
He heard his nurse, Maria, come in and quickly pried his fingers away from his face, squinting up at her.
"You know," she said with a smile, "That headache might just go away if you were to do what the doctor ordered and get some sleep. Whatever it is you are reading really can wait for tomorrow."
Could it, though, when knowledge sometimes meant the difference between life and death?
"I'll think about it," he said, trying to return her smile. She bustled around the room, checking different monitors and switching over the IV bag before stopping next to his bed.
"Give me the phone," she said pointedly, holding out her hand.
Sam made a face, but she wiggled her fingers. "I'm serious. You need to sleep." She glared at him, and Sam reluctantly handed the phone over.
"I don't need to put this somewhere you won't find it, right?" she asked in what Sam would consider a motherly tone—although he'd heard it from Dean when he'd been growing up—and he smiled.
"No."
Nodding, she set it aside on his bedside table and then briefly rested her hand on his arm, saying as she did so. "You really should try and get some sleep," and then Maria was gone.
Sam closed his eyes, waiting for her footsteps to fade before reaching for his phone again. Blinking rapidly to bring the words back into focus, Sam squinted down at the screen as he continued to try and read about the latest series of break-ins that the Cobble-Hill thieves had performed.
Thief was probably a better word than thieves, though.
Sam was fairly sure after combing through several records that it was just one person—well, demon or shifter—doing the work. He could see how the police thought that it might have been a group, however. The DNA, if there was any, was always different and the suspects were never the same. The break-ins, however, always followed the same MO eerily too close for it to be multiple people. Which was probably good. One was easier to deal with than a group.
Well, it would be easier for Dean to deal with since he had been sidelined.
Damn mushrooms.
Sam rubbed at his eyes, grimacing as the movement jostled his head. Maria may have been right about it being time to stop. The words on the screen weren't coming into focus no matter how close Sam brought the phone to his face or turned the brightness up. The low battery warning popping up on his screen sealed the deal.
He was done.
Dean might need to get in contact with him later or vice versa and, oddly enough, he hadn't thought to bring a charger with him that morning for what was supposed to be only a couple of hours of interviews.
Still, admitting defeat left a bitter taste in his mouth. If something bad happened and he hadn't found the answers quickly enough, then that would be on him, but Sam didn't see any other choice. As soon as he got some sleep—and a charger—he would be back at it.
Slipping his phone under his pillow for easy access and so that he would hear if Dean called, he curled up on his side and closed his eyes.
#
Sam didn't sleep well that night.
Although he fell asleep fairly quickly at first, he kept waking up, his headache an ever-present annoyance. It didn't help that the pillows were thin, the blankets even more so, and he couldn't get his brain to shut down. His gut kept twisting with unease as his mind jumped to the worst what-ifs that it could come up with. It didn't help that every couple of hours Maria came in to check on him, waking him up accidentally if he wasn't already awake. He had been a hunter too long to turn off the disquiet of having anyone but Dean around while he was so vulnerable.
It wasn't until the light of the rising sun was just starting to creep into his room that Sam finally managed to slip into a deeper sleep.
When he woke again, it was to the soft rustling of papers and Dean humming softly. The room was surprisingly dim, the overhead lights on low and the curtains pulled to keep the sunlight out, no doubt in an effort to allow him to sleep.
Rolling his head to the side, he saw Dean sitting on the floor next to the bed. Scattered around him was an impressive layout of papers that were organized into several different piles. His hair was disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
"Hey," Sam said thickly, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes.
"Hey yourself," Dean said, glancing up at him with a smile, their earlier argument—if it could even be called that—forgotten.
Sam, on the other hand, hadn't. They still needed to talk about a lot of things, but he would wait for that until he was more awake.
"Did you get any sleep last night?" he asked, still feeling foggy and half asleep as he searched blindly for the bed controls so that he could raise the bed into a sitting position.
"Nope. And Maria told me that you had a rough night as well, so don't come at me." Dean put the paper that he was holding in the pile furthest to the left and then stood. "Lunch, or well, breakfast I guess in your case," he announced as he gathered up a tray that was resting on the bedside table. "Here you go. It's probably a little cold by now, but it's still edible."
Lunch? How long had he slept?
Dean plopped the tray down onto Sam's lap as he reached under his pillow for his phone. "What time is it?" he asked, wincing as the motion tugged on his IV. He gave it up a moment later as he saw that his phone was plugged in and charging on the chair next to the bed.
Dean sat back down, picking up a stack of papers. "It's almost one. Dr. DeCary said to let you sleep and that you needed the rest more than anything else."
Sam scoffed lightly, picking up his fork only to put it down again. The mashed potatoes swimming in gravy didn't look that inviting.
"Dude, eat it. You haven't eaten in like two days and there is no reason to go on a food strike," Dean said firmly.
"I'm not going on a food strike. I'm just not a fan of food that tastes like cardboard." Sam glared at him as Dean huffed a laugh, but picked up his fork again. He toyed with the potatoes for a moment before eating a mouthful. It surprisingly didn't taste terrible, and his stomach didn't immediately clench up which was a first for the past few days. He might actually be hungry after all.
"Nice art project," he said, pointing with his fork at the floor.
Dean's lip twitched upwards. "Oh, yeah. Maria loves it. She's only threatened to call the janitor in like three times. Said that when dinner comes, she's going to pour water all over it."
Sam rolled his eyes. "And what, exactly, is it?" He pushed aside his tray. He would finish it later when Dean no doubt left to follow up on any new leads he had and swung his legs over the bed. That brought Dean's attention snapping up to him.
"What are you doing? Lay your ass back down and finish your food."
Sam glowered at him as he straightened the IV line and grabbed the pole. "Dude, stop it. I can help you with whatever it is that you're working on. I'll finish afterward. The food isn't going to get any colder."
Dean shook his head, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. "You heard what Dr. DeCary said, you may feel fine, but you're not. You need to rest and eat, get your strength back."
Sam ignored him, pushing himself up onto his feet. Dean scrambled upright, sending papers flying with an alarmed look on his face. "I'm not kidding. You're supposed to be taking it easy, doctor's orders."
"Yeah, well—" Sam couldn't exactly claim that the doctor didn't know what he needed, but it wasn't like he was going to run a marathon, he was just going to help sort some papers. Dean grabbed him by the arms and bodily pushed him back down again.
Sam shrugged himself free and Dean held up his hands in a silent apology before immediately resting one hand on his shoulder just in case.
"Dean, stop. This is ridiculous. Stop treating me like I'm two."
Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder until it was almost painful and his voice was hard when he spoke again. "The toxins are still doing damage, and you're supposed to be getting your strength back so that you can fight them off. We aren't screwing around with this, the stakes are too high, so you are going to do what DeCary says."
Sam looked away, feeling a little bit like a scolded child and not liking it. "I know that. I'm not an idiot. But I can help, I'm not useless, not yet."
"I never said that, don't put words in my mouth. I'll let you help, just…finish your lunch first." Dean's hand tightened as he stared into Sam's eyes, demanding for him to listen.
Sam chewed on his lip for a second, hating that he was even in this position. "Okay, okay, let go. I'll eat my damn lunch." He batted Dean's hand aside and swung his legs back up onto the bed.
Dean continued to eye him warily as if Sam was going to get up and sprint for the door. "Good," he said slowly, still evaluating him. "Just don't get out of bed. All you've got on is that hospital gown and I don't want to be scarred for life."
Dean was close enough that Sam could reach him, and he smacked him hard on the arm, making him grunt and back up several steps. "Ow! Cut that out, you're supposed to be dying."
The words were light, but something visibly darkened in Dean's face that he couldn't hide from Sam, even as he turned around and sat back down in the middle of the piles.
Sam reluctantly pulled the tray back towards him, starting to pick apart a breadstick. "You never did say what exactly you are doing," he said, trying to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice.
Dean was gathering up the papers that he had scattered in his rush to stop Sam but looked up. "I'm organizing NYPD records of every break-in and robbery that has occurred over the last five years."
"Oh, wow, that's…" Sam stalled on his words. A lot seemed like too small of a description. The number had to be in the thousands.
Dean suddenly smiled. "Okay, it isn't actually every robbery, but you should have seen how big your eyes got. It's every robbery valued at over twenty grand."
Sam nodded in sudden understanding. "Makes sense. We are looking at a bigger area than just Cobble-Hill despite what the police think, and we are looking for thefts of priceless objects because that seems to be all that they—demon or shapeshifter—are interested in."
"Shapeshifter. We're hunting a shapeshifter," Dean said resolutely, and Sam looked over at him.
"What makes you think that?" It wasn't that he didn't trust Dean—if Dean said that it was a shapeshifter, then it was a shapeshifter—but he was curious.
"I had that meeting with Chief Schneider yesterday, right? Well, ballistics came back on the bullet that killed Ted Ambrose. The bullet didn't match the gun that the officer fired, and that had Schneider even more confused than he was before."
He stared at Sam pointedly, but he didn't need the nonverbal hint. Sam already knew where Dean was headed. "The bullet didn't kill the shapeshifter because it wasn't silver. It must have panicked after escaping from the morgue, and decided that killing Ambrose—who probably never even left his bed that night—was its only option. Which was outrageously stupid, but I doubt that it had ever been in a situation like that before. A demon, on the other hand, would have just left the host to die with the original bullet still in its back."
"Exactly. See, even mushrooms can't slow you down." Dean grinned at Sam in a way that asked if he understood the underlying meaning. Humor always had been Dean's natural defense when something scared him. Humor, and now anger, that was.
Sam wasn't smiling. "Damnit, I hate shapeshifters. Dean, this isn't good. You can't hunt a shifter by yourself. They're bad news, and you know it."
Dean made an incredulous face. "I've hunted way worse things alone. Besides," he added, pointing a finger in Sam's direction, "think about it. It might be smarter to go by myself. That sick sonofabitch can't shift into you, and since I don't trust anyone else, I'll just stab anyone who gets too close. It will be easy."
The words were said with the intent to make Sam smile, but something else tightened in his chest. It wasn't that long ago that Dean had told him that Benny had been a better brother than him and how much Sam had let him down…and yet here he was, looking at him with open affection and trust.
Dean could still read him like an open book despite everything that had happened, and his smile slipped. "Oh, c'mon, man! You're supposed to tell me that I can't stab everybody, not get all doe-eyed."
Sam shook his head, picking at the remnants of the food still on the tray. "Dean, I don't like this. Like you said before, this isn't some sort of game. This is serious—I'm serious! I don't think that you should hunt this alone. Just hold tight and either wait for me to get out of here, or I can find you another hunter to help out."
Dean scoffed and Sam looked over. He could read Dean as well as Dean could read him, and his brother was verging on angry. Sam tried to soften his voice. "Please. I know that hunting down the shifter is important, but I really don't feel good about you going out there by yourself."
"And I really don't feel good about you being poisoned. No, Sam. There is no telling how long it will take for you to either get ahold of another hunter close by or for you to be in hunting shape. And by then who knows what the shifter might do. We can't wait. Besides, I wasn't able to see Monx last night, but I've got an appointment with him for this afternoon. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get it? I'm not letting it go."
Sam shook his head; his brother still wasn't listening to him. "Dean, I'm dead serious. I don't care how many strings you pulled, or how many people you want to talk to, I'm not okay with this."
"Tough luck. I'm a big boy now."
"Dean—"
"Sam, give it a freakin' rest. I've hunted alone before, you know? I'm not some twelve-year-old kid. Hell, I probably hunted alone even when I was that young."
"Yeah, and that's not messed up at all. I know that you can do it, it's not that. I just think that it's taking an unnecessary risk. The shifter already played us once, what's to stop it from doing so again?"
Sam was struggling to put into words his bone-deep fear of losing Dean, or not being there when Dean needed him. Of failing his brother yet again.
Dean wasn't getting it, but he didn't give him a chance to further explain.
"Our whole lives were built on unnecessary risks. We hunt monsters for a living, Sam, but that son of a bitch came for you. That makes it personal, no way in hell am I letting this one slide."
Sam threw his hands up into the air. "It came for both of us! And do you really think that it's going to try something like death caps again? No. It's going to turn to something more drastic and deadly, and this time you are going to be targeted. It could be a gun on the subway, or a knife in your back as you're walking down the street."
Dean scoffed again, continuing to sort the police records with infuriating superiority. "So I'll avoid the subway and crowded streets. I do know how to watch my own back, you know. I did it perfectly fine in Purgatory, but you didn't seem too worried about it then."
Sam looked away, the words cutting deep just like Dean had intended.
"You're not going to listen to a word I say, are you?" he asked tightly, trying to keep his emotions in check, and Dean just shrugged, not denying it.
That cut just as deep, if not deeper.
It was Dean insinuating that he was better than Sam and that he had messed up so badly that he would never be able to make it right.
He chewed on his bottom lip, fighting against the swell of frustration and hurt. Dean might be scared, but it didn't give him the right to toss Sam's fears out like that. But he didn't know of anything else that he could say to convince Dean to listen to him or a way that he could watch his brother's back. Not unless he got up and walked out of the hospital to do it himself.
This was so screwed up.
Concentrating on his food, Sam waited until he had control over his voice to say, "It makes sense that the shifter was Monx—he was the one who invited us to lunch, chose a place that he knew had a specialty for serving mushrooms and then ordered for all of us. After that, he disappeared for near half-an-hour, which was plenty of time to either shift into the cook or a server and spike the plates—but do you think that the shifter is still him? Doesn't that seem a little, I dunno, sloppy?"
"Yeah, he's probably long gone. They tend to change skins faster than I can knock back a shot of whiskey," Dean said tersely, not looking at Sam. "But it is as good of a place to start as any and the only lead we have on where the shifter might be. Unless, that is, you have something that you haven't shared with the class yet."
Sam shook his head. He didn't, and it was the logical place to start, but he wasn't in the mood to say so. It was Dean's hunt, after all, not Sam's.
They sat in tense silence—an awkward but familiar feeling from the past few months—until Dean stood again an hour or so later and brushed his hands off.
"I've got to go meet with Monx," he said shortly as he shrugged his jacket on. "Don't let Maria touch my stuff."
"Be careful," Sam said, and his voice came out only a little flat.
Dean stopped at the doorway. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he turned back. "Look, I'm sorry. About what I said about Purgatory."
Sam blinked in surprise and then heaved a sigh. "I know." The kicker was that wasn't what had really hurt this time.
Dean flashed him a bright smile and then he was gone.
Sam waited a moment before shaking his head and shoving what was left of the food tray away.
All it would take was one well-placed bullet, and Dean wouldn't be coming back again.
It made Sam's stomach twist with anxiety, yet here he was, sitting in bed and eating lunch.
The reality was that even if he was out there hunting with Dean, he might not be able to do anything to change such an outcome, but he would be there. And that was something. That meant everything to Dean.
If Dean died alone…well, that would haunt Sam as nothing else had. At least all the other times he had been there when Dean had kicked the bucket.
Sam glared at the IV in his arm. He felt fine, even his headache was gone. He knew that he wasn't, but it still felt ridiculous.
Getting out of bed—for a split second, he savored the fact that Dean wouldn't be pleased if he knew—Sam gathered up the reports from the floor and spread them out across the bed instead.
There wasn't much that he could do, but he could research and he was going to figure this out. He was going to get in the shifter's head, try and piece together what it wanted and where it would be next. If he couldn't say anything to stop his brother, then he was going to get him one step ahead of the shifter.
The first thing was to figure out which break-ins were the shifters, and which were not. Dean had no doubt already started that process, but he had been sorting it in a way that only made sense to him and Sam started over to create his own system. Dean could fight him about it later if he so desired.
He started by narrowing it down to artifacts, art, jewelry—fancy things—that had been stolen instead of cars or cash. After that, he began to comb through the cases, looking for ones that hadn't been solved due to the objects seemingly disappearing without any clear evidence, or cases where employees had been accused.
The work was tedious, but it kept him distracted from what-ifs that could be happening.
It felt depressingly like when he had been a kid. He had frequently been sidelined to research and then left behind on the dangerous hunts. He'd hated that so much. Well, he'd hated hunting in general, but he really hadn't liked the waiting. It had been too easy to convince himself in the silence that someone was going to come back seriously hurt, or even dead.
That he would be left alone.
More than twenty years had gone by since then, but this was no better, the wait no easier.
#
The Monx mansion screamed wealth and finery, but Dean didn't let that intimidate him as the new butler led him along the elegant hallways. Not much could when he was on the hunt, especially when Sam's life was in danger.
Toxic mushrooms…Dean was still struggling to wrap his head around that one. Usually, the things that hunted them back came at them with sharp, pointy, objects, not whatever this shifter was doing.
It didn't matter though, because he was going to kill the bastard himself and he didn't care that Sam didn't like that he was hunting by himself. Sam could shove all those concerns right where the sun didn't shine. Dean wasn't completely incapable. It wasn't like he hadn't done this before, and he wasn't being reckless.
He was watching his back.
He would be more worried if their positions had been switched if he was being honest.
Dean tightened his hand around the silver knife that was in his jacket pocket. If Monx showed any signs at all of being the shifter, then it would be over before it started.
The butler tapped on a highly polished door. "You're four o'clock, sir," he said, and then ushered Dean in.
The study was large and filled with delicate objects, and Dean could easily see why the house had been targeted by the shifter.
Monx was sitting behind a polished wood desk, writing what looked to be a short letter, and barely glanced up at him. There was none of the charisma or willingness to please that had been there when they'd met for lunch.
"What do you want, and how much are you willing to pay to ensure that it happens?" Monx asked briskly. Dean didn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. Rich asshole. But at least it gave him clearance to put the fear of God into him.
He remained silent, and it took Monx another minute to stop writing and look up.
"I asked, what do you want?"
Dean shrugged, and Monx was now eyeing him warily.
"I can't help you if I don't know what you want."
Dean gave what he knew to be an unpleasant smile as he moved forward to stand directly in front of the desk. The slim wood was now the only thing between him and his prey, and if the growing look of alarm on Monx's face was any indication, he knew it.
"Do you remember me, Mr. Monx?" he asked lightly.
"No. Why should I?" Monx snapped, and Dean was pleased to hear the fear there. He could also see the truth of it in his eyes. Monx had never met him, and Dean was meeting the real Monx for the first time.
Dean leaned over anyway, planting his hands on the desk and making Monx jerk back hastily. "What were you doing Tuesday afternoon?"
"I—" Mr. Monx apparently didn't know what to say and Dean scoffed.
"C'mon, I know that you weren't doing nothing. So, tell me. What were you doing?"
"Uh…" Mr. Monx scrambled for the planner sitting at the edge of his desk and Dean allowed it.
Mr. Monx glanced back up at him, blinking rapidly, before focusing on the book. "I was supposed to meet with some gentlemen from the government, but they called and canceled, so I…I don't remember what I did."
That was all that Dean needed to hear and with a derisive snort, he pushed off the desk with only a little reluctance that his knife wasn't to be used. He turned on his heel and left. The time would come. He would get the bastard.
Monx should simply be grateful that this shifter didn't typically leave a trail of bodies behind. Most shifters that Dean knew would have just killed him, but this one had chosen to call in for Sam and Dean to remove him from the situation. Sam was probably right that it had panicked after getting shot by the police, Ambrose was more than likely the first person it had ever killed.
It made it harder to follow the shifter, but it would also hopefully be less heart-wrenching in the long run.
The only problem was that Dean didn't know where to go once he had left the mansion. He walked back to the Impala, sweating a little in the heat and trying to think of what to do next. Reaching the car, he sat there for a minute.
He could go back to the stuffy hospital room, but Sam was probably going to start nagging about how Dean shouldn't be doing this, how he should wait for backup. Also, it was a hospital. And that meant doctors and staff and uncomfortable diagnoses.
Pulling out in traffic, Dean made a U-turn at the first place possible. He was going to talk with Detective Stanton, and see if she had any leads on the break-in at Colombia. It might put him closer to who the shifter currently was and maybe then he could pin it down.
At the precinct, he found Stanton at her desk, staring at her computer and looking frustrated.
"Hey."
She looked up and did a double-take before quickly closing the screen that she had open, blushing a little. "I wasn't expecting to see you here, Mr. Cameron. I thought that you would be with your brother," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Dean shrugged. "I had to come and ask you if you had any leads. Do you know anything about the people that tried to kill my brother?" It took a surprising amount of effort to tone down the hunter and appear meek, like some civilian looking for answers from the police regarding a horrible accident.
Stanton pursed her lips into a frown. "We are still looking, and it's an open investigation. I can't tell you anything right now."
"Really? Nothing? Please, I would feel so much better if I knew that something was being done." Dean tilted his head to the side, trying for a pleading smile.
She snorted a little. "Trust me, something is being done and we aren't just letting this go. They've taken it too far this time."
Stanton's desk partner made a noise and Dean looked over at him to see him smiling at them. "The Cobble-Hill thieves? Ellen's been chasing them for, what, five years now? You haven't seen her light up until she starts talkin' about 'em. Once she finds whoever leads that ring, I don't know if she's gonna kiss 'em, or book 'em. Actually, she's probably gonna write a book."
"Not now, Simon!" Stanton snapped, and Dean saw the unexpected and sudden hurt that filled her fellow detective's face.
"Just saying'…" he muttered, turning back to his files.
"Sorry about that," Stanton forced a smile that looked painful before heaving a sigh and massaging the back of her neck. "I'm pretty busy right now, Mr. Cameron. Could you come back later? Or actually, I would like to talk to your brother at some point. I'll drop by the hospital tomorrow and we can talk more in-depth then."
Tomorrow was too late.
"But, Detective Stanton, it really would mean a lot to me to know something, anything," Dean tried to wheedle, but even he could tell that it was coming off flat. It had been a while since he had to play this part. He had been leaving it up to Sam, and a sudden wave of loneliness swept through him.
He missed Sam. He wanted him right next to him.
Stanton shook her head again but Dean sat down on the chair next to her desk and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He did have one card left to play, one that he usually held close to his chest because what he was about to do…it wasn't acting, and it made him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.
"Sam—Sammy, he's my baby brother. I…we're all that we've got, you know? And someone hurt him. The doctors aren't even sure that he's going to make it out of this, he could—" Damnit, his eyes were starting to burn and a lump was forming in his throat, the awful reality hitting him all over again. Clearing his throat roughly, Dean sat back, trying to regain composure. "I—I don't know what I would do without Sam, and I have to look out for him. I have to make sure that whoever did this to him doesn't get away with it. Please, it would mean the world to me and I swear that I won't tell anyone else what you tell me. Not even Sam."
Stanton was looking at him with an expression that Dean couldn't read. For a long moment, they just stared at each other and then Stanton looked away, tapping her forefinger against the edge of her desk.
"Fine," she said, turning and flipping open a file that was on her desk. "I can't tell you much—"
"—I get that, open investigation and all—"
"—but we have reason to believe that the Cobble-Hill thieves are using a supposed fence to put their items out on the market, one John DeWitt. We haven't been able to arrest him before, he's one slippery snake, but some new evidence has…" she stopped making a face, "well, come to light recently and we are working on getting a warrant for his arrest as we speak."
"Good," Dean said, and then stood, eager to be out of this room and talking with this John DeWitt. He could figure out anything else that he needed to know from the police database or by asking around. "Thank you," he remembered to say before striding away.
If Stanton was right and an order for the arrest of DeWitt was in order, then the police would be there sooner rather than later and Dean wanted to talk to him before he was arrested.
He had a missed call from Sam when he pulled out his phone and, making a mental note to call him back once time wasn't of the essence, he pulled up the database to find DeWitt's address.
It didn't take long, and Dean was on his way within twenty minutes and was breaking into DeWitt's back door before the hour was up.
The only problem was that DeWitt's house had already been broken into, and DeWitt was gone. If he wasn't already dead, then he probably would be soon.
He stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, as he examined the bullet holes in the wall. Dark blood splattered the wall around the holes and had dripped down onto the polished wood floors.
It was a lot of blood.
Dean swore loudly, scrubbing a hand angrily through his hair.
The shifter was worried about whatever DeWitt had known and must have learned that the police were coming for him. That meant that if only Dean had gotten here first, he probably would have had some decent leads to go off of. At the very least, DeWitt might have made it out of this alive.
There was nothing left for him to do, and Dean left as quickly as he had come, making sure to wipe everything down that he had touched. Things were bad enough without him accidentally encountering the police at what was a crime scene or leaving evidence that he had been there behind.
Returning to the Impala, he ran both hands over his face and sat there, staring at the dash.
The only thing that he had to show for his day was a bunch of reports. That, and the knowledge that someone else was dead or dying. After everything he had done, all the strings he had pulled and the research he had accomplished, he was back to ground zero.
Normally it wouldn't have bugged him. Hunting wasn't an exact science and sometimes it took time and a lot of dead ends to get anywhere. But today it felt like he had failed, like he had wasted a day that Sam didn't have, on nothing. Talking to Monx had been pointless, and Stanton's so-called lead had been a dead end.
If the doctors were right, then Sam's liver would start to fail in about twelve hours give or take. That wasn't…Sam could be dead by the beginning of the next week. They didn't have excess time to waste.
Dean sat in the car for a long time, trying to figure out where to go and what to do next.
Finally, he put the Impala into drive and drove numbly away from the house, not paying any attention to the police cars that were driving in the opposite direction of him and towards DeWitt's house. All too soon they would also learn that DeWitt had been taken or killed, and they would also be back at ground zero.
It was just flowers and rainbows for everybody all around.
Visiting hours were over at the hospital, but that was where Dean found himself headed. He needed to see Sam and make sure for himself that his brother was still doing okay. Maybe even talk the case through with him, see if he had more success with his day than Dean had.
The door to Sam's room was shut and Dean quietly entered. The room was dark, and he squinted through the gloom, trying to make out details.
It was just past ten but Sam was already asleep. He was curled up on his side, the bed positioned upright, and loose reports were scattered around him. A pen was clutched loosely in his hand, and a half-marked-up report was in his lap. He looked to have been in the middle of reading it when he had dropped off.
Dean sat down on the chair and rubbed a hand across his chin as he watched Sam sleep.
He was still having trouble wrapping his brain around the fact that Sam was in the hospital, perhaps dying. He had prepared himself, kind of, for Sam to go out on a hunt or from some other sort of tragic accident…but this? He'd never thought that he would live long enough to watch one of them die slow and painful.
Sam stirred, his head rolling in Dean's direction, but he didn't wake, his mouth sagging open a little more.
Dean bent forward, letting his head rest in his hands. His eyes were itching with tiredness and his head was starting to ache. He hadn't slept the night before and hadn't had anything to eat all day unless nibbling on Sam's breakfast hours earlier counted.
He should probably do both of those things, but it seemed so trivial and unimportant. How could he eat and sleep when Sam was dying and the shifter was still on the loose?
Dean's hands curled into fists, and he clenched them until he felt his nails digging into his palms.
The shifter wasn't going to get away with it, not with hurting Sam. He had sent bullies to the nurse's office for less when they had been younger, no one touched Sam and got away with it.
This thing didn't stand a chance.
Sam twitched in his sleep, his brow furrowing as he made a low noise in the back of his throat before his mouth snapped closed. Dean looked up, frowning as he waited to see what would happen next.
"No…" Sam muttered, flinching unconsciously away from whatever it was he was dreaming. Dean took a deep breath before leaning forward, his hands uncurling.
"Sam," he said quietly, shaking his brother's shoulder lightly. "Hey, wake up. You're dreaming."
Sam jerked his head to the side, digging it back into the pillow as he made a small keening sort of sound and Dean's heart clenched.
"'C'mon, wake up," he said, shaking him harder.
Sam's eyes flew open and he lurched upright with a strangled gasp. His eyes darted around the room rapidly, still searching, still scared, until they landed on Dean. He stared at him, breathing hard, before rasping out, "Dean? You're okay?"
"Yeah, dude. Just a nightmare. Nothing else." He settled back but Sam lunged forward, grabbing Dean's arm. He froze, willing to give Sam whatever he needed but Sam was already letting go again with a sheepish expression. He blew out a shaky sigh, running his hands through his hair and giving Dean a weak smile.
Dean relaxed back again. Sam was okay, just shaken up, and he didn't ask what he had been dreaming. There were no good options to be had there, and he was already pulling himself together, there was no reason to wade in.
He did pour Sam a glass of water, however, to give him a moment to compose himself.
Sam drank it in silence, still breathing harder than normal, before handing the cup back. "You never answered my call," he accused as he did so and Dean could read the hurt there.
Sighing, he made a face. "Sorry. I completely forgot; I was in the middle of something when I saw that you had called. I was going to call you back, I just…forgot."
Sam pursed his lips but didn't comment on it even though he shot Dean a sad, disappointed, look. Dean hated that look, it meant that he'd messed up and he made a silent commitment to do better.
Sam was already moving on, however, as he glanced automatically at his wrist, but his watch had been removed when they'd brought him in yesterday. "Why aren't you back at the motel? It's late. Or early."
"Neither. It's not even eleven," Dean supplied, shrugging and not answering Sam's real question.
Sam didn't press the issue, picking instead at the tape holding the IV down. "So…how'd it go this afternoon?"
Dean just shook his head, not caring to elaborate too much. "Dead ends. Although the shifter probably killed some dude named John DeWitt."
That brought Sam's head up. "John DeWitt, as in suspected fence John DeWitt?"
Dean rolled his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised anymore, he really shouldn't. "Man, how in the hell did you know that?"
"Because I read every single one of those damn reports, that's why," Sam said, gesturing at the papers surrounding him, and Dean huhed.
"Fun afternoon then."
"Yeah, it was just buckets of fun."
Sam didn't expound, but he did give him a sideways look and opened his mouth, before shutting it again. Dean resisted the urge to sigh or head for the door. Sam was about to say something that he knew Dean wasn't going to like.
He waited, preparing himself.
Sam finally opened his mouth again. "You know," he began, and Dean steeled himself. Here it came. He wasn't going to get angry this time, he had literally just committed to do better. "The shifter has been here for a long time. I scoured those reports, and have been pulling everything that could have been the shifter. It's been here, and active for about four and a half years, maybe even five.
"Yeah. We'd established that. That's why I only pulled records from the last five years," Dean said with the duh heavily implied at the end.
Sam hesitated, before taking the plunge. "It's been here for five years, and it will probably still be here in a week when—if—I get out of here."
Dean tilted his head back, fighting for patience. "No, Sam. We've already discussed this. I don't need backup."
"Hunting alone isn't safe. Hunters, even damn good hunters, die all the time when they try that."
Dean made a disparaging noise. "We can't wait any longer. The shifter might be getting ready to skip town. It's cleaning up loose ends for sure because DeWitt didn't just decide to redecorate his walls with blood for the fun of it. And what happens if you don't get better, huh? You've got to stop treating this like a-a cold or the flu, Sam. You could be dead by then, and then the shifter would just be free. So, no, I'm killing it."
It had been a long time since he had wanted something dead as much as he wanted this. Or, at least it had been since his return from Purgatory. Dick Roman and his utter hatred for him was still fresh in his memories, but that would be nothing compared to the wrath he would set aside for the shifter if Sam died.
"Yeah," Sam said, and it sounded like he was also struggling to remain patient, "but that's only if I die, which I thought you said wasn't going to happen. And what if it gets you, before you get it?"
Dean was so done with this conversation. "You're not dying, but you could be out of the game for a while. And what? You think that if I play hospital here with you that that's going to stop it from coming after me or from hurting anyone else?"
"Yeah, actually, I do," Sam insisted stubbornly.
"And what makes you say that?"
"The death caps," Sam said as if that explained everything.
Dean stalled on his next words, confused. "Wait, what?"
Sam blew out a sigh, sounding just as tired as he looked. "There were much more efficient ways that it could have killed us. The death cap is deadly, but people have been known to survive it. But the shifter isn't a fighter, it's a thief and a con artist. Ambrose was probably their first kill, and there was no way that it was going to be able to win against us in a fair fight. The death caps were probably just the first way that the shifter came up with to dispose of us, and it probably seemed like an easy solution. It wasn't really the one pulling the trigger, you know? We—well, I—walked right into it."
"What does that have to do with it not killing anyone else?"
Sam's lips thinned. "I was getting there. This shifter, it's not like the things that we normally hunt. The rules are different here. It's running scared and will probably go underground and into hiding until things calm down. It knows New York, it probably has a safe house here and I think that it will leave us and others—besides maybe those who pose direct threats like DeWitt—well enough alone. It won't attack unless we push it into attacking. And if we do that, then it's going to be you who ends up hurt."
Dean shook his head. "What I'm hearing is that the shifter will be an easy kill. I don't know what you are so worked up about."
Sam's eyes flashed as he clenched his hands into fists. "No. No, that is most definitely not what I'm saying. I'm saying that the shifter is going to act like a cornered animal if we do much else, and it will lash out. Just because the shifter isn't a normal shifter doesn't mean that it isn't smart or capable of doing horrible things. Look at how many innocent people it has sent to prison! All I'm saying is that it does things differently from what we are used to and, as such, it will come at you in a way that you won't be expecting because it thinks differently than hunters and monsters. That's how it got me. This one is not our usual gig, and that is why I don't like the idea of you hunting alone."
Dean waved away Sam's concern. "I'm not exactly tidy-white when it comes to breaking the law, Sammy, I can handle con artists in real life, and I can handle a shifter. They can't be that bad when melded together."
Sam smacked the side of the bed, his anger flaring hot and bright. "Damnit, Dean! You've handled douchebags and b-rate con artists. Why won't you listen to me? You won't even consider a thing that I've said. Stop being an ass and listen to me!"
Dean's mouth dropped open, taken by surprise at the vehemence in Sam's voice. "I am. I am listening, Sammy," he said, trying to soften his tone.
"No, you're not!"
"Okay," Dean amended, "I may not be doing what you want, but I am listening. I know that you're worried and have good reason to be. But, man, we can't just stop because I might get hurt. If this thing does leave New York, then it's going to set up shop elsewhere, and guess what? Other people are going to die or be charged for crimes that they didn't commit. It's ruining lives. We have to do this, you have to let me do it, otherwise, all that will be on us."
Sam made a face, biting at his lip even as he shook his head. "Fine. Fine," he said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Screw the hospital, then. I'll check myself out AMA and I'll join the hunt."
"Whoa—" Dean sat forward, suddenly leery. "You can't just check yourself out."
"Why not?" Sam snapped back. "You don't want me to, well, that's just too damn bad because I don't want you hunting alone. If you won't wait or listen to anything that I have to say, then I don't see any other option. People are going to die, after all."
To make good on his word, he reached for the IV, ready to tug it out and Dean lurched forward, covering it with his hand while slapping Sam's away.
"Dude, stop it," he tried to protest but Sam spoke heatedly over him, trying to push him away.
"Let me go!"
"No!"
"Dean, I'm not doing it. I'm not doing it again! I'm not losing you. Especially not over something as simple and stupid as you not taking back up!"
And there it was, the true reason behind Sam's fears and Dean felt something soften in his chest. The words had been spoken harshly and Sam was angry, but the love there couldn't have been any clearer.
He tightened his grip around Sam's arm until it was probably painful and stared at him, not saying anything just yet as he searched his brother's eyes. Sam was breathing hard even as he glared defiantly up at Dean, daring him to debate his statement.
"Sam, listen to me, you're not going to lose me. I'm being careful, I swear. I'm keeping my head screwed on straight. But you can't just leave the hospital. That's not happening."
It would be a death sentence.
It rocked him a little, actually. Sam had been dead serious; Dean had seen it in his eyes. He was willing to walk out of the hospital and into almost certain death if it meant that he could watch Dean's back.
The thought terrified Dean more than he could put into words. He wasn't worth that, nothing was.
Sam dropped his gaze and after a moment sank back into the pillows. Assured that he wasn't going to try anything stupid, Dean let go of Sam's arm completely and sat back as well, still watching his brother.
He wasn't expecting Sam to let out a muffled sob, his knuckles now pressed against his mouth as he kept his head turned away.
"Sam?" Dean sat forward again.
Sam shook his head blindly, still looking anywhere but at Dean. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "Call Benny then," he managed to say, his voice thick and Dean blinked in surprise.
"Benny? Sam, what?"
Sam was still refusing to look at him as he sniffed again, forcing the next words out like it was painful. "You need backup. If you won't take me, then take Benny. He'll come for you."
Dean wouldn't have been more shocked had someone hit him over the head. He knew how Sam felt about Benny, probably about the same that he felt about Amelia, and they weren't pleasant feelings.
He was silent for a second, floored, and then stood to find the tissue box. "No, Sam," he said gently, even as he tapped the box against Sam's arm. "I've…" I chose you. We chose each other, so don't go checking out on me now. "I don't think that's a good idea. He's probably still in Louisiana. Besides, I don't think that Benny will be too happy if I keep saying goodbye only to pop back up every time I need something."
Sam sniffed wetly, still looking anywhere but at him, and Dean reached out, squeezing Sam's knee tightly before looking away and giving him a couple of minutes to regain his composure.
This devotion, this willingness to do whatever it took for Dean, had been what he had thought was happening while he was in Purgatory. But now that he saw it, it made Dean uncomfortable. He had never wanted Sam to die trying to help him, or even to bring himself to the brink emotionally.
He had just wanted to know that Sam cared, but this…this wasn't what he wanted.
Sam cleared his throat and Dean looked around again.
"Dean, I'm not…you're not going to stop hunting this shifter, are you?"
Dean hesitated. Part of him wanted to let Sam have his way if he felt strongly enough about it to offer up Benny, but… "The shifter is going to hurt more people; it has to be stopped." And Dean really, really, wanted it dead.
Sam blew out a congested sigh, gnawing at his lower lip and twisting the tissue he was holding in his hands. Dean waited.
"Okay," Sam said, his voice hoarse. "Okay, I get it, but you have to swear to me that you are going to be careful, that you're going to watch your back. You also have to promise me that you'll keep me informed so that I know what's going on."
Dean nodded easily. "That I can do. And, man, I swear that I'm not being some reckless idiot. Rambo is staying locked away for another day."
"Good," Sam said simply, sniffing loudly and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he cleared his throat one last time. He wasn't happy with it, but he was also giving his blessing.
Dean squeezed Sam's knee again. "Hey, at least you can still do all the research. If I have to look at one more damn police report, my head might just—" he mined an explosion, trying to get Sam to smile. He got one, albeit one that was small and slightly watery, but Dean was taking his victories where he could today.
"You're going to have to bring me my laptop then. I can't do jack squat on that phone. Or at least not as much," Sam said, trying for normal.
Dean nodded. "You got it. Anything else?"
"For you to go back to the motel and get some sleep?"
Dean opened his mouth to fight it but thought better of it at the last second. If that was what Sam wanted, then Dean could give him that much.
"Okay." He stood, observing Sam's vital signs from the various monitors. They were all holding steady. "I'll see you tomorrow then. You still feelin' okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
Dean doubted that that was completely true, but the IV was diligently dripping fluids and medication directly into Sam's veins, so he was about as alright as he was going to get.
"Okay, you sit tight then and don't stay up tonight, you need to get some real rest." He paused, wiping a hand over his mouth, before bending down and pulling Sam into a hard, if brief, hug.
Leave the hospital, my ass…
Sam's fingers dug into his jacket and Dean held on for a moment longer, tugging Sam in tighter. "I'm not going anywhere, Sammy, not this time," he whispered, and Sam took another shuddering breath, clenching harder.
Releasing him, Dean patted his cheek fondly. Before Sam could say anything else that would make it even more of a chick-flick than it already was, he left.
He meant to go back to the motel and do as Sam had asked, but somehow on the way there, he ended up at a cheap bar drinking cheap whiskey. It was where he always ended up when he was confused or angry, he didn't know how to do any differently.
Sam's little stunt had been eye-opening, and not in the way that Dean had suspected.
Sam loved him, he had always known that nor questioned it, not really, but what he had witnessed tonight had shaken him. It reminded him of Sam turning to Ruby right before his deal came due, of his determination to hunt down Lilith, or even what he had confessed had happened during the Mystery Spot.
Sam had always cared.
So, what changed when Dean went to Purgatory? Why had he just…stopped?
The answers were not any clearer now than they had been before—Sam was still closely guarding those secrets, and until he decided to share those with Dean, it was going to remain unsolved—and it didn't take long for Dean's mind to return to the less complex question of the shifter.
If there was one thing he did know, it was that he was going to kill it.
For Sam, he had to.
#
Sam couldn't sleep.
He lay awake for a while, staring up at the ceiling and replaying his conversation with Dean over and over again in his head.
He hadn't been expecting to offer up Benny, and the amount of effort that it had taken surprised him. So had the emotion that had come with it. That had been more than a little bit embarrassing.
It had all been for Dean, though. There was nothing more important than Dean's life, not even if it meant Sam being replaced or looking weak.
Sam would do anything—anything—to keep Dean alive.
The relief that he had felt when Dean had turned down Benny had bought brief guilt, but what was he going to do about it? Dean had said no.
Dean had also forced him to give his blessing on this stupid hunt—the thought of it was still causing anxiety to knot up his stomach—but at least Dean had promised to be careful. That was something.
Giving up on sleep, Sam sat up and grabbed the reports that he had been reading before he had nodded off.
There wasn't much more that he could do without his laptop, but he could go through the reports again. There had to be something there that he had missed. Something that would lead them straight to the shifter.
Sam wasn't exactly without knowledge of how con artists worked, and at the end of the day, that was what the shifter was. There had to be a pattern here, somewhere. Sam was looking at a larger source of material than the cops were and was looking for things that they weren't.
He would find a pattern, a weakness—something. And then he would find the shifter.
For Dean, he had to.