A/N A massive thank you to everybody who is reading and reviewing :) Also, I swear that we will go back to not insane-length chapters at some point (that's probably a lie. I can't stop. I've tried but they just keep getting longer)
Chapter Six
Dean hadn't changed clothes or showered in…was it going on three days now? Had it really only been that long since Sam had been admitted to the hospital? It felt like both a lifetime and only a handful of hours all at once.
Not that it mattered. It was all trivial compared to everything else, including getting his hands on the shifter.
For the moment, though, he was walking back to the hospital with Sam's laptop tucked underneath his arm. He could have gotten a taxi, but he always preferred to be behind the wheel, and driving in New York was a pain in his ass. Besides, the motel wasn't that far away from the hospital.
He stopped to grab a cup of coffee in hopes of getting rid of the headache that he was nursing from his little stint in the bar and frowned when he realized that he forgot Sam's book. He had been hoping that it would help Sam rest instead of working the case—Dean knew that if he personally tried to read that old-timey stuff it would put him straight to sleep—but he had forgotten it on the table at the motel.
It would just have to wait for the next time that Dean was back at the motel.
The main lobby in the hospital was bustling, and Dean pushed through to the elevator, squeezing into one with a handful of other people.
"Five," he requested of the woman nearest the buttons, and she nodded. They all looked as tired and worn out as he did. Hospitals would do that to you.
Exiting on the fifth floor, Dean walked towards Sam's room, running a hand through his hair and trying to make it look like he had slept the night before. Or, at the very least, that he hadn't been to a bar.
Sam's door was open, and Dean took a breath, preparing himself before he walked in.
Sam looked to have spent just as sleepless a night as Dean had, and his stomach turned over. He was supposed to be resting, damnit, not working himself to the bone to find the shifter.
That was Dean's job.
The bed had been raised to a sitting position and, although he knew that Sam was awake, his eyes were closed. The lines on his face had deepened since the last time Dean had seen him, and the arm that didn't have the IV in it was tucked around his middle again. The breakfast tray that sat on the bedside table had been abandoned with most of its contents untouched.
"Rough night?" Dean asked, announcing his presence, and was surprised to hear how gravelly his own voice had gotten. He sat the laptop down on the bed as Sam opened his eyes.
"Is that coffee for you or me?" he asked with a small smile, shifting positions with a wince.
"Haha. You're hilarious." Dean sat down, taking a pointed sip of his coffee and almost scalding himself.
Sam's smile faded, his nose wrinkling up as he took in Dean's appearance. "You smell like alcohol," he grumbled and Dean really should have taken a shower before coming.
"Couldn't sleep." He took another sip of his coffee and did not meet Sam's eyes. Yeah, he hadn't exactly done what his brother had asked, but Sam hadn't gotten any sleep either. Dean wasn't the one actively dying here, if anyone had the right to voice a complaint it was him. "So, has Dr. DeCary come to see you yet this morning?" he asked, more to change the subject than anything.
"No. They said he was going to drop by this afternoon sometime," Sam said hurriedly and Dean looked up to see the lines of pain disappearing as his face brightened with what could only be excitement. "But that's not important. Dude, you won't believe what I found last night."
That sort of excitement was infectious, and Dean found himself smiling as well.
"What? Do you have an ID on the shifter? Or know where it is at?"
"No, I have something better. I have," Sam, the little bitch, paused for dramatic effect, "the personal phone number for the shifter."
Dean blinked, surprised. "No way in hell. How…?"
Sam's smile showed his dimples as he leaned forward gingerly and grabbed a pile of papers that were sitting on the bedside table. "I couldn't sleep last night after you left, so I started going back through the files again."
"And?" Dean prompted impatiently as Sam continued to shuffle through the papers. Sam held up a finger as he continued to search, before pulling out a report and flipping it open to the middle, and thrusting it in Dean's direction.
"I was trying to find things that stood out, you know? Things that were the same so that I could build a pattern that would help us find the shifter."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You went all geek over it."
"And look, here…" Sam jabbed a finger down at the report. It was opened to a list of what looked to be employees who had been brought it for questioning, and a phone number under the name Richard Dunce had been underlined three times. "The cocky son of a bitch gave them his real phone number. Either that or a surprising number of people involved in different robberies across New York all have the same number because here it is again. And again. And again." With each statement, he smacked a report down into Dean's hands, pointing at different names involved with different robberies, all with the same phone number.
Dean's mouth dropped open, genuinely impressed. "Huh, that's…" he smiled as he looked up. Finally, they had something concrete that they could go off of, something that would lead them straight to the bastard. "Gotta say, I'm impressed. How the hell did you pick up on that?"
Sam's smile widened, lighting up under Dean's praise just like he always had. "I probably wouldn't have," he admitted, "but the last four digits are 2479, which caught my attention so when it showed up again it seemed odd."
"So? Why 2479?" Maybe it was the hangover affecting his thinking but there didn't seem to be anything important about those numbers.
Sam blushed a little even as his lips thinned and he gave Dean an exasperated look. "Dude. That's your birthday and birth year," he said pointedly and Dean frowned in surprise before his lips twitched upwards in a grin.
"What kind of rotten luck is that for the shifter? He could have had all the freakin' phone numbers in the world and he ends up with that?"
"Yeah, I know, it—" Sam began, stretching to reach another pile of papers at the foot of his bed, but abruptly broke off with a grunt. Retracting his arm, he hunched back in on himself, his face contorting with pain.
"Sam?" Dean asked tightly as he dropped the files, standing. He hovered, unsure of what to do or how to help. "What is it? Sammy, talk to me. Do you need me to call someone, or get Maria…?"
"No, don't—" Sam stopped, his voice all wrong as he panted through the pain. "It's fine. I'm fine." He bowed his head, pulling in deeper breaths, and then slowly sat up, his right arm pressed firmly against his side again.
Dean didn't sit back down as he rested a hand on Sam's shoulder, eyeing his pale complexion worriedly. "What was that?" he demanded, fear giving an edge to his voice.
"Nothing." Sam shook his head, flopping more than laying back against the pillows. "I just moved wrong. It's nothing, really." He shrugged, but Dean wasn't satisfied.
"That wasn't anything good," he pointed out needlessly, his fingers now digging into Sam's shoulder. "Pain on your right side was one of the signs of your liver failing."
"Yeah, so?" Sam challenged softly. "It's not exactly unexpected. We knew this was coming."
"That doesn't mean that it's not important. Does Dr. DeCary know?"
"Dean, it's fine. Calm down, sheesh." Sam wasn't meeting his eyes, and Dean didn't like this.
"Sam, you're an idiot. You've got to be honest with the doc. He knows what he's doing, and you've got to keep him clued into what's happening. I know that you don't like to make a fuss about stuff, but that's just too damn bad this time. We aren't screwing around here," he reprimanded harshly.
"It's not like I've seen him this morning. I would have told him if I had," Sam muttered petulantly and Dean dropped listlessly back into his chair, feeling incredibly tired as he rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Any excitement that he had felt at Sam's breakthrough had fled
Sam's liver was failing, he was losing him.
"I'll tell him when I see him, okay? Just…can you…?"
Dean looked up to see Sam gesturing limply at the piles of papers that he had been reaching for. Shaking his head, he leaned forward and snagged the pile, offering them to Sam, but his brother shook his head, indicating that Dean should take them.
"Once I found a common link, it was easy to separate the shifter's work from the others. Those right there, those are all the shifter's cases."
Dean looked at the thick piles of papers and wanted to feel excitement. He wanted to feel the thrill of the chase, but it was gone. All that was left behind was dulled anger throbbing through his veins and a pit in his stomach that was threatening to tear him apart.
He glanced up from the reports to find Sam watching him closely, concern darkening in his own eyes, and Dean forced a smile, trying to pull himself together.
"So, you're the one all nutty about psychopaths. Why would the shifter leave his number floating around like that? It seems kind of dumb and risky to me. Wouldn't someone have noticed?"
Sam shook his head. "Not necessarily. Again, I only recognized it because I made a connection with it. Most of the cases don't have the shifter's number attached, and the ones that did either had a good year between them or were from different precincts. Also, it's just a phone number. People don't pay too much attention to that, not with a computer system to keep track of that for them. It wasn't even that risky because even on the off chance that a detective picked up on it, they probably would have just been confused seeing that the number belonged, in their eyes, to two very different people. And, who was that detective, the one that you talked with?"
"Stanton."
"Right, Detective Stanton wouldn't have thought to check other cases outside of the Cobble Hill area. And even if she had, I doubt she would have been running phone numbers through the systems. She would have been looking for names, or fingerprints, that sort of thing."
"But why do it in the first place?" Dean asked again, still frowning.
Sam shrugged. "I'm guessing that it was for personal enjoyment. A little slap in the face to the police that they didn't even know that they were getting. Or maybe it panicked. I feel like this shifter makes weird choices under pressure."
"Yeah, well, regardless of why, it was a mistake and now it's time to pay up. The things that I can do with a phone number, Sammy." He grinned suggestively and Sam rolled his eyes.
"Right, because you of all people think that numbers are such a great turn-on."
"Nope. I leave that kind of thing to you, college boy. I bet you nerds get all sorts of flustered when someone brings out the imaginary numbers."
Sam snorted something that sounded like a laugh but it quickly changed into a groan. "Don't make me laugh, it hurts." He said it lightly, but it hit Dean like a bowling ball and he had to look away.
How had they ended up here? They had both been in such good spirits when they started this hunt, but it had all gone downhill.
Smoothing out the reports that he had unconsciously crumpled in his fist, he stared at the phone number. They had him. They had the bastard, and Dean wasn't about to let go.
"Dean?" Sam asked, sounding suddenly apprehensive and Dean figured that some of the anger must have bled across his face.
He shook his head, holding up the paper in silent explanation, and Sam sighed.
"What's the plan, then?" he asked, trying to hide a large yawn behind his hand.
Dean frowned, thinking. "Frank taught me some things," he said slowly, "I'll see if I can get a trace on the phone number, then we might be able to get a location. If I can pin it down, then I can go after it. Here," Making up his mind, he reached for Sam's laptop again and opened it before shoving it in Sam's direction.
Sam looked up at him, surprised. "Are we doing this right now? Oh, okay." He took the computer, balancing it carefully on his knees even as he yawned again.
"Why not right now? It's not exactly like we have all the time in the world on our hands."
"True," Sam paused, frowning before saying, "but if it's possible, we shouldn't let the shifter know that it's us calling, that will freak it out. Pretend to be a teller marketer or something like that if it picks up."
"Good idea."
Together, they got the trace up and ready, and then Dean moved so that he was sitting next to Sam on the bed. Grabbing one of the reports with the shifter's number on it, Dean punched it in and then leaned in close to Sam so that they could both hear as the phone began to ring.
They held their breath, the tension in the room palpable as they waited, only for it to click over to voicemail.
Dean hung up, the disappointment searing.
"Well, we shouldn't be too surprised. Most people don't pick up for numbers that they don't know," Sam said, but his voice mirrored Dean's feelings.
"We'll just have to try again in a little bit. And who knows, maybe it will be dumb enough to call us back."
Sam heaved a sigh but nodded in agreement. He let his head flop back against the pillows before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes with a soft grunt.
Dean watched him, his shoulders tensing at the sight. Taking the laptop off Sam's lap he set it aside on the chair. "I think that you've earned a break. Why don't you try and get some sleep?"
"Nah, I'm good," Sam persisted, letting his hands fall back to his side, but Dean wasn't buying it.
"Dude, get some sleep, your body needs it."
Sam glared at him. "I don't want to sleep, Dean. It's not even nine in the morning yet."
"And now you are acting like a four-year-old. You haven't slept much the last couple of nights, and I know that you're tired and hurtin'. I would feel a lot better if you took a break, so, please?" Dean softened the command to a plea, and just like when they had been teenagers, that was what did the trick.
Sam made a face that really did make him look like he was four years old again, but the choice words that he muttered as he rolled over most definitely hadn't been in his vocabulary then. Dean hid his smile, watching as Sam stuffed the pillow into a more comfortable position, and then yawned widely.
Dean took a sip of his coffee, trying to fight his desire to recuperate the yawn. He hadn't gotten a full night's sleep since…since the night Sam had gotten sick. He couldn't do the math right now to figure out how many days it had been, but it was enough to make him bone weary.
Sleep would just have to wait, however, because he wasn't getting any until the shifter was dead.
Sam breathed out a long sigh before blinking his eyes open a moment later. "You should…you should put my phone on to charge," he mumbled, already more than half asleep.
"Sure thing." Dean waited for a second for Sam to produce said phone, before lightly nudging his hand. Sam started, and then seemed to remember what he had asked Dean to do and dug his phone out from where it had been buried under the blankets.
Dean found the charging cable right where he had left it the day before and plugged the phone in. It blinked red, completely dead, and Dean shot a worried glance toward Sam. It was so unlike his brother to let his phone run down like that, not when a phone call could mean the difference between life and death, and especially not when there was a phone charger only a few feet away.
Something about it struck Dean hard and made him realize all over again that everything wasn't right with Sam. If he didn't start improving, he could be dead in just a handful of days.
It was like getting hit by a two-by-four every single damn time.
Quietly, Dean began to gather up the papers that were surrounding Sam so that he would be more comfortable and stacked them so that they were all facing the same way before setting them aside.
"Stop fussing," Sam slurred, his eyes fluttering open. Dean pffted even as he found the remote to the bed and lowered it so that Sam was lying flat. He just barely refrained from tucking the blankets in—the hospital room wasn't cold—but he did pat Sam's chest lightly before he retreated to his chair.
He stayed there for the next couple of hours, alternating between watching Sam sleep fitfully and staring at his phone, impatiently waiting to see if the shifter would be stupid enough to return his call. For a while, he thought about going back out and doing more research, but the phone number was the best lead that they had unless John DeWitt turned up still alive.
Dean's coffee was long gone when he couldn't stand the silence anymore. Intending to just go and get some more, he slipped quietly into the hallway.
There was a line for the coffee pot and Dean was waiting resignedly when he caught sight of Dr. DeCary down a side hallway. He hesitated for only a moment before leaving the queue.
"Hey! Dr. DeCary?" he called and the doctor stopped, turning back to face Dean. "Is Sam—how are Sam's chances really?" Dean fumbled his way through the question, his heart beating somewhere near his throat.
Dr. DeCary pursed his lips before heaving a sigh. "Dean, to be honest, I just don't know. The death cap is a tricky toxin and without an antidote all we are doing is guesswork in many ways. I mean, it has been known to work in the past and I hope, I dearly hope, that Sam will be just fine but I can't promise anything." He paused, before hesitantly adding. "I was looking over Sam's blood work this morning, and his liver is already starting to show signs of strain. And while that isn't surprising, how high his levels of transaminases and bilirubin are already does concern me."
Dean licked his lips before plunging ahead. He had one more question that he had been wanting to know the answer to but hadn't wanted to ask in front of Sam. "When we were eating lunch, at the restaurant, the one that served the death caps? My dish had mushrooms in it too, but I don't really like them so I gave mine to Sam. Did that…is Sam sicker because he ate mine too?"
Dr. DeCary took off his glasses as he considered the opposite wall thoughtfully. Dean shifted hesitantly on the balls of his feet and fought the urge to start twisting his hands together like some teenage girl.
"Well," Dr. DeCary hedged and Dean already knew the answer. "If you increase the amount of toxins that are administered, then—"
Dean cut him off with a shake of his head, he didn't need to hear the rest of it. It was like he'd shot his own brother. He hadn't meant to hurt Sam like that, but he had. He just hadn't wanted to eat mushrooms.
Dr. DeCary gave him pained smile. "I am so sorry. Sam shouldn't be going through this, neither of you should be. I did talk with Detective Stanton this morning and she is one determined woman. She is going to catch whoever did this and put them behind bars. They are a sick son of a bitch, that is for sure. There are quicker poisons that would have ensured death faster, but this…this was done with the intent of causing a painful, drawn-out, death."
That wasn't comforting either, and Dean nodded numbly before turning and walking away.
Together, he and the shifter had just about signed Sam's death sentence. Sam wasn't doing good, Dean had seen the truth of it in Dr. DeCary's face. What would he have told Dean if he had known that the symptoms were starting to reemerge? Would he have told him to prepare for Sam's death and start planning the funeral?
Dean didn't remember leaving the hospital, but he found himself walking alone along the streets of New York, his hands in his pockets.
Sam could die. He had known this from the beginning, but Sam had seemed okay yesterday after recovering from the effects of dehydration. A bit emotional, maybe, but fine. It hadn't seemed real.
Now it did in a very horrible way. Sam's liver was showing signs of strain—starting to fail—and soon the rest of his body would follow.
Dean couldn't wrap his mind around it. It couldn't be real. Sammy couldn't be dying like this.
He had lost so many people from such a young age, he should have been prepared, but this was Sam. He had never planned on losing him, not really. He'd even lied to himself that he could do it when Sam jumped into the pit, that he was prepared to live without him.
Dean hadn't been, not really.
The year that he had gone without Sam had been the worst year of his life, even with Ben and Lisa trying to help. He'd loved them deeply, and it had hurt like hell when he had lost them, but…it just hadn't been right without Sam. He'd never really gotten over losing him, and it had haunted him day and night.
It had been his own personal hell, and it had trumped everything else that he had gone through. It had trumped Dad's death, the years that Sam was at Stanford. It even trumped Purgatory.
And with one well-placed move, the shifter was threatening to make him repeat it all over again. Was threatening Dean's very existence.
Dean's anger was rising, drowning out the terror as it flooded forth and he made no attempt to draw it back or hold off the tidal wave of fury. He had forgotten how truly angry he could become, how it could tighten around his very being and throb through his veins, how everything dwindled down to killing the thing that was trying to hurt Sam, consequences be damned.
Dean didn't stop to think about what he was doing as he pulled his phone out again, redialing the shifter's number.
He wanted it to feel fear like he was feeling, for it to know that it didn't have the upper hand. To know that Dean Winchester was coming after it and that he wasn't out of the game just yet.
"C'mon, pick up," he muttered as the line continued to ring. He wanted it to pick up, he wanted to hear the terror in its voice.
The line clicked over to voicemail again and Dean growled, soft and lethal. The beep sounded, signifying that he could leave a message and he didn't hold back.
"You son of a bitch, I'm going to find you, and I'm going to hunt you down and kill you, do you understand? You think that you can do that to my little brother and get away with it? There won't be anywhere you can hide that I won't find you and when I do, I'm going to slit open your throat and send you to rot in hell. But first—first, I'm going to make you pay. I'm going to cause you pain like you did to him. I'll peel whatever skin that you are wearing straight off your body with a silver knife and wash my hands in your blood. God himself can't save you now."
Ending the call, Dean stood there, frozen on a busy New York street as anger thrummed fast and hard through his veins.
#
Dean's comforting presence lured Sam first into a doze, and then into a deeper sleep despite the harsh, persistent, pain in his right side and the lurking nausea that accompanied it.
Lucifer was waiting for him in his dreams.
It hadn't been that long ago, not really, since Lucifer had claimed his every waking moment and Sam doubted that the nightmares or memories would ever really go away. He had managed to push the hell trauma back, to survive in daily life, but it hadn't been easy and he had little control over it when he slept.
Despite those…horrors…it was still better than the times that he dreamed of Dean disappearing in an explosion of black goo, or when the hell hounds got him. Those still made Sam physically sick sometimes, but he hadn't had them near as frequently since Dean returned, not unless he wanted to count the more recent nightmares of the shifter putting a knife into his brother's back.
But this time it was only Lucifer, and while it sucked, he could handle it because at least it wasn't Dean dying.
Lucifer was flecked in blood and knuckle deep in Sam's arm—his fingernails scraping slowly but surely through layers of skin, veins, and nerves—when something woke him.
Sitting bolt upright with a ragged gasp, he groaned and doubled forward as his stomach gave a sudden lurch, either from the dream or because of the death cap toxins, he wasn't sure.
He wasn't going to throw up, he didn't want to throw up.
Someone cleared their throat softly from the chair next to the bed, and Sam's eyes flew open, his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment even as he went on high alert.
That wasn't Dean, and he didn't have a single piece of silver on him.
A woman was sitting next to his bed in Dean's chair, and she gave him a small smile. A police badge was pinned to her belt, and Sam suddenly understood, even if it didn't make him feel any better.
"Detective Stanton," he said, inclining his head in her direction.
"We seem not to need the pleasure of introduction than, Mr. Cameron. I'm assuming that Dean told you about me."
"Yeah. What can I do for you?" Sam asked cautiously even as he shifted in an effort to relieve some of the rapidly growing pressure in his gut. He desperately hoped that this was going to be a short conversation. It had been a long time since he had thrown up in front of anyone but Dean, and he didn't want to start now with her.
That was the last thing that he needed, but he wasn't sure how much control he had. His stomach was not happy with him and he already deeply regretted the little bit of breakfast that he had forced himself to eat this morning.
"Oh, I just came by to get your statement for myself and to see how you were doing. I want to know your side of things, not just Dean's. You could have essential information that will help us with our investigation."
Great. Just what Sam wanted. He looked around for his brother, hoping that he would magically appear to play interference, but Dean was nowhere in sight.
"Have you seen Dean?" he asked and Detective Stanton shook her head.
"No, I'm sorry."
"Oh." Sam shifted again, trying not to squirm. They really needed to hurry this up. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to distract himself. "Look, there's not much to tell. I ate a bunch of poisonous mushrooms and ended up here. I'd never even heard of the Cobble-hill thieves until Dean talked to you."
"And what was the name of the restaurant, the one that you were served the mushrooms at? Dean couldn't remember." And now Stanton was leaning forward, her eyes alive as she prepared to take notes.
"No idea. Really," Sam lied shortly, making her frown.
"Nothing?"
"It was in New York, I know that."
She huffed. "Well, that's not exactly helpful."
Sam grimaced. "Look, that's all I remember. I'm sorry, I haven't been having the best few days."
"And why are you and Dean…" she paused as her phone began to ring, and she reached down to check the number before silencing it. "Sorry about that. Work. Why are you and Dean in New York?"
"Vacation. Wanted to get away from life, you know, and thought why not New York?"
"And you hadn't interacted with or heard of the—"
"No, I already told you. We haven't," Sam said bluntly, not caring that he was being rude.
Stanton sat forward a little, drumming her pencil against the edge of her notebook. "Huh…are you sure you're not involved with anything illegal in South Dakota? If you answer me honestly, then it will be off the record, I give you my word. I just…we still don't know why you. You're the only one who has been targeted and poisoned, and there has to be a reason."
"No. Nothing illegal unless you count the occasional speeding ticket." Actually, Dean never let him drive enough to get those, but Sam wasn't about to help her connect the dots. He was sure that she would have been much more thrilled with, 'oh, we actually came here to hunt a monster—something we do across the country—that turned around and started to hunt us' but his first answer would just have to do.
There was little more that she could ask. Sam was sure that background had already been run on him and Dean—they must have held up, otherwise, Stanton would have pressed harder—and they couldn't prove that they were anything more than the victims. There weren't even any bodies for her to question them about, at least not yet.
If Dean had his way, then there would be one sooner rather than later.
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she agitatedly smoothed down her hair and then stood. "I hope that you feel better soon, Mr. Cameron. I gave your brother my number, let him know if you think of anything else, or if you have something that you would like to confess," she said as she crossed back over to the door.
She didn't close it behind her, but Sam was just happy to have her gone and the tension drained out of him.
It was immediately replaced by the demanding nausea and Sam tentatively pushed himself up into a sitting position, glancing back at the door.
Where exactly was Dean anyway?
Hunching over on the bed, Sam swallowed thickly before breathing out slowly through his mouth. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he ignored the hot pain in his side and grabbed ahold of the IV pole. His legs were weaker than he had been expecting and he had to lean against the pole for support on his short trip to the tiny bathroom.
Letting go of it, Sam braced himself against the much sturdier sink as he lowered himself to his knees. Leaning his arm against the cool ceramic, he bent over, still trying to take calming breaths even though he knew that there was no stopping what was coming.
It didn't matter what he did, he was going to throw up.
A moment later, his stomach was trying to shove its way back up his throat and the piercing pain in his side dug deep, making him grit his teeth.
He had known this was coming, why had he eaten breakfast that morning? Or dinner the night before? It was all coming back up, and Sam bent over coughing out another burning mouthful. The pain in his side only intensified, and he groaned softly as he pressed his right arm tightly against it, trying to compensate even as his stomach lurched again.
The nausea wasn't fading, and Sam pressed his forehead against his arm, trying to breathe through it and not throw up again. The sour smell of vomit was not helping.
"You're fine, you're fine, you're fine," he muttered, trying to convince himself. It wasn't working, and he panted heavily, clenching and unclenching his fist in some vein attempt to provide relief.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there but his knees were starting to hurt from kneeling when he heard Dean call his name from the other room. He didn't bother to answer. Dean was smart, he would figure it out.
Sure enough, the door opened a moment later.
"Sa—oh, damnit. Sammy?"
Sam shook his head, his head hanging over the bowl. He couldn't open his mouth right now, not unless he wanted to start vomiting again and he really didn't want to do that.
"Not good, then? Fun." Dean distractedly sat his cup of coffee down on the edge of the small sink as he crouched next to Sam. "Do you want me to go get Dr. DeCary or Maria?"
"No. No, it's fine. I'm fine. It's…" Sam couldn't get any more words out and Dean lightly pressed his hand against Sam's back. It firmed when Sam didn't shrug him off, and he began to rub slow circles, trying to offer distraction.
"You know, you don't always have to be fine."
Sam didn't answer, lurching forward and dry-heaving as his stomach decided that it had had enough waiting. The pain tore into him, and he groaned sharply.
"It's okay. It's all going to be okay," Dean said hurriedly, his voice tightening with concern.
It didn't feel okay, not when the nausea wasn't abating and Sam leaned forward again, retching. Dean braced him, his voice taking on a slightly desperate quality as he continued to murmur pointless reassurances.
The bathroom was cramped with both of them in it, and it wasn't long before Dean was reaching over him and flushing the toilet.
"If you let me go get Maria, she can give you something for the nausea," he said earnestly and Sam clenched his hands together, his pride battling against his misery.
"Fine, just…give me a minute," he finally croaked out, pushing himself away from the toilet and slumping back against the wall. He brought his right knee up, joining his arm to add pressure to his middle.
Closing his eyes, he listened as Dean stood and then the water began to run.
"Here." His hand was nudged with what felt like one of the small, plastic, cups they kept by the sink. His throat was burning and the vomit had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but he accepted the water warily and with trembling hands.
If he drank anything, he was just going to throw it back up.
"Sam?"
Sam opened his eyes to see Dean watching him with a worried intensity that he didn't even try and hide. Slowly sipping at the water, Sam swished it around his mouth before spitting it out into the toilet but shook his head when Dean tried to press him to drink some. That was what the damn IV was for, wasn't it?
Dean looked like he wanted to fight it but Sam was grateful when he didn't as he took the cup back, announcing, "I'm gonna go get the doctor. I'll be back." He stood, and Sam flapped a hand against his leg.
"Help me up first."
"You sure? You're still looking kinda green."
"I'm not seeing Dr. DeCary in the bathroom."
"Not your type? What about Maria?" Dean asked with a small grin as he crouched down to get a hand underneath Sam's arm on his weaker side to offer more support.
He pulled as Sam pushed with his legs and together they got him upright. Sam swayed, his stomach lurching, and Dean let him lean against him until he felt like he could walk without throwing up.
They shuffled back towards the bed, Dean letting him set the pace. It would have been embarrassing had Sam not been feeling so sick. It was a relief to reach the bed, and he sank gratefully back into the pillows, swallowing back a gag.
"I'll be right back. Are you going to be okay by yourself? I can get you a trashcan if you think that you're going to puke again," Dean asked, hovering none too discreetly.
Sam glared up at him. "Dude, I'm fine." Or, you know, as fine as he was going to get after eating death caps.
"Alright, I'll be right back with some heavy-duty medication," Dean repeated, before leaving at a brisk walk.
"Take your time, no rush," Sam muttered to the empty room, rolling his head back against the pillow.
He hated this.
His side gave a vicious throb, reminding him stubbornly that all was not well, and with no one around, Sam didn't try to conceal how much pain he was in or how sick he felt.
From down the hallway, he could hear Dean's voice drifting in, could hear him saying, "Yeah, he was hurling up everything he's eaten for—" but chose not to make out the rest. He could live without that embarrassment.
Closing his eyes, he curled up on his side and half wished that he could fall asleep before Maria came back, but it was only moments later that Dean was standing in the doorway with her. After that, Sam found himself being subject to a long series of questions as his blood was drawn again for testing.
Dean hovered in the background; his face tight as he chewed on one of his knuckles in between asking his own questions.
The only bright side was that Maria did indeed give him something for the nausea, which allowed him to relax.
Maria left, and they waited in silence for Dr. DeCary to come back with the test results. Sam didn't feel up to talking and Dean wasn't exactly inviting conversation as he paced back and forth, his hands twisting together.
Sam watched his brother through half-lidded eyes, lazily studying him.
Dean was upset. That much was clear, but he had been starting to wonder if Dean had accepted the fact that he might die. He knew that he himself hadn't fully comprehended it, not really, but Dean...Dean was in denial. Oh, he knew that Sam was sick, and he was scared about that, and he even knew theoretically that Sam might die.
Sam just wasn't sure if he had truly accepted it as more than a theoretical belief. If fact, he had almost begun to think that Dean's fixation on the shifter was him unconsciously believing that if he killed it, it would fix everything. It was what they had unintentionally been taught growing up, after all.
If that was the case, then Dean was due for some very harsh realities no matter what happened with the shifter. Killing the monster wouldn't fix a thing this time around.
And while Sam wasn't scared of death, his heart ached for his brother. What Dean was going through…well, Sam had been through it, and it wasn't easy. The year that they had been counting down to Dean's deal had messed Sam up in ways that he wasn't sure weren't still affecting him.
Still, though, Dean needed to come to terms mentally with what was happening.
It was almost a relief when Dr. DeCary came into the room even if his face was grave. Dean stopped pacing but shook his head when offered a chair. He looked nervous, and it wasn't something that Sam saw in Dean very often.
Dr. DeCary sat and then looked over at Sam. "As you might have guessed," he began in a gentle voice that didn't bode well for them, "the re-emergence of symptoms is not ideal. If you remember from our discussion the day you were brought in, then this means that you have moved into the third and final stage. This could be terminal now."
Sam was watching Dean, not Dr. DeCary, and immediately wished that he hadn't been as his brother went white. He brought up one trembling hand to rest against his forehead and the side of his face as he closed his eyes like his worst nightmares were being realized.
"But that doesn't mean that it will be," Dr. DeCray hurried on to say, looking between them. "It just means that we need to be more aggressive with treatments. I'm going to put you on another medication, Acetylcysteine. This one isn't as commonly used to treat death cap poisoning, but you might respond well to it and there is no harm in trying. I'm also going to double the amount of fluids that you are being given in an effort to flush the toxins completely out of your system."
"And what does this all mean for Sam?" Dean croaked, looking up.
Dr. DeCary sighed, scratching at the back of his head. "Symptom wise, Sam's already experienced some of it, that being the nausea and pain in his right side. As his liver continues to fail there will be jaundice, extreme weakness, perhaps disorientation and confusion…You'll probably be really tired most of the time."
"That's not so bad, though, right?" Dean asked before Sam could say anything and he glared at his brother. Dean wasn't looking at him, staring intently at Dr. DeCary.
"I mean, initially yes, but as his organs fail, then he will die. Those are just the symptoms of acute liver failure, it will get worse, especially as his kidneys start to fail as well. As that happens, I will remind you that comas and seizures are a distinct possibility leading up to death," Dr. DeCary said bluntly and Dean took a shaky breath.
Dr. DeCary turned to Sam. "Do you have any questions?"
"That's it?" Dean interrupted in disbelief, sitting forward and ignoring Sam's warning hand on his arm. "What is this, the freakin' Dark Ages? It's a mushroom! Surely even they had better treatment for this than what you guys are doing. You're just putting him on a new medication that you already told us may or may not work and giving him freakin' fluids."
Dr. DeCary didn't seem to take offense as he gently said, "People just died in the Dark Ages, Dean. At least now we offer a chance."
Dean snorted in apparent disgust, shaking his head.
Sam tightened his grip, giving him a reprimanding look, before turning to the doctor. "And what about a liver transplant? That's still an option, right?" he asked and Dr. DeCary nodded.
"I've put you on the list, but there is precious little that we can do after that but wait and fight for you to be moved to the top. Then there is the matter of a match becoming available. That could take a day, or it could take weeks. We just don't know, and by that time…well…"
He didn't have to finish. Sam would be dead by that point.
"Uh, what about donors? Can someone donate half of their liver or something? Could I?" Dean asked, looking intently at the doctor.
Dr. DeCary hesitated. "Well, technically, yes, you could. Interesting fact, the liver is the only organ that regenerates which enables people to do just that, but it wouldn't work in this situation. Sam's whole liver needs replacing."
Dean looked away, and there was muted silence until Dr. DeCary said softly, "I'm very sorry. I know that this is not easy to hear."
Dean swore under his breath before he dropped his face into his hands.
"Can you give us a minute?" Sam asked, glancing at his brother, and Dr. DeCary nodded.
"That's about all I had to say anyway. Let me know if you have any other questions." Dr. DeCary stood, nodded deeply at both of them, and then left.
Dean just stood there, frozen, and Sam chewed on his lower lip. He wasn't thinking about what the doctor had said, that was…he couldn't think about that right now, but he could focus on Dean, who still wasn't moving or saying anything.
"You doing okay?" he asked softly.
The words sparked life and Dean wrenched himself out of his daze. "Am I okay?" he let out a huff before asking, "Do you think that DeCary knows what he is doing?" Sam—if no one else—could hear the pure terror there.
"He knows a hell of a lot more than we do on the subject," Sam said with an incredulous laugh before immediately regretting it as his side gave a painful twinge and he sat up straighter, hoping that it would help. It didn't, it only made it worse and Sam grimaced as he tried to shift back to the position that he had been in before.
Dean made an odd sound as he raked both hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in a way that made Sam suddenly smile. It reminded him of back when they had been teenagers and Dean had put a lot of effort into looking 'cool'.
"This isn't funny!" Dean snapped hoarsely. He looked like he was about to cry, and Sam forced himself to look contrite.
"I know it isn't, man."
Dean shook his head again, his hands now on his hips, but didn't say anything as he gnawed at his lower lip.
Sam contemplated him even as he shifted over to lay on his right side and tucked his arm protectively over his belly. Tilting his head back so that he could see Dean better, he watched him tiredly through his eyelashes.
"It's going to be okay," he offered and Dean shook his head, his lips pressed together into a thin line. "Really, it is, Dean. They are putting me on new medication and this isn't exactly unexpected."
"Yeah, but it still means that you are dying." Dean wasn't looking at Sam. He was staring at the wall, looking impossibly small.
Sam stared at him, remembering his own moments of despair before Dean had died, and tried to be empathetic.
"C'mhere," he requested but Dean didn't move and Sam made a face, holding out his hand. "Dean, just, come here. I'm not feeling up to walking over there, and I don't want to have to yell."
Dean raised his eyes to look at him and then slowly did as asked, his feet dragging, until he was close enough for Sam to catch his hand. He pulled him down to sit next to him and then didn't let go.
"Everything is going to be okay, Dean. This isn't the beginning of the end, this is just the start of the third stage. I haven't given up yet, and neither has DeCary. It's not a death sentence, I'm not leaving you alone, not if I can help it," he said forcibly, and Dean shook his head, looking away. Sam tightened his grip on Dean's hand, changing tactics. "Look, you haven't slept in a couple of days, Dean, that isn't helping your outlook. Go back to the motel and take a nap, I'll be okay here. Once you get some sleep then things will make more sense."
Dean snorted wetly, blinking rapidly even as his gaze remained on their clasped hands. "That's some hippy crap right there. I'm not leaving you."
Sam barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Right, because not getting any sleep worked out so well for me last year. You not getting any rest isn't going to change anything, it's only going to make things worse."
"I have got some sleep," Dean tried to protest, "and we've done more with less. Hell, running on only a couple of hours is your trademark, isn't it?"
Sam smiled. "Yeah. It's mine, not yours, dumbass. Things aren't going to fall apart if you sleep for six hours." Dean hesitated, squeezing Sam's hand back even if it was more than likely subconscious, and still looking dangerously close to tears. Sam sighed before playing his last card. "You promised me that you were going to be careful and watch your back. You can't do that like this. Go back. Get some sleep."
Dean made a face, clearly fighting with himself, before his shoulders dropped and he rubbed his free hand across his eyes. "Fine. If that's how you want to play, I'll go back, but only for three hours, and if anything—anything—happens here then I want to know about it."
"At least six hours, Dean," Sam said quickly, but he was ignored.
"And first I'm going to cash in that favor with Riley—you remember Riley, he was from that one case in—"
Sam nodded. "I remember."
"Well, I'm going to get him to put a trace on that phone number 24/7. As soon as it's turned back on, we're going to know about it."
Sam frowned, rolling his head back to better look at Dean. "What do you mean turned back on?"
Dean shrugged. "It was turned off about…" he checked his watch, "two hours ago, now. I ran out to get some coffee this morning while you were sleeping and I checked while I was in the café."
His brother had suddenly adverted his gaze and Sam eyed him suspiciously. "And why was it turned off?" he asked icily.
Dean rolled his eyes. "So when I went to get coffee, I might have tried calling again. I left it a message telling it that it could rot in hell. Or, at least that is the censored version for your innocent ears."
"Damnit, Dean!" Sam snapped, disentangling his hand from Dean's so that he could run both hands down his face. "We freaked it out just by showing up in New York! What do you think that it's going to do now that it knows that we are actually onto it and still actively hunting it?"
"I dunno. I kind of hope that it pisses its pants. I would if I knew that I was hunting me."
Sam could have strangled Dean as his own anger reared up. "Of all the dumb things you could have done, you had to do that! Who knows what it's going to do now or what kind of action it's going to take? I already told you that I think it will leave us alone if we leave it alone."
"I don't want that," Dean protested again glaring at Sam. "We don't want that. I want to hunt this bitch down."
Sam did not want that, or at least he didn't mind letting this one go. He didn't care if it died. However, he was still having private reservations about letting Dean go after it alone, and if his brother's last statement was anything to go by then he felt justified in that concern.
"I can't believe you did that, you stupid son of a bitch," he finally said, shaking his head, lethargy stealing his frustration faster than he wanted to admit.
Dean grinned, and his eyes were no longer quite as red. "Yes, you can."
"Yeah, that's part of the problem."
They stared at each other for a moment, both sharing unspoken pleas for the other's safety.
Sam broke it first, saying, "You really should go get some sleep. You look worse than I do."
Dean huffed a laugh but stood. "I will if you will, because believe it or not, you wouldn't be winning Ms. America anytime soon. No more playing detective, I've got it from here, okay?"
Sam wasn't so sure, but he pushed that worry down. He needed to trust Dean. It was just so much harder to trust Dean to watch his own back than Sam's.
Dean hesitated at the door, looking back at Sam and something whitened in his face, the pinched, about-to-cry look coming back.
"Six hours of sleep, Dean. And for God's sake, take a damn shower."
Dean shoved his middle finger into the air and finally left.
Sam watched him go and was surprised by the loneliness that he felt afterward.
He had wanted Dean to go. Dean needed sleep before he was going to handle everything…everything else. Before he could handle the fact that Sam's liver was failing. That Sam was dying.
There was no longer anyone around to be strong for and Sam rubbed a trembling hand over his eyes as a lump formed in his throat and his eyes burned.
It would all be fine…wouldn't it?
#
Dean's hands were shaking as he left the hospital and he curled them into fists, trying to make it stop.
Terminal. This could be terminal now. Sam's liver was failing and even if Dr. DeCary and Sam were both pretending to be hopeful, Dean wasn't so sure that everything was going to turn out alright. Maybe Sam was right and things would look better after he got some sleep, but that wouldn't change the fact that Sam might die. The thought was already more than Dean could bare.
All he had was Sam. It was all that he'd ever really had.
Sure, Benny might take him back in, but he'd parted ways with him for a reason. For Sam. Because you didn't walk out on family when things got difficult, not on the people you loved more than life itself, on the people who returned that love.
A taxi blared its way past him, and Dean looked around, trying to orientate himself. He had no clue where he was, he had kind of just been walking mindlessly. Rubbing at his burning eyes, he heaved a sigh.
He needed coffee.
But he had promised Sam that he would get some sleep, and his brother was right. Nothing new was happening just yet and this might very well be the calm before the storm. He should take advantage of that and be well-rested so that he could confront the shifter and make it out alive. Sam would need him as well in the next couple of days, and Dean couldn't afford to need sleep then.
It still felt wrong, like he was giving up. But, he tried to convince himself, it would be fine. It was only going to be for a couple of hours.
Massaging his aching head, Dean began to walk back toward the motel.
He didn't try to get the AC to kick back on when he made it back to the room. That seemed like too much effort and he wouldn't be here long enough for it to matter. He mutedly began to go through his contacts, looking for Riley's number. He was exhausted, and not just physically. Maybe Sam was right about the sleep thing.
Finding it, Dean made the call and within ten minutes was told that the phone was still off. Forcing a promise from Riley that he would keep the trace running at all times and to let him know the minute that it was turned back on, Dean hung up.
He stood there, staring at the floor. Showering seemed like too much effort right now, that would have to wait until he had slept.
Forcing himself to move, he collapsed onto the bed and rolled over onto his side. Bunching the pillow up under his cheek, he gripped the knife that was under it.
Sam's bed stared back at him. It was unmade, the covers bunched up at the foot of the bed, and sudden tears sprang into Dean's eyes. Sam only didn't make his bed when Dean was in a rush or when he wasn't feeling great. That day, it had probably been a combination of both. It was such a mundane thing, just something dumb, but it hit home once again how much he loved the stupid kid.
It didn't matter what had happened while he was in Purgatory. He loved him, he would always love him, and that would never stop.
Rolling back over so that he didn't have to look at the bed, he closed his eyes as he saw Sam's book that was lying on the floor by the table. What if Sam never got to finish Les Misérables? There were so many books that Sam hadn't read yet, he wasn't even close to finishing that nerdy list he had made up of books that he wanted to read. Sam couldn't die. Not yet.
The thought was making Dean choke up and he blinked rapidly.
Sam was right. He needed sleep if only to escape for a while from his thoughts.
Setting an alarm to go off in exactly five hours, Dean was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
#
It felt like Dean had just closed his eyes when the shrill ring of the alarm jolted him out of a deep sleep, and he fumbled blindly to turn it off. He lay there for a moment, trying to force his groggy brain awake. He felt more tired than he had when he'd laid down, but a cold shower would fix that.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Dean stumbled upright, squinting down at his phone. There was no news from Riley, and the disappointment was hot in his belly.
They had to find the shifter, he had to kill it.
Pushing open the bathroom door, Dean began a text to Riley, asking for an update, and glanced up to make sure that he wasn't going to run into anything.
Something red flashed in the corner of his peripheral vision and Dean looked around. He slammed to a sudden stop, terror colder than ice penetrating him clear to the bone. All feelings of tiredness vanished as the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
Scrawled on the mirror in dark red lipstick were the words
BACK OFF
Underneath that, in what clearly was a threat, was a grainy and low-quality picture of Sam asleep in his hospital room.
Alone.
Vulnerable.
In danger.