A/N Thank you from the very bottom of my heart for all the support! I am dead tired today and I usually do one last read through but I half-asses it, so there are probably plenty of mistakes with which you may entertain yourself :)

Chapter Two

Sam tried to slow down his erratic breathing as he listened to Dean move around and tilted his head back, leaning it against the wall. He increased the pressure that he was applying, trying to ignore the slick, warm, feeling of his own blood slipping past his fingers.

He'd been stabbed in the chest and that—that wasn't ideal, not with the FBI hot on their tails and waiting to snatch them up like the prized pig.

Depending on how bad it was, Dean might force him to go to the hospital, but Sam couldn't get past the thought that it was a really bad idea. Hospitals kept records on who had been there, and the police would surely become involved with it being a stabbing. It would be like lighting up a neon sign and telling the FBI exactly where they were at.

He was—they had just gotten away by the skin of their teeth at the bank, he couldn't do prison, he just couldn't.

"Hey, hey, calm down. Here—" Dean was dropping down next to him again and dragging Sam's hands away from the wounds. He piled a thick wad of paper towels over them and braced one hand against Sam's chest. He used the other to apply direct and unrelenting pressure that made Sam clench his jaw.

"Deep breaths, c'mon, deep breaths, don't freak out on me," Dean coached in a distracted murmur.

"I'm not," Sam ground out, trying for annoyance and not sure that he succeeded.

"Right, of course you're not. C'mon, breathe deep."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shakily tried to do just that but that only increased the rapidly intensifying pain. Swallowing thickly, he muffled a cough into his shoulder and resorted to shallower breaths.

Dean was silent for a moment as he focused on stopping the bleeding but Sam wasn't surprised when he spoke again. "He got you pretty good. How are you doing?"

'Fine' wouldn't be accepted as an answer in this case, and Sam took another stuttering breath before he answered. "It's not that bad."

"Are you sure about that? How's your breathing? With the positioning of the wound and if that knife went deep enough, he could have punctured your lung."

Sam didn't want to think about that. If he had punctured a lung then it meant that the hospital would become a requirement, and not just for a quick ER visit either. "It's okay," he grunted, trying not to think too hard about it.

"Sam…" Dean's voice dropped deeper in a rebuke.

"I—Look, it hurts to breathe but I'm sure that has something to do with getting stabbed. I'll let you know if it gets worse."

"You'd better," Dean muttered and then fell silent again, concentrating on what he was doing.

Sam swallowed thickly, not liking the silence when he couldn't see anything. "What—" he had to stop, pulling in another short breath. "What about the girl? Did she…?"

"Last I saw she was in her car and getting out of here like a bat out of hell. She's safe as long as she keeps her head and doesn't crash." Dean shifted, changing position and steadily increasing the pressure that he was applying.

Sam didn't say anything, throat working and—damn it, that hurt.

"Sorry."

Sam didn't bother with the apology. "You, ah, you get the other guys? The big one?"

"Yeah, he's down for the count. We did good, Sammy."

Sam huffed breathlessly. Dean wasn't the one bleeding out in the women's bathroom of a dingy rest area. "I was doing fine until they brought out the pepper spray," he mumbled in his own defense. He rubbed at his still-burning eyes before he thought about it and clenched his jaw at the resulting pain. "Dean, I still can't see. Let me—could you…?" he trailed off and dropped his hand down to cover Dean's where it was pressed over his chest still trying to control the bleeding.

"Sam, this is more important, we'll get your eyes flushed at the hospital," Dean said firmly but Sam could feel the panic starting to well up stronger. He didn't know what was happening, not really, and if he could just see then maybe things would be better.

"No. Just—help me over to the sink."

"Dude, you're still bleeding pretty good. I know things might be getting a little wonky, you're probably going into shock, but this really is more—"

"Dean, please, I need to see what's happening. Please."

Some of the panic must have bled into his voice because Dean swore under his breath before slipping his hands out from under Sam's. Resting them briefly on top of his, he pressed down. "Okay. Okay, I'm on it. Keep applying pressure, I'll be right back."

He moved away and the sounds of the paper towel dispenser came again, followed by muffled water as Dean ran them underneath the faucet. At last, with a squeak, the sink was shut off and then Dean was back at his side.

One hand dropped down to rest over Sam's clasped hand, making sure that he wasn't letting up pressure before lifting away again. "Hold that there, just tilt your head to the side." Gripping Sam's chin, he turned his head to the exact angle he wanted before he began to flush his eyes out with the wet paper towels that he wrung out over his face.

Sam sputtered, coughing under the deluge and gasping at the resulting spikes of pain in his chest. The method probably wasn't the most efficient one ever, but it was effective enough. After Dean had repeated the process several times, Sam was able to blink his eyes all the way open without them burning or tearing up.

A blurry Dean stared down at him, his face pale and creased in worry as he flung the used paper towels aside. A dark bruise was darkening his left cheekbone and his lip was split but besides that, he didn't look hurt. Not unless the blood that was staining both of his hands red counted, but that wasn't his.

Sam glanced down at himself and felt his heart skip a beat. There was a lot of blood, no wonder Dean was looking so freaked. It covered his hands and had completely soaked his shirt. The paper towels that he was holding against his chest were in no better condition.

"That better?" Dean shrugged out of his jacket before hastily tearing off his flannel to get at his t-shirt.

"Yeah, it's good," Sam said as he continued to blink rapidly to further clear his vision. He broke off in another coughing fit as the words caught in his throat and he doubled forward.

"Easy, easy now, kiddo," Dean said, shifting so that he could offer more support as Sam brought his hand up to his chest, pressing against his sternum. He continued to cough and now his eyes were tearing up for a completely different reason.

It hurt.

When he managed to get the coughing under control, Dean's lips were a thin line and his eyes were pinched. He had dropped his flannel and had taken over applying pressure. "Take a deep breath, c'mon, in and out," he ordered and Sam shot him a glare.

"I'm trying," he wheezed. He knew that he was panting more than breathing but he couldn't help it. The bathroom was feeling warmer and more confined than before and Sam swallowed, feeling himself starting to sweat and his eyes fluttered shut before he forced them open again.

The lines in Dean's face were getting steadily deeper as he reached up, pressing two fingers into Sam's throat.

"Your pulse is thready and fast," he announced after a minute and Sam shrugged.

"Yeah, well, as you said I might be going into shock."

"Or if your lung is collapsing then it could be putting pressure on your heart."

"Or I'm fine," Sam countered but it was hard to be convincing when after that short sentence he had to stop, taking several shallow gasps of air.

Dean shook his head, his face crumpling. "Damnit, Sammy," he muttered and Sam knew that he was the only one that could hear the terror there. "You probably did puncture your lung—I can't fix that."

"We don't know that. It's not like it's easy to breathe with you putting pressure on my chest like that." Sam tried to sit up further to prove his point but Dean easily pushed him back down.

"Yeah, because it's completely normal to sound like a beached fish. Dude, face it. This is way beyond me and what I can take care of. It's going to take an-an actual doctor with actual equipment. You need x-rays and maybe surgery and I can't do any of that in the back of the Impala."

Sam stared at Dean and his eyes started to burn.

They couldn't do that. He couldn't go to the hospital, not unless he wanted to risk both of them getting arrested. He tried to take a deep breath to settle himself and couldn't do it, the pain deepening along the right side of his chest.

"Sometimes—sometimes if the puncture is small enough it heals itself," he tried and Dean looked away, not meeting his eyes and Sam tried again. "Look, just help me to the Impala," he stopped, sucking in more air, "we'll get a motel and wait it out. I might not need to go."

"Dude," Dean began tightly. "No. No way in hell am I risking that. I'm not going to sit at your bedside and just wait to see if you stop breathing."

"But Henriksen—"

"—Isn't going to be there. It will be fine." Dean sounded confident but Sam couldn't drudge up the same feelings. Dean always believed that he could pull one over on the cops, that he could get them out of any situation, but Sam wasn't so quick to dismiss the law. He'd seen too many close calls.

He stayed quiet, his mind racing through the different possibilities.

"Sam?" Dean questioned sharply, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face and turning his attention back to him. "You still with me?"

"Yeah, I'm with you, I just—" Sam shook his head minutely, not able to find the capacity or air to put into words what he was feeling and thinking.

Going to the hospital—and possibly encountering the cops—was inevitable at this point for him, even as much as he didn't want to admit it, but on the other hand, Dean was fine. He didn't have to go. He could just drop Sam off and drive away. He could get a motel room for a couple of days and then come pick him up or break him out of jail if worse came to worse. That would work, right?

"Good. You stay with me and it's all going to turn out okay, Sammy. We'll be fine, you're going to be fine." Dean offered a weak smile as he tugged Sam's hands back into position over the rapidly soaking paper towels. He numbly applied pressure, watching as Dean finished stripping out of his t-shirt with trembling hands.

Dean began to fold the material into a pressure bandage and then eased Sam forward so that he could wrap the bandage around him and over the wad of paper towels. He tied it off firmly and efficiently, making Sam grunt, his breath catching. Dean smoothed Sam's shirts and jacket back down over the bandages and gave him a crooked smile.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah. My legs are fine," Sam huffed, reaching out his blood-stained hand so that Dean could help him up.

Ignoring the proffered hand, Dean ducked down to get under his arm so that he could better support his weight and then wrapped one arm loosely around his waist. Sam gripped his shoulder tightly and Dean's other hand twisted in the back of his shirt and then he was pulled up onto his feet.

Damn it, it hurt and the change of position sent him into a series of weak coughs. They weren't doing anything to clear his lungs and Sam grunted, clenching Dean's shoulder hard as he tried to make the coughs useful, as he tried to bring in more air. Dean held him upright, supporting most of his weight as Sam curled forward, still coughing and trying to escape the pain. It wasn't working and bright spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

"Easy, easy. You're okay. Just breathe deep, we're going to get you help, just hold on," Dean instructed uneasily over his head and Sam focused on his voice as something finally broke free, allowing him to breathe better. Gasping raggedly, he muffled another cough but this one wasn't followed by another.

The distinct taste of copper hit the back of his throat and Sam swallowed thickly, trying to rid himself of the taste, but it wasn't going away. It tasted like metal and—Stiffening in realization, he pressed his lips together, trying to hide the evidence.

Blood. He was starting to cough up blood.

"Sam?" Dean asked, gripping him tighter and Sam swallowed again, trying to get enough saliva to be able to answer even as he swiped his tongue over his teeth.

This all felt like some dream, a really, really, bad dream.

"I'm good," he managed to get out, trying to keep his breathing even to not trigger another coughing fit.

Dean snorted in disbelief as the arm around his waist tightened, nudging him forward with an urgency that didn't need to be spoken. Sam obediently shuffled forward and used his free hand to swipe unsteadily at the sweat that was coating his face.

Dean shifted, attempting to compensate for more of his weight as they stopped over a moaning Lucas and Sam threw him a sideways look. He was white underneath the blood flecks, and he had a look of controlled panic seared into his face.

His brother was going to throw a fit when Sam told him to leave him at the hospital, but he honestly didn't see another choice.

If Dean left then the best-case scenario was that they wouldn't figure out who Sam was, and Dean could come in and claim him. The worst-case scenario was that Sam would be arrested and then Dean would find a way to break him out. If Dean stayed, on the other hand, then the worst-case scenario was that they would both be arrested and probably separated.

Sam didn't want to risk that.

Dad wasn't around to help them out of sticky spots, and no one else was close enough to them to know or care if the Winchesters were locked up. No one would be coming to help them escape.

Dean kicked the bathroom door open and steered them into the main lobby and straight for the door.

It really hadn't been that far of a walk but Sam was trembling by the time that they reached it. He also couldn't seem to be able to find the air to breathe efficiently and he was getting lightheaded as he tried to suck more in.

God, it felt like he was trying to breathe through a closed straw—he had to sit down for a moment. Had to catch his breath before he could go any farther.

"Stop—Dean, stop—" he managed to get out, his hand fluttering up to find his brother's arm. Dean stopped instantly, trying to twist around to see Sam more clearly but Sam was doubling over. His arm slid off from around Dean's shoulders to wrap around his chest.

Dean swore under his breath before saying, "You just—you gotta slow it down. You're breathing too fast, but we're almost there, just hang on, we're almost to the car."

He reached for the door handle but Sam was sinking as his knees stopped working. Everything was getting hazy and he blinked large black spots out of his vision.

"Sonofabitch, easy! Easy, hey!"

He could hear Dean talking to him, but it sounded increasingly far away and Sam blinked. When he opened his eyes again, he was slumped awkwardly against the cold cement wall and Dean was crouched over his sprawled legs, one hand on Sam's face, the other still pressing against his chest.

"Sam, you with me?" he asked even as Sam arched his back. It felt like the air was being ripped from him yet none of it was being replaced.

"I'm—" Sam couldn't get the words out.

"Damnit. Damnit, breathe, buddy. C'mon, you've been doing it since the day that you were born." Dean shifted and grabbed two handfuls of Sam's jacket to haul him more upright to further open his air passages.

It helped only a little.

Reaching out blindly, Sam wrapped his fingers in Dean's jacket in return and clenched the thick material tightly as he struggled, focusing on forcing air in and out of his lungs.

"You going to make it to the car or should I be calling in reinforcements?" Dean asked as he let Sam lean into him. He reached around and began to rub deep circles across his back, trying to encourage a steadier rhythm

Sam shook his head, trying to blink away the little spots of light that wanted to dance in front of his eyes. "I'll make it," he said in what could hardly be qualified as a whisper.

"Sam, don't do that, don't lie. Tell me straight, are you going to make it?"

Sam didn't answer, coughing weakly instead and shifting in an attempt to ease the pain in his chest. In a moment of weakness, he let himself rest his forehead against Dean's shoulder while trying to bring in more air. There was an audible wheeze to his breathing now and the taste of iron was heavy against his tongue again.

Dean spoke above him, his chest vibrating against Sam's cheek. "Okay, okay, hang on. I'm getting you help."

Sam coughed once more trying to rid himself of the awful pressure in his lungs and let his head roll back, breathing through his open mouth.

"Oh, God."

At Dean's stricken tone, Sam jerked his gaze back around to find Dean had straightened and was staring at him. Fresh blood was speckling the collar of Dean's jacket where Sam's head had been resting and Sam was sure that it was on his lips. "Blood. That's—you're coughing up blood now." Dean tore into his pocket, fumbling out his phone even as he pressed Sam back with one hand. "Don't move, I'm calling 911. I'm not moving you, it's making it worse. Don't move."

"No—Dean, no," Sam insisted breathlessly as he scrambled to catch ahold of his brother's wrist. Dean had the phone out and was flipping it open, easily avoiding Sam's feeble attempts to snatch it back from him. "Stop, you have….you have to lis'en—"

Dean wasn't listening, his face tense underneath the smears of blood and Sam changed tactics as he grabbed for Dean's collar instead, trying to pull him down toward him. "Dean, please—listen to me."

That tone always worked, and Dean hesitated for just a moment, long enough for Sam to gulp in a couple of agonizing breaths. "Don't…don't call 911."

"Sammy, you're coughing up blood. You can't breathe. We are way past me fixing you up, we're calling 911."

Sam couldn't refute that, especially not when he turned to the side, coughing into his shoulder and groaning at the deep pain that followed. He could feel fresh blood speckling his lips and the taste of metal was thick on his tongue. Dean's phone was halfway up to his ear when Sam jerked on his collar desperately.

"It will be okay. We'll keep a low cover," Dean insisted calmly but Sam wasn't having it.

"Let me call," he rasped out in one breath and tried to suck in another one.

"Sam, no."

"Yes. Get out of here." It was getting harder to talk and Dean could see it as well. He ignored his pleas as he finished dialing and Sam tipped his head back. He tightened his grip on Dean's collar in frustration as he closed his eyes, panting harshly as he listened to Dean make the 911 call.

Breathing wasn't any easier in that position and Sam gasped. Returning his head to the original position resting against Dean's shoulder, he tried to force the air into his uncooperating lung. It hurt like a bitch.

When he heard Dean snap the phone closed, he rolled his head to the side, looking up. It was now or never, he had to convince Dean to leave him here.

Dean offered a smile, his hand coming up and gripping Sam's forearm hard, both comforting and reassuring. "They'll be here as soon as they can. ETA is less than ten minutes so you've just got to hang on a little longer. Stay with me, alright?"

"I'm fine." Sam regretted saying anything when his voice broke at the end. He didn't think that it could get harder to breathe, but it was and he tightened his grip on Dean's collar to get his attention. "You've got to…gotta get out."

"Sam, we've already been over this—no."

"You'll—you'll be arrested."

"They're not going to find us out."

"We don't know that. Dean—" Sam had to cut himself off, coughing again and leaving his tongue coated in blood. Dean's eyes were wide and he was struggling to control his terror as Sam locked eyes with him. "You'll be arrested," he repeated when he could, begging him to understand but he was refusing to pick up what Sam was trying to lay down.

"I'm not leaving you, that's not happening, so save your breath and shut up. Just…concentrate on breathing. Help will be here soon."

"No, they're going to find out," Sam tried again, increasingly frustrated with his inability to make his argument. He couldn't do it, not when each word was paid for dearly. He gasped, the sharp breaths cutting through him.

Dean shhed him desperately as he cupped the side of his face. "Calm down, you're getting all worked up and that's—that's not helping. Don't say anything else. They aren't going to connect the dots. We've put enough space between us and Henriksen, we've crossed multiple state lines. It's fine. We're fine, I promise, Sammy we're fine."

"But—"

"Shh, shh, no. I'm not—I'll leave if I think that they are going to get suspicious but not before then."

Sam blinked back tears, not sure how he could get Dean to see logic, to see reason, and to see that this was the only option. He took another breath, trying to marshal his strength before saying as clearly as he could, "I'll be fine, but I won't be if you get arrested." He had to pause again, and he had more that he wanted to say, but he couldn't. He weakly tugged at Dean's jacket, begging him to get it, to understand that if there was even the slightest possibility that he might get caught, he had to leave.

Dean was smart. He had to know the same things that Sam did, he just didn't want to admit to it.

Dean made a distraught face as his hand slid away from Sam's face and up to his hair, smoothing it back. He maintained eye contact, searching, and then his jaw was clenching tight as his gaze moved away from Sam's. When he looked back around his face was set.

He leaned forward, his hand sliding down to wrap around the back of Sam's neck and forcing him to look up. "Promise me that you are going to make it through this," he said thickly.

"Go," Sam ground out, trying not to cough again.

"Promise me, Sam. Swear to me that you are going to fight."

Sam stared at Dean and then nodded slowly.

Dean looked away again, his fingers massaging the back of Sam's neck before he took a steadying breath. "I'm staying until I hear the sirens. I can't believe I'm agreein' to this, Sammy, I—I don't like it."

Sam didn't have time to worry about that. "No—" he started to say, trying to get Dean to leave immediately but his voice was faint.

Dean shook his head. "Save your breath, dude. Purple's not a good color on you. The paramedics will be here soon, just relax."

Dean was trying so hard, but Sam could see how red his eyes were and could feel how tightly he was gripping him. Nodding to try and pacify Dean, he slumped forward, letting his head rest on his brother's shoulder again as he tried to force more air into his unwilling lungs. Dean brought his arms up, wrapping them around Sam's back in a sort of hug.

Sam wanted to reassure him that he would be fine, that this wasn't goodbye but he couldn't do more than gasp harshly. Dean tightened his grip, rocking him slightly.

They were only sitting that way for a minute or two when Dean tensed, his head twisting around. Sam opened his eyes and then pushed himself back upright, or at least tried to. He was alarmed by how weak he was and that he needed Dean's help to lean against the wall.

"Sam—" Dean tried one last time and Sam forced a smile.

"Be safe," he made the effort to whisper as Dean grabbed his hand and brought it up to apply pressure over the makeshift bandages.

Dean looked like he wanted to say more, but they were out of time. Giving him a cocky smile that couldn't disguise the fear there or the faint sheen of tears, he stood.

Sam's eyes slipped closed of their own accord and when he opened them again, Dean was gone.

Relief mingled with fear. He'd been half afraid that Dean wouldn't leave, and there would have been nothing that Sam could have done to make him. Without anyone around to be strong for, he stopped trying to hide the pain or just how hard it was getting to breathe.

He could now hear the sirens, loud in the otherwise quiet, and all he could do was hope that Dean had gotten away in time.

#

Dean's heart was somewhere in his throat as he straightened from his crouch, staring down at his little brother. Sam was covered in his own blood, but that wasn't what was truly alarming. No, that was his inability to pull in a full breath and the way that he was arching slightly in an attempt to do so. It was the ragged wheezes that filled the air and it just wasn't right. That wasn't how someone should sound when all they were doing was breathing.

If he didn't leave now, then he never would. Tearing himself away, Dean fled the rest area before he could talk himself out of it.

He felt completely numb.

Sam's blood was splattered all over his hands and shirt and yet he had left him behind on the grimy floor of a dingy rest area, bleeding and lips turning blue from the lack of air.

Yanking open the door to the Impala, Dean slid inside. He got it, he did, and it made sense. Henriksen would be hunting for them, and there was a chance that they would be found. If that was the case, then being separated from Sam for a few days was better than for the rest of their lives, but that didn't mean that leaving Sam went against his very core.

Decidedly not thinking about what he was doing, he backed the Impala out and, gunning the engine, got back on the highway. He probably only had seconds before the ambulance and possibly the police got there. He'd reported it as a stabbing, and that was sure to bring both.

Sure enough, red and blue lights danced in his rearview mirror mere moments after he got on the highway and Dean increased the pressure on the gas pedal.

He didn't go far.

Driving down only about a mile, he pulled off to the side of the road and then started to double back on foot at a sprint.

He'd just left Sam alone and bleeding.

It still wasn't making much sense even as Dean repeated it over again. When he'd walked in on Sam in that bathroom, he'd thought they had gotten away from the brawl okay. Sure, Dean had a couple of bruises and Sam had been pepper sprayed and was bleeding from a head wound, but that was doable.

That was fixable.

When he'd gone to pull Sam up and saw all the blood that had been hidden by his jacket and his arm, his heart had stopped. Even then, he'd thought that they were okay. Sam might have been in pain and bleeding, but he had been mostly lucid and had been talking and breathing just fine. And then he'd started to struggle to get enough air and his condition had deteriorated so rapidly that it had left Dean's head spinning.

Sam hadn't even really been able to speak by the end, even as he'd clutched at Dean, begging him to leave, and that wasn't right. Sam always had something to say.

God, he wasn't going to be able to get the image of Sam leaning against him, coughing up blood, out of his mind anytime soon.

The sirens were no longer wailing by the time he reached the edge of the tree line that led to the rest area, but it was bathed in a sea of red and blue lights from the multitude of emergency vehicles that had descended on the area.

Straying probably closer than he should have, Dean watched the entrance from behind one of the thicker trees.

He just wanted to make sure that Sam got help, and then he would figure out what he was going to do.

A smaller firetruck came wailing in, and Dean watched as the workers jumped out, one hurrying towards the building while the other moved over to where Trevor or Trent or Travis or whatever his name was sitting on the ground. An officer was crouched next to him, keeping him upright. Dean hoped like hell that he had a massive headache. He had known how to fight dirty, and Dean hadn't been kind in return.

It was mere luck that he had escaped with as little damage to himself as he had. Hell, it was just stupid heroics that had led them to the fight in the first place and bad luck that had led to Sam getting stabbed.

Dean was done being the good guy. If this was their reward…shaking his head, he pressed his lips together to fight off the despairing thoughts as he continued to watch the entrance. He didn't have any illusions about who he was or what he did, but he did know that they helped people. They were the good guys. They had to be, otherwise Dean would be completely lost.

It wasn't long before they wheeled Sam out on a stretcher. He had a large oxygen mask strapped over his face even as a paramedic walked next to him, pumping oxygen. The end of the stretcher had been raised higher than the head, which made sense. Sam had rapidly been sliding into shock.

It wasn't comforting that the paramedics were moving with hurried efficiency. They wasted no time in loading Sam in the back of the ambulance and then the doors were swinging shut, hiding his brother from view. A second later the sirens flipped on and then the ambulance was roaring out.

A police officer stepped into view, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the building and then the surrounding area.

Dean didn't wait around to see what would happen next and he faded back into the cover of the trees, careful to not make a sound. This time he didn't run as he made his way back to the Impala.

He had no clue what he was going to do and he still didn't know when he reached her. Sitting in the driver's seat, he stared at the steering wheel and tried not to notice the drying blood that he had left behind earlier. It was still on his hands as well, itching as it dried.

Sam's blood.

His little brother's blood.

Closing his eyes, Dean clenched his hands. "Damnit. DAMNIT!" He smacked the wheel hard and then raked one hand back through his hair. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he snorted out something between a laugh and a sob and then reached over, turning the car on.

He couldn't lose Sam. Sam was the only thing keeping him going, the only thing he had left. He'd rather die himself than lose his brother.

Spinning the Impala in a tight U-turn, he started back towards the nearest town. He didn't have a plan, he didn't know what he was doing, but he did know he couldn't leave Sam there alone. He was going to find a way to be close by, but, to do so successfully, he had a lot to figure out first.

Dean took a breath, trying to calm down as his fingers tapped an anxious beat against the steering wheel.

The first step was to get clean and become presentable.

Reaching the town, Dean cruised through the streets in the dark, looking for the telltale signs of an unoccupied house. Finding one with a pile of newspapers stacked in front of the door, Dean parked in a back alley and then snuck around to the backdoor. There were still no signs of anyone nor enough security to be a hassle and he picked the lock before entering.

The house was empty—no pets either, which was good—and Dean headed straight for the shower. Not bothering with the lights on the off chance that he would alert the neighbors to his presence, Dean scrubbed himself clean trying very hard not to think about Sam.

For all that he knew, his brother was being prepped to go into surgery or already was in surgery. He had been coughing up blood and surely that meant surgery.

Sam would be fine, he'd gotten Sam help. The doctors would make sure that he survived since he couldn't.

Now Dean just had to hold up to his end and stay out of trouble while also somehow being there for his brother.

It was…doable. Dean now had the beginnings of a plan, even if it was just the bare bones of one. He was going to Clark Kent his way into the hospital, probably as a nurse.

Simple. Probably stupid, but Dean was good at making stupid plans work.

Getting out of the shower, Dean fumbled around in the dark until he found a towel and quickly dried off, ignoring his aches and pains, before pulling on fresh clothes. Once he was dressed, he risked flipping on the vanity light and began to pull open drawers until he found what he was looking for.

Hair product and a comb.

Wiping the mirror free of condensation with the towel, Dean proceeded to comb his hair back. He hadn't done this very often since high school and it took longer than he wanted to for it to feel right. In the end, he settled for having his hair slicked completely back and away from his face.

Striding back into the bedroom, Dean paused, seeing the pair of reading glasses on the bedside table. Snatching them up, he stuck them in his jacket pocket before continuing to the closets and looking for anything that might pass as scrubs. If he was lucky, then whoever lived here was a nurse. His luck didn't hold, not that it would have mattered anyway. He didn't think that anything here would have fit him, it all looked to be two sizes two small.

Leaving the house, Dean locked the door behind him and made for the Impala. Digging out the wet wipes that they kept for just such occasions, he wiped the now-crusted blood from the steering wheel and the silver chrome of the handle.

His next stop was the local Goodwill, only they didn't open for another three hours. The wait was frustrating and Dean sat back in the Impala for a moment, trying to figure out the most productive way to spend his time.

Sam's empty seat was mocking him and Dean went to run a hand through his hair in frustration before remembering that he had just styled it and stopped himself.

He wondered if Sam was out of surgery yet. God, he hoped that there hadn't been any complications, that everything was going just fine.

Making up his mind, Dean parked the Impala at a 24/7 diner and walked the couple of blocks to the hospital. He didn't know if they had put the pieces together of who Sam was—or if they would at all—but he couldn't risk the Impala being seen and recognized in the hospital parking lot.

It would be stupid for him to have left Sam behind, only to be caught now. He was going to have to find a more permanent and safe place to stash her, but that was on the back burner. Right now, his main focus was on getting into the hospital undetected so that he could know how Sam was doing and if he was even still alive.

It was cold and dreary outside, but Dean just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets as he went around to the back, looking for the employee's only entrance. When he had found it, he leaned against the wall, waiting for the right target to walk by. Bumming a cigarette and light off someone, Dean indulged in the habit to look inconspicuous. He didn't smoke—the only time he'd consistently done so was for about a week in high school before John had caught him in the act and given him the verbal beating of his lifetime—but he wasn't against doing it if so-called upon. And if it worked to steady his nerves a little…well, that was just a bonus.

Dean was just starting to get fidgety when a frazzled nurse walked past, trying to juggle a water bottle, a phone charger, and a bag of lunch in one hand while talking on the phone.

She swore loudly when, after scanning her badge, she tried to open the door and dropped her lunch. Hurriedly catching the door and opening it before it locked again, Dean gave her a bright smile as he also bent down to pick up her lunch for her.

She blushed a little and accepted it, never noticing as Dean easily picked the badge off the pocket of her shirt. He continued to hold the door open for her as she went in, the card held in his fist at his side.

She hopefully wouldn't miss it until later.

His objective achieved; Dean left without a second glance back.

By that time, morning had fully come and businesses were starting to open. Making first for the thrift shop, Dean hurriedly picked out a pair of sneakers and some scrubs that were plain in color. There hadn't appeared to be any clear uniform color for the nurses that he had observed and Dean was hoping to hell that was true. After that, he made a quick stop at a digital printing store where he replicated the badge with a fake name and picture of himself. He had made enough fake IDs that this part was mindless and he struggled not to think about the way Sam had literally been gasping for air.

His last stop was a small tattoo parlor just down the street. It had been a spur-of-a-moment decision but one that felt like a good idea as soon as he had thought of it. Paying the artist five hundred dollars on the spot in cash, he had her draw a sleeve of tattoos onto his left arm with a sharpie and, with a little flirting, also convinced her to cover up his bruises with makeup.

Leaving, Dean stuck the glasses on his face and, as one last measure of precaution, switched the silver ring he frequently wore onto the ring finger of his left hand.

He was no longer Dean Winchester—didn't even look a damn thing like him—but was rather Dylan White, the new intern at the High Peak Hospital.

#

The hospital loomed larger than life as Dean approached the building again, his heart in his throat. Not that he would let it show on his face. No, from here on out his only goal was to ooze confidence. People were much less likely to question people who acted like they belonged, but that didn't mean that internally he wasn't nervous.

He had never played a nurse for longer than a couple of hours before, and this con could go on for days.

Striding up to the employee's only door, he scanned his fake badge and felt no small amount of relief when the light turned green, the replicated barcode working. That was good, that would make life easier.

Once he was inside, he wandered over to the office marked HR, pretending that he had found the original badge just outside the employee's only door. That way the nurse hopefully wouldn't get in trouble nor would the badge be turned off.

The badge gave him access to the doors but not to the computers, and Dean didn't even bother trying to find Sam that way. He had been in enough hospitals to know the general layout and instead, he strode through the hallways until he found first the surgical ward and then the recovery area.

It had been hours since he had last seen Sam. Surely, he had to be out of surgery by now.

The recovery room wasn't very full and there was only a handful of beds to check, but Dean's heart still skipped a beat when he pulled back the curtain to see Sam. His brother was lying completely still and dwarfed by the surrounding medical machinery. He looked more dead than alive.

The beeping of the heart monitor confirmed that he wasn't, but it did little to ease the fear tugging at Dean.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Dean slipped through the curtain, making sure it was shut to provide them with a moment of privacy.

Moving up near the head of the bed, he reached down to clasp Sam's cold hand.

His brother didn't stir and the ventilator that they had him on slowly pushed air into his lungs. Dean squeezed Sam's hand tightly in both of his as he glanced up at the monitor with his brother's vitals, easily scanning them.

They weren't as positive as Dean would have liked.

His blood pressure was too low and his oxygens levels were hovering around the low 80s when they should have been in the 90s—and that was with the vent. His heart was beating too fast, the collapsed lung no doubt putting pressure on it.

But he was alive, and for the moment that would be enough.

"Sammy…you keep that promise, okay?" he murmured, chaffing the cold hand in his. As expected, Sam didn't respond, the ventilator continuing to push his chest up and down for him but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

"Damnit." Dragging a hand over his mouth, Dean blinked back tears and lifted back the sheet, pulling down the surgical gown that was covering Sam. Separate bandages covered the different punctures, but that didn't bother him. The thin tubing that was sticking out of his brother's chest beneath the punctures did. He knew that it was draining the blood and air out to allow the lung to reinflate, but it didn't look right and it was making him a little nauseated.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his forehead. If he ever found Tommy again, he was going to make sure that he was eating his meals through a straw.

Covering Sam up, Dean rearranged his limbs in a position that he knew he liked to sleep in and then took a step back, continuing to stare at him. He knew that he had probably lingered here too long but he couldn't find it in himself to leave.

Instead, he returned to the foot of the bed and picked up the file that was attached there.

They didn't have Sam's real name—he was listed simply as 'Sam' with no last name—which was good. It meant that his brother had been conscious enough to at least tell them that much when they arrived, but not too out of it to give his full name.

He skimmed the rest of the file hurriedly.

Sam had indeed punctured his right lung in two spots. Not only had the knife pierced the lung cavity, allowing air and blood to fill it and causing it to collapse, but the lower wound had also pierced the lung itself, which was why he had been coughing up blood. Surgery had gone well, however, and the doctors were hopeful for a full recovery as long as there were no complications.

Dean studied the chart for just a moment longer, his eyes flickering between it and his brother's pale, lax, face before he reluctantly put it back. He'd been here too long and he still had a lot of work to do if he wanted to set himself up as a common sight in the hospital. If he could do that before the FBI showed up—if they showed up—then hopefully no one would look twice at him.

Sighing heavily, he patted Sam's knee. "I'll be here. You just concentrate on getting better," he said softly.

It took more effort than he wanted to admit to slip out, leaving his brother behind and defenseless.

After that, Dean went in search of the breakroom to get a cup of coffee and to figure out what the good people of Morgan, Indiana knew or didn't know.

Both turned out to be surprisingly easy.

The coffee was strong and hot, and Dean easily inserted himself into a partially full table of workers. What had happened at the rest area was the talk of the whole hospital. It was a quiet town and situations like this didn't happen frequently.

A detective had already talked to Lucas and the other members of his gang who had been admitted to the ER in various conditions. They were saying that Sam and another mysterious man had attacked them, but their words were being taken with a grain of salt. In the community, they were well-known trouble and all were facing charges for having illegal substances in their possession.

The discussion for a while revolved around who had made the 911 call before leaving and what exactly his part of the story was. Sam also remained shrouded in mystery with no one quite sure if he had played the part of villain or hero. A detective had already requested to be alerted as soon as he was awake and coherent enough to tell his side of the story.

For a while, it looked like that was going to be sooner rather than later. Sam was doing well and by midmorning, he had been taken off of the ventilator even though they were keeping him in ICU overnight just in case.

Trusting that to be a good sign, Dean took that opportunity to leave for an hour or two to hide the Impala. He ended up stashing her a couple of miles out of town and off the beaten path where she shouldn't be disturbed.

He returned to bad news.

Sam's oxygen levels had dropped shortly after being taken off the vent and the fever that he developed post-operation was rising.

The reports that Dean managed to tease out of the different nurses did not improve as the day wore on and he spent a sleepless night pacing through the hospital hallways in an attempt to look busy while also fighting the urge to bang down the doors to the ICU and wait with his brother, consequences be damned. Sam would be absolutely furious if he did, and Dean had to content himself with talking to Sam's night nurse—Molly—when she was on break.

When morning came and there was no apparent improvement in Sam's condition—Molly had seemed a little morose when she had been leaving to go home—Dean finally gave in to temptation and risked slipping into the ICU.

It didn't take him long to find Sam's bed and he ducked in between the privacy curtains that sectioned him off from the surrounding patients. In an odd déjà vu to only a few hours earlier, he pulled the curtain shut before turning to face his brother.

Sam looked worse.

His skin was ashen except for the bright fever spots on his cheeks and his breathing was noticeably labored. The oxygen stats were better, but that was no doubt because they had put him back on the vent. The chest tube was still in as well, continuing to dutifully drain his lung.

Dean probably didn't have long. The ICU kept a closer eye on their patients than normal wards did and he barely glanced through the file on the end of the bed. He didn't understand all the medical jargon, but he could read through the lines. Sam wasn't doing well and if the fever didn't drop or his oxygen levels increased then things could go from bad to worse very quickly.

Rubbing a hand wearily across his face, Dean allowed himself a minor and very short freak out before moving back up towards the head of the bed. Grasping Sam's far-to-warm hand in his, he tangled the other in his long and now sweat-damp hair. "Hey, Sammy…"

Sam didn't wake up but he knew from Molly that they had him on some pretty strong sedatives. Dean glanced behind him, trying to gauge how much time he had before he looked back around. "Sammy," he said, not trying to hide the desperation in his voice as he started to card his fingers through Sam's hair. "You've got to wake up and start fighting this, okay? I'm right here, but I need you to keep breathing, to keep fighting. I can't do that for you, so you gotta do it, man, okay? You promised me. You promised me that you'd be okay."

The vent hissed softly and Sam's eyes flickered beneath their lids as he dreamed. Dean tightened his grip on his hand and bent in closer. "We'll figure out Henriksen and the demon. I know both of them are freaking you out but we'll get through all of it somehow. We'll figure it out, but it has to be together, right? You know I'm a dumbass by myself. I'd probably waltz right into Henricksen's waiting arms given half the chance. So you gotta keep fighting, show this what a stubborn bastard you are."

Dean breathed out a long sigh, clenching Sam's hand tightly. He straightened and let go to briefly pull the glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't used to wearing them and even though they were only reading ones it was starting to give him a headache.

Outside, a nurse passed by the cubicle, and Dean paused, hoping that they weren't going to come in. They didn't, but he couldn't risk it happening again. Repositioning the glasses, he bent back over Sam.

"You just get better. Okay, bitch?"

No answering 'jerk' followed and he had to struggle to keep his composure.

Squeezing Sam's hand one last time and giving the monitors one final glance, Dean reluctantly slipped back out the way that he had come feeling like he had left part of his soul behind.