A/N I know that this one was shorter, but I have finished the first (and extremely rough) draft of my next story. I have no damn clue when it will be up because it does need a lot of work and I may have bitten off more than I can chew in terms of what I want to accomplish, but it will be up eventually. Whether it will be good or not is a whole other question :)
Thank you again from the bottom of my heart and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Three
"Mr. Smith?"
Sam didn't want to wake up. His shoulder was throbbing and he felt…off, for lack of a better word.
"Mr. Smith, can you hear me?" The voice was becoming more insistent, demanding that Sam answer but he didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't feel good and he didn't want to see Lucifer or figure out whatever latest crisis was on hand. He just wanted to sleep.
After that, he'd figure it all out, once he could think straight and didn't feel like cutting his shoulder off.
"Mr. Smith, we need you to wake up." This time the voice was accompanied by a hand on his good shoulder, shaking him. Slowly, Sam forced his eyes open, squinting up through the bright lights.
A nurse was looking down at him, a concerned look on his face. Sam stared up at him for a moment in confusion before looking around for Dean to see what was happening.
Only, Dean wasn't in the hospital room. It was empty except for Sam and the nurse.
"Where's Dean? Where's my brother?" Sam asked thickly, looking back around at the slightly blurry nurse. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, making the words difficult. He tried to shove himself into a sitting position only for the nurse, Dale according to his nametag, to gently push him back. Dale then reached for the controls, putting the bed into a more upright position for him.
"I'm not sure," Dale said as he did so, "He wasn't here when I started my shift but I'm sure he'll be back soon."
"And when did you come in?"
Dale hesitated before saying, "I got in three hours ago."
Sam's heart dropped. Three hours? That was a long time for Dean to have been gone, especially since he wouldn't have just left Sam alone like that without waking him up first. Not for that long. It meant that something was wrong.
"Why the surprised face? We both knew that it was only a matter of time until he left your sorry ass behind. This must have just seemed like a good time to do it. After all, the doctors just have to toss you down the hallway to the psych ward and you'll be good to go." Lucifer's voice wasn't a surprise nor were his words but Sam felt himself stiffen. Lucifer never missed a moment to let him know just how unworthy he was of Dean's devotion. Of how one day Dean would finally realize just how much work Sam was, and then Dean was going to leave.
"Hey, look," Dale said with a small, comforting, smile. "I'm sure he'll be back in a bit. Besides, he's not the one we need to worry about. You're the one in the hospital room, not him."
"Of course, he'll be back, Sammy. We both believe that," Lucifer said, his words dripping in sarcasm as he perched himself on Dean's chair. "But if he doesn't, then it will be just like old times. You know, like when Dean just let you jump into the pit because he was tired of playing cleanup for you and left us alone. But I'll always be here, waiting with open arms for my bunk buddy." He mockingly held out his arms for a hug.
Sam felt slightly faint at the words as he stared over at Lucifer who smirked at him and puckered up his lips.
"Mr. Smith?" Dale sounded far away and it took all of Sam's concentration to turn his attention back to him.
"Yeah?" he asked, trying to ignore how Lucifer was still leering suggestively at him.
"Did you hear what I just said?" Dale was frowning in concern and Sam shook his head, feeling too ill to make up a lie.
Dale's brow furrowed, but he didn't comment on it. "Dr. McFarland will be here shortly. She wants to discuss something with you," he said, his voice softening in the way that people did when they knew something that others didn't.
Sam wasn't so worried about that; he was more concerned about where Dean was. Despite what Lucifer said, Dean wouldn't have just left without waking him. It was possible that a leviathan had found him. After all, it wouldn't be the first time they integrated themselves into a hospital. If that was the case, then Dean was seriously screwed and Sam needed to find him.
"Is the doctor coming right now?" Sam asked distractedly, his eyes drifting back to Lucifer who was now rummaging through the cabinets and pulling out all sorts of things that didn't belong in a hospital. Or at least Sam was fairly positive that hospitals hadn't started to carry machetes or meat hooks.
"Mr. Smith?" Dale was wearing that look again that said it wasn't the first time that he'd called his name. Sam took a deep breath, trying to pull it together. Dean needed him, he couldn't lose it.
"I'm fine," he reassured a worried-looking Dale but it was too late. Dale was already reaching for the stethoscope that was around his neck. Sam closed his eyes and submitted to the brief examination even as he watched the door, half expecting Dean to walk back in.
God, he felt spacey. Dean wasn't about to walk in, not if he'd been kidnapped. That was just wishful thinking.
Lucifer made an excited sound in the corner and Sam's eyes drifted that way again to see him holding an extremely long and thin needle. "We could have fun with this now, couldn't we? Oh, yes, that one's going to be used later."
Sam shivered, and Dale noted it. He moved past Lucifer without a second glance and opened one of the cupboards that Lucifer hadn't made it to to grab a blanket.
"Your temperature is lower than normal due to blood loss," he said with a gentle smile as he offered Sam the blanket. "You also probably aren't feeling great. We are having some trouble combating the symptoms, but I'll leave the rest to Dr. McFarland to explain."
Before Sam could ask just what exactly he meant, the door opened, allowing Dr. McFarland to enter. Dale immediately made his way over to the end of the bed as she unhooked Sam's file, scanning it. "His vitals aren't stabilizing," he heard him mutter and Dr. McFarland nodded.
Dragging the chair over, she sat down, the file open and in her lap.
"Mr. Smith," she began briskly with a no-nonsense attitude that on any other day Sam might have appreciated.
"Yeah?" Sam said, trying to keep his eyes only on her and not on the way that Lucifer was making rude gestures with the needle in the background.
"I don't know how to say this, but there have been complications. We want to bring an expert."
For the first time, Sam gave her his full attention as his heart sank even lower.
They knew. They knew about Lucifer and that he was certifiably insane. They were going to lock him up and put him in a psych ward. That's why Dean had left. He'd known, and couldn't stomach to stick around and see it happen. Or, probably more likely, the hospital staff had detained him. Refused to let him back into the room because they needed to lock Sam away for everyone's benefit.
"What?" he croaked out, trying to play it cool but feeling lightheaded from more than just blood loss now.
Dr. McFarland's face softened and she offered him a comforting look. "It's not as bad as it sounds, I swear. The issue is that you're bleeding again, and the flesh is continuing to deteriorate. We are now very concerned about a fast-acting flesh-eating disease or infection. I'm not an expert in it, but I know someone qualified to help. I want to bring them in to consult."
Sam stared at her for a second, nonplussed as his brain struggled to switch tracks, and then the relief hit.
Oh, thank God. They didn't know about Lucifer. They weren't going to lock him up. They were just worried about the bite. He didn't really care about that, even if it did explain why he felt like death warmed over.
"Oh, man, I guess we are going to have to take a rain check on the whole asylum thing. But one day, Sammy, one day we will have our fun there together. I promise you that." Lucifer was staring at him in a way that said he wasn't joking, and Sam looked away uncomfortably.
"Have you seen my brother?" he asked Dr. MacFarland, glancing back over at the empty chair.
Lucifer gave a disgusted snort. "Little obsessed aren't you, Sammy? Are you really so incompetent that you can't even go an hour without big brother there to hold your hand?
The doctor frowned. "I've talked to your brother several times, but I haven't seen him recently. You can give him a call if you would like after this. For the moment, though, let's focus on you and getting you the treatment that you need. I'm sorry, but I also have to ask. Have you been in contact with anyone who might be sick with something similar?"
Sam blinked at her and then shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He didn't care about that and she didn't need to be worried about it either.
Dean was his priority and finding out what had happened because Dean wouldn't have left voluntarily, not unless he'd caught a lead on Dick Roman.
Sam paused, frowning, as the realization hit. Now that he thought it, he knew without a doubt that was what had happened.
If Dean had been involuntarily taken, he would have created a scene that Sam wouldn't have slept through no matter how tired or injured he was. But if Dean had gotten word on how to defeat Dick Roman, then it wasn't crazy to think that he would have just left. He wouldn't have even woken Sam, because Dean wouldn't have wanted Sam to join in the fight in his current condition. His brother had always been one to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, and he would have done that here. He would have truly believed that they would have both been better off for Dean to try and do it alone.
The realization scared Sam.
Dean was chasing Dick Roman with an obsession that Sam had never seen before from him. It ran more along the lines of their father's obsession with the yellow-eyed demon or Sam's own mission to hunt down Lilith and make her suffer even after Dean's return.
"Damnit," he muttered, rubbing his good hand over his face. This wasn't good at all. Dean would get himself killed without a second thought if it meant taking down Bobby and Cas's killer.
That thought was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
Dr. McFarland gave him another little smile as she reached out, covering his hand with her own. "I know it's scary but trust me. We are going to take good care of you and get this sorted out. I just—"
Sam cut her off as he raised his hand. "No offense, but I don't give a damn about any of that. Get me the AMA papers and I'll sign myself out. I want to leave." Pulling his bad arm in closer to him, Sam stiffly pushed himself up into a sitting position and did his best to ignore the way that the room blurred at the edges and the burning pain.
Dr. McFarland blinked in surprise but tightened her grip on his hand. "Mr. Smith, I know that this is intimidating but you can't ignore this. You can't just—"
"Yes, I can," Sam said impatiently, pulling his hand free of her grip. "I know my rights. I'm coherent and I'm asking for release. You can't keep me here against my will. Get me the AMA papers."
"But you're still bleeding and there's the infection," Dr. McFarland continued to protest and Sam didn't have time for this. Dean could already be a hundred miles in any direction. He could already be preparing to storm in, guns blazing, and Sam wasn't going to be able to help from a hospital bed. He wasn't going to be there to stop him from doing something stupid, something to get himself killed.
Didn't Dean understand that if he died Sam would be next?
"Look, stitch me up again or change the bandages or whatever is going to make you feel good about while we wait for AMA papers, but I'm leaving, with or without them," Sam insisted bluntly.
Lucifer appeared behind the doctor, now dressed in a lab coat and a stethoscope. "Aw, look at you. It's adorable how determined you are to save a lost cause. Dean really should appreciate you more."
Sam stared Dr. McFarland down, refusing to focus on Lucifer. She stared back at him, looking flustered before abruptly turning to Dale and gesturing at the door.
"Well, get me those papers," she said in some exasperated confusion before turning back to Sam as Dale left.
"Are you sure, Mr. Smith? I just…I don't feel comfortable with this."
"I know, I know, but I'm fine. I promise. Just get me some clothes and I'll be out of your hair."
"Sir—"
"If it will make you feel better, I'll get checked out by my primary care physician tomorrow, I just have something I have to do today."
Dr. McFarland continued to stare at him, disbelief written all over her face. "Really? You have something to do today? Something that takes precedence over receiving medical care for a flesh-eating infection? What could possibly be—"
"I have to be somewhere," Sam repeated shortly.
"I—Well, I'm going to rebandage it at least," Dr. MacFarland said looking a bit flustered. She began to rush around the room, gathering up bandages and a tube of ointment.
When Dale came back with the AMA papers, Sam clumsily signed them as Dr. McFarland put the finishing touches on the new bandage before tucking his arm back into the sling. Dale had also brought back a change of clothes that had generously been donated to the hospital from one of the local churches. The shirt was too big and the pants too small in the ankles, but Sam didn't care.
After that, there was nothing else that the hospital could do for him.
Dale went to help him stand, but Sam pushed him away, determined to prove to them that he could do it on his own. He swayed and had to throw out his good hand against the wall to steady himself. Both Dr. McFarland and Dale lurched forward to steady him but Sam shook his head.
"I'm good. I swear, I'm good," he said tightly. He took a couple of deep breaths as he waited for the room and for his stomach to settle. Feeling a little steadier, he threw a smile in their direction and then continued towards the door. Dr. McFarland and Dale followed after him, sharing dark looks.
The receptionist at the front was kind enough to call Sam a cab, but he didn't dare sit down on one of the benches outside to wait as he leaned against the door instead. He wasn't sure that he would get back up again if he did so. His bad arm was throbbing with every beat of his heart, but at the very least it helped him focus and made Lucifer less distracting.
That was good. Sam needed to focus, to think about what his next step was.
He didn't know where Dean had gone, and he was sure that Dean wouldn't answer his phone even if he had it on him. The next best thing was to go back to the motel. It was a starting point and might give him a clue on where Dean was.
The cab pulled up and Sam shuffled his way over and dropped down heavily into the back seat. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and breathed out, trying to control the nausea that was growing stronger.
"Hey, bud, where are we going?"
Sam opened his eyes again to see the driver looking back at him with an air of impatience.
"Uh…" Sam frowned, trying to remember the address of the motel or the name or anything about this town. Lucifer, who was sitting next to him, grinned.
"Don't worry, Sammy. You and me? We are going to figure it out together because we're a brilliant team. Just two regular peas in a pod."
#
The first thing that Dean did upon arriving at the motel was fumble the bottle of whiskey out from under the bed and drink until his hands stopped shaking.
Sighing, he slumped back against the wall.
On the opposite wall, Sam's dried blood was staining the cheap wallpaper with a grotesque handprint. Dean's eyes trailed down to the bed, and to the blood that was staining the sheets and blankets. He took another sip, his eyes not leaving the stains. How could Sam not have known that he was bleeding out? It just didn't make any sense to him, not even knowing Sam's bigger problems.
He took one more swallow as he tried once again to tap down on the welling anxiety and fear that had been dogging him all day. What if next time Sam's hallucinations put his life in danger and Dean wasn't there? He'd almost been too late this time.
Shaking his head, Dean pushed away from the wall to cross the room, intent on filling his flask.
The last time he'd been here, he'd been justifiably preoccupied but now that Dean wasn't focused on saving his brother's life, he could see just how out of it Sam had been. Smears of blood were everywhere. There were fingerprints of it on the table and the handle of the fridge. There were even spots dripped across the floor, leading into the bathroom.
It was horrifying.
Getting a new bottle of whiskey out of the fridge, Dean carefully filled his flask and then tucked it into his jacket pocket so he wouldn't forget it again. That finished, he grabbed Sam's duffle and began to dig through it until he found Sam's journal as well as his computer.
For the life of him, he still couldn't seem to remember the name of whatever it was that they had been hunting. It had just seemed so trivial when Sam had explained it all, and not important in the long run. He'd known how to kill it, and that was all that had mattered, but Sam would have everything that he needed to get started.
At least that much hadn't changed.
Setting it all down on the table, Dean opened the journal to the last pages that had been written on while he waited for the computer to boot up.
There wasn't as much in the journal as there should have been.
Dean had seen Sam write pages and pages of notes about something before—almost to an absurd degree Dean often felt—but now that it wasn't there, he missed it.
These were just short facts, written down in a rushed script that somehow looked worn and tired.
This wasn't his Sammy. This wasn't his kid brother who got so excited about the smallest details he unearthed during his research that he'd light up and be positively thrumming with energy as he tried to get Dean to care long enough to hear about it.
How the hell had they ended up as screwed up as they were?
Shaking his head, Dean turned to the computer. Well, since Sam had let him down again then Dean would just have to do it himself.
The thought brought a wave of guilt. That hadn't been fair. Lucifer probably didn't make for a very good research partner and Sam wasn't letting him down. He was just struggling and dealing with it as best as he could and Dean knew that. It was just…a lot for Dean to take in sometimes. Sam wasn't always himself and it made Dean heartbroken and angry and a lot of other emotions he didn't know how to confront or even acknowledge.
Throw in everything else that had been happening and it was no wonder that neither of them was exactly at their best.
The computer screen came alive and Dean brought up the search engine. Getting the name of the creature—krosovov, apparently, and now that he read it that sounded right—from Sam's notes, he went from there.
It was almost four hours later that Dean found what he was looking for. It wasn't that long to research something—they'd sometimes spent days hunting down details—and that was almost distressing in its own way. The knowledge had been there, relatively right at his fingertips even if he had to do a bit of digging.
It meant that Sam truly hadn't researched everything as thoroughly as he could have. That his brother was slipping away from him day by day.
Dean closed his eyes, fighting against the emotions that were surging.
They were going to have a talk about it, and then they'd figure it out together. He wasn't losing Sam, that was the one thing he was sure of.
Taking a deep breath, he began to write down in Sam's journal the instructions that he'd found online from one Eddie Nash, a hunter. It was a blurred photocopy of his diary that one of his great-great-great nieces had uploaded onto a genealogy website, but it was clear enough to reveal a cleansing spell that he'd created to take care of whatever the krosovov injected into its victims. Reading between the lines, Dean figured that his witch 'friend' had actually come up with it after Nash had been bitten and was dying.
For once, it looked relatively easy and Dean was fairly positive that they had all the herbs he needed in the trunk as well.
They might even be able to get away with doing it in the hospital and that was a win that Dean desperately needed.
Finishing writing down the incantation, Dean stood. Pocketing the journal, he made sure that he had his flask and then left. The trunk of their current car couldn't hold as much as the Impala's and didn't have the secret compartment, but they were still able to carry the basics with them. Gathering up the right herbs and putting them into a baggie, Dean tossed it into the front seat, glancing guiltily down at his watch as he did so.
He'd been gone long enough that it was entirely possible that Sam had woken up and noticed his absence.
Looking back, he probably should have woken him up and told him that he was leaving and why. But Dean hadn't been thinking as straight as he wanted to admit, and Sam had to know that he wouldn't have left him, that he had a good reason to leave. He'd understand. Besides, Sam was weak and tired, he could have slept the whole time.
Determinedly shoving the guilt into a little box all of its own, Dean started the car.
Reaching the hospital, he tucked the bag of herbs into his pocket next to his flask and the journal, and then made his way through the doors. Nodding deeply at the nurse on duty, he made his way over to the stairs and took them up to the third floor.
The door to Sam's room was half open, and Dean let himself in. Closing it behind him, he turned, a bright and hopefully comforting smile fixed on his face in case Sam was awake.
Only, the bed was empty.
Sam was gone.
Dean stared at the disheveled bed in disbelief before spinning around, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs as he dashed into the hallway.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said catching the arm of the first nurse that he saw. "The guy in Room 3202, have you seen him? He's not in his room."
The woman shook her head and tugged her arm free. "I'd go talk with the desk. The lead nurse will be able to tell you," she said with a little shrug before hurrying off.
Dean didn't say thank you, he just darted past her, making a beeline for the desk, his mouth dry and a pit in his stomach.
He barged his way through the small cluster of nurses talking with who he hoped was the lead nurse.
"Hey! Sam Smith, room 3202, where is he?" he demanded bluntly and impatiently, not caring that he was being rude. The nurse raised an eyebrow, her hand going to her waist as she looked him over incredulously.
"Excuse me?"
"Sam isn't in his room. Where is he?"
"Ooh." Realization hit and her annoyance deepened. "You must be the missing brother. Dean, right?" she asked dryly, giving one of the other nurses there a significant look.
Dean didn't care about that. "Where is he," he all but growled as he slapped the counter and was satisfied to see the nurse straighten, taking him more seriously.
"We don't know. He signed himself out AMA," she said calmly.
"AMA!?" Dean's fists curled up into balls. "You people let him sign himself out AMA?! He clearly wasn't well, he shouldn't be out there by himself!"
Sam was not right in the head, for God's sake.
The nurse glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "He was coherent, he knew the dangers. He insisted on signing himself out," she repeated and Dean swore under his breath and then thrust a finger into her face.
"I'd better find him in one piece or I'll be back here and I'll make your life a living hell," he snapped and didn't wait for a response as he turned, striding away and not trying to keep the fury off of his face.
Getting back to the car, he turned it on and then just sat there, unsure of where to go now. Sam didn't have his phone on him—it was back in the motel room—and he was likely still bleeding and confused.
Lucifer might even have both hands on the wheel.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose hard, trying to think through the panicked thoughts tumbling wildly through his brain. The nurse had said that Sam was coherent, which was good, but then again, Sam was far too good at hiding the crazy.
Either way, Sam couldn't have gotten far on foot, he had to be close by. Unless, of course, he had gotten a cab or stolen a car. If that was the case, then he might not even be in the city limits.
The prospects were daunting and Dean leaned back as far as he could and dug both of his palms into his eyes.
There was no way that a sane Sam would have left. He would have known that coming back to an empty room would freak Dean out, that it would make him panic. Sam had been handling him with kid gloves recently, why would he stop now?
This had to be Lucifer. Dean was too little, too late. Just like always.
Gnawing at his lower lip, Dean pulled out of the parking lot and began to drive, his mind whirling.
He'd go back to the motel first. Maybe, just maybe, Sam had gone there. It was the only familiar thing in the town after all. At the very least, Dean would leave a note for his brother, letting Sam know that he was out looking for him and for him to stay put and give him a call.
Dean didn't bother with speed limits as he headed back. If Sam wasn't there or he couldn't find him soon then he might have to go to the actual police and fill out a missing person's report. But, then again, doing that would put Sam in as much danger of Leviathans or monsters in the area as from himself. The police wouldn't be an option.
Parking haphazardly in front of their room, Dean fumbled the car open and then shouldered his way in through the motel door, half hoping that Sam would be sitting at the table.
The room was exactly how Dean had left it.
"Goddamnit!" Dean twisted on his heels and then snatched up the nearest object, a lamp, and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into pieces and Dean stood there with his hands on his hips as he tried to control his ragged breathing.
Okay. So Sam wasn't in the motel. Was there anywhere else his brother might have gone? Was there anywhere else he might find solace or comfort?
Taking a steadying breath, Dean pulled up his phone, looking up the local coffee shops as well as both the public and local community college's library addresses.
While it loaded, Dean scrawled out a note and left it on the table. Stepping out of the room, he shut the door haphazardly behind him.
The public library was closest to the hospital and he got back into that stupid little car. He was just sticking the key into the ignition when a cab pulled into the parking lot.
Dean glanced up, did a double take, and then he was spilling out of the car and making a beeline for the cab.
He'd know that mop of hair in the backseat anywhere.
"Sammy?" he barked as he yanked the back door open before the cab had even stopped completely. Sam looked up at him, surprised, and his face far too pale for Dean's liking.
"Dean?"
"Dude! Do you know what horrors I had running through my head when I walked into that empty hospital room?!" he hissed, reaching in and grabbing Sam by the collar of his shirt. He shook him, demanding an answer. Sam reached out with the arm that wasn't in the sling, catching Dean's.
"Thank God. Dean, I thought—You're still here?" Sam asked and Dean made a face, confused.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Without waiting for Sam to answer, he twisted to look over his shoulder. The cab driver was watching them with interest.
"How much does he owe you?" Dean asked as he fished his wallet out of his pocket.
"Twenty-five dollars, rounded up," the driver said and Dean peeled out two twenties.
"Keep the change," he said shortly as he grabbed Sam by his good arm and helped him out. Sam teetered, unsteady, and grabbed Dean's arm for balance. Dean frowned, and wrapped his arm around his waist, providing additional support even as his anger thrummed right beneath the surface.
"What were you thinking, leaving the hospital like that?" he asked harshly as he ushered him across the parking lot and away from anyone who might be watching.
"I was thinking that you'd left," Sam returned just as bluntly, if more breathlessly.
"Where the hell would I have gone?"
Sam huffed, his grip on Dean's arm tightening to something almost painful. "I'd thought you'd gone after Dick Roman."
"What?" Dean still wasn't understanding what Sam was—
Oh.
Oh.
Dean could see how Sam would think that, but come on. Would he really have left Sam alone and hurting to get his vengeance?
They reached the door and Dean propped Sam up against the wall as he wrestled with the keys and then shoved it open. Sam swayed back with the movement, blinking dazedly, and there was no way that Sam was in any condition to be out and about.
"C'mon, easy does it," Dean murmured, trying for gentleness instead of anger this time and not sure that he succeeded.
"If you weren't chasing Dick Roman then what were you doing?" Sam pressed, his voice tight.
Dean snorted. "I don't know if you noticed or not, but you're still leaking blood like a rusty bucket so I came back to figure out why. I don't fancy having a shriveled-up husk for a brother. Now, sit down before you fall flat on your face."
In a weird deja vu to the night before, Dean pulled out one of the chairs and pushed Sam down into it. At least this time Sam wasn't completely covered in blood, but Dean wasn't sure that beyond that it was an improvement.
Bending forward, Sam braced his head in his hand, not looking over at Dean as he massaged his temples. The sight vanished what little remained of Dean's irritation. Sam was hurting and scared, and Dean should have left a note or told his brother where he had been.
"Did you find anything to stop the bleeding?" Sam asked, his voice muffled by his position.
"Yeah, I did. I'll explain in a moment."
Crossing to the small fridge, Dean pulled it open, wincing a little at the bloodstains still there. Grabbing one of the three orange juices that he'd bought last night, he rifled through the grocery bag on the top of the fridge for the bag of chips and then brought them both over.
"Here, you're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way since you signed yourself out AMA. Eat and drink, buddy."
Sam nodded but didn't lift his head from his hand. He looked miserable and Dean sighed heavily. "Fine, I'm sorry. I should have told you that I was leaving and why," he said quietly as he broke the seal on the orange juice and pushed it closer. "Drink." He moved the other chair around and closer to Sam's side and began to undo the sling that the hospital had provided. Easing Sam's arm down, he rested it on the table.
"Yeah, you should have. I thought—it doesn't matter what I thought." Sam said stiffly but he finally lifted his head slowly out of his hand and grabbed the orange juice, taking a sip.
Dean grabbed the scissors from the kit and began to cut along the seam of the shirt rather than try to pull it over Sam's head. He was in enough pain as it was and that shirt wasn't a keeper. Sam took another sip, his free hand trembling before he finally turned to look at Dean. The frustration had melted from his face and now he just looked worn out.
"So, what did you find out?" he asked tiredly.
Dean tossed the remnants of the shirt into the corner and began to peel the bandage back. "Turns out that the krosovov is lazy and doesn't like to do the work to eat. After sucking out all the blood, it waits for the skin to disintegrate, allowing it easy access to other organs. It's not in most of the initial research because people typically find the victim's bones, nothing else."
"Oh. That's just great." Sam's voice caught, his eyes fluttering close for a moment as Dean prodded at the inflamed skin on his shoulder.
"Yeah, well, because I'm just that awesome, I found a solution. It's not that difficult either. In fact, we could have done it at the hospital." He gave Sam a pointed look and Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean ignored it, pulling the bag of herbs out of his pocket along with the journal. "Keep drinking," he ordered as he began to grind the herbs together into a thick paste. Sam made a face but took another sip of the orange juice and then held the cold bottle against his temple. He leaned further forward against the table, losing another shade.
"Hold on, we're getting you flat in t-minus ten."
"I'm fine."
This time it was Dean who rolled his eyes even as he worked faster, spreading the paste out on fresh bandages.
"They didn't stitch it again?" he asked more to keep Sam talking than because he actually cared. There wasn't enough skin left to be stitched together anyway.
"Nah, I signed myself out before they could." Sam swallowed thickly, cleared his throat, and then set the orange juice aside.
"You about gave me a heart attack in the process. I left here, went straight to the hospital, and then came right back. How the hell did I beat you back here?" Dean got a good grip on Sam's shoulder and then began to press the bandage into place.
Sam tensed, his hands rolling up into fists. He didn't make a sound of complaint but there was pain in his voice when he spoke. "We must have just crossed paths. That and…" Sam shrugged a little and Dean tightened his grip in reproach. "Well, I couldn't remember what the name of the motel was. I went to three other ones first."
"Are you serious?" Dean asked incredulously and Sam gave him a look.
"I was kind of out of it when we got in last night if you didn't notice."
"I guess that's fair enough." Dean began to wrap a second layer of gauze around Sam's collarbone and shoulder, holding the bandage in place. Glancing over at Sam, he nodded at the blessing that he'd left out on the table. "You wanna read that or do you want me to?"
Sam pushed the bag of chips aside so that he could pull the journal closer to look at it before shaking his head and shoving it back towards Dean.
"You do it," he said and Dean didn't want to think about how Sam had been in no condition to be out of the hospital yet he had been willing to come for him, to have his back.
"No worries, I've got it," he said trying for lighthearted. Picking it up, he started to recite the Latin. Once the spell was complete, he flipped the journal closed. There had been no flashing lights or obvious signs that it had worked, but sometimes that was just the way.
"I don't see you eating. You've got to eat something before you lay down, man. You've got to give your body some nutrients to work with," he said pointedly. Sam made a face at him but picked at the chips.
"Is that all?"
"That's all. I'll check again in an hour or so, and see if it looks like it's holding. If it does, then I'll reapply the herbs and the blessing. If not…well, we'll figure that out if that happens," Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest as he observed Sam. Despite having had multiple transfusions, he looked like crap.
If Dean had his way, Sam would be marched right back to a hospital and checked back in because no one should look that pale…
"What happened there?" Sam gestured at the shattered lamp with a small smile and Dean shot him a hot glare.
"I could ask the same things about the bloodstains on the wall," he growled and Sam's smile faded a little. He squinted at them, and Dean couldn't tell what he was thinking. He hoped that he was realizing just how out of it and confused he had been the night before and that it was, in fact, a problem.
Sam gave a little shrug and then he pushed the bag of chips over into the middle of the table, a clear invitation for Dean. Dean felt more like a drink than food, but he still took a couple. Sam did as well, and they ate the chips silently.
When Sam stopped pretending to eat and started to sway in his seat, Dean called it.
"It's time for you to be horizontal," he announced, picking up the sling. Sam looked ready to protest but Dean wouldn't take it. Gently helping Sam to get it on, he then pulled him up, taking his elbow for support.
He directed them away from Sam's bed and towards his own.
"There's blood all over the sheets and the blankets," he explained when Sam gave him a confused look.
"Oh," Sam mumbled, looking too exhausted to care.
Pulling back the covers, Dean helped Sam to get situated on his good side and then took a step back.
He stood over him a moment, just watching as Sam let out a little sigh, sinking further into the bed. He was asleep before Dean even made it back to the table.
Digging his flask out of his jacket, Dean took a swallow, still watching Sam.
He'd been really scared for a moment today that he'd lost Sam to his own mind.
God, this was all so screwed up. He'd already lost Sam once to Satan, and now it was looking like he was going to again. This slow decline into madness maybe wasn't as painful as it had been first saying goodbye to Sam and then watching him jump into that pit but damn if it wasn't close.
And last time he hadn't been at rock bottom, he'd had people who had a small notion of what it meant for him to lose Sam. He'd had Bobby and Cas. Ben and Lisa. Now he didn't even have his damn car. His fingers itched for his flask again, or even better yet, he could finish off what little remained of the bottle of whiskey from the night before…but he couldn't.
Not when it was his responsibility to watch after Sam and to make sure that the bleeding didn't start up again. He wasn't so sure that Sam would survive another major blood loss right now.
He began to gather up all the used medical supplies. After that, he went into the bathroom, intending to grab a washcloth so that he could scrub off the various bloodstains around the room so that they couldn't haunt him any longer.
He stopped, standing still as he took it all in. He'd forgotten how much blood was in the bathroom. It wasn't just in the large tacky puddle by the tub. It was on the toilet, and handprints of it were smeared across the counter and the sink. It was crusted across the handles of the faucet.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and then used a rag to turn on the sink. Letting the water run hot, he soaked the rag in it and then started on the counter, scrubbing until the water turned pink.
#
Sam drifted lazily as he tried to soak in the warmth of the heavy blankets and the softness of the pillows. He had to enjoy it while it lasted, before Lucifer—Sam pushed that thought aside as quickly as it had come, fearful the mere thought would summon the devil.
There was movement in the room and Sam tensed, waiting for cold hands to grab him.
"Sam? You awake?"
He'd been waiting for it, but he still started violently at the voice and then cringed away from the hand on his arm before realizing that it wasn't Lucifer who was doing either and relaxing.
Dean's thumb rubbed small circles on his arm, a constant reminder that it was him and not the Devil.
"Yeah?" Sam mumbled, not quite willing to open his eyes just yet. His shoulder still hurt, and he was feeling groggy.
"Just me. I wanna check the bandages again, roll over a little, would you?" Dean whispered, his voice low. Sam obliged sleepily, letting Dean work. His touch was comforting and Sam focused on that. Dean was real. There was no reason for Lucifer to appear because he wasn't real.
After some fussing, Dean patted him on the back. "You're good, go back to sleep," he urged and then the hands were gone. Sam closed his eyes tighter, trying to do just that but the absence of Dean only invited a different, much colder, pair of hands.
Sam curled in tighter, determined to ignore it for as long as possible.
He listened to Dean putter around the room, no doubt trying to be quiet for his sake but Sam honestly wished that he'd make a little more noise. The cold hands eventually retreated and Sam felt like he could breathe again.
Closing his eyes tighter, he was just about to drift off when the sudden blaring of an airhorn and the accompanying, "Up and at 'em, Sammy-boy! We've got torture to do today!" had him jerking upright, gasping.
Lucifer was crouched on the floor next to the bed, horn in hand and a smug look on his face.
"Woah, where's the fire?" Dean asked, looking about as startled as Sam felt. He set aside the gun that he had been cleaning and narrowed his eyes as he gave him a once-over. "I thought you were going back to sleep?"
Sam made a face and rubbed at his eyes. "Sorry, just…" he trailed off without an adequate explanation but before Dean could say anything else, he emphasized, "I'm okay." Which was the truth, Lucifer had just startled him a little.
He actually felt a lot better than he had ever since he'd been bitten. He wouldn't go as far as to say that he felt good, but he didn't feel like he was about to keel over from doing something as simple as sitting up. He supposed that meant that whatever Dean had done was working.
"Oh, you are so far from okay, Sammy. Everyone can see it but you." Lucifer appeared over Dean's shoulder, flicking his tongue out mockingly.
Dean was regarding him cautiously, his eyes narrowed, but he backed down. "Since you are awake, you up to eating anything?"
"What have you got?" Sam asked, glancing around the room. Dean had been busy while Sam had been sleeping. The bloody marks left across the room had been cleaned, and the remnants of the lamp had disappeared. The sheets had been stripped from the other bed, and a towel thrown over any other stains.
"I've got some healthy junk just for you. I'll go grab it." Dean stood, moving towards the fridge. Sam threw back the covers and Dean turned, a frown on his face and no doubt a reprimand on his tongue.
Sam waved away his concern, saying, "I don't want to stay in bed all day. It'll do me good to be up for a few minutes."
Dean hesitated, a look of indecision on his face, before nodding slowly in agreement. "You need any help?"
"Nah, I've got it."
Dean didn't look convinced, but he allowed Sam the illusion of privacy as he began to clear away some of the weapons, making room on the table.
Sam rested on the bed for a moment, gathering his strength, but before pushing himself up to stand. The change of elevation made his head spin and he braced a hand against the headboard, riding it out.
"You okay?" Dean asked, appearing next to him. Sam nodded, shaking himself free when Dean tried to catch his elbow.
"I'm okay," he insisted, shuffling his way slowly towards the table. It took more energy than he thought it should have, but he was doing it under his own power and that was enough. Dean trailed behind him, one hand out to ensure he wasn't about to topple over. Once he was safely seated, Dean returned to the fridge, pulling out what looked to be a green smoothie.
"It's supposed to bring up your iron. Got lots of spinach in this bad boy," Dean said as he twisted the lid off and then set it in front of Sam.
"Ooh, spinach. The meal of champions right there, am I right?" Lucifer cackled in the corner, now lounging on Sam's bed and watching him with amusement.
Dean sat back down, watching Sam. He didn't make a move towards the guns again, despite being only half finished with the project.
"How long did I sleep?"
Dean flipped his wrist over, checking his watch. "Close ten hours. You probably needed it. And the good news is that the bleeding has stopped. There will be some scarring, but we're used to that."
Sam couldn't argue with that and he lifted the smoothie, drinking. Dean didn't speak again, he just sat there, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched him with a look that didn't give anything away about what he was thinking.
It got to be irritating after a while.
"What?" Sam finally asked, setting the half-full bottle aside and looking at Dean expectantly. Dean clearly had something that he wanted to say, and Sam wasn't going to get any peace until he did.
Dean blew out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face before leaning forward. "After you finish that, we need to talk."
Sam had known that this was coming, that Dean would probably want to talk about how he'd screwed up and almost gotten himself killed but his insides still knotted up. No, he didn't want to talk about it.
"Do I get a choice in the matter?" he asked, not trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Dean's frown deepened as he jutted out his chin. "Not really, no. Not when you almost died yesterday."
"Dean," Sam began, trying to be patient, "it was one slip-up, that's all. I'm okay."
"Oh, you're just peachy, aren't you? Just one peach short of the peach tree," Lucifer sang out mockingly.
Sam almost shot a glare at Lucifer, but that wouldn't have helped his case and he refrained.
"Slip up?" Dean leaned back, shaking his head in disbelief and now gesturing with one hand towards the bathroom. "You almost bled out mere feet away from me and you didn't lift a damn finger to help yourself! And it wasn't like you were just sleeping through it. There was blood everywhere, I know that you saw it—there was no way in hell that you could have missed it—but you thought it was all in your head—" Dean jammed a finger toward his own head in emphasis, making Sam stiffen defensively. "So how in the hell is any of that okay?"
Dean glowered at him, demanding an answer.
"It's not okay, but it hasn't been okay for months. That's nothing new. We both know that…" Sam struggled for a moment, not wanting to actually bring Lucifer up, it was bad enough that he was hanging on their every word. "We both know what's going on," he finally settled on, "and last night I just got confused, but that's all, I swear. It's not going to happen again."
All of Dean's anger seemed to deflate out of him, leaving him looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and said with no little emotion, "Yeah—until it happens again. Dude, last night was an accident, I get that. But can we—I know that we don't exactly talk about Lucifer, not really, but, man, maybe we need to. I know that things are getting worse, that it's been harder for you, and maybe talking about it will help."
"No, it won't. I'm okay." Sam snapped defensively, his grip tightening on the smoothie and he could feel the heat rushing into his cheeks.
"No, you're not," Dean insisted just as passionately. "You have this obsession with being alright and you've had it since the wall came down, but it's just not true, Sam. You're not okay. It's—half the time I don't think that you even realize it when you fade out or pause or look at something that's not there. But I see it, Sammy, and it's been worse ever since Bobby died. I'm really…" he paused, looking away, his throat working. When he looked back his lips were pressed into a thin line and his eyes were red with unshed tears. "I'm scared that if we don't get things straightened out now that one day it's going to be too little, too late."
"Dean, I don't want to talk about this," Sam said helplessly. He didn't want to acknowledge that Lucifer was even a problem, that he was even real. Because he wasn't real and that was what he was weighing his sanity on.
Dean wiped at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand. "You need help, Sam. Let me in—"
"I don't need help," Sam said stubbornly, lifting his chin.
Dean abruptly stood. "I almost lost you!" he repeated loudly as he gestured in the direction of the bathroom as if that explained everything. "And do you know what my first thought was? When I walked in and saw you covered in blood?" He didn't wait for Sam to answer, plowing forward. "I thought that you'd tried to off yourself! And do you know how screwed up that is? How screwed up Lucifer has made you?"
That reveal took Sam by surprise and for a moment he didn't know what to say. Had he considered it? Well, who wouldn't consider it given the circumstances but the closest that he had come to acting on it was at the warehouse. And yeah, sometimes it was still rough but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been after Dean had gone to hell or when he had been going to kill Lilith and thought that his brother had given up on him. Those had been…bad.
"Dean, I'm not going to kill myself," he stated simply.
"You might not, but what if Lucifer wants that, huh?! How can I stop that, Sammy? How can I stop Lucifer from telling you to put a bullet in your brain or-or-or jump off a cliff? He almost killed you last night!" Dean was staring at him, pleading and desperate.
"I know what is real and what isn't most of the time. Besides, it's not like that. I swear, Dean. It's not—it hasn't been that way in months. Not since the warehouse." That didn't look to calm Dean down any and Sam sat forward, meeting his brother's eyes steadily. "I know that last night freaked you out, but it was just…Look, I'd lost a lot of blood. I wasn't thinking straight and that played a big part in what happened. Lucifer wasn't trying to get me to do anything. I just lost track of what was real and what wasn't for a moment. That was all."
Dean let out a huff and raked his hands back through his hair before he started to pace an agitated line back and forth. "If Lucifer hadn't been in your head in the first place, then it wouldn't have happened. We've got to get it under control, Sammy, we need to come up with something. I mean, I know that you've done a damn good job of holding onto the safety rails to ride this thing out, but it's not enough."
"Not enough?" Sam repeated, reeling back like he had been struck. They didn't exactly talk about this, but Dean thought that what he was doing wasn't enough. What more could he do?
Dean had pestered him for months not to scratch at the wall because he didn't think that Sam would survive the collapse, but he had and he was making it work. He was functioning—hell, he was even able to hunt. What more did Dean want? Every single damn day was a struggle for him right now and yet almost no one could tell. Dean didn't have Lucifer knocking on his door, and yet more people looked at him and could see that he was struggling. Sam wasn't the borderline alcoholic here.
All of a sudden every frustration or bottled-up emotion from the past few months threatened to burst out of Sam. "Enough? Dean, this is—I've done everything—this is the best-case scenario for what happened and I'm sorry that it comes with the occasional hiccup!"
Dean's face was screwed up, his eyes bright again. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I know. You've…no one else could have done what you've been doing. It's—I've—I can't lose you, Sammy. Not after Bobby and Cas and-and-and it's you. I can't—I won't lose you, so we have to figure this out. How can I help? Anything. Let me know." He moved closer, his hands now out as he stared desperately at Sam as if he would somehow give Dean the answers that he sought.
Sam didn't know what else he could do, what answers there were. He was giving it his all and then some, and Dean was helping more than he would ever know just by sticking with him.
He paused before letting out a strangled laugh. "Don't you think that if I could fix this, that I already would have? Do you think I enjoy seeing a constant stream of crazy and horrible things? Do you think that I want this?"
That seemed to bother Dean down and he blew out a breath before saying earnestly, "No, I don't think that, c'mon, Sammy. Of course, I don't. I just want to help. I know that I haven't been exactly hands-on with all this, and I—since day one you've been trying to be okay, for me, and I appreciate that, but, man…it's okay to not be fine. I want to help, you just have to point me in the right direction."
Sam stared at Dean, unsure. He chewed on his lip, idly playing with the edge of the tag on the smoothie as Dean sat again as well, still looking at Sam earnestly.
How could he explain to Dean in words that he hadn't used already that Dean was doing plenty? That his mere presence was more grounding than Sam could put into words, even with Dean himself walking such a fine line right now.
Stilling his hands, Sam looked over at Dean again. "You say you can't lose me? Dean, you're all I have too. If I lose you—I'd probably go completely crazy within the week. So maybe we should talk about you. How are you doing, Dean? How's the quest for death by alcohol or vengeance coming?"
Dean froze for a second and then deep hurt flashed through his eyes. Sam knew that he had been blunt but turnabout was fair play. "I—We're not talking about me, Sam. I'm not the one who almost bled out in a motel bathroom."
Sam jabbed his finger in Dean's direction. "Yes, yes, we are. I know that you are struggling every damn day just as much as I am, Dean. I know that Bobby's death hit you hard and I don't think that I've seen you smile since we discovered that Cas was working with Crowley. And I get it, I do, life sucks right now. But you-you've got this rage and it's going to kill you just as fast as Lucifer is going to drive me to complete insanity."
Dean had risen to his feet again, his chest puffed out defensively, and this time Sam followed. They stood there, Dean's fist clenching and unclenching as they stared at each other, not saying anything.
It was Sam who broke the silence.
"And what am I supposed to do then?" he asked, his voice threatening to break now just as much as Dean's had been earlier. "After you've gone and got yourself killed. Am I just supposed to keep going? Bobby's dead. Cas is gone. You're the only thing I've really had in years, ever since Jess. Everything I've done after that, I've done it for you. I've kept going for you so I need you to keep going for me, to not throw in the towel at the first chance you get or consume the nearest bottle. I need you." Sam's voice cracked and he looked away, fighting for his composure as he breathed through his nose.
Clearing his throat, he looked back up at Dean. Dean's eyes were wide and glistening again. He looked like he didn't know what to say and Sam didn't either. This time, they only broke eye contact when Sam wobbled badly. He threw out a hand to catch himself on the chair as everything caught up with him all at once and then Dean was lurching forward.
Grabbing his arm, he held on, ensuring that Sam wasn't about to fall.
"You should sit," he said even as Sam held up his hand in protest.
"I'm fine."
"Dude, I swear to god, you have to stop saying that," Dean muttered under his breath even as he forced the issue, pushing Sam back until his knees hit the chair. Sam sat with a thump and then braced his head in his hand as dizziness threatened.
He'd pushed too hard too fast.
Dean was silent and Sam finally risked looking up at him. Dean, his big brother, who had looked after him his whole life, who had gone to hell for him. Who was struggling as everything that he'd experienced in his life caught up with him.
He dropped his hand, giving Dean a small smile.
It wasn't Dean's fault that Sam was going crazy or that his own grip was slipping. He was doing the best that he could and it was unfair of Sam to ask for more. He had come to depend on him too much. Dean was his stone number one, and Sam was putting everything on that, but that wasn't fair to put on Dean.
Dean hesitantly returned the smile. "We're both pretty screwed up, aren't we?"
Sam sighed, before forcing a short laugh. "I mean, haven't we always been? This year has just been a little…worse." He picked the smoothie up again more for something to do with his hands than an actual desire to drink it and took a sip.
Dean sighed, watching him with a troubled expression.
"Just…promise me, Sammy. If things start to get worse, if you ever—and I mean ever—need a reality check, if you need me to tell you what's real and what isn't, then just ask. I don't care what I am doing, what is happening, or what time of day it is. You get me, and I'll tell you what's real and what's not. I would rather know than be shielded, I really would, okay?" Dean reached out, gripping Sam's good shoulder tight enough to hurt. "That's all I am asking. And I'll…try to do better too. Try not to drink so much. I'm not planning on getting myself killed, either, I swear that to you."
Sam nodded and reached up, gripping Dean's arm in turn. He wasn't sure that he would be able to do what Dean was asking, part of the trick was just ignoring that he had a problem in the first place, but he could try. For Dean.
"I'll just plan on waking you up at three am every morning from here on out then."
"You'd better," Dean muttered and clapped Sam on the shoulder once more before sitting back. "Finish that smoothie and then you probably should get some more sleep. You still look like crap." He took a deep breath that seemed loaded with everything that they had just said. A mug of what looked like coffee—although Sam wasn't an idiot. He knew that it was mainly liquor—was resting at his elbow and Dean paused long enough to take a sip before getting up.
Finding the remote, he turned on the TV before grabbing a large bag of pretzels that had been by his duffle. "Here, you should eat these as well," he said, ripping them open and then thrusting them in Sam's direction.
Sighing, Sam leaned forward and fished a pretzel out, eating it slowly as Dean picked up the rag that he had been using before and went back to cleaning the guns. The noise of whatever show was on TV—it sounded like a western, there was at least a lot of gunfire going on—filled the room and they settled into an easy, if heavy, silence.
Leaning forward a little in his chair, Sam snagged another pretzel only to realize too late that something slimy and pale yellow was covering them now, something that made him want to puke.
Gingerly setting it back down, he picked up the smoothie again and made a point not to look at it before he took a sip.
"You should eat more than that. You need to get your strength back," Dean said in concern, looking up from his gun, and Sam shook his head.
"Maybe later," he compromised. Dean's face fell but he didn't push it, returning to the guns.
"What? That was it? That's all I get to see of the famous Winchester brotherly love? I'm disappointed. You both couldn't even keep your promises for five minutes." Lucifer popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth and then tossed the next one at Sam's head. "I was expecting more, what if we—"
Sam rolled his shoulder and the spark of pain shut Lucifer up for a moment. Dean didn't notice, his eyes on the gun and a dark look on his face again. That had been one of Bobby's old guns, and Sam did not doubt that Dean was picturing Dick Roman at the end of it.
Lucifer was right. They were both so messed up.
Lucifer flickered back into view, this time hovering right by Sam. He popped one of the pretzels into his mouth and began to chew with his mouth open. "You know, that little trick of yours isn't going to work forever and if Dean keeps it up, then he's going to—" Lucifer made a squelching noise and then winked at Sam.
Sam closed his eyes, fighting against the despair that was threatening despite the heart-to-heart that they'd just had. Lucifer was right. This hadn't changed anything, they were both still trying to survive the only way they knew how.
The last time they'd both been struggling this badly was during the apocalypse, but this time around seemed worse. This time, a bad ending seemed inevitable at any moment for both of them. This time, Sam didn't feel like he knew how to pull Dean back from the ledge like he had been able to when Michael wanted him as his vessel. This time, it felt like the only real question that remained to be answered was which one of them was going to teeter off the edge and who was going to jump after them.
The End
