Living Out Loud, PG-13, Dean, Sam, 2/5

[ht_murray]

---


"Dean!" Sam waded into the pool of dirty water and did not even notice as the stinking liquid soaked through his jeans while he knelt beside his unconscious brother. He lifted Dean's head and shoulders and shifted them closer so that he could reach his right hand around to palpate a carotid pulse. Nothing.

"Shit, Dean! C'mon, big brother, give me something here." Sam shook the elder's shoulders in vain. Still no pulse, and he couldn't see any evidence that Dean was breathing.

Sam flipped out his phone, dialed 911, and placed it to his left ear where he trapped it with his head and shoulder while he hoisted Dean's unconscious body up out of the water and up the stairs. The operator picked up just as Sam settled his brother down on the ground beside the Impala. The two kids they'd rescued earlier sat trembling in the backseat.

"I need an ambulance," Sam yelled. "My brother's been electrocuted. I can't find a pulse and he's not breathing!" He looked around quickly, still trying to shake Dean awake, and located the street sign that triggered his memory as to their current location. He rattled off the address. "Yes! I know CPR. I'm gonna put the phone down." He dropped the phone in the grass and focused all of his attention on his brother.

Dean's pallor was sickeningly white, tinged blue at his lips, and he lay completely still and unresponsive as Sam placed an ear against those lips and listened for a breath. Though he heard no air movement, he did notice the sickening smell of singed hair and flesh that seemed to seep from his brother's pores. "God, Dean. Don't do this to me," he whispered, choking back tears.

Sam put his hand behind the elder's neck and tilted his heavy, lolling head back so that his chin pointed upward and his mouth fell open slackly. Again he listened, and when there was still no breath, he pinched two fingers over Dean's nose and covered his mouth with his own. He breathed into the open airway for a second and watched as his brother's chest rose with the extra volume. He sat back momentarily and waited for Dean to respond, but the breath just leaked back out again.

A second breath produced the same lack of response as the first. Desperate, Sam straddled his brother's legs and leaned forward, placing his hands one atop the other in the center of Dean's sternum. He almost lost his nerve when he saw the blackened char mark burned into his brother's left pectoral muscle where the necklace charm had apparently arced during the electrocution. The sight, mixed with the sickening stench of burned flesh, caused Sam's mind to flood with images of his brother writhing in agony as the electrical current ravaged his helpless body. It was all he could do to swallow the bile that was climbing the back of his throat and focus on the task at hand.

He let his mind go nearly blank, pushing out any emotion that would keep him from completing his grim task. He began the compressions. One, two, three. . . thirty. Breathe.

Again. One, two, three. . . thirty. A breath, a check for a response, a choked cry of anguish at finding none, and again. . .one, two, three. . . eighteen. . .27. . .God how many was that? Breathe, just breathe.

The cycle repeated until Sam's arms burned and his own breath came in gasps from the exertion, but he wouldn't stop, never faltered in his steady rhythm. He let his body be his brother's heart, his brother's lungs, let his breath be his brother's breath. He willed his sweat and tears to give Dean the incentive he needed to come back, to hold on, to live, "Live goddamnit! Don't you dare die on me." It was meant to be forceful, authoritative, because Sam knew that Dean, always the good little soldier, understood nothing better than a direct order. Instead, it was begging, pleading, choking sobs that broke through the barrier he'd tried to contain his emotion within.

Sam didn't know how long he went on like that, but he vowed never to stop until Dean lived. Eventually, his hands were pried off of his brother's chest and strange arms pulled him off of the elder's legs. As sweat dripped into his eyes, burning despite the tears that already flooded them, Sam dug the heels of his hands into the sockets and bent forward until his elbows contacted the ground. He hurt so badly, physically and emotionally that he nearly passed out, nearly let himself slide into the beckoning darkness where he could hide from the growing certainty that Dean was dead.

"We've got a faint pulse," a voice said. Sam lifted his head off the grass, suddenly aware that there were emergency vehicles, flashing lights, and uniformed people everywhere around him. A hand patted him on the back.

"Excellent work, Son. He's got a fighting chance, now. That was some show of heroics there. You should be proud."


---


Yeah, a fighting chance! Like hell! The coward waited until I was lost in my research, looking for a way to save his ass, and signed a friggin' Do Not Resuscitate order. He didn't fight. He just gave up! The son of a bitch didn't even ask me, didn't even acknowledge what I did to bring him back. Heroic measures. Right. Dean Winchester can play the hero with his life every day, but God forbid someone take heroic measures to save his self-sacrificing ass.

Sam was completely engulfed in his rage by then. The .45 stayed tucked in his waistband, despite the fact that he knew full well that it was stupid to get within reach of a black dog's claws, and he charged the beast, machete drawn. He needed to hit something, preferably hard enough to make his teeth vibrate, and bullets wouldn't cut it at the moment.

As stupid as it was to engage a black dog in hand to hand combat, it was equally as stupid to do so with a mind clouded in emotional turmoil. Stupidity was only an occasional indiscretion for Sam, however, and as soon as the razor claws slashed at his chest, tearing the collar of his t-shirt and sending a jolt of burning pain through his torso, the fog cleared.

It was fitting, Sam supposed, that many cultures considered black dogs to be symbolic of death, and Death was the bastard with whom Sam really had a bone to pick at the moment. Cancer, thy name is black dog this night! Sam spun around and planted a side kick into the ribs of the creature that sent it stumbling back from the force of the rage behind it.

The young hunter knew that the bleeding cuts on his neck and chest were caused by his impatience, but the letting of blood had a way of curing impatience where Sam was concerned, and he did not make the same mistake twice. This time he let the dog charge him, and he waited, crouched into a battle stance, machete lifted high.

He could have ended it quickly. The creature was sluggish, its stomach filled to bursting, but Sam prolonged the battle out of pure need to inflict pain on something the way it had been inflicted on him.

I'll give you heroic measures!

As the dog dropped to all fours and prepared its charge, Sam waited, and when it thundered toward him, he leapt into the air, barely clearing the massive animal. He spun as soon as his feet hit the ground and landed a back kick to the back of the creature's skull. It stumbled, shaking its head in pain and disbelief.

It leapt at him, mouth agape, four inch fangs bared menacingly as pink saliva flecked its neck and spattered the bloody greenery. Sam stared it down until he felt the hot, putrid breath lick at his skin, and then he casually sidestepped and brought his machete down with a satisfying whump onto the monster's back, just behind its distended shoulder blades.

The jaw snapped shut then as the creature grunted in agony and rolled clumsily into the brush, unable to land on its front legs.

Sam's face remained set in a defiant scowl, lips pouted out slightly, but he felt his chin twitch in satisfaction. Nothing like blowing off a little steam, hey, Sammy boy? And though it was Sam's own thought, it was Dean's voice he heard in his head; Dean who was lying in a hospital bed dying while Sam was out whumping the holy crap out of a baddie in his name. God it feels good!

Sam's eyes rolled in disappointment as he noticed the black dog lifting one paw high in the air, its claws bent awkwardly out to the side. It had apparently landed on the appendage and broken the toes. Now it was damaged goods. Grimly, Sam decided it was time to put the poor bastard out of its misery before it decreased in value any further.

Having learned his lesson about the creature's reflexes, he waited for it to make one last faltering charge and decapitated it cleanly. He watched the carcass drop heavily to the damp ground and nodded with finality. Resuscitate that!

He was just finishing up taking pictures and collecting his artifacts when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at it quickly, noted it was the hospital, and hurriedly made his way out of the woods, treasure in tow.

XXX

Twenty minutes later, the skull and claws of the black dog safely stowed in an ice chest in the back seat of the Impala, Sam made his way anxiously down the hospital corridor to his brother's room. Dr. Grant had informed him that Dean was coming out of the sedation, though he hadn't quite awakened as of yet.

Sam was still pumped with adrenaline from the hunt and kill, and he hadn't seen his brother in a couple of hours, so he approached the closed door of the hospital room with anger still bubbling beneath his skin.

Just wait 'til he wakes up. I'm gonna rip him a new one, I swear. I'm gonna get right in his face and tell him exactly what I think of his little DNR stunt. I'm gonna stare him down and let him know just how much I hate that he never told me about his friggin' cancer. I'm so gonna kick his ass. I'm gonna. . .

His hand turned the knob, and the door opened to reveal a ghastly pale Dean whose face was now contorted with pain as the sedatives wore off and left him able to feel the nature of his affliction.

. . .cry. God, Dean, I'm so sorry you have to go through this. I'd take it all away if I could.

Dean moaned softly, and Sam hurried to his side. The younger brother brushed his fingers softly over his elder's forehead and through his hair as his other hand felt for fingers to clasp. After a few seconds, Dean turned his head toward Sam's touch, and his eyes flickered open.

The older brother flinched at the onslaught of glaring light through the window, and he drew back painfully. "Sammy?" He asked weakly.

Sam grinned beneath teary eyes. "It's Sam, you jerk. And I'm right here."

Dean looked at him with confusion, blinked slowly as the words sank into his foggy consciousness. "Whatever, Dude." He glanced around slowly, closing his eyes ever time he changed the position of his head in order to ward off the vertigo. "What the hell?"

"You're in the hospital," Sam explained gently. "Your chicken pox turned out to be shingles, and you've been out of it for a few days."

Dean just lay there silently, breathing slowly as his mind stretched into awareness. "Shingles? Is that why everything hurts?" He groaned.

"'Fraid so. They kept you sedated for awhile so you'd be more comfortable, but now you're just gonna have to rejoin the land of the living," Sam whispered.

"Man," Dean shifted uncomfortably but found no better position and let himself fall back, resigned to suffer, "I haven't felt this bad since that time I had West Nile Virus."

Sam had forgotten about that. As far as he could tell, it had been Dean's West Nile that had allowed the doctor's to catch the cancer the first time. Normal twenty-two year olds with healthy immune systems apparently weren't that susceptible to the mosquito borne illness. As much as Sam hated to bring up the subject, he was silently grateful that Dean had provided him with the segue.

"Dean. . ." Sam faltered, weighing his words carefully. "Do you remember what the doctor's found when they treated you for that West Nile Virus?"

Dean looked foggy and confused for a second, then grim realization paled his complexion, and his gaze shifted away from his baby brother's sad eyes. "There be dragons," he whispered.

All right, well that wasn't exactly the reaction Sam had expected. "Huh?" He asked, concerned about his brother's mental state.

"It's back, isn't it?" Dean asked, still not looking at Sam.

"Yeah," he said with a nod, and as much as he'd been prepared to tell his brother off about the secrets and the lies, he just couldn't do it right then. He watched Dean digest the information slowly. Perhaps it was the painful illness that weakened his brother's countenance, but Sam glimpsed a flicker of fear and anguish cross Dean's features, something he was rarely privy to, but then the emotion was walled up once more, and they were both more comfortable in the familiar state of denial that replaced it.

The silence lingered momentarily, and Dean seemed to reach some sort of conclusion in that head of his. The older brother turned to look at Sam, and forced hope to flicker in his eyes for his brother's sake. "Well, I guess you'd better call Dad," he said matter-of-factly. "He'll know what to do."

"Dad?" Sam stammered. Dad's been dead for six months, big brother. Panic slammed into his chest, and he tore himself from Dean's bedside and stormed out into the hall. Seeing no one outside the room, Sam lost all sense of propriety and just shouted in desperation, "Doctor. . .Please! I need the doctor!. . ."




XXX


Five minutes after he woke up in that hospital bed, his entire body afire from the virus that was attacking his nerve endings, Dean Winchester remembered why time was a four letter word.

"I haven’t felt this bad since that time I had West Nile Virus."

"And do you remember what the doctors found when they treated you for that West Nile Virus?"

Yup, time was a four letter word, all right. The agonizing waves of pain that reverberated through him made it pass oh so slowly, despite the fact that it was now running out much too quickly. Cruel, cruel paradox was time. He'd been chasing its elusive ass for years. Bath time, story time, time for prayers before bed when Mommy's kiss promised all prayers were answered. He'd stalked that lost time much the way his baby brother hunted normalcy. Time for wives, times for children, time for family reunions in back yards surrounded by picket fences. And like normal, time was more mythical than anything else they'd chased. No amount of belief made either quarry attainable, yet the mirages they projected were impossible to ignore.

"There be dragons." And they were mythical, too. Weren't they?

Five minutes and thirty seconds after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester realized that he'd somehow missed the memo that his life had passed its apex, and his heartbeats were now thumping hollowly through their final countdown.

"It's back, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

He blinked slowly, as though his long, dark eyelashes could somehow wipe away the fog that enveloped him. Dean wanted the haze, because the pain was unbearable, but every second of numb bliss was one second fewer that remained for meaningful existence. Time was such a bitch. No, that's a five letter word.

Five minutes and thirty-five seconds after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester thought he had all the answers.

". . .better call Dad. He'll know what to do." Of course Dad would know what to do. John was the one unmovable, infallible entity in Dean's life. He always had the answers, and he'd beaten this disease once before when all the doctors had failed. Dean was certain that his father could do it again. And that was good, because Dean was too tired to think about it anymore. John's ability to come through in the clutch was the one small comfort in which Dean's tortured mind allowed him to find respite.

Dean squinted at his baby brother who went suddenly paler. Dean knew that look. He'd said something he shouldn't have. Damned if he knew what it was, though. Couldn't Sam just stop looking at him like that? It was making his head hurt. And it didn't help that there were at least three separate Sams looking at him like that, at the moment.

Five minutes and forty-five seconds after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester wished that he'd kept his big mouth shut, and that wasn't something he admitted very often.

Sam stopped looking at him like that, all right, but Dean would have preferred he do it more quietly. That shouting was tearing through his skull like a mirror ball made of daggers. Sammy the drama geek, always going off the deep end for no reason.

Within minutes, Sam's shouts became urgent whispers that were echoed by a second voice Dean didn't recognize. The older brother was just so grateful that the shouting stopped, he didn't even bother to turn toward the voices or wonder what they were saying.

Of course, oblivion was not to be his, and the voices came looking for him on their own. Dean hated hospitals. No one was ever around when the television remote was missing, and everyone gathered when you wanted to sleep. He felt a hand grasp his chin and noted that it made a scraping sound against the days old growth of stubble. I bet I really look like shit. And he grinned sardonically through the haze.

Six minutes and thirty seconds after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester wondered if it was really a crime to take a human life, or if offing this freakin' doctor would constitute self defense.

He jerked his head sideways as the white-robed bastard shined a light in his eyes. The beam of photons felt like a stream of darts against his retinas. "Ow! Dude! Lay off!"

"Dean," Sam said softly. "He's your doctor. He's just trying to help."

"Easy for you to say," Dean grumbled, "He's not manhandling your ass. Just let me go back to sleep. I'm not in the mood to have my brain poked right now."

"Dean, you've had a pretty high fever and a seizure," Sam explained. "He needs to make sure there isn't any permanent damage."

"Well if it's permanent, it will still be there when I wake up," Dean argued. He tried to brush the doctor's hands away roughly, but realized that his arms were so heavy that he probably looked like a kitten pawing lazily at a ball of string. God, the humiliation.

"It'll only take a minute," Sam said, and Dean recognized the catch in his brother's voice even before he added the damning final word, "Please."

Eight minutes after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester sighed audibly, because he never could deny his baby brother anything.

"Whatever, Dude," he stated with resignation, trying his best to focus on the doctor.

The doctor was looking at him the way a librarian looked at a shelf full of books, as though certain the answer he needed was somewhere within but uncertain of where to look first.

Dr. Grant held up a finger. "Follow this for me, please," he instructed as he began to move the digit side to side.

"Which one?" Dean asked.

The finger stopped. "Do you see more than one finger?"

"That depends," Dean snapped. "Are you holding up more than one finger, or are all three of you holding up a finger at the same time?"

Grant made a notation on one of his charts and leaned in closer to Dean's face. The older brother turned his head and grimaced as the doc got in his face. "Dude, I don't kiss other dudes, so take your halitosis and go find some gum."

The doctor seemed unfazed. He pressed a thumb over Dean's left eyelid. "How many fingers now?" He asked.

"Well, now that's an improvement," Dean snipped, "Only two now."

Dr. Grant changed eyelids. "And now?"

"Just one now," Dean sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, the relief that came from being able to see clearly, if only for a moment, outweighed his agitation. Before the latex clad finger was removed from his right eye, Dean chanced a glance at his baby brother, whom he hadn't been able to see clearly since his awakening.

Ten minutes after waking up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester opened his eyes fully for the first time, and what he saw made him want to strangle someone.

His hand flashed out, oblivious to the I.V. lines and other wires draped over it, and he seized Sam by the front of his grey hoodie, snarling at the suspicious looking stain spreading over the front of it.

"What did you do?" Dean asked. His eyes narrowed to a glare as the front of the sweatshirt pulled down and revealed the wicked-looking claw marks on his brother's chest.

Sam jerked free of Dean's grip and straightened, clearing his throat as he did so. "I went hunting."

"You went hunting by yourself? Or did you call Dad?" Dean's eyes, still glassy with pain and confusion, pierced Sam accusingly.

"I went by myself, Dean. I couldn't call Dad, and you know I couldn't. . ." Sam's eyes darted sideways as he tried to mask his guilt, a look Dean was all too adept at catching. He knew his baby brother was trying to change the subject away from the topic of his own stupidity and recklessness. Dean was just about to call him on it, but. . .

Fifteen minutes after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester remembered that Sam was the only person he had left in the whole world. Five seconds after that, he knew he was going to die.

Dean ducked his gaze away. His mental reflexes were a little slow, and he didn't want Sam to see the tears that tried their damnedest to bust his stalwart countenance. "Well, get someone to clean and stitch those cuts. You don't want them to get infected," he said softly. "Don't wanna end up dead. . .like Dad."

Dean managed to successfully hold back the tears, but the despair vibrated into his chest. It wasn't only his father that was dead, but gone as well was all hope he had of beating this cancer. John was the only one who'd stood between Dean and Death three years ago, and Dean had been so far gone by then. The only thing knew of the battle that had transpired was that they'd won. Dean had lived. He'd lived then, but through no grace of his own. That had been all John. Along with John died all knowledge of the miracle he'd engineered for the sake of his oldest son.

A week after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester realized that there were more than a few holes in his memory.

Though the doctor assured him that it was a side effect of his seizure and was most likely temporary, Dean hated the feeling of inadequacy that came with the Swiss cheese in his head. He was never one for self-examination and didn't like to wonder just what parts of him were missing. The holes just kept popping up on their own, biting him in the ass when he least expected it.

Luckily, shingles was an excruciating condition. The effort it took to think at all through the haze of agony was a welcome distraction from the confusion of not knowing just what it was he didn't know.

Sam was always there when Dean surfaced briefly from the sea of painkiller induced slumber, but neither spoke much except with their eyes. Dean made a point of worrying over Sam's cuts, because the big brother part of him would never be forgotten, and the familiarity of the act eased the tension between them. Sam made a point of pretending not to worry over Dean, because Dean hated it, and humoring his older brother's twisted sense of pride was the only comfort he had to offer either of them.

Both knew that there were words to be had, secrets and lies to be revealed, apologies to be made, but neither spoke of the past or the future for as long as they remained in that sterilized limbo of white walls, antiseptic, and false security. Ignorance was bliss as long as the familiar bond of each other existed to ground them in the chaos.

Three weeks after waking up in that hospital bed, the pain had diminished to a tolerable level, and Dean Winchester found himself missing the haze.

He laughed at his brother in sarcastic disbelief. "Dude, there is no way I have ever been in an Economics class." His right eye was covered in a black pirate patch because the shingles had caused some attenuation of the optic nerve in that eye, causing his double vision. The doctor had offered less conspicuous treatment options, but Dean liked the patch. "Chicks dig scars and eye patches," he'd said.

"Dean, man I'm telling you that you've taken Econ. C'mon you gotta at least try to remember," Sam pushed. Dean knew that Sam didn't give a rat's ass if he ever remembered the principles of Economics, but somehow the younger brother had convinced himself that filling each little hole in Dean's memory would lead them to the answers they so badly needed with regard to Dean's cancer and how he had managed to beat it in the past.

"Okay," Sam conceded, "so you don't remember taking the class, but maybe you can tell me, what are the three main forms of business organization?"

Without hesitation, Dean answered. "The sole proprietorship, the partnership, and the corporation."

"And Brothers in Blood is. . .?"

"A partnership, Sammy." Dean sighed in exasperation. Only after he noted the incredibly pleased smirk on his baby brother's face did he realize that he'd actually proven Sam's point. "So, maybe I have taken a class or two," Dean consented.

"You bet your ass, big brother. And you know that we are partners, and that Brothers in Blood is our company. You see? You have the answers in there, Dean. We just have to figure out the right way to ask the questions."

Dean slumped back into his pillows. The kid could be tenacious when he wanted to be, and it was wearing on his older brother. "Look, Sam," Dean sighed, "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not going to work."

"And what's that?"

"You think if you tweak my memory enough, I'll be able to tell you that there's a way to beat this cancer that the doctors don't know about," Dean said. This was so not a discussion he wanted to be having, but if he had to take Sam's relentless badgering for one more minute, they were both gonna be dying, and Sam would go first.

"Well there is, isn't there?" Sam asked. "You beat it once even though none of the treatments worked."

"No, Sam," Dean said flatly, "Dad beat it, and even then I didn't know how he did it. I was too out of it by then to know much of anything, and we never talked about it. Talking was always your thing, not ours."

"And I suppose that's the reason neither of you ever bothered to call and tell me my only brother was dying of cancer?" Sam snapped. He hadn't wanted to address that particular issue, but Dean's stubbornness was wearing on Sam more than he cared to admit.

"Can we not do this now?" Dean asked, trying not to plead.

"We're already doing it, Dean. So we might as well just get it over with," Sam prodded.

"We did call you, Sam," Dean muttered barely keeping the accusation out of his voice. "You never answered our calls."

"You could have left a message."

"Not exactly the kind of thing you leave on a voice mail, Sammy, especially when it was so obvious you didn't want anything to do with us."

"I'm sorry about that, Dean," Sam said, his voice barely a whisper. "You're right, I never answered a single one of your phone calls, but you. . ."

"Don't say it, Sam," Dean said. "That's all in the past now, and when you didn't walk away after we killed the Demon and after Dad died, that was all forgotten. At least I forgot it. I'm not gonna drag all this up again. I've made my peace with it, and you need to do it, too. I can't give you absolution. You wanna beat yourself up about it, then go right ahead, but don't try to pull me into your pity session."

Sam digested that thought for awhile, his face sullen but open as always. "So," he said finally, "no one knows what Dad was up to back then? He didn't tell anyone? I mean, I've called all his contacts, and they all say you two pretty much dropped off the radar for about a year and a half. Dad was really the only one who knew how to stop this cancer?"

"I don't know about the only one, but the only one I know of," Dean said. He hated the blunt tone to his voice, but the statement lent itself to finality. Then, because he could never stand to let tension linger in the atmosphere, he smirked ironically. "I suppose we could always summon Dad's ghost and ask him."

For a second, Sam thought his brother was serious. Moreover, he almost thought the plan could work, but his face fell suddenly. "Can't," he said flatly. "Salted and burned, remember? Just like he wanted."

Dean nodded and looked down thoughtfully, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the sheet. "Me too," he whispered.

"I know." Sam acknowledged.

Three weeks and two days after waking up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester realized that the most important parts of himself could never be forgotten.

Sam grinned the big, goofy grin that always meant he had a surprise for his brother. Dean didn't know how someone that was so naturally obvious in everything he said and did managed to lie so convincingly when the situation called for discretion.

"I know you've been bored to death in here," Sam shrugged, "And since you can't leave for at least another week, I thought you might like to have this."

He reached behind the door into the hallway and brought out Dean's guitar case.

To be honest, Dean had forgotten that he played the guitar, but as soon as he held it, his fingers took over of their own accord. He sank back into the pillows, playing just the way Sam liked it, straight from the heart that he otherwise worked so hard to conceal. The gentle thrumming was all Sam needed to forget his worry and slip into a much-needed nap of his own.

Dean smiled softly. Nothing made him happier than being able to comfort his baby brother. And there was so little comfort to be had these days.

Almost five weeks after he woke up in that hospital bed, Dean Winchester realized that Sam had somehow become his protector.

They'd been standing at the counter of the hospital pharmacy waiting for Dean's several hundred dollars worth of medications to be counted out for nearly half an hour. Dean had agreed to stay sitting down in the wheelchair while they waited, but as soon as the nurse turned her back, he'd stood up and leaned against the counter with a defiant smirk on his face.

The pharmacy was a crowded place that afternoon, and there was no shortage of sick people loitering around the counter. Dean knew he had to be careful. The cancer had depressed his immune system dramatically, and even a cold could become serious. It was Sam, however, who picked out the deadly assailant in the crowd.

With a lithe grace and agility he usually reserved for hunting the supernatural, Sam dove between his brother and the attacker without a hesitation.

"Aaa-choo!" the little girl sneezed, spraying Sam with a million misty droplets of spit in the process.

Dean felt Sam's body press against his protectively, and both whispered, "God bless you," as they stepped away from the counter as quickly as if a bank robber had pulled a gun on them.

A few minutes later, Dean noticed as Sam deliberately allowed the nurse to help Dean out of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat of the Impala. "Dude, I don't have cooties, you know." Dean teased.

"Well, maybe I do," Sam returned half-heartedly. His face belied the worry he was trying unsuccessfully to mask. After he'd seated himself behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, he added, "Seriously, though, I don't think you should touch me. That kid sneezed all over me back there."

Dean looked down knowingly. "Yeah, I saw that. Way to take a bullet for your big brother there, Sammy."

Sam recognized the jab and laughed, forgetting his worry momentarily. "No problem. I needed another shower anyway," he snickered.

"For future reference, though," Dean said, serious for the moment, "You ever try that with anything more deadly than a paintball, and I'll kick your ass."

"Like you even could," Sam teased.

"I will always be able to kick your ass, little brother," Dean said, raising his eyebrows matter-of-factly. "It's in the big brother handbook."

"Oh yeah, and what book would that be?"

"Big Brothers for Dummies," Dean shrugged.

"You actually read a book?" Sam asked in mock disbelief.

"Nah. Just the Cliff's Notes. Turns out I'm just a natural."

Five minutes after walking away from that hospital and the bed that had confined him for over a month, Dean Winchester vowed never to go back again. Life was too short.

"We're gonna beat this, Sammy."

Five minutes and thirty seconds after settling into the Impala on their way home, Dean Winchester was pretty sure that was a lie. Sam wasn't.




XXX


Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

Dean raced through the underbrush, his feet finding the path as though he'd traveled it before. He had only the vaguest idea what he was running from. Werewolf? Vampire? Black Dog?

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

Ducking beneath the low-hanging branches of ancient oak trees and cottonwoods, he was aware only of the pounding of his heart in his ears. Too aware. Ahead, he glimpsed the opening in the foliage.

Ba-bump, Ba-bump

He could no longer feel the hot breath of the Werewolfvampireblackdog on his neck or the reaching clawsfangsteeth. His entire body thrummed to the pulse of blood in his ears, as did the very air around him.

Ba-bump, Ba-bump

The sweat on his brow became ice as the air swirled around him in time to his heartbeat soundtrack. And though his feet moved more swiftly with every passing second, desperate to escape the clutches of whatever beast pursued him, the thrumming of the air, his chest, the blood in his ears seemed slower, quieter, calmer.

Ba-bump

A weight settled over him. Acceptance, resolution, finality.

Ba-bump.

No fear. Just slow, quiet, dark, hollow. A tender, green branch slashed across his forehead, and blood trailed into his eyes, red haze. And there was Sam, colored rosy pink in the glaring light of the full moon. The .45 glinted, a silver bullet poised in the chamber.

Ba

Dean knew he was supposed to duck, roll out of the way, but his knees buckled as the world went red. Baby brother's face contorted in grief and loss, rather than the glaring determination Dean expected(remembered). Why was Sammy so. . .

Ba

Sad, Sammy? Why so sad, Sammy?

A pause where there should have been a heartbeat.

Sorry, Sammy. The gun dropped onto the forest floor as the younger brother's hand went limp like his arms, his knees, his face.

Another pause, and only the wind.

Dean felt the claws as the creature barreled into him and sent him airborne into the clearing. He stretched out his arms and covered his face, waiting for the ground to rush up and meet him.

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

But it never did. Instead he was lifted higher, faster, away from Sam. "Sam!"

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

But this was not his heartbeat. This was something else. He turned his head, and his eyes swept over the talons embedded in his shoulders. There was no pain, though the claws were like daggers, and he barely noticed them at all as his eyes widened in terror, and disbelief.

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

Wings. Massive, reptilian, maybe batlike and leathery, pounded the air around him, beat the rhythm in his ears. Inhaling sharply, he clutched at the claws, trying to remove himself from the creature's grasp as they floated higher into the canopy of leaves. Sammy was so far away. "SAM! SAM-MYYY!"

XXX

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump, Ba-bump

His eyes flew open, and there was wet in them, but it wasn't blood. Sweat, and what he hoped to God wasn't tears, stung with salty malice as his breath rasped in and out of his aching lungs. He looked frantically from side to side as the glare of artificial light stabbed through his skull. "Sammy!"

And then Sam was there, wet, dripping. Dean suddenly remembered his brother telling him that he was going to take a shower. Only when Sam's face appeared above him, twisted in worry and concern as water dripped off of his sopping hair and onto Dean's chest did the older brother realize that he had been asleep in the leather chair, that his guitar was propped loosely in his lap, and that he'd been dreaming.

"Dean!" Sam's face was flushed with panic, and the flush traveled all the way down his wet torso to the waistband of his jeans.

Sitting up uncomfortably, pressing the palms of his hands to his burning eyes, Dean handled his brother's concern the only way he knew how. "Dude! Appreciating the lap dance, but I'm fresh out of dollar bills." He placed a palm flat on Sam's dripping chest and pushed him back with mock annoyance, trying to conceal his embarrassment.

Sam's face twisted. "Dumbass! You scared the shit out of me!" He stood back angrily and held his hands out to his sides, indicating his slick skin and sopping jeans. "I didn't even get a chance to dry off. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"That's a good look for you, man. You should do a calendar," Dean cracked, looking away as he did so.

"So, are you gonna tell me why the hell you're screaming my name while I'm trying to take a shower?"

"Just a dream, I guess," he admitted.

Sam sighed with relief. "Well, that's what you get for sleeping in that damned chair. I told you to go lie down for awhile. You just got out of the hospital, and you still look like shit."

"Thank you, Mother Hen, but I'm a big boy. I don't need a friggin' nap."

"Right, so you're just sleeping in the middle of the afternoon because the inside of your eyelids is so fascinating."

"Whatever, Dude," Dean dismissed, and the tension melted enough for the bitterness to disperse.

Sam took in his brother's haggard appearance and the trickle of sweat that adorned his brow. He stepped forward and placed the back of his hand against his big brother's forehead, ignoring the futile protest. "You're running a little temperature. You sure it was dream and not a hallucination? Cuz if you're sick again, we're going right back to the hospital."

"No, Sam, it was just a dream. And I'm not going back to the hospital. Not ever."

"You can't know that, Dean. You should know better than anyone how easy it is for you to get sick now. If you end up with pneumonia or something, you're gonna have to let the doctors treat you in the hospital." Sam explained.

"No, Sam. No hospitals. Never again. There's nothing they can do for me, anyway." Dean let his left eye latch onto Sam's. His right eye was still covered with the black patch, and he hoped it made him look that much more menacing as he stared daggers through his younger brother.

"Goddammit Dean! Just because there isn't any real treatment for this thing yet, doesn't mean you just give up altogether!" His fingers combed through his dripping hair in frustration and barely contained anger.

"Sam," Dean tried to keep his voice calm and reasoning. "Just because I don't want to go back in the hospital, doesn't mean I'm giving up."

"Because nothing says, 'I give up' like a friggin' Do Not Resuscitate order, Dean!" Sam's jaw set, and his eyes narrowed accusingly, returning Dean's dagger glare.

"Shit!" Dean exhaled sharply. "How the hell did you find out about that?" He couldn't maintain the conviction in his voice that he'd infused earlier. His eyes slid toward the floor.

"Medical records, dumbass! Imagine my friggin' surprise, when I'm sitting at your bedside searching for any way to save your ass, and I find out you don't want it saved!" He leaned closer, refusing to let Dean avoid his accusation. "And by the way, since you signed it under a different alias, it doesn't apply anymore, so maybe you wanna sneak off behind my back and get another one."

Sam realized that he was dangerously close to raising his hand against his brother, his friggin' terminally ill brother who wasn't even raising a hand in his own defense. "Shit!"

The younger brother spun on his heels and stomped into the kitchen. Dean could make out the sound of the refrigerator door opening roughly and slamming closed, followed by the unmistakable sound of pill bottles being shuffled around. Sam returned a few seconds later with a V8 splash and a couple of pills. These he thrust out toward his brother in aggravation and tried to look at the wall in an obvious effort to keep Dean's sick pallor from melting his conviction to finish the argument.

"Here!" Sam said, biting the word, despite the fact that there was no hard consonant to emphasize. "You have a low grade fever, so if you're serious about staying out of the hospital, take your friggin' meds."

Dean reached out and palmed the pills his brother had offered him, but hesitated at the drink bottle. "God, Sam. I hate that crap. Couldn't you just bring water? Or coffee?"

"You know, Dean, the junk you put in your body is probably what caused this cancer in the first place, so excuse me if I want to give you something that might actually make you feel better without poisoning you in the process!"

"I already told you Sam, if it tastes like shit, it's coming right back up, and the Tidy Bowl Man is not gonna appreciate the nutritional content." Dean snapped back. "And I'm pretty sure the fact that I spend most of my time covered in monster goo and surrounded by EMF fields has way more to do with causing this cancer than cheeseburgers and coffee. Who even knows what's in that shit? Gotta be toxic or radioactive."

"Just drink it," Sam sighed. He thrust the bottle toward his brother, forgetting that he'd already loosened the cap, and half the sticky orange liquid sloshed out onto Dean's t-shirt. Dean just looked up at him from under his impossibly long eyelashes.

"My mouth's up here," the older brother said flatly, pointing toward his face.

Sam set the drink down on the coffee table and held out his hand. "Take it off. I'll got get you a clean one." The fire of his anger from moments earlier had smoldered to just a spark, and he was genuinely sorry for overreacting, but he'd be damned if he'd admit it to Dean.

The older brother sat up, placed the guitar beside the chair, and leaned forward to pull the sticky shirt over his head. Sam noticed that most of the shingles rash had healed over nicely, and the doctors had been able to keep the skin from scarring. Not that there weren't enough scars across his brother's chest already. Dean was right, with that many marks inflicted on the outside of his body by the hunting, Sam wouldn't be surprised if the inside hadn't been just as messed up by the lifestyle.

Sam took the shirt and stalked off to find a clean one, pointing to the drink bottle as he left. "Drink," he ordered.

Dean choked down the offending substance, more to wash down the friggin' horse pills than to satisfy his brother's mother hen complex. He set the bottle back down, and wiped at his mouth in disgust. A knock on the door startled him.

It was a fairly nice day, so the inside door was already open. Dean saw a fifty-ish looking man with graying hair and a mustache standing in front of the screen door. He got up slowly, not realizing how stiff he'd gotten from sitting so long, and slid his stocking feet lazily across the floor 'til he reached the hook on the door. "Yeah, can I help you?" He asked.

The man looked a little taken aback as well as, to Dean's bemusement, concerned. "Yes, uh," the man pointed to himself uncertainly, "Dr. George. . ."

"Oh," Dean said, "Sammy! One of your teachers is here!" He stepped away from the door, pushing it open against the spring and let the gentleman in.

Sam came out of the hallway and tossed the clean shirt to his brother. Recognizing the man in the entryway, he said, "He's your teacher, Dean." And if he wasn't still just a little pissed, he would've been more concerned, but his brother's Swiss cheese memory was more of an inconvenience these days than a real problem. "He's your Econ professor. He gave me a ride to the hospital the day you had your seizure."

"Oh." Dean said shortly. "Thanks for that. Sorry about the misunderstanding. I got some brain scramble going on." He took a few seconds to pull the t-shirt over his head, and rolled it down across his stomach. He wasn't usually self-conscious, but he felt the professor's eyes tracing the scars on his flesh and felt compelled to conceal them.

"That's okay, Son," the older man dismissed. "I just got the notice this morning that you were withdrawing from classes for the rest of the semester. I wondered if there was anything I could do to change your mind. You're sorely missed. I think someone asks about you every day."

"What can I say," Dean smirked, "I just light up a room, don't I?"

"Dean!" Sam reprimanded. "Don't mind him," the younger brother said, turning toward the teacher. "He's an ass when he's sick. Actually, he's an ass all the time. He just spends more time talking out of it when he's sick."

"Hey!" Dean said with mock irritation. "I never talk out of my ass. Unless you're referring to my downstairs brain, 'cuz sometimes, well. . ."

"Jerk!"

"Punk!"

Sam laughed half-heartedly, all of his anger finally dissipating. They'd have to continue their argument later, when there wasn't company around. "Actually, Dr. George, why don' t you come in and sit down for awhile. I really need to finish getting cleaned up," he invited, indicating his soggy body. "And Dean's already had his nap, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble. Plus I gave him the good drugs right before you got here." He grinned wryly at Dean's disgruntled glare.

Sam strolled off down the hallway, calling behind him, "And tell Captain Hospitality to get you something to drink. We've got beer if you want it." His head popped back around the corner, "But none for you, big brother, interacts with your meds."

"Whatever, Dude," Dean grumbled, waving his arm to shoo his brother away before he got the urge to knock that smirk off his face. Sam hurried off, leaving Dean to entertain the professor.

"So. . .," the older brother began, "You want anything to drink?"

"Oh, no thank you," Dr. George dismissed, "Not if you're not going to have any. I don't feel right drinking alone."

"Oh, don't sweat it, Dude," Dean dismissed. "That shit I just took will have me puking drunk in a few more minutes, always does. All the fun of alcohol without the annoying need to piss every five minutes," he grinned weakly.

The professor sat on the edge of the lumpy sofa. "No, I'm really fine. I just came to check on you."

"About that," Dean began apologetically, "Sorry I don't really remember you. Hell, I don't even know what all I've forgotten. The docs say it's probably temporary anyway. By the way, you got a name that doesn't start with Doctor, 'cuz I'm not feeling particularly friendly with the whole medical profession these days." He slouched back in his chair and, out of habit more than anything, reached for the guitar. He'd been playing pretty much nonstop since he'd gotten out of the hospital. Sam would barely let him get out of the chair to take a leak anymore.

The teacher grinned with a huff. "Robert," he offered.

"So, uh, Bob," Dean started. "You gave Sam a lift to the hospital, huh?"

"Yes. I didn't think he looked like he should be driving himself." He paused, not bothering to elaborate on why he'd been around in the first place. "I dropped by the hospital to see you a week or so ago, but they said only registered visitors were allowed in the, uh, Oncology Ward."

Dean caught the inflection in the man's voice, and he grinned lopsidedly out of the corner of his mouth while shaking his head in mock amusement. "Yeah, now there's another shining example of bureaucracy at it's finest," he snickered. "Won't even let a guy's baby brother see his medical records without filing for Power of Attorney, but then they put Oncology on the door in big black letters so everyone pretty much knows you're screwed anyway. Gotta love that."

"Anyway," Bob said, shifting uncomfortably, "If that's. . .well, if that's the reason you're withdrawing from classes, I think you should reconsider. I usually have at least one student a semester in one of my classes that's undergoing. . .treatments. . . and, well, I'd be more than happy to work with you and help you get caught up."

"Thanks for the offer, man," Dean said dismissively, "But there really isn't any treatment, so I'm thinking I probably won't be needing Econ where I'm going." He tried to sound matter-of-fact, if not slightly amused, but there was a coldness and a quiver to his voice that Dr. George didn't recognize as belonging to the charming, snarky young man he'd come to know.

Dean saw the shadow of pity on the man's face, but wasn't really in the mood for entertaining anyone else's sympathies at the moment. "Hey, don't worry about it, Dude. Dad always said I'd never live to see thirty, and I've never been one to let the old man down. I've got a good little soldier complex. Just ask Sam."

"And Sam is withdrawing from his classes as well?" Bob asked, trying to shift the conversation.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I pretty much let him call the shots, you know. Let him feel like he's got some kind of control over things. Seems like the big brotherly thing to do, just throw the kid a bone every once in awhile."

Dr. George noted the faroff expression in Dean's eyes as he talked about his brother and didn't press. In his experience, people who talked with that look in their eyes didn't need encouragement to keep talking. Whether it was the drugs that made Dean talk or just the fact that he had something to say, Bob didn't know, but he was right. Dean kept talking.

Dean's sideways smirk returned. "I guess the joke's on him, though," he said. "Sam's always been the one in control. He just doesn't know it, I don't think." He was silent for a second, gathering his thoughts. "I don't remember the last time I made a decision without thinking of him first. If I could, I imagine it would be something like 'Mega Blocks or Hot Wheels today'? I know it had to have been before Mom. . ."

Dean sat up a little straighter in his chair. Sam heard him shifting as he leaned against the wall, just out of sight. The younger brother had dried off hastily with the intention of rushing to the aid of the poor man he'd left in his brother's company unattended, but upon hearing his own name cross Dean's lips, he'd been unable to resist listening to what was being said in the other room.

"It's funny, because I don't even remember taking your class," Dean's eyes apologized half-heartedly, "Uh, sorry about that, by the way. I didn't get to pick which memories I got to keep. But I'm sure that Sam had to have picked Econ, 'cuz there's no way in hell I'd have ever picked it for myself."

Dr. George wasn't surprised. He'd always figured Dean for the kind of student for which things just came easily, and he wasn't hurt in the least that the young man didn't find the Principles of Economics 101 to be less than mentally stimulating. Bob himself didn't find it all that fascinating. "So, what would you have chosen? If you had picked, I mean."

Dean thought about that for a good couple of minutes, unaware that Sam waited with bated breath, his ears straining to pick up the answer from around the corner. The younger brother realized that he had never asked Dean what he'd have studied if he'd ever had the notion to go to college. Sam had always just assumed that Dean never thought about it.

"Engineering, I think," Dean said with enough certainty to indicate that he had actually thought about it. "Maybe electrical engineering, maybe computers. I always kinda liked taking things apart, putting them back together, figuring out how they worked, how they could work better. So, yeah, probably something like that. I can see why Sam wanted me to take Econ though, what with us being business partners and all."

Sam wished that he could see his brother's fact at that moment. There was an openness to Dean's tone that Sam didn't think he'd ever heard. Or perhaps, he'd never listened. He wanted to see those hazel eyes, to know if the drugs were talking, or if it was really Dean. Dean saying out loud that he actually wanted something. Something for himself. Something that didn't originate in his need to take care of Sam. And electrical engineering. . .hell, that EMF detector is a pretty nifty little gadget.

"Business partners?" The professor asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah." Dean reached into the end table drawer and pulled out a business card. "Here." He flipped the card across the coffee table, watching it cartwheel through the air and land at the professor's feet. "Sorry."

Bob picked it up and looked at it. "Brothers in Blood Artifacts," he read aloud.

"As real as you want it to be," Dean finished with a charming grin. "I thought of that last part myself."

"So you're. . ."

"Depending who you ask, you could call us consultants, dealers, collectors. I still like hunters, personally. We find things that no one else can get ahold of, sell them to collectors. We do all right," Dean said. His voice trailed off at the end, and the professor distinctly heard, or at least we did until I got sick, even though Dean never spoke the words.

"Listen," Bob said, leaning forward. "I didn't realize that you two were self-employed. It's gotta be hard to keep up with finances with you being under the weather for so long. I head up a committee that plans benefits and fundraisers for different school organizations. I bet I could get something going to help you boys out with your doctor bills and such."

"No that's all right," Dean said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Like I said, we do all right." He stood abruptly, and the professor leaned back, almost expecting to be escorted to the door. Instead, Dean brushed past him quickly and turned down the hallway toward the bathroom. Bob remembered the earlier comment about getting "puking drunk" and realized he probably needed to throw up. "Sammy and his friggin' V8 Splash," Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam barely managed to edge out of Dean's path as his brother rushed past him in the hallway, but he caught a glimpse of those hazel eyes, saw the walls come down, and knew that it hadn't been the drugs talking. It had been Dean. Dean without Sam. Sadly, the younger brother realized, he didn't even know that Dean.

He heard his brother retching into the toilet, something Dean did all too often these days, and made his way out of the hallway. "Sorry," he apologized. "Those meds are hell."

By the time Dean emerged from the bathroom, looking spent once more despite his earlier nap, which hadn't been all that restful, come to think of it, the professor had gone. Sam couldn't tell if Dean had noticed that the younger brother had been eavesdropping on the conversation, so he decided to deflect that conversation before it got started.

"So, uh, Dr. George told me he offered to put on a benefit to pay for your doctor bills, and you turned him down," Sam suggested.

"You mean you were listening in the hallway and heard me turn him down, don't you Sammy?" Dean retorted, slouching back into his chair.

"Yeah," he admitted, keeping any hint of shame out of his voice as though it were his God-given right to eavesdrop in his own house. "So, what's with that, Dean? We could use the money. Why would you turn him down?"

"Because Sam, that's not how it works," Dean snapped weakly. "We help people. They don't help us. We take care of ourselves, and we don't live on handouts. It's what we do. What we've always done."

"And your idea of taking care of yourself is what, Dean? Would you like me to draw up another DNR order? So you can just give up and die all on your volition without any pesky interference from other people, including your little brother, who friggin' loves you by the way, dumbass!" Sam's embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping had only sparked his anger from the earlier conversation once more, and now he was just plain pissed once again.

"It wasn't like that," Dean sighed, and the lack of heat in his voice scared Sam just a little. Dean was not allowed to turn this into a one-sided argument. Sam had been waiting too long to get this out in the open.

"Like what?"

"I didn't sign that thing because I wanted to die, Sam." The older brother's eyes stayed down, focused on the snap of his jeans rather than on his baby brother's face. "It was just something the doctors offered, and something they said. . . They said if I signed it, then you wouldn't have to decide about life support or anything like that. I didn't want that for you."

"Well you should've asked ME," Sam said through gritted teeth. He was finding it hard to sustain the intensity of the conversation with Dean being so dismissive about it.

"Doesn't matter, anyway," Dean admitted, and Sam thought his brother's eyes were sliding shut. "I changed my mind. Soon as I signed it, I felt like the vultures were circling around waiting for me to kick off, so I checked my ass out. Didn't give 'em the chance to even file that thing."

"Oh," Sam said, deflated. There was a long pause, and Sam knew that Dean was falling asleep. He figured he'd better get everything out in the open now while he had the chance.

"That still doesn't explain why you won't let that professor raise some money for you, Dean. The hospital bills are already way more than what we had in the bank. Even the $15,000 I got for that black dog doesn't put a dent in it. So what, Dean? How do you think we're gonna pay for it? 'Cuz we can't just skip town this time. I won't do it anymore. You expect to keep on hunting now that you're sick?"

"Why not?" Dean asked sarcastically, "I did the last time."

"You didn't," Sam cringed with disbelief. "Dad did not drag you hunting while you were dying of friggin' cancer, Dean."

"You're right. He didn't drag me. I went willingly. Like I said, that's what we do. Just look in Dad's journal. There's gotta be entries in there from that whole year I was sick."

Sam opened his mouth to argue when his mind latched onto something he hadn't thought of before. "Dad's journal! Shit, why didn’t I think of that?" He shouted. "God, we haven't looked in there, cuz all I've been thinking of is doctors and crap!"

"Dude, maybe it’s the meds talking here, but you're making the kinda sense that doesn't."

"Don't you get it? Dean! Maybe Dad can't tell us what he did to cure you the first time, and maybe you don't remember a whole lot about that year you were sick. But if you're right, and he kept hunting that whole time, I'll bet money he was hunting more than just things that went bump in the night. Somewhere in that journal is the information we need to figure out what he was up to. We just have to find that missing year!"




XXX


Part Three