Chapter Text
Dean reached out and ripped the picture from the mirror, crumpling it up in his fist as rage and terror raced for dominance.
The son of a bitch—it had just—Sam.
Turning on his heel, Dean strode from the room. He was so mad that everything had a red tint to it and his heart was starting to beat an insistent tattoo against his rib cage.
The shifter had been in Sam's room when he had been alone and vulnerable.
It could have killed him.
Dean closed his eyes, trying to think through the buzz in his head.
Sam. Getting back to Sam and making sure he was alright, that the shifter hadn't killed him in the hours that he had been left alone, that was his priority. He would be damned if he left his side again, not until he knew an exact location for the shifter. Why had he been leaving Sam alone in the first place, what the hell had he been thinking? Sure, Sam wasn't a helpless little kid anymore, but if Sam had been attacked there would have been precious little that he could have done. Dean didn't even think that he had silver on him, never mind a weapon.
When had Dean gotten to be such an idiot?
Before he could go back to the hospital, though, he had some things that he had to take care of. The motel was compromised, that much was clear. Dean didn't know how the shifter knew where they were staying, but it did and that was unacceptable. It was making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and there was no way in hell that they were coming back here.
It didn't take long for him to pack everything up and check them out. It did take him longer than he hoped to find an ideal spot to park the Impala—he wasn't leaving her at the hospital because if the shifter knew where they were staying, then it probably knew what they were driving and they couldn't afford to lose the car. Once he had, however, he parked her haphazardly, locked her up, and then began to run more than walk toward the hospital, his heart still beating too hard.
Sam had to be okay. It didn't make sense for him not to be. The shifter wouldn't just leave a warning like that and then kill Sam while his back was turned, would it? Dean was having trouble assuring himself of that because if it had another opportunity, then it might just take it and Sam had been defenseless for the last six hours.
Forcing himself to walk through the lobby of the hospital, he made for the stairs and took them two at a time. It was quicker than taking the elevator and less crowded. There were fewer chances of someone stabbing him in the back.
Sam had been right, just like he usually was, even though Dean would never admit it out loud.
He hadn't been careful. He hadn't been watching his back, not really. He hadn't even really been watching Sam's. Why had they both just assumed that the hospital would be a safe place, that the shifter wouldn't be able to find them? He'd gotten cocky and that was unacceptable. That got people killed; it was one of the first things that his Dad had taught him.
If he had gotten Sam killed—that thought was too horrible to continue.
Sam's door was cracked open and Dean's breath caught in the back of his throat. He had closed that door, he had been sure of it, what if—he burst through without making any effort to be quiet, letting the door bang back against the wall.
The room was peaceful, and Sam was asleep in much of the same position that Dean had left him in.
He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, and focused in on the monitors, reading them with an ease gained from far too much experience.
Sam was alive and doing about as well as he had been that morning.
Still, Dean hesitated, trying to come down from the adrenaline high. Forcing his breathing back into a more regular pattern, he slowly moved over to stand next to the side of the bed, twisting the silver ring that he had started wearing once they knew what they were hunting.
If the shifter had been in Sam's room, then who was to say that the shifter wasn't Sam? It's what Dean would do. Dean didn't trust anyone else here and it would be the easiest way for the shifter to set a trap for him.
Lowering his hand, Dean hesitated a moment longer before letting the ring brush Sam's exposed forearm.
Nothing happened and Dean's shoulders dropped, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
Sam was alive, and he knew where he was. He hadn't gotten his brother kidnapped or killed.
Stepping back, he took a deep breath and locked his hands behind his head as he turned in a slow circle. That could have been really, really, bad. Put your brother in the ground kind of bad.
He needed to get his head in the game, to stop screwing around.
Flicking the overhead light on, Dean moved to stand guard next to the door and glanced back at Sam, reassuring himself that he was indeed alright.
He paused, tilting his head to take in Sam's complexion better.
There was a definite yellow tinge to his skin, and that two-by-four was back. Yellow skin meant jaundice, and that meant that Sam's liver was still failing.
"Don't do this to me, Sammy," he murmured past the sudden lump in his throat.
Sam didn't stir and Dean took a step back, feeling faintly ill himself.
None of this was good—at all. It was all going wrong. Everything that could have fallen apart had, and any sense of control that he had was slipping right through his fingers.
Moving back to the door, he leaned up against it, staring out into the bustling hallway.
He knew that they were hunting a damn shifter, and they were sneaky bastards. He should have been checking every single person that came into this room. He never should have left Sam alone.
#
Sam's stomach churning violently woke him, but he lay there with his eyes closed for a long moment, trying to go back to sleep. It would be so much better than facing whatever embarrassing and grim reality was waiting for him.
The medication Maria had given him earlier had worn off and he was feeling it. This wasn't going to end well for him.
Opening his eyes, Sam shifted up onto his elbow but stopped with a hiss, his arm clamping around his right side as the hot, sharp, pain lanced through him.
"You okay?" Dean asked gruffly from where he was standing like a silent watchdog over by the door. His eyes were dark, his back straight, and his arms were folded across his chest as he stared at the hallway.
He was still wearing the same clothes from before and Sam's heart sank. Dean couldn't keep doing this to himself. How was he supposed to keep Dean alive if he wouldn't even listen to his plea for him to take a freaking nap?
"What happened? I thought that you were going back to shower and sleep?" he asked, his voice coming out tighter than he had intended it to, although that probably had to do with the fact that he was going to throw up sooner rather than later.
"You gonna puke again?"
Dean wasn't answering his question or looking at him and Sam frowned, irritated. "Dean, you said that you were going to go back and sleep. Why the hell didn't you?"
Dean wasn't taking the bait and he just shook his head, still staring through the door. "I did. Go back to sleep."
"Dude, don't try and change the subject. I swear that I'm going to have Dr. DeCary give you something to make you sleep. You can't keep going on like this! You promised me."
Dean scoffed a laugh, finally looking over at him, and then frowned as he did so, whatever retort he was working on dying on his lips. "Seriously, man, you gonna puke? You're looking, you know—" he made a gesture with his hands.
Sam looked away, grimacing but staying resolutely silent. Dean wasn't getting the upper hand here like that. Dean shrugged, looking back out into the hallway and Sam fought the urge to throw the highlighter on the bedside table at the back of his head.
He would have, but he probably would have missed with the way that his hands were shaking. That, and the queasiness was getting worse.
Sam made it another five minutes through pure stubbornness of will before he had to admit defeat.
Swinging his legs over the bed, he pushed himself upright with arms that trembled more than he had expected. Damnit, he was getting weaker. Dean looked over, but Sam just glared at him even as he grabbed for the IV pole and leaned heavily against it.
"Here, let me help." Dean had finally moved and was reaching for Sam's arm but he shrugged him off.
"I don't need your help," he said firmly even though his legs were weak and he wasn't so sure that his knees were going to hold him up. His side gave another vicious stab and he had to stop, hunching over. The mask of stony indifference and anger that Dean had been wearing melted into worry as he grabbed Sam's arm.
Sam ignored him. He was still angry. He tried so hard to look after Dean, had for years, and it just never seemed like enough.
His stomach gave a warning lurch and, deciding that the risk of aggravating the pain was worth not spilling his guts all over the floor, Sam started moving again. Dean tightened his grip, not letting go until they were in the bathroom.
There, Sam shook him off with a glare, not that it made a difference as Dean just followed him in. He had one arm out to catch Sam in case he couldn't keep his balance, which turned out to be a good thing when his knees went out from under him. Dean grabbed for him, slowing his descent.
Sam didn't have time to say anything—either in appreciation or protest—before he was gagging. Lunging for the toilet, he made it just in time to start retching in earnest. Gripping the seat hard enough to turn his knuckles white, he bent over it, heaving for all that he was worth.
Nothing came up, but his side was burning enough to make his eyes water.
Damnit. This sucked.
Licking his lips, Sam screwed his eyes shut as he retched again only for the same result.
"I bet that you are never going to eat mushrooms again, huh?" Dean asked as he combed Sam's hair back and away from his face with one hand, the other flat between Sam's shoulder blades. It was comforting, and Sam wanted to be mad about it but that energy was being converted into dry heaving.
He felt like his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, and he was finally rewarded for his efforts with a mouthful of stomach bile. He shakily wiped at his chin with the back of his hand only to have to lurch forward again, coughing.
He didn't know if he had ever been this sick before. No, he wasn't ever eating mushrooms again. Not at least for a little bit. Not if he survived.
"Easy. It will be over soon," Dean murmured helplessly and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, panting hard. He didn't believe Dean. His symptoms just seemed to be getting worse. "C'mon, man, take some deep breaths. You don't have anything left to throw up. You've just got to calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down," Sam mumbled, hunching into himself as the pain continued to build, which in turn was making the nausea worse. It was becoming one big vicious cycle.
Dean made a sound but waited patiently through another round of heaving before gently but firmly forcing Sam to move away from the toilet and lean up against the wall. "You're good. Just give it a minute, you don't need to throw up again," he said in a tone that dared Sam's stomach to defy him. Sam wasn't so sure that it was going to work, but if it didn't the toilet was right there and he didn't have it in him to fight his brother over something like this.
Dean moved away, and Sam swallowed back a gag, wrapping his arms around his stomach. A moment later, something cold and wet nudged his hand, and Sam looked up to see that Dean was offering him a wet hand towel. Sam took it. Shaking it out, he buried his face in it and then just sat there with his eyes closed as he tried to will the nausea away.
He was so tired of feeling sick.
To his horror, Sam's eyes began to burn and he had to bite at the inside of his cheek, willing the sob down. This was ridiculous, he didn't—it wasn't even that bad. It wasn't like he was going crazy again or going through withdrawals alone in the panic room. Dean was here. Dean was alive, and they were together.
Dean reached across Sam, fixing his IV so that it wasn't digging into his skin. "You feeling better?" he asked hopefully and Sam didn't have the heart to tell him no, just forced a nod.
Dean hummed a disappointed sigh, seeing everything that Sam wasn't saying, but didn't push the issue. A moment later, he felt Dean settle in next to him with his shoulder brushing his. Dean was tense, and Sam could feel the anger flowing off of him despite the gentle way in which he was treating him, and he knew it was directed at him.
Sam didn't think that he wanted to know what had happened to turn Dean's mood so sour. For a moment, he considered dropping his head against Dean's shoulder and going back to sleep but he couldn't. He may not want to, but he had to figure out why Dean was acting odd because if he didn't do it, then no one else would. Dean deserved that; it was the least that Sam could do for him.
Pressing the cool cloth against his face for a minute longer, Sam inhaled shakily and then lifted his head. "Help me up. I want to go back to bed," he said thickly, fighting off the urge to start gagging again. Dean wouldn't talk to him, not while he was in the bathroom and threatening to spew his guts out.
Dean looked surprised. "You sure? I don't want to have to carry your heavy ass back in here again in ten minutes."
"Yeah, the floor's uncomfortable."
Dean huhed slowly, still looking suspicious but helped Sam up all the same and lent him his arm to shuffle over to the sink.
Bracing one hand against the porcelain to support his weight, Sam cupped his other under the water, splashing a handful across his face before running his hand through his hair. He felt horrible. Maybe moving hadn't been such a good idea.
"Here, rinse." Dean pushed a cup into his view and Sam leaned a little harder against the sink as he took it, and began to sip hesitantly at it. He glanced up into the mirror as he did so and proceeded to choke on the water.
The whites of his eyes were yellow, and his skin had taken on the same hue.
"You look like a banana," Dean said tastefully from behind him as he began to thump him on the back as he coughed.
The coughing turned into gagging, and Sam bent over the sink, heaving once again.
When the fit stopped, Sam stared into the mirror in shock.
He raised a hand to his face before dropping it again. "That's all you could come up with? Banana?" he got out in a strangled voice, trying to remain calm.
Dean threaded his arm around his waist, pulling him firmly away from the mirror and out of the bathroom. "Would you have preferred, 'you look like a character from the Simpsons'? Because, I mean, you kind of do."
"Shut up." Sam shoved his elbow back into Dean's stomach, but he didn't even flinch, the movement probably too weak to be noticeable.
"You shut up, Pikachu." Dean braced Sam, helping to lower him back into the bed and then the smile faded from his face as he looked back at the door again, his face hard.
Sam caught Dean's arm, not allowing him to leave his side. "What happened? And don't say nothing, because you left and then came back acting…weird. Did something happen with the shifter? Or did DeCary tell you something that you're not telling me?"
Dean made a self-deprecating face. "It's not important."
"Not important, my ass. What happened, Dean?"
"Look, okay, I'll tell you, just don't get all riled up," Dean said warningly, and Sam raised an eyebrow. If Dean was prefacing that with whatever he was about to say then it wasn't going to be good.
"What?" he demanded again.
Dean sighed, scratching at the back of his head and looking a little embarrassed. "The shifter got my voicemail and decided to leave a message of its own. In our motel room."
Sam felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him and his stomach leaped uncomfortably. "Are you serious? Did it do anything to you? Do you need a doctor, I can—"
"Sam, shut up," Dean said wearily, leaning his head back. "We didn't actually see each other, we missed each other by God only knows how long. It must have dropped by sometime after I left that voicemail and before you forced me to go back. It should be grateful for that, though. If I had walked in on it, I would have slammed my knife so hard down its throat that it would have been coming out the other end."
Sam shook his head in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd told Dean to back down. Why hadn't he listened?
"What was the message?" he asked, trying hard not to sound pissed off.
Dean shrugged. "Nothing creative. It told me to back off. That, and it left this…" Dean trailed off as he reached out into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled-up picture.
Sam took it, straightening it out, and felt his own heart miss a beat. It was him, asleep, in the hospital room.
"Well," he said, trying for calm and not sure that he was succeeding. "that's nerve-wracking." No wonder Dean had been acting freaked. The shifter had been close enough to take a picture of him, even if it was not a very good photo and clearly hurried, and neither of them had known. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as a shiver went down his spine. "I don't like this. I really don't like that."
Dean shook his head, his lips thinning. "No one likes it. It feels…I want it dead, I want this thing deader than dead."
Sam looked over at him. Dean was practically vibrating with anger.
This is exactly what he had feared all along. Dean was charging forward with his heart instead of his head and he hadn't been watching his own back, not really.
The shifter had been in both the hospital and the motel room and could have killed either of them.
"What do you want to do?" he asked, still trying to remain calm.
Dean made a face as he heaved a sigh. "Ideally? Get you out of the hospital and out of harm's way, but…" he gestured at the IV. That wasn't going to happen, not while Sam was still fighting off the death cap toxins. "So, instead, no one is getting into this room. Not without getting past me, I don't care who it is or how many times they've been in here. They get tested. And we'll wait for the trace. As soon as I have the shifter's location pinned down, then I'm killing the bitch."
Really, they should have been testing everybody all along. This whole hunt was making them look like amateurs.
Dean scoffed. "Don't give me that look. I messed up, I should have been doing a better job, okay, happy?" he growled, standing and starting to pace a tight line by the bed.
"No, I'm not happy," Sam was struggling to keep the frustration out of his tone, and he knew that Dean could hear it. "I asked you to watch your back, man. I trusted you to do that. The shifter could have killed you just as easily as it could have killed me."
"Sam—" There was a dangerous note to Dean's voice that might have scared off others, but Sam had never heeded it before and he wasn't about to start now.
"Get me my phone."
"No. You're supposed to be resting."
"I want to call the hotel manager and see if he saw anyone going into our room. Or I can hack into the hospital security, see who was been in here. If we know that, then we can maybe get an ID on who the shifter is currently."
"No, it would be pointless anyway. The security here is kept on film, you can't hack it."
"Dean, I swear, just get me my laptop. I will find—"
Dean shook his head again, cutting him off as he said, "Don't worry about it, you get some rest. I'll do something about it."
"Just like you were doing something about watching your back?" Sam fired back, bracing his arm against his side to ward off the pain that was rearing back up.
Dean flinched. "If you didn't look like Big Bird right now, I'd smack you for that," he said darkly, anger sparking a fire in his eyes, and Sam met his gaze evenly.
"You promised me that you were going to be careful, that you weren't going to get yourself killed."
"Yeah, well, I'm still here, aren't I?" Dean spread his arms. "It's you that we should be talking about. You're the one getting sicker, yet you're not even trying to take care of yourself. You just keep trying to do more damn research! You wanna talk about promises? Where are mine that you are doing everything possible to get better? That you'll keep fighting and not just throw in the towel, huh? You're so fussed up about what's going to happen if I die, that you never stopped to think that it goes both ways. What am I going to do? I don't have a girl and a dog to go run off with!"
Sam blinked in surprise at the outburst, but that didn't stop him from leaning forward. He could feel his face flushing even as he pinned his arm against his side. "I don't have that either, I gave it up for you. And I didn't have it, I had to find it. I was alone and it sucked."
"Well, you found that all pretty quick, didn't you?"
"Right, because a vampire is so much better than—"
Sam had to stop, gritting his teeth against the pain and doubling forward. Dean froze for a second, looking shocked before he leaped into action and slowly eased Sam back against the pillows. His hand covered Sam's arm where it was clenched over his middle and added just enough pressure to soothe but not increase the pain.
"What do you need? Water? Pain meds?" he asked tightly, searching Sam's eyes.
Sam shook his head. "I'm fine," he said stubbornly and Dean lifted an eyebrow disbelievingly even though he kept his hand on Sam's arm.
"Right. But all the same, maybe we should hold off on the arguing until your liver is back in working order."
"Probably," Sam agreed with a smile even as he blinked sweat out of his eyes. "It's not like we haven't had this one before anyway. We both know how it ends."
Dean huffed. "Why do we do that? It's not like either of us ever wins."
"I dunno, we're just that dumb." Sam's breath caught on a hiss and Dean tightened his grip. He was silent until Sam relaxed, the pain ebbing back down to a manageable level.
"Well, I think that's a sign that you're supposed to be resting," he finally said, squeezing Sam's arm one last time before letting go. "I'm serious. I get to do the research this time, you just…you just sleep."
The please was unspoken, but Sam could clearly read it, could see the plea for him to take care of himself in the terror in Dean's eyes.
"Don't look at porn on my laptop. That's what yours is for," he said at last and Dean smiled.
"Man, you are no fun." He patted Sam's knee as he crossed the room to close the door and then sat down, pulling out Sam's laptop.
Sam watched as the mask fell back into place as he started to work and felt his heart clench.
What was Dean going to do if Sam died? Sam was still convinced that it hadn't been a mistake for him to try and move on when he'd thought that Dean had died and was in heaven. But Dean? Dean would feel like it was a betrayal of everything that he stood for to do that. Sam couldn't trust Cas with him right now, and he knew that if he died his brother wouldn't go back to Benny because of some screwed-up sense of honor to Sam's memory.
He would be alone.
What would Dean do then?
Sam didn't want certain repeat performances, on either of their sides and there was a very real possibility that he wasn't going to make it out of this. That meant that they were going to have to talk. They were going to have to talk about what Sam wanted if he died, and what had happened while Dean was in Purgatory. That…that wasn't something Sam necessarily wanted to do.
"If you're going to puke again, I can get a bucket," Dean stated, his voice still gruff and Sam looked up to find Dean staring at him over the lid of the laptop.
"I'm fine, just tired."
"Then go to sleep, idiot."
They would talk, just not yet. Sam needed a moment to think about what he was going to say and how to approach the tender subject.
Slowly and carefully, he curled up on his side before closing his eyes.
He was tired—tired right down to his soul—but it took him a while to get to sleep. He drifted somewhere in between for a long time until a comforting and familiar hand rested on the crown of his head, soothing him into oblivion.
#
Dean sat on the chair next to the bed, one hand balancing the laptop while his other rested on Sam's head, his fingers twisting lightly through his thick hair until his brother finally succumbed to a deeper sleep. When he felt like Sam wouldn't wake up if he moved, he gently smoothed Sam's hair away from his face one last time before pulling away and staring down at him.
The yellow tint to his skin was unnerving, and it made something sink deep into the pit of his stomach every time he looked at his brother.
He couldn't lose Sam, he would do whatever it took to save him.
The door opened behind them, a nurse striding in and Dean spun around, planting himself right in front of Sam, suddenly tense.
"Where's Maria?" he asked, and she gave him an odd look.
"She called in sick today."
She reached for the bag of fluids hanging over Sam's bed, but Dean grabbed her arm, holding tight as he stared straight into her eyes.
She flinched back, looking scared, but the silver ring that Dean was wearing didn't cause a reaction.
"Sorry," Dean said, only feeling a small twinge of guilt as he let go. She rubbed her arm, giving him a furious look.
"What was that for?" she snarled, and Sam started in his sleep, his eyes flickering open and Dean fluttered a hand back, patting his chest to soothe him.
"Nothing, I just—" I just wanted to make sure that you weren't a shapeshifter here to murder my brother "—I wanted to know what you were doing."
She glowered at him. "Next time, ask. I'm just changing the IV bags out." She gave him a nasty look and was turning to leave when Dean stopped her.
"Hey. He was throwing up again. Can you give him something stronger to combat the nausea?" he asked, not caring that she was still giving him the stink eye.
She nodded briskly, did as asked, and left as soon as her job was complete.
Dean didn't care. He was prepared to turn the whole staff against him if it meant keeping Sam safe.
It did make him wonder, however, if the shifter had been Maria at least part of the time that they had been there. The message had been written in lipstick, and as such, it made sense that the shifter was a woman. Most of the nurses here were women, and Maria had to have been a likely candidate. Now, she could be dead in her home. Because of them. The thought was uncomfortable, and if Dean wasn't so determined to keep Sam safe, he would have gone and investigated.
Now it was too dangerous. Not with Sam so weak. Not with the shifter knowing their location.
That still made Dean's skin crawl and he wished not for the first time that he could pack Sam up and haul ass out of the hospital. With almost anything else, Dean would have, but this…Dean couldn't fix this with alcohol and stitches. This was too big for him.
Alicia—Maria's replacement—didn't come back in that afternoon except when absolutely necessary to change the IV bag, evidently avoiding them. Dean didn't care, the fewer people around the better right now. It made it easy to control the situation and keep tabs on anyone who might try to come in to kill Sam.
That, and Sam was rapidly deteriorating and the lack of nurses meant that it was easier for Dean to fulfill his God-given right of older brother without people getting in the way or trying to help. Sam didn't need nurses right now except to administer medication and monitor the situation, they just made him clam up and turn inwards.
What he needed was Dean.
Sam spent most of the afternoon sleeping, but it wasn't a peaceful sleep and he kept jerking awake. At first, when that happened, Sam would brush off Dean's questions and offer his help, but as the day dragged on he began to just lay there silently, his face pinched with an agony that he was refusing to give voice to. When Dean tried to engage him in conversation, he would just shake his head. That was when Dean started to fill the silence, talking about nothing and everything until Sam's eyes would drift shut in sleep, only for them to repeat the process the next time he woke.
It was exhausting, and not just because Dean had trouble filling silence on a good day. It wasn't easy to watch Sam steadily decline. Sam had been talking—hell, they'd picked a fight— just that morning. And now…now, Dean didn't think that Sam could even get out of bed if needed.
If Sam was to actually die, if this was how he went out, then Dean almost wished that it was over already. That it had been a knife in his back or a pipe buried in his guts because at least those times it had been quick. Sam hadn't suffered for more than a few minutes, not this drawn-out, pain-filled, sickness that he was being forced to endure.
Dean was enduring it with him, and it sucked.
It was just before visiting hours ended that Dr. DeCary stopped by.
Dean was immediately on the alert, eyeing the doctor warily. He had been wondering about the doctor all afternoon, if only because his brain wouldn't shut up about the horrible possibilities of the shifter taking over his brother's care. It would explain the sudden and rapid decline in his brother.
Dr. DeCary didn't seem to notice the increased attention as he reached past Dean for Sam's file. Dean's hand leaped out, just brushing his arm.
Nothing happened besides Dr. DeCary shooting him a quizzical look, and Dean relaxed, shaking his head. Sam was just doing bad, then, it wasn't the shifter screwing up his care. He wasn't sure that was much more of a comfort.
Flipping the chart open, Dr. DeCary began to read with a weary sigh and the corners of his mouth steadily turned down. Dean's chest constricted. He never wanted to see that look on one of Sam's doctors again.
"Anything new?" he asked quietly. Sam was currently sleeping and he didn't want to wake him if he could help it, not when he needed all the rest that he could get. Not when he needed to be fighting this with everything that he had.
Dr. DeCray sighed again as he sat down on Dean's long abandoned chair.
"I have another medication that I would like to try. Do you want to wake Sam up so that we can talk about it?"
"He's had a rough afternoon," Dean said hesitantly, laying a hand protectively on Sam's shoulder.
"I could have predicted that from his numbers alone. They aren't good, Dean." Dr. DeCary said it emphatically and Dean's chest was so tight that it hurt. Was there no good news to be had?
Turning away, he tried to compose himself as he shook Sam's shoulder lightly, calling his name. Sam stirred lethargically, blinking blearily up at him, and he hitched a smile on his face.
"Doc's here and wants to talk," he said at Sam's questioning look.
Dr. DeCray jumped right. "Sam, I'll be honest, things could be looking better. Your liver is failing faster than I would have hoped."
"Way to sugarcoat it," Dean muttered under his breath but Dr. DeCrary didn't pay him any attention.
"The good news is that I did just finish talking with another specialist, Dr. William Smith from Oregon, and he swears up and down that we should give a new medication, Silybum, a try. Smith was very insistent that it would work, and is actually in the process of writing a paper on the value of it in mushroom poisoning. Said that if you recover, you should reach out to him." Dr. DeCary tried for a smile, but Sam just blinked sluggishly up at him, still looking half asleep. His arm—which seemed permanently pressed to his side—tightened and Dean squeezed his shoulder again.
"And do you think that it will work?" he asked for both of them.
"I am hopeful, especially after talking with Smith. And this does give Sam one more thing working in his favor, which is what we need."
Dean nodded slowly, taking in the new information. "And how long do you estimate before Sam's liver fails completely?" Before he dies.
Dr. DeCray shot a look at Sam, who dropped his gaze. "If we aren't seeing signs of improvement sometime tomorrow evening or the next morning then I will be very, very, concerned. If Sam's liver is still in crisis at that point, then all we can do is hope for a liver to become available. If that does not happen, well…." He trailed off, not needing to say what exactly would happen.
"That's not—that's not very long," Dean said, trying hard to keep his voice from cracking. He wasn't sure that he succeeded.
"Dean, it'll be okay," Sam said softly, speaking for the first time in several hours and Dean felt about four inches tall. Sam was sick, really sick, and here he was trying to comfort Dean. Sam shouldn't have to worry about anything but resting and fighting.
Dr. DeCary gave them both a sad little smile. "I will go ahead and give the order for the Silybum to be administered. Alicia will be in with it soon."
He rose, and Dean stood as well, walking him to the door. He caught the doctor's arm before he could leave. "Can we also get some more painkillers?" he asked in an undertone. "Sam won't admit it, but he's in a lot of pain. His side is really bugging him."
Dr. DeCary nodded and made a note of it on Sam's file that he was still holding. "I will see that it happens. Goodnight, gentlemen. I'll come back first thing in the morning, and we will have tests run again to see where we stand," he said before closing the door.
Sam smacked Dean's arm once he sat down on the edge of the bed, but it was nauseatingly weak. "Why'd you ask for painkillers? I feel loopy enough as is."
"What? You are in pain! You were in pain all of yesterday too," Dean protested, rubbing his arm more for show than anything else.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up at Dean. "There is also a shifter on the loose, and I'm too tired to come up with all the reasons why I don't want to feel even more out of it than I already do. I'm sure that you can come up with them yourself."
"I can come up with a lot of reasons why you should take them. Besides, what are you going to do against a shifter right now? Snore at it? I've got it."
This time, there was no clap back from Sam and Dean gritted his teeth. He would take a surly Sam over a dead Sam any day. Not that Sam had even been that grumpy, not really. He'd just been doing what he could to watch Dean's back.
Dean depended on that more than he would ever admit out loud.
Sam glared at him again but didn't refute the statement as he breathed out a low sigh and then closed his eyes.
Dean privately felt like he had made the right choice no matter what Sam said when Sam dropped off into a deep sleep only a couple of minutes after the new drugs had been administered and didn't wake up again.
It did leave Dean feeling lonely and jittery.
He started trying to research again but gave it up after only a half-hearted attempt. The shifter had probably already shifted into someone else, anyway. Their best hope was for Riley to come through with a location, but until he did that, there was nothing for Dean to do.
He began to pace the small room once more. Every time he passed by the foot of the bed, he checked his phone for any new texts or calls just like he had been doing all afternoon.
Dean had about worn a hole in the floor when, around five in the morning, Sam woke up.
"Why aren't you back at the motel?"
Dean jumped, not having noticed that Sam was awake, and then turned back towards the bed. "We aren't going over this again, dude. We just aren't. I'm not going back. Besides, the motel is compromised. I would have to get a new one."
"Huh?" Sam said eloquently and Dean slowed, watching Sam closely. Sam's face was screwed up in sleepy confusion, not defiance.
"You with me, Sam, or has the morphine done that good of a number on you?"
"Yeah, yeah, I just…" Sam stared at him, blinking heavily and not reassuring Dean at all. "Sorry. Yeah. The shifter. It is a shifter, right? What we are hunting? Not…" Sam trailed off again as Dean's stomach dropped.
"Yeah, it's a shifter, Sammy."
"Oh, yeah. Okay," Sam said without fuss. His hands were trembling as he reached out, pulling the blanket up higher across his shoulders as his eyes drifted shut again, only for them to pop open with sudden realization. "Sorry. Sorry, I just…that was a weird question, right? I don't know where that came from. I'm just tired. I'm with it."
Dean forced a smile. Right. Because that was how Sam acted normally. "Dude, go back to sleep, then. It's like five in the morning, no one else in their right mind is up."
"Why are you then?" Sam smiled and Dean shook his head even as he ducked his head to hide one of his own. That was his Sam, even if he was still half out of it.
"Bring it, Big Bird."
Sam fell silent again with a little sigh, his eyelids drooping before he reached out, catching Dean's arm and mumbling. "I'm cold. You should find me another blanket."
"That, I can do," Dean said easily, getting up and searching through the cabinets that lined one side of the room. Only, there wasn't one there and he wasn't leaving Sam to find Alicia to ask for one. He wasn't going to dangle his brother on a hook like that for the shifter to just waltz right in and finish the job, but…Sam was trembling.
Making a face more for show than anything, he shrugged his jacket off. "This'll work till Alicia gets here," he said, draping it over Sam's shoulders.
"Thanks," Sam muttered, rolling into it with an ease that came from being on morphine. Dean doubted that he would have willingly accepted it otherwise, he was too independent for that. All the same, it made him smile fondly at the sight, remembering Sam asleep in the back of the Impala wrapped in Dad's leather jacket. He'd been such a small kid. Who could have guessed that he'd grow up to be such a giant?
"Hey, Dean," Sam said suddenly and Dean looked up. Sam still had his eyes closed and wasn't looking at him, but his hand had twisted tight enough in the jacket to turn his fingers white.
"Yeah?"
"Am I…am I going to die?"
Dean hadn't been prepared for that, not in the slightest, and his stomach dropped like he'd swallowed a bowling ball. They didn't ask questions like that of the other—ever—but it must have been on Sam's mind. The drugs just let it slip, and Dean now regretted asking for them.
"Nah," he said, forcing his voice to be gentle as he shook his head. "You're not dying. Not on my watch, kiddo."
Sam frowned. "This wasn't how I thought I'd go out, you know? I don't know how I'd thought I would, but—"
"You're not dying!" Dean cut in, and his voice was suddenly harsh and he had to work to push the wave of emotions back down as he tried to soften his tone again. "You're not dying, Sammy. I'm not going to let you. You're going to be just fine. No mushroom has anything on you, not when you've defeated Lucifer."
Maybe if Dean said it enough, it would be true.
Sam was silent, his breathing heavy in the otherwise quiet room.
"We need to talk," he said suddenly, his words slurring, but Dean shook his head.
"Nope. Not right now because you are higher than a kite, man. You just asked me what we were hunting. Whatever it is can wait until morning."
"No, this can't wait. What if—what if I fall into a coma or something?"
"You're not—"
"Dean, I have some things that I need to say."
"You're not dying so stop being a dramatic bitch."
Sam stared at him, and Dean knew that he would see pain there if he looked deep enough. He looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
"When you were in Purgatory—"
Sam began but Dean cut him off with a sharp noise.
Of all the things Sam could have picked, this was one that Dean didn't want to talk about. It was too tender a subject to talk about for both of them, and Sam was out of it right now. If they were going to talk about it, then Dean wanted it to be done right.
"It's fine. We don't need to talk about that. It's all water under the bridge." Dean patted Sam's shoulder and stood, effectively putting an end to the conversation. They could talk about it over beers in a couple of weeks. Well…maybe coffee. Dean didn't know the healing process for acute liver failure, but, somehow, he doubted that it involved alcohol of any sort.
Sam heaved a sigh, finally opening his eyes. "Please, Dean, this is important to me."
"I know, and we will talk. Just not right now," Dean insisted, his back still to Sam as he leaned against the door, his heart in his throat.
When Dean looked around again sometime later, Sam had fallen back asleep.
That should have made Dean feel grateful, but everything was so mixed up right now that he wasn't sure what he was feeling.
When Alicia made her rounds at the end of the hour, Dean requested another blanket. When she brought it, Dean tried to ease his jacket away, but Sam had his hand tangled in the sleeve, and Dean didn't want to wake him while getting it free.
Letting him have it, Dean turned and resumed pacing the tight line by the door, checking his phone every couple of minutes. It helped fuel a constant source of anger that could eat away at the fear that was trying to take over.
It was hard when Sam was right in front of him, dying, and not for the first time that day he wished that he could get his hands on the shifter solely to have a minute to breathe. To have something that he could control and could fight. To have something that he could put an end to.
#
The ringing of Dean's phone jarred Sam awake and he flinched, gazing up at the ceiling. He stared at it for a second, his heart racing as he tried to remember why he was there and what was happening.
Dean swore quietly next to him as he hurriedly silenced the ringing and moved away from the bed.
Sam twisted to look at him and frowned. His brother looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed in dark shadows and his hair standing up in strange directions as he shot Sam an apologetic look before answering.
Shaking his head, Sam closed his eyes again. Shifting deeper into the pillows, he pulled—was that Dean's jacket lying over him? His face flushed in embarrassment. He had vague memories of telling Dean that he was cold and then trying to talk about Purgatory.
Great. He hadn't wanted to come clean to Dean while high.
"What?" he heard Dean demand quietly and Sam lifted his head, listening carefully to the one-sided conversation. Only, Dean was silent, listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end.
"Thank you for letting me know. We'll get right on that," was all that he said before hanging up.
"Was that Riley?" Sam asked and Dean shook his head, looking puzzled.
"Chief Schneider. Called to tell me that the vase, the one that the shifter tried to steal from Monx, vanished from evidence about an hour ago. They were finished with it and were preparing to return it to Monx, had it in a box to be shipped to him and everything. They turned their backs and it disappeared." He tapped the phone thoughtfully against the safety rail on the bed, frowning.
Sam's brain wasn't moving as fast as normal, but that was important. He knew it was. Still, it took a long moment for him to connect the dots. "The shifter didn't hunker down just to wait us out. It was preparing to run, to leave New York, but it had to get the vase first. It was always going to go back for it," he suddenly realized, looking over at Dean.
"You think?"
"Yeah, no, I know. I know, I just don't…" Sam dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to think. He knew this. He'd read it somewhere; he hadn't thought that it was that important then.
"What?" Dean demanded.
Sam was silent, desperately trying to remember. "I was telling you about it at the library, it was…There are two vases, they were part of a matching set and the other one is somewhere in Europe. People…they have been trying to get them back together again for about a thousand years because then it would be ridiculously valuable. The one that Monx had alone was worth about twenty million dollars. But the pair, together? That would be worth easily double that, probably more."
"So?" Dean fired back, but Sam's brain was still churning.
"The shifter is planning to bring the vases back together; that was the plan all along. It must know where the other one is and couldn't resist getting Monx's vase. It has to have Monx's vase, otherwise, it would be useless. Either that or someone else has the second vase and commissioned the shifter to bring them Monx's. Either way, the shifter is taking the vase and is leaving. That's another reason it didn't outright kill us. It had to get us out of the equation for about a week or so, and then it would be in the clear because it was leaving."
"Damnit." Dean looked like he was just resisting the urge to throw his phone across the room. "It's going to be that much harder to catch it if it leaves New York. We've got to stop it, right now."
"Yeah, but now that it has the vase, it might already be gone." Sam didn't know if he should feel disappointment or relief. The shifter had played them every step of the way, but at least Dean would be safe. That mattered more to Sam in the long run, but Dean was looking gutted.
He ran both hands through his hair, repeating "Damnit," as he turned in a circle.
"Dean, it's—"
"Don't you say okay. This isn't okay. If we let this one go then everything it will do will be on us."
Sam didn't argue. There was no point and besides, a thought had just occurred to him.
"Get my phone. No, get me the laptop. I want to check something," he said feeling more aware than he had all of yesterday. He fumbled to sit straight, accepting Dean's hand when it was offered, and his brother's jacket slipped off his shoulders, pooling in his lap.
Dean turned, rummaging across the bedside table and returning with the laptop.
Sam couldn't believe that he hadn't thought to check this before. He was so dumb. The slender machine was heavy in his hands but he ignored the weakness in his limbs as he blinked rapidly to bring the screen into focus.
Just then, Dean's phone began to ring again and Sam looked up from the screen.
Dean's eyes widened as he turned the phone around, allowing Sam to see that it was Riley calling before he brought the phone up to his ear. "Riley, you had better be calling to tell me that you have a location," he growled.
Sam's mouth dropped open. No way. The shifter wouldn't be that stupid, would it? The phone had been turned off for a whole day now, why turn it on again when it was that close to getting away without the Winchesters on its trail?
Everything was happening too fast, Sam didn't know if he was prepared to let Dean walk out that door.
Dean was silent a minute, listening before an eerie calm settled over him and he began to dig around on the bedside table, jamming the phone between his ear and shoulder.
"Yeah, give me just a sec…"
Sam reached out, grabbing a pen and holding it out for his brother. "Here," he said hesitantly, watching as Dean yanked the cap off with his teeth and then jotted down what looked to be an address on one of the reports that were still scattered around.
"Got it. Thank you." He hung up and turned back to Sam.
"You leaving?" Sam's gut did a funny little twist. He didn't like this, but he'd already given his damn blessing.
"Yeah. The shifter hasn't left yet. It made an outgoing call to somewhere in Europe just long enough for Riley to get me a location. Were you looking up anything important, anything that I need to know?"
Sam hesitated, rubbing at his forehead.
"Sam, I've got to go. I have a location on the shifter and if I don't leave now, I could lose it. This is the only shot that I'm going to get."
Sam stared at the screen. He had been planning to try to find the local black market, see if any of the shifter's stolen items were there, see if that could help them locate the shifter's location, but if Dean already had it…
"No. It's not important," he said shortly. Dean would be fine.
Dean nodded. "Can I…?" he gestured at the jacket and Sam jerked back.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, lifting the laptop enough for Dean to grab it. His brother shrugged into it, before patting down his pockets to make sure that he had everything.
"You need anything before I leave?" he asked as he fixed the collar on his jacket.
Sam heaved a sigh. "For you to be careful." For you not to die.
"Smartass. I'll be back." Dean grinned as he reached for something at the end of the bed, and then shook out a spare blanket, offering it to Sam. He shook his head and grabbed Dean's wrist when he went ahead and began to drape it over him anyway.
"Seriously, you be careful," he said stiffly, digging his fingers into Dean's wrist as much as he could, pleading for Dean to understand. Sam couldn't lose him. He knew that Dean didn't believe that, and Sam would make it up to him given the chance, but Dean had to be alive for that to happen.
Dean smiled, pulling away with ease. "I'll be fine. It's the shifter who should be worried. Like you said, it's not trained in our kind of fighting, no reason to worry."
"This could be a trap. And you won't have anyone watching your back." Sam reached out again, desperate to make his point, and used Dean for leverage to pull himself more upright. "You have to be careful."
Dean frowned, prying Sam's fingers loose.
"I will, Sam. I promise that I'll be careful, okay? Rambo's locked away, remember?" he said, unusually solemn and Sam searched his face before settling back into the pillows.
"I've got to go but here, just in case…" Dean tugged the silver ring from his finger and handed it to him. "Don't let anyone near you without testing them first. And you have your phone, call me if something happens and I'll be back before you know it. You won't even have time to miss me."
Sam nodded, but Dean was already half out the door, the thrill of the hunt not doubt burning hot.
Sam stared after him, feeling cold inside and out.
Closing his eyes, he offered a silent prayer to God and then to Cas for good measure that Dean would be alright, that the shifter wouldn't get him.
It felt like so little, but it was all that Sam could do.
He turned back to the computer. It had seemed so important only moments before but now it just felt like busy work.
Shifting over onto his side, Sam tilted the laptop awkwardly over and splayed his hands over the keys, trying to ignore the anxiety that was threatening to tie his guts into knots.
It felt useless. That wouldn't help Dean against the shifter, it would just be a tidbit of information and he could find that later, when he felt better and when Dean was back. Because Dean was coming back. It wasn't even a very good monster, it wouldn't be able to kill Dean. But then again Sam knew better than anyone that sometimes that didn't matter. Sometimes people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Giving up on the laptop, Sam turned his attention to his phone, staring at the screen and willing it to ring. Dean would call after he killed the shifter, he would know that Sam was worried.
The seconds stretched into minutes and Sam blinked heavily, fighting against his body's desire to sleep. Slowly giving in, he made sure that his phone wasn't on silent and then closed his eyes, letting himself doze.
A knock at the door startled Sam awake and he stared dumbly at his phone and then at the door, unsure of how much time had passed.
Dr. DeCary poked his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, Sam. I know that you are resting, but you have a visitor."
Sam stared at Dr. DeCary, his brain sending off warning signals. No one in New York would want to see him.
"What?" he asked eloquently and Dr. DeCary gave him a small smile.
"Detective Stanton wanted a word with you alone as she has some follow-up questions about the case. Is it alright for her to come in?"
#
Dean jogged down the street, checking his phone every couple of minutes to make sure that he was going in the right direction.
Anger was thrumming hard and fast through his veins, but it felt good. It felt really good. This wasn't Sam dying, or wanting to talk about things that Dean wanted to bury. It was just the hunt, and Dean knew how to do that.
The shifter was in his sights and soon it would be dead.
Dean pushed himself harder excitement tingling in his veins. His knife was a comforting weight in his jacket pocket, and he gripped it.
This was it. At long last, he could get his revenge for what the monster had done to Sam.
The address that Riley had given him was for some storage units a good two miles away from the hospital, and Dean increased his pace. The quicker he got there, the less chance the shifter had of escaping. The units were a couple of blocks off the main road, and Dean turned in that direction, following the instructions on his phone. Once he was in the parking lot, he cut through it, looking for 513.
513, when he found it, looked completely normal. No one was in sight, the door was shut, and there was no car parked out front.
Dean pulled out his knife, holding it tightly. He wasn't taking this lightly, no matter what Sam thought. And maybe his brother was right…perhaps this a trap. Did the shifter know that they were trying to trace the phone and had turned it on to lure him in? Or, had he already missed it? It had been twenty minutes or so since he had talked to Riley, plenty of time for the shifter to leave.
Dean looked around again, but he couldn't see anyone. Nothing was moving.
A blinking red light caught his attention and he looked up, frowning. A security camera was pointed at the entrance of the unit.
There was going to be no way around that. If the shifter was watching that, then it would know that he was there as soon as he tried to get in. This might very well be a trap.
He hesitated, holding the knife tightly. Waiting wasn't going to spring the trap—if that's what it was—and he could stay here as long as he wanted. Or he could go up against the shifter and risk the chance that the trap wasn't that good.
It didn't take him long to decide.
Sam was also right that the shifter was more of a con artist and a thief than a monster. Its idea of a trap was toxic mushrooms; it would not be prepared for a fight. Whatever it was, Dean could handle it.
Feeling more confident, he eased forward, glancing behind his shoulder at the security camera.
He tried the door and wasn't surprised to find it padlocked shut. That wouldn't stop him for long. Bending down with his lockpicking set in hand, he made quick work of the lock and lifted the door up.
It clattered loudly, and Dean winced, ducking back as he half expected a bullet or a knife to come flying his way.
Nothing happened, but the vile stench of death and urine emanating out of the door hit him hard. Holding his arm up against his nose, Dean eased himself inside and let the door down as quietly as he could behind him, keeping his knife out.
He had brought a flashlight, but there was no need for it. An overhead light was already on, illuminating a mostly empty storage unit. It had once been full, that much was clear by the recently disturbed dust patterns. Now all that remained behind was a folding table and a couple of battered boxes in the back.
That, and Detective Stanton who had been hog-tied in the back corner.
Dean's mouth dropped open as he stared. Long dried blood was streaked across her face from a deep gash on her forehead, and her mascara and eyeliner had smudged around her eyes, but there was no mistaking who she was.
"Detective Stanton?" Dean asked as she stared pleadingly at him, unable to say anything around the gag in her mouth. Another tear leaked down her face as she made a sound, pleading with him.
She wore nothing but her underwear, the shifter having cruelly left her in nothing but that and the ropes, and Dean felt sick.
"Don't worry, I'm here to help," he said as he moved hurriedly forward and dropped down to his knees next to her. He eased the gag out of her mouth before sawing at the ropes that were binding her hands. "Do you know who I am?" he asked evenly, focusing on the work and not how hard his heart was beating.
She shook her head and Dean closed his eyes. Damnit. Damnit it all to hell. This wasn't good. The ropes around her wrists snapped and he began to untangle them, but she slapped his hand away.
"Don't" she croaked out as she pulled her arms up closer to her chest to provide some sort of protection and cover. She then began to unwind the rope from her other wrist herself. The skin there was inflamed, infection oozing from the rubbed raw skin, but Dean didn't have time to worry about that right now.
"How long have you been here?" he asked, trying to work out the timeline in his head as he bent down to start cutting the ropes from around her ankles.
She shook her head again, licking at her chapped lips. "I didn't—I've been here for days, but that—that thing—"
"Days?" Dean looked up sharply.
"Days," she confirmed. Dean looked back down and unwound the now loose ropes. He tossed them off into the corner and froze.
He hadn't noticed it until now, Stanton having occupied him, but the bloated body of a man had been stuffed behind the last few boxes.
There was only one unfortunate bastard that could be, but there was nothing that he could do for DeWitt now.
Standing, he pulled off his plaid overshirt. Keeping his eyes carefully adverted, he offered it to Stanton. "Put this one, and then we have to get out of here. Sorry, it might…smell a little." He had only been wearing it for like four days now. He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as she began to pull it on.
"It was…it was wearing my face. It looked exactly like me, I don't—" Stanton looked to be in shock and Dean risked a look over to see her with her face in her hands, looking distraught, but his shirt on.
"Yeah. It's a shapeshifter. It can look like whatever person it wants to," he offered, extending his hand to her and wiggling his fingers impatiently.
"What?" Stanton asked, her eyes wide but Dean didn't have time to explain everything.
"I'll tell you more later. Right now we should probably get you out of here."
"I don't think it was planning on coming back."
That piqued Dean's interest and he looked over at her in surprise. "What makes you say that?"
She blew out a sigh that might have been a sob. "I just...they said that they were almost done here, that there were just a couple more things that they had left to take care of. Said that they would find my body when the lease on the storage unit ended." She stopped talking, horror darkening her eyes.
So the shifter was planning on leaving town, they had been right about that. The shifter also wouldn't be coming back here, that much was clear. But what other loose ends could…Dean froze.
He needed to get her out of there and get back to Sam. Maybe this had been a trap, but if so then it hadn't been one meant for Dean.
"Son of a bitch, we've got to go. Detective, we've got to get out of here." Dean bent to grab Stanton's arm, pulling her up forcibly. She grabbed a hold of his arm, trying to steady herself, still looking dazed but Dean didn't care as he began to drag her forward.
He had to warn Sam, had to tell him to get someplace safe, had to get DeCary in there or something, he didn't know. All he knew was that Sam shouldn't be alone right now.
Fumbling out his phone with his free hand, Dean was about to hit his first-speed dial when it began to vibrate in his hand.
Sam's name flashed on his screen and Dean's heart dropped. He answered before the first ring was over, unease filling his chest.
"Sammy? You okay?"
The cool female voice that answered most definitely wasn't Sam and Dean suddenly couldn't breathe.
"Try again, Dean."