Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters of Supernatural.

Colby's girl asked for the "missing scenes" from my story Love is a Game I'm Losing, so I wrote them for her.

Sam wasn't breathing.

That was the first thing to register in Dean's suddenly racing thoughts; Sam was on the floor, his body spasming, choking on nothing, and he was most definitely not breathing.

Everything slowed down, like in a b-rated action movie, and for the longest time Dean could only stare. Voices floated in anxious whispers, the comments aimed at his brother and wondering what was going on. The smells of the bar seemed thicker now, booze and car-wash air freshener clinging to everything as they tried to drown him out.

Something moved above Sam and Dean's eyes shot there, landing on dark hair and pale blue eyes and forever-long legs. It was the girl Sam had been bitching about earlier. She was leaning over in the booth, and under different circumstances Dean might have taken a minute to enjoy the view down her fire truck-red tank top, but the only thing running through his mind in that moment was that this had to be her doing, and that she was going to be very sorry she ever messed with Dean Winchester's kid brother.

A strangled choking noise had Dean on the floor in seconds, and then time decided to play catch-up and everything began moving too fast.

No one spoke as Dean checked Sam's pulse and breathing. The pulse was flickering and uneven, much too fast for someone just lying around on the floor, but it was the heaving efforts of Sam's lungs that most worried Dean. Sam was breathing, but not well, and it didn't look like he could keep it up for long.

The whole scene reminded him of something from back when he and Sam were kids and John, in a rare fit of fatherly doting, had taken them fishing between hunts in Alabama. They camped out in the woods, getting in a little wilderness survival training while they could, and grilled the fish they caught over the fire Sam started with rocks and pine needles. That had been a good trip; John and Sam hadn't fought at all, Sam, for once, content to let his father call the shots, and John willing to relax a little and give both boys some freedom.

It had been bass that Dean caught and John cooked and Sam ate, and it was hardly a minute after that that all three of them were running scared for the hospital as Sam suffocated in the backseat.

Dean looked around quickly for any sign of seafood, but the only thing on the table was a shot glass. Eyes sliding to the bench seat, Dean cursed inwardly as he noticed that the girl was gone. Shit. But retribution could wait; Sam was dying now.

The shot glass smelled like tequila, but that didn't explain Sam's reaction because Sam wasn't allergic to tequila.

The waitress who had asked him to leave just minutes ago hovered a little closer, and Dean remembered that though he hadn't been inside, there had to be witnesses.

"You," he demanded, pointing to the girl. The poor thing looked on the verge of tears, but somehow Dean couldn't muster up much sympathy; Sam was dying, and until he started breathing right again there was no time for pleasantness. "Did you see the girl he was sitting with? Did she give him anything?"

The waitress shook her head quickly, brown eyes big and scared as they watched Sam twitch. The twitches were growing fainter and fainter; that was not a good sign.

"No, you didn't see the girl, or no, she didn't give him anything?" Dean was nearly shouting, frustrated at all the stupid staring, including his own. He felt completely helpless, because Sam was dying, and he had to do something before it was too late. But before he could act, he needed information.

The waitress shook her head again. She was probably in a mild state of shock, if her glazed expression was anything to judge by. "I-I didn't see anything, but we were pretty busy tonight –"

Dean turned away and stopped listening; she hadn't seen anything, and she couldn't help him.

Sam's struggles were getting weaker, his arms flopping out uselessly in a desperate attempt to find something to hold onto, something to drag him back into the world of the living.

"Damn it, Sam." Dean muttered, coming to a quick decision. No one here had seen anything, which meant there was nothing Dean could do on his own, which meant that Sam needed medical attention or he wasn't going to survive this one.

He threw one of Sam's increasingly limp arms around his shoulders and began to stand, offering a brief nod of thanks to the bouncer, who helped him upright.

Everyone stared as Dean and Sam made their exit, but Dean ignored them and focused on getting Sammy to the Impala and then a hospital he knew was just three miles down the road. Thank goodness for John Winchester's obsessive over-preparedness, which he had instilled into both his sons somewhere in the years of cataloging hospitals and police stations every time they stopped for gas.

Crossing the parking lot was easy, and it didn't take long for Dean to fold his brother into the passenger seat and hurry around to the driver's side, slipping in and slamming his door before Sam's head even had time to fall back against the headrest. Dean turned the key in the ignition, and had a moment of panic when the engine wouldn't turn over.

"No! Shit shit shit! NO! Come on, baby, don't do this now!" Dean slapped one hand against the steering wheel, profanities falling like rain as he tried again.

This time, the Impala started, and he pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Dean stole a glance at his brother, slumped in the passenger seat like a ragdoll. Sam was looking even paler under the harsh light of the streetlamps, and every shudder was accentuated in the stillness of the moving car. His chest rattled with every pained intake and exhale, but he was still breathing … at least for now.

Dean didn't dare go any faster than he already was, for fear of spinning out of control on the blacktop. Everything stationary was a blur, and horns screamed angrily behind him as he dodged traffic. He mumbled encouragement to the car and reassurances to his brother as they flew along, blind to everything but their destination.

Six agonizing minutes later, Dean threw the Impala around the decorative hedge and into the hospital parking lot. Fortunately, the emergency room entrance was clear, and Dean pulled right up and nearly fell out of the car in his haste to be inside where someone could finally help Sam.

They attracted stares as Dean hauled Sam out of the car and across the short distance to the automatic doors. Once inside, he was met by two nurses and a doctor, all of whom tried their best to take Sam from Dean, spouting medical jargon that was supposed to mean something to him but only came across as a dull roar in his ears.

The doctor seemed to realize that Dean wasn't cooperating, and she focused on him as the nurses tried to check Sam over as best they could while he was still in Dean's arms. She spoke soothingly, asking questions that went mostly unanswered and assuring Dean that Sam would be fine, all in a professional voice that didn't waver as she gently steered Dean across the room and helped him lay Sam on a gurney.

The instant Dean let go, the doctor and one of the nurses took off with Sam, leaving a nurse in pink scrubs with Dean on the wrong side of the swinging doors.

The nurse led Dean over to the waiting area and pushed him firmly into a plastic chair, giving a quick, sympathetic smile. She told him to wait, and he signed the papers she gave him as Anderson, hoping he was right and that was an alias with medical insurance.

Satisfied, pink-scrubs-nurse finally took the papers back to the desk to be filed or something, and didn't come back for a long time.

Left alone for now, Dean took a brief look around.

The room had green walls so pale you wouldn't notice they had any color at all unless you were really looking, and bland landscapes were hung rather haphazardly on the walls. The wall behind the nurses' station had been painted yellow, maybe in a misguided but well-intentioned attempt to bring some joy into the space. The floor was checkered in blue and black, and magazines were stacked on flimsy end tables between some of the seats. Double doors on the left led into the treatment area, but they were closed, refusing even a glimpse of the injured to waiting family and friends.

In short, it was just another hospital waiting room like any other Dean had spent an evening in after a hunt gone south. It was familiar, and yet foreign, with the smell of antiseptic hanging in the air and the general feel of cleanliness so absolute it felt wrong.

Sneakers squeaked on linoleum floors as hospital staff moved about, but otherwise it was quiet.

There were close to ten people sitting in the chairs around the room, presumably all waiting for news on their own loved ones. Dean barely registered the sympathetic smiles some of them gave him as he sat slumped against the wall and hid his eyes behind his hands. He wished he could just wake up already and call Sam a bitch for using all the hot water again, or maybe settle in front of the TV while Sammy went out to get them pizza or Chinese food for dinner.

This wasn't supposed to happen tonight …

Time went by, but Dean wasn't sure how much of it before the pink-scrubs-nurse came back.

"Mr. Anderson?" Dean looked up at the name he had given the nurse and saw her standing over by the doors Sam had been taken through. He stood quickly and joined her.

"Is Sam OK?" he asked, not bothering to hide his anxiety.

"Your brother is stabilized," the nurse said, unhelpfully, Dean thought.

"Is he awake?" Dean asked curtly.

The nurse smiled kindly; "No, honey, I'm afraid he's still asleep, but he should be waking up any time now. Your brother had an allergic reaction; we gave him a shot of epinephrine, and his blood pressure and heart rate have evened out. His throat was swollen shut, and he was without oxygen for about two minutes, but we are confident that there won't be any lasting damage."

Dean took a moment to process all of that. He didn't think it was more than a few seconds, but maybe all of this was taking more of a toll on him than he realized, because the next thing he knew the nurse was lowering him into the nearest chair and calling his fake name urgently.

"Mr. Anderson? Mr. Anderson, can you hear me, Sir?"

Dean shook his head a few times to clear it. "Yeah," he said, blinking quickly, trying to clear his swimming vision. The nurse was crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee as she waited for him to respond. "I'm fine, just … I guess I hadn't realized it was so bad, that's all." he excused, flashing a grin he hoped would help brush the incident under the rug.

The nurse looked rather skeptical, but also sympathetic, and she smiled gently again. "Sam is going to be fine; we got to him in time, and like I said before, the odds are really good that there won't be any kind of lasting damage."

Dean nodded, silently thanking the woman. "Can I see him now, please?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course; just follow me."

. . . . .

The nurse left Dean in Sam's room, saying she would come back in a half hour to check in on things. Dean thanked her and took a seat by the bed, pulling the chair as close as was physically possible, stopping only when his knees hit the metal bed frame.

Sam was on a ventilator. The doctor assured Dean it was mostly precautionary measure at this point, that Sam could breathe on his own again, but they wanted to make sure he wasn't going to relapse before they removed it. That didn't stop Dean's heart from freezing in his chest at the sight of all the tubes and wires running into his little brother; Sam was also on a heart monitor and an IV drip.

He was so pale against the white sheets, and still as death. He looked lifeless, and – no. Dean mentally shook himself. Sam would be fine; he was alive, and he would be good as new just as soon as he woke up.

He just had to wake up.

. . . . .

"Bobby? It's Dean."

"Dean? What the hell have you boys done now?" Bobby sounded grumpy, as per usual, with a strong current of worry running through his cell phone-grabbled voice.

It was five hours after Sam had first been admitted to the hospital, and he still hadn't woken up; Dean was desperate for someone to assure him that it was all going to be okay. The nurses were constantly moving in and out of Sam's room, and while they offered plenty of sympathetic smiles, none of them seemed to willing to guarantee a recovery they weren't sure would happen. No one knew why Sam hadn't woken up yet, and Dean knew the hospital staff wasn't feeling very hopeful at this point.

"We didn't do anything!" Dean protested. Technically, that was true; this was all that bitch at the bar's fault. "We just … ran into a little trouble."

"When don't you two run inta trouble?"

"That's not fair; we almost never get into real trouble. We're very careful."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, right; I'll believe that when you stop callin' me with openers like 'we're trapped under a rectory with an alligator an' a malevolent spirit. Can ya bring us a jackhammer, Bobby?'"

"That was one time, and nobody got really hurt." Dean growled. Maybe calling Bobby hadn't been such a good idea.

"Since when is a broken pelvis 'not really hurt'?"

"You know what, never mind. Forget I called." Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and snapped it shut. And there went the one person he had relied on to help him sort out this mess. It wasn't until he had hung up that he realized how much he had been counting on Bobby to talk him down.

A shift in the tempo of Sam's heart monitor caught Dean's attention. He stood, leaning over his brother.

"Sam?" he touched Sam's shoulder, but of course it didn't make any difference; the beeping grew louder and more insistent. Dean fumbled for the call button, pressing it repeatedly once he caught it.

A minute later the nurse came running in. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but the machine was screaming out Sam's distress now, and she hurried forward, yelling for help as she did so. Two more nurses and the on-duty doctor arrived; they traded frantic comments in complicated medical speak too fast for Dean to follow.

"Sir? I'm going to need you to wait outside." One of the nurses instructed, grabbing Dean's arm and steering him into the hallway. She left him there and went back into Sam's room, joining the scramble to bring Sam's stats back into normal range.

Dean could only watch as they scampered about, checking the readings and conferring quickly with each other. The monitor shrieked loudly, drowning out voices and all other noise until, suddenly, it stopped. Time froze, and then sped up.

Seconds fell away too fast and too slow, every instant taking Sam further from him. A female voice called for the paddles, and Dean felt his own heart seize. He craned his neck for a better view, but the doctor was in his way.

"Clear!" Someone yelled, the shout followed by the beeeep … kathunk! of a defibrillator charging and shocking the patient.

Dean hovered just outside the room, wanting to give the medical professionals room to work – room to save Sam – but wanting just as desperately to go in there and be with his brother. He knew it was silly, but a small part of him was sure that if he could just get in there he could protect Sam from this. It had always been his job to protect Sam, and it always would be. He needed to protect Sam now.

Another sound broke through Dean's agitation; his cell phone was ringing again. He glanced at it, but when he saw that it was Bobby, calling him back, he ignored it. He didn't have time to explain everything to Bobby right now. He didn't have the energy to spare for a conversation when everything in him was focused so completely on Sam, willing him to fight and survive this, because if Sam didn't survive this then Dean didn't know what he'd do. He had always imagined them going out together, or, if that didn't happen, then he thought he'd at least go first. He couldn't watch Sam die, but that was exactly what he was doing.

Eventually, what felt like hours later, the monitor resumed its steady, blessed rhythm, and Dean nearly wept at the knowledge that Sam was going to be okay. Dean fell back against the wall and allowed gravity to pull him to the floor. That was the position the nurse found him in minutes later, staring straight ahead with his hands resting on the floor at his sides, numb to the activity around him.

"Mr. Anderson, you can come back in now." a petite nurse with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes leaned over to touch Dean's shoulder. She smiled warmly when Dean looked up.

"He's OK." Dean said, still feeling distant and a little bit nauseous from the close call. He didn't think he could stand quite yet, so he stayed on the floor for a few more seconds. The cool tile felt good against his pounding head, and he leaned back against it, letting out a heavy sigh.

The nurse nodded, and her eyes were full of compassion. "You can go in and see him now, if you're ready." She said gently.

Dean drew a deep breath, nodding determinedly. Sam needed him in there. He used the wall to pull himself to his feet, swaying for a minute. He shook his head at the nurse, who waited until he seemed mostly steady before moving away, leaving him to walk into Sam's room alone.

It was only three steps across the hall, but Dean stopped short in the doorway, staring into the room. The sight of his brother, looking so fragile and vulnerable … knowing what almost happened … Dean snapped. All traces of the weakness he had shown out in the hall vanished, replaced by anger. The anger was mostly directed at himself, for allowing Sam to be put into such a position, to be so vulnerable, but as he scanned the room it bubbled to the surface and latched onto the only target in sight.

He strode quickly to Sam's side, glaring at the doctor. "What happened?" he demanded, letting an accusing edge filter into his tone.

Doctor Evelyn Locks was standing beside Sam's bed, clipboard in hand as she glanced between the monitor and the patient. She was young, probably still in her residency, or barely out of it. Hardly even a real doctor. She seemed to take Dean's rudeness in stride. "He crashed, but we got him back without too much trouble. He's going to be fine." She said smoothly, even smiling pleasantly at Dean, as though she hadn't noticed the condemning attitude of his statement.

"'Without too much trouble'? You had to use the defibrillator on him! He flat-lined; he was dead!" Dean growled furiously. He placed one hand on Sam's leg, reassuring himself that he was still there; they had brought him back. Sam was back, and he'd be fine. Dean couldn't calm down, though; he couldn't stop his racing heart or moderate the anger in his voice.

"Mr. Anderson," Locks said, in a tone that had no doubt calmed countless worried friends and relatives over her career. "Your brother is stable, and I am confident that there will be no further problems. In fact, he should be waking up in the next hour or so; maybe sooner. There is no need to worry."

Dean snorted, not bothering to hide his derision. "Stable? My brother is stable? Funny, that's what you people told me, oh, I don't know, five hours ago?" Dean laughed sarcastically. He was pleased to see a flash of irritation on Locks' face. "I was told he would be waking up soon then, too. So, tell me, Doctor, why is it that I shouldn't worry? Do you pinkie promise this time? Do you cross your heart and hope to die?"

"I understand that you are upset, Mr. Anderson, but I would appreciate it if you would show just a little bit of respect for me and my colleagues." Locks was frowning now. Dean knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn't stop himself from making one more snark.

"Yeah, because you've all done such a great job so far." He scoffed.

Locks' face flushed, making her blue eyes stand out even bluer against her thick, dark hair. Her fists clenched, but instead of leaving the room, or making a snappy retort, or even hitting him, she moved to the door, catching a passing nurse. "Lisa, get security, please." She instructed calmly.

Dean froze. Crap. Getting kicked out was about the only thing he couldn't stand to have happen. He opened his mouth to apologize – manly pride be damned; he needed to stay with Sam – but Locks held up a hand.

"Save it," she advised him, turning to greet the two burly hospital security workers. "Please escort Mr. Anderson out of the building. He can come back in when he's had a chance to cool down."

Dean glanced between Sam, the security guards, Doctor Locks, and Sam again. He couldn't let Sam wake up alone, especially not in a hospital. But the hard expression in Locks' eyes told him he wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one. He considered fighting to stay, but one look at the determined guards and he knew he'd lose; even if he beat the tar out of these two, there was a whole hospital to back them up.

With a sigh, Dean squeezed briefly on Sam's leg, promising silently to come back as soon as he could. He glared at the evil doctor on his way out, doing his best to communicate his wish for her to die a violent death. Locks didn't react at all, her face remaining perfectly impassive as Dean brushed past her.

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber waited for Dean to step into the hallway, falling in one either side of him as he moved toward the elevators. They walked him all the way out into the parking lot, refusing to leave until he was standing beside the Impala, keys in hand, pretending to unlock the door.

The instant they disappeared through the hospital doors he straightened up, firing off a rude gesture or two in their honor. Like hell he was gonna leave now; Sam needed him.

But he couldn't get back in … a quick walk by the hospital entrance revealed additional security had been posted, almost certainly at Doctor Locks' request. That bitch.

Dean stood in the parking lot for nearly fifteen minutes. He had no idea what to do now. With nowhere to go, he climbed into the Impala and settled himself behind the steering wheel, wishing he could be doing something. If only he knew where that girl from the bar was, he could find out what she did to Sam; maybe the doctors could help Sam faster if they knew exactly what was wrong with him. And, he could teach her a lesson for messing with his brother.

With retribution in mind, Dean turned on the car and pulled away from the hospital, heading back towards the bar he and Sam had been at earlier in the evening.

. . . . .

Few people were still at the bar at this hour of the morning, and the girl was not one of them.

Dean sauntered over to the bar, leaning against the counter, waiting for the bartender to turn and acknowledge him.

"What can I do for you, man?" the barkeep asked, rubbed a dishcloth inside an empty beer mug. "Hey, aren't you the guy who was in here before, with that other dude who collapsed?"

Dean nodded, feeling a hint of hope. Maybe he would be able to learn something here, after all. "Yup; that's me. Hey, did you see the girl who was in here before, talking to that other dude I was here with?"

The bartender shrugged apologetically. "Nope; sorry. Mindy might've, though. She and Kate were on duty then. You can talk to her if you like; I think she's in the back."

"Thanks," Dean said gratefully. He nodded once more to the helpful bartender and moved around the bar, slipping through the half-open door and into the back room. Sure enough, one of the waitresses he had seen before, when he and Sam had been enjoying an easy evening together, before everything went to hell, was sitting at a small table, drinking a beer with a lime on the rim. She wasn't the one Dean had questioned just before rushing Sam to the hospital; that must have been Kate.

"Hey, can I talk to you?" Dean asked, moving into the girl's in of sight.

Mindy started, choking on her drink. "Ah!" she swallowed and gasped in a few deep breaths, clearing her airways. "You scared me," she said sheepishly, smiling at Dean. Her eyes crinkled prettily when she smiled. It was a little bit distracting.

Dean brushed it off and grinned back, stepping forward and sitting on the other seat. "Sorry about that. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

Mindy shrugged, shifting to face Dean. "Ask away," she invited.

"OK; did you see the girl the guy I was in here with was talking to?"

Mindy's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Jealous, pretty boy?" she asked.

"What? No!" Dean protested, scowling. Damn it! Why do people always assume we're gay? "Sam is my brother." He explained, rather impatiently.

"Alright, alright; no need to get defensive. I believe you." Mindy said, raising her hands in teasing surrender. "What did you want to ask me, pretty boy?"

Dean wasn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed at the title Mindy had given him. He went with annoyed. "Could you not call me that?" he asked. He shifted in his seat under Mindy's stare. Her lips curled upwards in a laughing smile.

"What would you like me to call you, pretty boy?"

"Dean would be fine."

Mindy sighed dramatically; "If you insist. Rather a boring name, though, if you ask me."

Dean frowned. "Well, no one's asking you. What I am asking you is whether you saw the girl my brother had a drink with earlier tonight."

Mindy leaned forward in her seat, keeping her eyes fixed on Dean. "Yes." She said simply.

"So who was she?" Dean asked excitedly. Finally, he was getting somewhere.

"No idea. She paid cash, and even if she had given me a credit card, I probably wouldn't remember; we get a lot of customers in here on Saturday nights."

Dean dropped back against his seat. Nothing; she could tell him nothing about the girl.

"But," Mindy continued. Dean perked up. "Mike might know; she was pretty hot. He always notices the hot girls."

"Who is Mike?" Dean asked with as much patience as he could muster; it wasn't much. This whole run-around thing was getting old … fast.

Mindy smiled predatorily. She shifted closer on her seat. "I'd be happy to tell you over diner." She offered.

Dean laughed lightly. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid I don't have time." he let his smile drop. "See, my brother is dying right now, and I'd hate to leave him alone for too long."

"Oh." Mindy settled back, away from Dean. "Right. Sorry."

"Just tell me where I can find Mike … please."

"He left about an hour ago. He's probably still up, though; he lives on Brookend and Faith Hill."

. . . . .

Mike, it turned out, was the bouncer from the bar. He remembered Dean and Sam, but could shed no light on the mysterious girl. Which put Dean right back where he started. He headed back to the hospital, empty-handed and disheartened.

Doctor Locks seemed to think he had had sufficient time to 'cool off', and the security had been removed from the hospital doors. He had no trouble getting back up to Sam's room, and he was pleased to find that no one else was there. He was less pleased to find Sam still asleep; his chart said that he had yet to wake up at all. Dean didn't have a medical degree, but he had plenty of experience with physical injury, and not waking up after eight hours seemed pretty serious.

A ringing had Dean jumping, and he hit his knee against Sam's bed frame. Damn it. It was his cell phone, and the caller ID said Bobby. He debated for a moment, but he ended up answering it.


"Where ya been, ya idjit? I've been callin' ya all night!"

Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Sorry, I just … Sam's hurt … It's bad."

There was silence for a moment. "Bobby?" Dean asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, I'm here. What happened, Dean?" Bobby asked. He sounded exhausted, and Dean felt a little guilty for bringing him into this. But Bobby was family, and he deserved to know what was going on. He complained a lot; about how Sam and Dean were making him old before his time; about how he only saw them when they needed something; but he was family.

"We were in a bar, relaxing after that job with the drunken werewolf you sent us." Dean explained. "Some girl hit on Sam, and the next thing I know he's on the floor suffocating and she's gone."

"Where were you while all this was goin' on?"

"Outside. I got thrown out for punching some guy."

"Damn, Dean! Can't leave you boys alone for a minute, can I?" there was a hint of humor in Bobby's voice, but it was tinted with fear.

Dean chuckled darkly. "No, I guess not. The doctors say Sam is gonna be fine, but he hasn't woken up yet." Dean hesitated, and drew in a shuddering breath. "It's been eight hours, Bobby."

"I dunno what ta tell ya, Dean. Sam's a tough kid; I'm sure he'll pull through."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Bobby." Dean said gratefully. It wasn't anything he hadn't already been told by doctors and nurses, but it helped to have someone he trusted reassure him.

"You bet." Bobby replied. "Have him call me when he wakes up, will ya?"

"Of courses; we'll talk to you soon."

"You better."

Dean hung up grinning, and he felt something inside of him relax at last; just a few centimeters, but it was enough to lift the stones that had been crushing him and it gave him room to breathe. He leaned back in the plastic chair, putting his feet on Sam's bed. Sam didn't stir.

The monitor beeped steadily, reassuring in its continuity. Hospital smells, always grating, had faded to the background and he hardly noticed them anymore. Dean felt himself drifting, and he changed position so that his head was resting on the bed beside Sam's right arm.

There wasn't any hospital staff around; Dean was alone with Sam … no one would know. Slowly, somewhat hesitantly, Dean took Sam's hand in his own; it felt right.

Finally, Dean slept. Sam would be here when he woke up, and maybe he would be awake, as well. They will get through this. After all, they are Winchesters; surviving is what they do best.

The End