This is already a chapter in my Sam-centric reader's prompts, but since it's sooo long I thought I would also post it as its own story. And I might have a tiny little sequel set in Stanford in mind. Just a little one.

It was bright when he came to with some semblance of lucidity. He could remember, or he thought he did, waking up multiple times without really knowing what the hell was going on. He thought he could remember Dean, pale and wide-eyed with worry, frantically speaking with words that didn't quite enter Sam's mushy brain.

It took him a while to open his eyes this time around, his lids seemed to be glued together, and when he finally pealed them open everything was bleary and bright. He blinked a few times to clear his vision. The room was an off-white and the sun was streaming through the window, giving everything an odd glow.

His mouth felt thick and dry and he didn't dare swallow because he could already feel the unpleasant lump there. But that seemed to be the worst of it. Overall he was pleasantly numb, feeling a little too light and heavy both at the same time.

He wriggled his fingers and toes, glad they seemed to be functioning, though the tug of an IV in his hand wasn't pleasant. He felt glued to the hospital mattress, even if he'd possessed the energy he wouldn't have been able to tear himself away from it.

He let his brain slowly catch up, it was only setting in now that he had no clue what day it was, let alone what had happened to him. It must have been bad or Dad wouldn't have brought him to hospital. Hospitals were an emergency-only kind of situation, like life-or-death kind of deals.

"Sam, are you awake?" it was a soft voice, warm, but in that overly-sweet kind of way. Sam rolled his head to the side, there was a nurse in pink flowery scrubs on the other side of the bed, doing something or other with the IV bags he noticed were hanging there. He glanced around a little, noticing the zoo animals printed onto the walls.

"Mmmm," was all he could manage. He startled himself a little when his voice came out muffled, ringing a little in his ears, vibrating down his neck. He peered down to his nose, which was covered in plastic along with the rest of the lower half of his face.

Sam could swear things were appearing that weren't there before. The nurse had just popped out of nowhere like a rabbit out of a hat, he was sure of it.

"Goodness, sweetie," the nurse brushed a hand across his forehead and smiled down at him, "You gave everyone a bit of a scare."

"Mmm?" Sam asked, he hoped she might understand the mountain of questions he was trying to ask. The nurse smiled, Kathy, Sam squinted at her nametag, and pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. The metal was cold against his chest and he shuddered at the contact, Kathy made an apologetic shhh and checked him all over, prodding him with various devices.

"I've called the doctor," she was saying, "And she'll be down here any second to see how you're doing and to tell you what's going on."

Kathy had a cup in her hand, which definitely came out of nowhere, and spooned out an ice chip. She gently pulled down the oxygen mask and held it to Sam's lips. Sam opened and gladly accepted it, letting the ice melt on his tongue and cool down his parched mouth. She gave him a few more before setting the cup aside, Sam whined in protest.

"Not too much, honey," She apologised, "You haven't had anything to eat for a while so we don't want you to get sick, okay?"

"M'kay," Sam finally managed, finding it easier to speak when his mouth wasn't so dry. He sighed and let himself sink a little further into the pillows. He was drifting a little when another voice woke him.

"Sam? I'm doctor Day. Can you open your eyes?"

Sam blinked his eyes open and stared up at the doctor. She was fairly young, brown hair secured in a bun. She smiled at him.

"Good," she praised, "Nurse Kathy tells me you've been awake and lucid. I'd like to talk to you, no doubt you're feeling a little disoriented."

"Yeaah," Sam breathed into the mask. He managed to get his eyes open more, making him look a little less like one of the kids that get stoned behind the bleachers at his school.

"Do you know what day it is, Sam?" Doctor Day asked. Sam shook his head.

"It's Wednesday 10th August," she told him. Sam frowned, he'd definitely missed out on a lot. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," Sam murmured, Doctor Day nodded for him to say more. Sam thought hard about the last hunt he remembered, "Michigan?"

The doctor nodded approvingly. "Very good. Do you remember coming to the hospital?"

Sam searched his mind for a moment then nodded. Doctor Day nodded back, prompting him to go on. He wished she'd stop nodding her head like that, it was making him dizzy.

"I felt sick," he finally said. And he had, God, he'd thought he was dying. Being dragged through the forest by his brother and father with his skin torn up.

"You've been very unwell," the doctor agreed, "But you're getting better. Your fever broke last night and I'm confident you'll be alright, Sam."

Sam smiled, as much as his muscles allowed him to, he had a feeling it looked a little sloppy. Doctor Day smiled back, "I'll let you know what's going on, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam muttered. Trying not to let his eyes droop.

"Do you remember injuring yourself?"

Hunt. Wendigo. "Animal," Sam said.

"That's right," the Doctor said, "You were attacked by an animal. The police suspect it was a bear that attacked you while you were camping with your family."

Sam's eyes widened. "M'dad," he said, he clumsily tried to grasp the doctor's arm, "Deaan… where're they?"

"They're in the waiting room," she said, placing a cold hand on his in a show of comfort, "They've hardly left the hospital. I'll let them come in to see you once I've caught you up on your situation. No doubt you want to know why exactly you're in the hospital."

Sam nodded, he really did. The fuzziness of his head was irritating.

"Your brother and father brought you in on Saturday evening, you have sixty-nine stitches in your chest. You developed a nasty infection, due to the fact it took several hours for your family to get you here, and a severe bout of pneumonia on top of that. Things were complicated for you, given your asthma. You've had a fever for several days, which was nearly fatal, you had a seizure."

Sam blinked at her.

"Your fever was too high," She explained, "We were worried it wouldn't come down, but the antibiotics kicked in and your fever broke yesterday. The pneumonia is better but I'm keeping you on the oxygen, I'm sure you'll agree with me there."

"M'brother," Sam croaked, "M'Dad."

Doctor Day nodded and smiled kindly. "I'll have Kathy go fetch them," She said, turning to the nurse who hurried off, "I'd like to check your breathing in the meantime."

She checked the chart at the end of the bed, then checked his breathing with her icy stethoscope. She carefully removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with a nasal cannula, which really felt weird. She was doing some other things but Sam wasn't really paying attention, he was really tired.

"When's he gonna wake up?" Someone's voice – Dean's – whined. Sam found himself coming back to consciousness, someone was stroking his hair, not Kathy, the hand was too large, not soft at all.

"Shhh. We've only been in here for ten minutes," That was their dad, he sounded oddly gentle, "He needs his rest."

"What he needs is to open his eyes and show me he's alright," Dean argued, "I haven't seen the kid conscious in days. Enough sleeping already, Sammy."

The words were impatient but the tone was soft, worried. Someone took his hand in theirs and squeezed.

"What happened..." Sam took a deep breath, realising how much his chest did not feel comfortable, the skin was prickling and his lungs felt rough, "… to 'No chick-flick… moments'."

"Sam?" Dean gasped, squeezing his hand tighter. Sam cracked an eye open and gave him half a grin. "Jesus, kid! Warn a guy, would ya?"

"Hey…" Sam breathed, opening his other eye. His dad was on his other side, sitting in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, he was still stroking Sam's hair, a gesture Sam wasn't used to, it was nice. Suddenly, Dean was looming over him.

"Don't ever do that again!" he said, no anger, just worry.

"M'sorry," Sam answered with a sigh.

"Don't apologise for getting sick!" Dean retorted, deadly serious. Sam frowned, extremely unsure what he was meant to do. John put out his free hand, pushing Dean back into his seat.

"I think he's a little drugged to the gills right now, Dean," John said quietly, "You can tear him a new one when he's sobered up."

"M'not drunk," Sam insisted, "I swear, dad."

Dean snorted, but Sam didn't get what was so funny. "They giving you the good stuff?" Dean asked, still laughing. John joined in which only caused Sam to frown harder, feeling very out of the loop.

"Stop pickin' on me," Sam moaned, "S'not fair…"

The two of them chuckled harder, obviously not understanding how serious Sam was being. "Alright, alright," John said, he wasn't laughing anymore, "Leave him alone, Dean."

"Aw, Sammy," Dean said, rubbing his thumb over Sam's knuckle, "I'm not laughing at you."

Sam frowned at their worried gazes, then realised he was crying. John tossed Dean a tissue from a box on the bedside table and Dean dabbed the tears away. He wasn't crying because they were laughing, not really, but the blank spots in his memory, the pain in his chest, and the general weakness that seemed to cling to his bones was extremely frustrating, and crying was all his foggy head could do about it.

There was more hair stoking, which went on for a while, even after Sam had fallen back to sleep.

The next morning Sam woke up to the sound of John and Dean arguing in hushed voices.

"That is so not fair, Dad," Dean whined, there was the sound of something being slapped down carefully on a table.

"You're only saying that because you're losing," John scoffed. Sam frowned and peeped an eye open. It was bright, a golden glow coming through the window. John and Dean were sitting at a table by the window, each with a set of cards in their hand.

Dean was shaking his head, shuffling in his chair as he stared hopelessly at the cards in his hand. John had an extremely smug look on his face, his eyes flickered briefly over to Sam, like a habit, barely noticing that Sam was staring back. He looked back over again, face cracking into a smile when he noticed Sam was awake.

"Sammy," he said. Dean jumped in his seat, twisting around, already coming over to the bedside.

"You awake for real now, kiddo?" he asked.

Sam swallowed and nodded. "I think so," he said, trying to push himself up a little. He hissed in pain as his chest flared up, the skin pulling a little. Dean gently paused him.

"Hold on," he said, carefully helping Sam forward to plump the pillows, sitting him back so he was upright. "How're you doing?"

"Tired," Sam replied, "Sore, a little fuzzy."

"Dizzy?" John asked.

Sam shook his head. "Confused, I guess. What exactly happened?"

Dean's eyes flickered away for a second. He looked back to Sam, all seriousness. "What do you remember?"

"Um…" Sam concentrated for a second, "We were hunting a Wendigo."

Dean nodded.

"It got me," Sam went on, "Took me back to its cave. I woke up hanging from the ceiling… I think I passed out because you were suddenly there. It came back and it nearly got me. I think I passed out again, we were in the woods, you were dragging me, my chest hurt."

Sam looked down to where his torso was wrapped in bandages.

"We thought we'd lost you," Dean said, "Then we found you in the cave but the son of a bitch didn't want you going anywhere and swiped you. Dad tried to flare the bitch up but it ran off. We got you out of there but the car was a long way away and we had to walk."

Dean stopped and looked down at his hands. John stepped forward.

"You were going into shock, bleeding," he said, "You had trouble breathing, your inhaler worked for a while but then infection set in and you were burning up. It took us five hours to get back to the car in the dark, then another hour to drive to the hospital."

"God," Dean breathed out, "I thought you were gonna die."

"Sorry," Sam whispered. Dean grabbed his wrist tightly.

"Don't you apologise," he said, "You were on my watch and you got hurt. This is on me."

"Dean…" Sam sighed.

"I mean it," Dean insisted, shaking his head, "This is on me."

Sam snorted, taking Dean by surprise. "If this is anyone's fault, you can blame the Wendigo," Sam said, "It was the one that tried to eat me, not you."

Dean stared at him open-mouthed for a second. "Are you seriously making a joke about this?" he asked, annoyed.

Sam couldn't help laughing a little. Dean scowled.

"You're such a mother-hen," Sam giggled, trying hard not to let his chest move too much, a difficult task.

"Oh yeah?" Dean argued, "And you're high."

"Am not!" Sam insisted, "If I were high on pain meds then I wouldn't be in this much pain."

Dean's face completely changed. "You're in pain?" he asked, not waiting for an answer, "Why didn't you say anything? Is it your chest? Do we need to get the nurse?"

"Mother-hen," Sam smirked, laughter dying down. He relaxed back into the pillows and smiled at his brother, "I mean it though, this isn't your fault."

Dean didn't even look at him.

"Dean," Sam moaned, "Don't do this to yourself. I'm okay, I'll be fine, the doctor said so."

"You didn't see it," Dean grumbled, "You didn't see how bad you were."

Before Sam could make a retort the door opened and the same nurse Sam remembered from before, Kathy, came into the room with an orderly who was carrying a tray.

"Good morning, Sam," Kathy said brightly, "It's good to see you awake again. How are you feeling?"

She went over to check the IV bags, monitors, his breathing and pulse.

"I'm okay," Sam answered, voice tinged a little painfully.

Kathy frowned at him as she scribbled down on his chart. "You don't have to lie, Sam," she said.

"My chest hurts a little," Sam admitted, Kathy's eyebrow raised and Sam sighed, "Fine. It hurts a lot."

"Okay then," she said, smiling, "I'm going to check your stitches, okay, sweetie?"

Sam nodded and allowed her to carefully unwrap his bandages, with a little help from Dean who helped sit Sam up. The whole process was uncomfortable and more painful than he'd have liked to admit. He stared down in morbid fascination at the numerous stitches criss-crossed along his chest. It reminded him of the old Frankenstein movies Dean used to make him watch when they were younger, the ones that had scared the crap out of him.

Kathy gently prodded with gloved fingers, then cleaned the wounds. The whole thing was red and irritated-looking, the look on his dad's and Dean's faces told him it was a vast improvement. He could vaguely remember the hot wet of his own blood seeping out. And the pain, God, it had been like fire.

"Looking good," Kathy praised, as if Sam were fully responsibly, "Now, we're going to have you eat some breakfast."

The orderly placed the tray on the bed table.

"It's mostly mild foods," Kathy explained, "You haven't eaten in a couple of days so you need to go slow, throwing up is the last thing you need right now."

Sam nodded in agreement, feeling the twinge in his ragged chest. He stared down at the breakfast tray; a banana, a small bowl of grey-looking oatmeal and a glass of watered-down orange juice.

"Try to eat as much as you can," Kathy suggested, "You need the energy. Your medication is going through the IV right now so you should start to feel the pain go away soon, you'll be sleepy too."

Sam unenthusiastically picked up the spoon, mostly because everyone was staring at him, and plonked it into the bowl.

"You're doing great," the nurse said, "You'll talk to Doctor Day a little more about what's next later today. In the meantime, take it easy, honey."

She headed back out with the orderly and Sam took a slow bite of the oatmeal under his brother's and father's expectant gazes. He managed four spoonfuls and half of the banana, mostly an effort made so his brother wouldn't bitch, before he fell asleep midway through a conversation.

Doctor Day turned up later in the day when Sam and Dean were playing Go Fish. She checked his chart, and a bunch of other things Sam was too tired to pay much attention to. She sat at the edge of his bed and smiled at him.

"Things are really improving," she said, "The infection has cleared up, though you're likely to feel a little worn out. Your body is just trying to preserve energy, it's spent a lot on fighting the infection and the pneumonia. I'm keeping you on oxygen to be safe, I notice you still wheeze a little and I don't want to take any chances considering that you're asthmatic."

"When will he be ready to come home?" John asked.

"I think he should stay for a few more days," Doctor Day said, "He's still at risk for getting ill again if he isn't careful, I want to make sure he's well enough to walk out of here on his own steam. I think you need a couple more days of bed rest before we work on you moving around a bit. You'll tire easily, Sam, so don't get too frustrated if you find yourself out of energy before you reach the end of the hall."

Sam groaned and the doctor patted his arm sympathetically.

"I know you don't want to be stuck in this bed all day but that's how it is for now," she explained, "If we take things slow you'll be out of here much quicker."

Sam nodded solemnly, feeling extremely frustrated and useless and, most of all, tired. The doctor left after discussing something in private with their father. Dean and Sam went back to their game of Go Fish, which was never finished because Sam fell asleep.

A couple of days later, after most hours spent watching daytime TV, playing cards, listening to Dean talk in full detail about his sexual escapades, and sleeping, Sam was ready for a walk. It was down the hall, not much, and everyone was making a big deal about it. John had a wheelchair ready, Kathy was there, and Dean was fretting, wrapping a Sam in a hospital robe. Sam ignored the fuss, ready to get on his feet.

His legs were wobbly underneath him and the floor was cold on his feet, but Sam was determined and he took a step, his grip on the IV pole tightened when he realised how difficult it was going to be.

"Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam almost snapped, he took another step. With a lot of effort, he made it to the door, trying hard to ignore the hovering figures. He was already starting to feel out of breath by the time he made it halfway to the vending machine down the hall. The was where he had to go, to the vending machine and back, if he was able.

Well, damn it if Sam wasn't going to succeed. But succeeding was growing more and more distant the closer he got to the machine. He was breaking out into a sweat and his felt like his feet would go out from under him any second.

"Sammy…" John said.

Sam shook his head. "I can do it," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm nearly there."

"You've done well, Sam," Kathy said, "You don't need to go all the way if you can't do it right now."

Sam didn't answer her, just pushed on, determined to make it. His legs were shaking, but he forced them to hold him up. Making it to the vending machine, Sam let himself sigh with relief, leaning against it, letting his breath catch up with him, panting a fog on the glass.

"Good job, Sam," Kathy praised, "We'll wheel you back to bed now, let you rest."

"No," Sam protested, "I can walk back."

"No you can't," Dean groaned, "Get in the wheelchair."

"I can make it," Sam panted, already trying to head back on his own two feet.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean growled, blocking his path, "Get in the freaking wheelchair or I'll put you there myself."

Sam glared at him before relenting, though he wouldn't let Dean help him into the wheelchair. John steered him back to his room and he and Kathy got him into bed. He sank into the pillows, still trying to catch his breath.

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Kathy assured, "You did better than anyone expected. You don't have to be 100% straight away. If we keep at it then you'll be running marathons in no time," she winked and draped the blanket over him, "Just don't over-do it, okay?"

She slipped her hand across his forehead. "You're a little warm," she said, quickly adding at Dean's worried expression, "Not a fever. He's just pushed himself a little too hard."

She got him a glass of water, which Sam tried not to gulp down, before leaving.

"You're such a dumbass," Dean chided, "Seriously. What the hell was that?"

"I could've done it," Sam protested, "If you'd just_"

"Yeah, that wasn't going to happen," Dean said smugly, "You were about the kiss the floor any second."

"Was not," Sam yawned.

"Sure," Dean scoffed, taking a seat beside the bed, "Just go to sleep Sammy."

"No," Sam argued, eyes already slipping shut.

After another couple of days, and an extended stay in the hospital (to be safe, said doctor Day), Sam was walking to the vending machine and back, barely breaking a sweat. It was way harder than it needed to be but Kathy had helped him exercise from his bed and walk to the bathroom and back. Dean was still hovering, but Sam could tell something was going on. Dean and John kept sharing looks, silent conversations, leaving more often to talk about whatever.

"What're you two up to?" Sam demanded over another game of Go Fish. Dean and John looked up in surprise. Sam sighed, "I know you two are talking about something. Just tell me what it is."

"Sammy," Dean said, "We aren't up to anything, alright? We're just talking about the case."

"The case?" Sam clarified, "You mean the one that…"

The one that got me landed on death's door.

"The Wendigo is still out there," John explained, "We need to take it out before anyone else gets hurt."

"When are we going?" Sam asked quickly

Dean groaned and slumped dramatically in his chair. "Are you kidding me?" he asked, "You're not going anywhere."

"But you need me there," Sam insisted, not sure exactly why, he added lamely, "You can't take on a Wendigo with just two people."

"Don't worry about it, Sam," John patted his knee, "We'll be fine. We know where the lair is so we have an advantage."

"But you can't just go," Sam said desperately, "What if you…"

Die. Leave me alone here.

"We'll be back," Dean said, "I promise. Besides, you're way too sick to even make it to the car, let alone hike through the woods."

"It only took so long last time because we didn't know where we were going," Sam defended.

"Yeah," John snorted, "Five hours of wandering in circles before we found the car. We're going early morning, so we'll have plenty of daylight. We should be able to get to the cave in under two hours."

"Let me research, at least," Sam begged.

John chortled. "You already researched for the case, kiddo. There's nothing to do but take the thing down."

"But…" Sam paused. What was he supposed to say? That he had a horrible feeling about this? That something wasn't right? What was he? A freaking psychic?

"But nothing," Dean ruffled his hair, Sam batted his hand away, "You stay in bed, rest up, and we go fry a Wendigo. We'll be back before you know it.

Sam gulped and nodded. There was no point in arguing. Since when did a feeling actually mean anything in their family. Sam felt strange, like he was forgetting something important.

"We're not risking you getting sick again," John said clearly, "We'll keep our cells on us, call us any time."

"There's no signal out there," Sam groused.

"We'll take the radio," Dean suggested, shrugging, "Just shut up and rest, bitch!"

He leaned over and ruffled his hair again. Sam didn't even have the enthusiasm to roll his eyes or mutter 'jerk'. He just picked up his cards.

"Do you have any twos?" he asked quietly.

His dad and brother left a little before dinner when a nurse came in to shoo them away once visiting hours were over. Sam barely ate, it wasn't the taste that put him off, it was the coiling anxiety that had settled in his stomach, telling him something bad was going to happen. He tossed and turned in bed once the lights had been turned off, finding it very hard to get comfortable. Despite the exhaustion he'd been suffering, he could not fall asleep.

He looked over at the clock. 1.17am.

Sam rolled over onto his side, moving carefully to avoid irritating his stitches. He closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to go blank, a difficult task when you put so much effort in. Eventually, the medication must have kicked in because Sam drifted off.

His arms hurt, and his wrists, and his everything.

It was dark, and cold.

He could smell rotting, he could hear crying.

He couldn't open his eyes, he wouldn't.

Crunching, growling, a huff of hot breath.

A large body brushing past him.

And another.

Two of them.

Someone screaming.

Gurgling.

Silence.

Teeth tearing, jaws snapping.

Hot tears down his cheeks.

Sam awoke with a gasp. His chest was heaving and his hands were shaky as he tried to brush his damp hair from his sweaty forehead. He felt like he was going to be sick.

There were two Wendigos. And his brother and father had no idea. Since when did Wendigos co-own caves? Sam shook his head, wiped the grit from his eyes and swung his legs off the bed. It was still dark in his room, but he could see a soft light in the hall.

He glanced around. His clothes, the ones that hadn't been covered in blood and some fresh ones Dean had collected for him, and his back pack were in the cupboard by his bed. But his cell had been smashed to bits in the woods days ago. He had the radio his brother and dad had left him. After a few minutes of toggling with it, trying to get through to them, he gave up.

If he could just make a phone call.

Using his IV pole for support, he made his way to the door and out into the corridor.

It was close to empty so late at night. A glimpse at the clock above the nurse's station told him it was 3.46am. He hurried over to the desk as best he could, moving at a regular pace now, rather than shuffling along like he had before. The woman behind it was one of the nurses Sam had tried to avoid during his stay, she was the kind that took no nonsense; middle-aged, bossy, hard-working. Rules were rules. She peered up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I need to make a call," Sam said breathlessly, "It's urgent."

"I think it can wait until the morning," she said, "Get back to bed."

"Please," Sam begged, "This is really important. I need to call my dad."

"You'll see him tomorrow when visiting hours begin," she replied, looking less than pleased that he hadn't already done what she'd told him to, "Besides, it's almost 4am. Your daddy won't be happy about you calling this late."

Sam groaned. "God… it's just a freaking phone call!"

The nurse's lips pursed and Sam wouldn't deny that a chill of fear crept through him. He dropped his head, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Don't you sass me," she scolded, "You get to bed now. Do I need to take you there myself?"

He was getting desperate and Sam glared at her for a moment, the two of them staring each other down. "No, ma'am," Sam finally said, heading back to his room. He could feel the nurse's eyes on his back the whole way. He dropped onto the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands, desperately trying to stop any tears from falling.

He needed a phone.

Right now.

Sam peered out into the hallway again. Nurse Drill-sergeant was still at her station, scribbling something down and sorting files. He slipped back into his room when she looked up. He stayed frozen by the door, waiting to see if she would come over. After a minute or so he peeked into the hallway again, she hadn't moved.

Sam quickly scanned the area, he needed to distract her so he could use the phone. Fire alarm? Too risky… this was a hospital after all. Fake page call? If only he had a pager… Kathy. Sam hopped back into bed, making sure the IV pole was back where it had been before and pressed the call button.

Kathy appeared a few minutes later, flicking on the light.

"Sam, are you okay?" She asked, coming over to place a hand on his forehead.

Sam took a long deliberate swallow. "I think m'gonna throw up," he moaned, looking as pitiful as possible. Kathy frowned sympathetically.

"I'll get you a bedpan," she said and rounded the bed to the cupboard there, bending down to rummage through it. Sam quickly unclipped her pager from her waistband and shoved it under his pillow. Kathy popped back up and placed the pan on his lap, she ran a hand over his head again.

"You're not warm," she said, "When did you start feeling sick?"

"Just before," Sam said, he coughed, "Can I have some water?"

"Of course, sweetie," Kathy said, smiling, "I'll be right back."

As soon as she was gone, Sam grabbed the pager from under his pillow. He stared at it dumbly. He had no clue how to use it, jabbing at the buttons was all he could do. Did pagers even send messages? If they did it would take longer than he had to figure out how. Hearing footsteps nearby he dropped the gadget on the floor by the bed and leaned back over the bedpan.

"Here you go," she handed him the cup of water and Sam took tentative sips. Kathy watched him tentatively and waited for him to finish. He gave her back the cup and lay back into the pillows.

"Doctor Day isn't on call right now but I could get one of the other doctors to have a look at you," Kathy suggested, "We need to make sure the infection isn't making a comeback."

"Don't," Sam blurted, he cleared his throat, "I mean, I feel better now, thanks. It must've been a passing thing. I'd like to go back to sleep now."

Kathy's eyes narrowed a little but she nodded and smiled. "Okay, then," she said, "I'll let you get to bed then."

She was almost out the door when Sam called to her. "I think you dropped your, uh, thingy," he told her, pointing to the pager on the floor by the bed. Kathy grabbed it up and smiled gratefully at him.

"Thanks, honey," she said, "Good night."

"'night," Sam returned, she closed the door and he waited until the sound of her footsteps were gone before he climbed back out of bed and grabbed his backpack from the bedside cupboard. He unzipped it and emptied the contents onto the mattress.

His knife was nowhere in sight; no doubt Dad or Dean had hidden that from the nurses, but his lock pick set was still safely tucked away in the back pocket, as well as a pack of gum, a map of the forest, a box of matches, an empty water bottle and a tightly bundled up anorak.

If he couldn't make contact with his father and brother in the hospital then he would have to find a way to do so outside of the hospital. Maybe they hadn't even left the motel yet, he could catch them if he hurried.

He carefully pulled on his clean pair of jeans to avoid irritating his stitches, tucking the hospital gown into the waistband, he didn't want to find out how much it would hurt attempting to take it off. He tore away the tape on the back of his hand and pulled out the IV, none too gently, resulting in a bubble of blood which he wiped away on the hospital gown. He slipped into the anorak and zipped it up, then pulled his shoes onto his bare feet seeing as his couldn't find any socks.

By the end of it he was feeling a little shaky and had to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment as he returned his possessions to his bag. He took a deep breath and looped the strap over his shoulder, getting to his feet. He was a little wobbly on his way to the door since it was the first time he'd walked without any support from the IV pole. Sam cracked open the door; the nurse at the desk was still writing, her attention was elsewhere but he had no doubt she would spot him in an instant. There was a cart sitting a small distance away, big enough to hide a sixteen-year-old boy.

Sam slowly got to his hands and feet, trying hard to ignore his sore chest, and slipped out the room, leaving himself the smallest crack. He gently pushed it closed once he was out and flashed a glance at the nurse, who was still distracted. He crawled quickly on his hands and feet over to the cart, which was filled with medical supplies. He needed to be quick, someone would be back for it.

He shuffled along, pulling the cart with him until he reached the corner, he crawled around into the new corridor, the one with the vending machine, and clambered to his feet, moving as quickly as he could towards the elevators.

Sam let a small crowd swallow him up as they all got into the elevator, his heart was pounding, checking each face to see if they might recognise him. None of them paid him any attention. He pulled up his hood, to be safe, and felt a wash of relief as the doors closed, the elevator moved down.

It was oddly simple to smuggle himself out of the hospital, the difficult part was what he was supposed to do once he reached the parking lot. He didn't have any change for the phone box, and he didn't have any means of transport. Hitchhiking was his only option, but he'd feel much more comfortable with that if he had some protection, especially in the condition he was in.

He didn't have much choice.

Sam made his way to the road outside the hospital parking lot and stuck his thumb out. After quite a few cars went by he realised he ought to pull his hood down, people were more likely to take a baby-faced teen than a psycho that doesn't even show their face.

It was a truck that pulled up, an old man with thick white hair and a grey beard leaned out of the driver's window.

"You alright, kid?" he asked.

Sam smiled. "I was looking for a lift to Great Oaks Motel."

The man raised his eyebrow. "Do your parents know you're asking strangers for lifts to motels?"

"My family's staying there," Sam explained, "I lost my wallet so I can't take the bus, and my cell's dead."

"You realise it's around 4am?" the man pointed out.

"I've been wandering around for a while," Sam shrugged, "Can I get a ride?"

The man looked Sam up and down, frowning, then nodded. "I can't leave you out here," he said, "Hop in."

Sam hurried to the passenger's side and hoisted himself up, stopping when pain lanced down his chest. He shut his eyes and grunted through clenched teeth.

"Son?" the man called. Sam opened his eyes and saw the man looking at him, concerned.

"I'm okay," Sam gasped, settling himself into the seat. He didn't put on the seat belt, he just needed to lie back a little. The truck still hadn't moved.

"Now, I see I'm picking you up outside a hospital," the man said, "And you look to be in pain. You better tell me what's going on or I'll drive you back there."

"Please," Sam begged, "Please don't. I'll go back, I promise, but I need to find my brother and dad. They're in trouble and I need to talk to them."

"You know their number?" the driver asked, "I have a phone here."

He handed Sam a large, brick-like cell and smiled at him kindly. Sam smiled back gratefully and began to punch in his dad's number.

"This is John Winchester; you should not have this number…"

Sam bit the inside of his cheek and dialled Dean.

"This is Dean's first cell, so I guess this is Sammy, well, I'm not here, bitch. Call dad."

He dropped the phone onto his lap, groaning in frustration. The man cleared his throat and Sam handed it back with an apology.

"They're not answering," he said glumly.

"They're probably asleep," the man offered. Sam shook his head.

"I need to find them," he urged. The truck driver eyed him for a long moment before turning the keys in the ignition with a sigh.

"Great Oaks Motel, was it?" he asked. Sam nodded and they set off down the road.

The motel was quiet, only the neon sign blared out into the night, the rest was dark and sleepy. Even the road beside, busy by day, only saw the occasional truck making its way. The man pulled his vehicle into the lot and parked.

"Will you be okay, son?" he asked, voice heavy with the regional accent. Sam nodded with a small smile.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "I'm very grateful. Thank you… I didn't get your name."

"Dale," he gave Sam a toothy grin, "And you?"

"Sam."

"It was nice to meet you, Sam," Dale said, "Look after yourself, alright?"

"I will, sir," Sam answered as he made his slow descent from the truck's cab. Dale watched him, brow furrowed. He halted Sam from shutting the door with a raised hand. He leaned over into the glove box and found a pen and paper, he scribbled something on it and handed it to Sam.

"That's my home number," Dale explained, "If you're in need of help, be sure to call."

Sam paused. "I can't… I'll be fine, sir."

"Kid, you're sweating like a whore in a church," Dale scoffed, "I picked you up at the hospital and you've been wincing in pain ever since, and you're whiter than my wife's meringue."

He waggled an eyebrow at Sam. "I'm just saying," he continued, "Is that if you're in trouble, my wife and I have a spare bed and plenty food to spare. If you need it."

Sam gripped the note tighter and smiled. "Thank you, sir. I'm very grateful."

He sent the old man a final nod before pushing the truck door closed. He stepped back and watched as the truck rolled reluctantly out of the parking lot and onto the road. Sam didn't wait to see once the truck was gone, he hurried over to his motel room door and banged on it. No one answered.

"Dad, Dean?" he called.

It was silent. Sam turned and scanned the parking lot; his dad's black truck was gone; the Impala was left untouched.

"Damn it!" Sam cursed, he dropped his backpack from his shoulder and rifled around for his lock pick set. He tried to hurry once he noticed neighbouring lights were flicking on, no doubt woken by the noise. His fingers were a little shaky and slick with sweat, he wiped them down on his jeans and went back to work. Finally, he heard a click and pushed the door open, slipping inside and shutting it behind him.

He flipped the light switch. One bed was unmade, most likely Dean's, where the other was only disturbed by the scattered papers which lay on the blankets. Sam approached, glancing at his father's research of their current case. He quickly scanned it, finding no mention of more than one monster.

Sam grabbed the motel telephone, trying to reach his brother and father again. He kicked a chair in frustration when he received the dame answer as before. A sudden idea came to him and he quickly dialled a number he hadn't used in years. There was no answer the first time, but Sam was sure he'd pick up eventually, so he rang two more times.

"Who the hell is this and why are you ringing so late?" A familiar gruff voice demanded.

"Bobby!" Sam sighed in relief.

There was a split second on no answer and Sam feared he'd hang up. "Sam? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Are you okay? What's wrong? Tell me where you are and I'll leave right away."

"Has my dad spoken to you recently?" Sam quickly asked.

"You know he hasn't, Sam, not in a long time," Bobby answered, there was worry creeping into his voice, "What's going on?"

"Nothing… never mind," Sam sighed, dropping onto the edge of one of the beds, "I don't know why I called." He paused for a moment. "Bobby, do Wendigos ever come in pairs?"

"What are you on about?" Bobby asked, "Wendigos are rare, you don't often find one."

"I need to know, Bobby," Sam demanded, "Dad and Dean are in trouble. They've gone to hunt down one but they don't know that there're two of them."

"How do you know there are two?" Bobby asked, "Where's your daddy?"

Sam took a breath. "I saw them both when they had me in their cave," Sam said slowly, there was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, "I may or may not have busted myself out of hospital to save their sorry asses."

"How bad was it, Sam?" Bobby growled.

"Bobby…"

"How sick were you?"

Sam sighed. "It was pretty bad… might've been piercing the vale a bit. But I'm okay now."

"Sam, you stay put, okay?" Bobby ordered, "Don't you dare go after them. I'm coming to you. I can send the nearest hunter your way. Just do not go after them, you hear?"

"There's no time, Bobby," Sam stressed, "They've already left. I have to do something."

"And you have," Bobby told him, "You've asked for help. There's not much you can do. Stay put, alright?"

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, Bobby."

He hung up.

Dean was going to kill him. No, Dean was going to destroy him.

That is if Dean wasn't dead already.

Sam shook the thought from his head, focusing on the road, ignoring where the wires were pulled out and hot-wired. Of course, Dean would take his keys with him. Dean was just going to have to deal with the fact that Sam might have stolen his car. To save Dean's life. He was just going to have to get over it.

It was dark, a deep blue with hues of purple streaking in, heralding the sun. The further he drove from civilisation the brighter the stars lit up the sky. It was beautiful, like the nights he and Dean would drive out to nowhere and stare up, when Dad was away. There weren't many other cars on the road, just the occasional truck making its night shift.

He saw a sign pointing him towards the same national park he'd been shredded in only a few days earlier. It was a longer drive than it should have been. It felt that way to Sam, the way his aching chest restricted him from moving much, his arms moved tentatively to switch gears as he turned into the park's parking lot. Which was barred shut. His dad's truck was parked next to the gate.

He brought the car to stop and climbed out slowly, not wanting to aggravate his stitches any more. The gate was locked and there was a sign hanging from the bars:

Park closed until further notice due to wild animal attack.

Sam snorted. It was a little embarrassing that the entire park had been closed because of him. He turned away and headed over to the large black truck, peering inside. It was locked, including the weapon's trunk. It was a good thing he'd stocked up at the motel.

He grabbed his bag and turned on his flashlight. Dean and Dad had probably climbed over the fence, there was no doubt that Sam would not be capable of that. He was just going to have to break it open. He dug a pair of wire clippers from his bag and attempted to remove the chain. The strain of it got his chest flaring up in an instant and he had to resort to making his very slow way over the fence. A task that took about ten minutes. Once over, he trudged off into the trees.

Sam had a strange talent for direction. Honestly, he had an insanely good memory, 'an encyclopaedia of weird' Dean would call him. He tends to remember almost everything he reads, and everywhere they've been. Despite having been dragged there, Sam knows where the Wendigos' lair is.

Despite this, he tracked his brother and father, hoping he might catch up with them. Dean was a better tracker, and while Sam could figure out where it's more likely they've been, he had no clue how long ago they were there.

The weather was bitter. The sun was rising, turning the sky to pink and blue, but the clouds were still grey and spitting icy rain down to the earth. Sam had made sure to wrap up warmer before he'd set off, but the jumper and hat and extra pair of socks did nothing to keep him from the frigid weather. He was nauseous, his chest was throbbing, his skin was frozen and slick with sweat. He trudged on.

He realised he didn't need to look for his family anymore once he, literally, stumbled upon their things. He tripped on a bag strap and fell straight into the mud, his hands softened his fall, still, he was sure a stitch tore. He clambered back to his feet and looked around; his brother and father's bags were abandoned on the forest floor.

He rummaged through them, finding whatever extra supplies he could find; another flare gun, a pocket knife and a bottle of water, which he downed so fast he almost chucked it back up straight away. He headed off deeper into the woods, to the caves, to the Wendigos, to his family.

The journey became rocky, the ground was flat, but his vision was swaying. His hands were shaking and his head was pounding. He gritted his teeth and went on, he had to find his family first. His bones were weary, practically begging him to stop. He couldn't. He knew that if he stopped then he wouldn't get up again, and likely freeze to death.

The cave was as dark and deep and daunting as before. Maybe even more so, what he would find inside terrified him more than anything. He took a soft, half-stumbling step inside, flare gun and torch in hand, and walked.

There were several rocky passages, winding into nothingness. Everything was silent except for the frequent drip drip drip of the showering rain outside. Sam clung to the cave wall, it was as icy as his own skin. He was almost certain he'd throw up as his dim surroundings tilted around him like a boat on the ocean.

Colliding with something wet, cold and frigid sent him to the floor, the rock jolting through his bones, bruising his skin. He flicked his light up; hanging from the ceiling was a person, unrecognisable as such. The skin was missing, as was most of the meat, bone shone through with sinew clinging to it.

Sam emptied his stomach contents painfully, tearing another stitch. He could feel his shirt clinging to the seeping blood. He ended up crawling on his hands and knees, unable to get to his feet because his legs were shaking so badly. He navigated his way through the hanging bodies, desperate not to look, though he had no choice. He found a park ranger, still alive and terrified.

"Help me," he begged, "You have to help me, please, help me."

Sam pulled himself up and clamped a sweaty hand over the man's mouth. The ranger nodded, understanding, and remained silent as Sam sawed away the rope around his wrists.

"Where are they?" Sam asked, voice as quiet as he could make it in the echoing cavern, "The monsters?"

"They're still in here," the man whispered fearfully. Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder, out of poor balance rather than comfort. The man put an arm around him and held him upright, beginning to steer them to the exit.

"No," Sam protested, "My family is here."

The ranger was shaking with fear, but he nodded and stopped, gripping Sam tighter. Sam blinked his eyes closed when his vision swam out of focus for a moment.

"You okay?" the man asked, worried.

"M'fine," Sam's voice slurred, "We need t'find m'brother."

He slapped the torch into the man's hand, even if his was shaking he would be steadier than Sam. He also fumbled for the second flare gun and hands it to the ranger, who accepted it without question.

"If you see one," Sam breathed out heavily, because his chest was tightening up, "Shoot. Don't miss."

The ranger nodded shakily and they step forward, though something had latched onto Sam's ankle and he was yanked down to the ground, hitting it painfully enough for him to scream, no doubt the stitching on his chest is a mess. He was dragged, the rocky ground scraped his skin, he screamed harder, sure he was being torn apart.

There was a sudden blaze, lighting up the cavern, the ragged bodies, burning the Wendigo. The ranger was stood ahead with the flare gun held out shakily, the barrel was smoking a little. He seemed to unfreeze himself as he ran over to pull Sam away from the burning Wendigo corpse. Sam was still screaming, his ears were filled with a ringing, his vision was greying.

"Oh God!" the ranger exclaimed as he gently turned Sam onto his back. He was a mess of torn flesh and blood. He was desperately cold, his head felt slow and fuzzy, his whole body was shaking. He was going into shock.

"Sammy? Sammy!" the cries came from further down, into the dark. The ranger flinched when he heard it and looked between the direction it had come and back down to Sam, terrified and unsure.

"That's m'brother," Sam tried to explain but his voice was shaky and small and breathless, "Go help 'em."

The ranger gulped, seeming unsure, he gripped Sam's arm tighter.

"I'll be right back," he said, "I swear."

He got up, grabbing the torch and knife, then headed down the dark passage. Sam tried to steady his breaths but it was difficult when he could barely get a breath in at all. The burning Wendigo smelled rancid, the flesh was charred by now but the flame was still going, he could still see the monsters' victims so he turned his head away and let himself cry.

It occurred to him that Wendigos could mimic human voices as he began to slip away. The ranger might not have gone to his brother after all. He was too tired to keep his eyes open anymore.

He woke up, eyes still shut, when something slipped under his arms and legs.

"On three," it sounded like his dad, "…two, three."

He was pulled upwards, pain seared through every nerve and he cried out.

"Sammy, shh," his brother was there, right above his face, "You need to keep quiet."

The urgency in his voice reminded Sam of what was going on. "Two," he gasped, "Wendigos."

"We know," Dean hushed him, "Found out the hard way. Your friend here took one out, thanks to you."

Sam tilted his head back, realising the ranger was holding him up by his under arms, his dad had his legs. Dean was holding the remaining flare, looking down at him with terrified eyes.

"You're a damn idiot, you know that?" he asked as they began to move. It was painful and Sam was sure Dean was talking to keep him distracted, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Saved your sorry ass," Sam managed to choke out with a weak grin, Dean smiled back, half-heartedly.

Sam must have been zoning out because the next thing he knew they were out in daylight, moving through the trees as fast as they could. They picked up speed at the piercing screech that sounded behind them.

"The other one'll be on us soon," John said, "Hurry."

They did, ignoring the whimpers Sam made with each jolt. The pain pulled him under again.

He remembered the agony, the inhuman screeching, the fire, the rumbling Impala engine under his back as his brother raced down the highway, the long medical terms and their needles and thread, a long, blissful numbness.

Like before, it was bright when he came to with some semblance of lucidity. The numbness was there again, and the tugging IV in the back of his hand, and the zoo animals printed on the walls. The only thing different was the spiky-haired, leather-clad boy sitting in the seat beside him, flicking uninterestedly through the channels on the TV. As if by instinct he turned around and stared at Sam.

"Did you kill it?" Sam croaked, Dean scowled like it was the worst thing Sam could have said.

"Bobby sent Caleb to help," he answered, "He saved our asses."

Sam smiled, Dean didn't.

"If you ever pull anything like that again I'll make you wish the damn Wendigo had gotten you first," he growled, very seriously. He turned back to the TV without a word. Neither of them said anything when Dean slipped his hand into Sam's and held on tightly, not even letting go once Sam had fallen asleep again.

Thank you for reading!