If Only

Chapter two.

Post Sam's disastrous food run...

Sam's leg was in a cast, his head hurt… and he really wanted that glass of water.

Oh, and Dean's angry with him. Again.

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By popular demand…

Author's notes: Many thanks for all your reviews and I apologise for the delay with this chapter, but the werewolf fic has pretty much dominated all my spare time!

I feel you also need an apology in advance. This wasn't quite what I'd hoped.

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Sam awoke to muffled voices on the other side of the door. It sounded like Dean and his doctor were involved in post fever discussions.

Well, technically Sam was still in mid-fever. His temperature had finally abated under the aggressive treatment with broad spectrum antibiotics, and so his recovery continued, but at a frustratingly slow rate.

He was thirsty.

There was a water jug on the night stand, taunting him with its precious burden, as did the plastic cup sitting next to it. But he'd already tried reaching for it, to no avail.

Sinking back into his pillows, Sam blinked heavily at the room, and reflected that if it hadn't been for the food, this place could have grown on him. But he sure didn't want to stick around here for much longer.

His first chance at freedom had quickly dissolved before he even had the chance to fully appreciate it.

The release papers had been placed on the roll-away table, just within hands reach. Pen at the ready, Sam had eagerly leaned forward at the same time his doctor re-entered the room, eyes narrowed with concern, big smug brother following on behind.

A cool hand on his forehead, a few uttered words of "pyrexia", "possible pneumonia", and the release papers quickly disappeared back into the physician's pocket.

Sam's puppy dog eyes had followed them, mouth dropped open in dismay. But slowly, acceptance set in.

He'd hidden it well, even from his brother, but Sam finally had to admit it; he felt like warmed-over dog crap.

What Sam didn't know about, however, was Dean's responsibility in his continued incarceration. Dean, ever-observant and over-protective, had known, even before Sam, that his kid brother wasn't going anywhere.

The over-bright eyes, and pale skin, glistening from a faint sheen of perspiration under the reading lamp over Sam's bed, hadn't been the only clue.

Dean was an expert at all things Sammy, and knew a sick Sammy when he saw him. Or rather, heard him. Sam went from one extreme to another in a decent space of time. One minute he was talking quite normally, but gradually deteriorated into a babble that made no sense whatsoever, and the next moment he was silent, sullen, and exhausted.

Oh, and the nicely cultivated hacking cough every time Sam tried to breathe in was a bit of a giveaway.

Hospital acquired infections, Sam thought morosely, gotta hate the bastards.

No way was Sam leaving the hospital like this, even if Dean had to handcuff him to the bed rails. And with an amused gleam in his eye, he'd held up two sets of metal cuffs and threatened just that.

That hadn't gone over well. But Sam, on one hundred per cent oxygen, and both lungs riddled with a pneumococcal infection, could do little about it. And besides, the fever was making him dizzy and sick. Real sick.

So much so, he didn't really remember much around the height of the fever, unsurprisingly.

But Dean sure did.

And though he'd never admit it aloud, even with Sam now sitting up in bed, looking a few steps further away from death, and complaining about the food, it still scared the shit out of him. Watching his little brother in so much pain and suffering, gasping and fighting to breathe, hearing the tortured sound of oxygen being dragged into a set of lungs that were barely cooperating… yeah, as far as Dean was concerned, any hunting jobs from now on would be a stroll in the park compared to that.

Compared to seeing his little brother nearly lose the battle.

But that was nearly a week ago, and Sam was about ready to walk out, papers or not. His leg and lungs ached, and his head throbbed, but he was so ready to leave.

Once again eyeing the plastic cup of water on the night stand, Sam unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and stretched out a hand. But the damn thing was still just beyond his reach. Someone had kindly put it there for when he woke up, but clearly hadn't thought through the basic ergonomics of his situation.

Sam had long arms. But when his body was tucked deeply into a soft, warm bed, casted leg supported by several pillows... perhaps an orang-utan might have struggled. But the young Winchester wasn't put off, however.

He really needed that water.

Shuffling over to the edge of the bed, he swung his legs over, paying extra care and attention to the injured one, and, licking his lips eagerly, he reached out again, until his shaking fingers just brushed the clear plastic.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case for a Winchester, it didn't go according to plan, and the half full cup slipped off the nightstand, hit the floor with a bounce and a loud thup!,spraying water everywhere.

Sam sighed quietly.

The muffled conversation outside the room halted briefly, then continued as before.

The cup rolled around on the floor in a circle, until it came to rest, once again just beyond Sam's reach.

And wasn't that just the story of Sam's life?

Everything he wanted was out of reach.

Safety, normalcy, Jess.

Even his dad was dead and gone, with no chance at repairing their little family unit, and pushing onwards, together, into the coming war.

And don't I just sound like a whiney little bitch? Guess Dean's right about me. Always has been.

Sam blinked back the threatening tears, and set his jaw in determination.

So he couldn't put his brother back together, couldn't bring his mom and dad back from the dead, and he sure as hell couldn't turn back time and save his baby girl from a fiery death.

But he could get himself a drink of water.

If he could manage just that, maybe things would start to look a little less bleak.

He just needed that damn cup and water jug, and he'd been home free.

Sam could take back some control over his miserable life.

Slowly pushing up off the bed, and gingerly allowing some weight to settle on his injured limb, Sam half-limped, half-shuffled forward. Once he reached the end of the nightstand, he swallowed hard, and began to bend, carefully, fingers outstretched, gently grasping at the rim of the cup.

He almost had it, but his foot slipped on the spilled water and went out from under him with a loud squeak!

Sam went down like a giant redwood, the back of his head thumping the floor hard enough to cause a starburst behind his eyes.

The pounding pain in his head almost smothered the noise of someone entering his room, and the sound of that same someone cursing loudly.

"Godammit Sammy! What the hell did you think you were doing?!"

A faint and embarrassing whimper left Sam's mouth when gentle hands palmed his face, fingers carefully threading through his hair and testing the back of his skull, searching for injury. Sam cracked open eyes he didn't remember closing and met a furious green gaze boring into him.

Dean.

His brother.

And boy. Did he look pissed!

He also appeared to be ranting, and Sam found that hilarious 'cos he couldn't hear a thing. At least, not above the road drill in his head.

It was when those gently questing fingers found a particularly tender spot, Sam let out a gasp, and a sharp pain sent him spiralling into darkness.

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Dean was finally glad the doctor was called away, because he didn't want Sam to wake up alone, but his head was spinning from useless medical knowledge he'd probably never use.

And to think, all he asked for was some advice on losing a painful verruca.

Instead of a simple, straight answer, Dean found himself on the receiving end of a government health and safety lecture he really could have done without. He didn't use public showers or swimming baths, he didn't share towels, and he certainly never borrowed someone else's pumice stone.

And what in hell's a pumice stone?

But this was Sam's doctor, and Dean wasn't about to get on the wrong side of the guy who'd helped save his brother's life.

On the other hand… he thought again, eyes narrowing, as the physician somehow meandered his way on to the disgusting subject of bunions...

Fortunately, just as Dean's temper was ready to snap, a loud beeping had the good doctor muttering apologies, and hurrying away.

"Well, thank you Doctor Kildare!" Dean had murmured angrily under his breath, before pushing open the door to Sam's room. But the murmur turned into a shout of fear, when his gaze collided with a wet floor, an overturned plastic cup, and a barely conscious little brother sprawled out in the spilled water.

Two long strides, accompanied by some colourful language, and Dean was down on his knees, tapping Sam's face.

Breathing a small sigh of relief when lids fluttered open to reveal dazed, blue-green eyes, Dean studied the kid's face.

"Sam? Can you hear me?"

Dean frowned at the sluggish response of his brother's pupils.

"Oh, great job Sam!" He scowled, but carried on with his gentle examination. "Of all the stupid… you're a real dumbass, ya know that? What the hell were you doing out of bed?"

Dean was still growling out his disapproval when his fingers encountered a bump, and with a small gasp of pain, Sam lost consciousness, driving Dean's fear up another notch.

"Sammy?" Tapping his cheek garnered no response, and Dean was beginning to panic.

Supposing something was seriously wrong? What if hitting his head for the second time in the space of a week had caused a bleed in his brain?

A haemorrhage?

Dean inwardly cursed that damn doctor again, reached for the call button on the bed, and renewed his efforts in bringing Sam round.

"C'mon wake up! Sam? Wake the hell up!"

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Sam felt someone pulling at his eyelids, then a bright light cut sharply through the darkness, blinding him.

"Minor concussion…" was muttered softly somewhere above him, answered by a harsh grunt of approval from nearby.

"The scans were clear, but, given his previous head injury, I'd prefer him to stay for another night. Just in case."

"Sure." Came a hoarse voice.

"I'll give him something for the pain and nausea when he wakes up…"

"When?"

A small surprised pause ended with the softer voice asking "When what?"

"When will he wake up?"

"Hard to say for sure, but soon. When he's ready." A small rustling, as something was stowed away in a pocket. "I have to finish my rounds, but call me if there's any change, or if he's sick. Try to keep him calm; Sam might be pretty disoriented when he comes round, and any additional stress won't help."

A weary sigh sounded from across the room, just before its owner answered "Ok. And, uh… thanks Doc."

"Not a problem."

Quiet footsteps were followed by a soft snick as a door was opened, and a thunk as it closed again.

Sam got the feeling he was now alone in the room with a very angry wild animal.

He struggled to open his eyes, but someone seemed to have attached heavy weights to the lids. A presence moved to stand by his bed, hovering over him, and the animosity was almost tangible.

"You awake?" And Sam finally recognised the voice, kept soft and low, but with a worrying steel edge to it. "Sam?"

"Hunnnhhh?" Was about all Sam could manage as a reply, and the frosty reception it bought him, told Sam that wasn't going to be good enough. He tried harder. "D'nnn?"

"Yeah, it's me." His brother's voice was still soft, the steel turning to relief, but he still sounded exceptionally pissed off.

Little details were creeping in, things Sam was just starting to take note of. Like the feel of something running under his nose, cool air hissing through his nostrils, and there was something soft wrapped tightly round his head.

Bandage?

Again?

A memory of a falling cup… water splashing on the floor…

Sam suddenly remembered. And it told him several things.

One, why his head hurt.

Two, the reason his brother was pissed off.

And three, that Sam wasn't necessarily getting out of this one alive.

His eyes cracked open at last and sure enough, there was Dean, face pale with concern, but jaw and eyes hard with anger.

"Y… you 'kay D'n?" Sam mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty and worried all at once.

"Oh yeah, Sam. I'm just peachy!" Dean snapped in reply, and Sam winced in pain. "Have you any idea what it was like, huh? Finding you on the floor like that?"

Either Dean hadn't noticed Sam's discomfort, or he was too distraught to care, and he began pacing in agitation, tearing a hand through his hair every few seconds.

"God Sam! I thought you were…" He shook his head, eyes gleaming with moisture. "Never mind. I just can't believe you!"

Sam felt confused. And sad.

Of course I know what it's like. I found Dad, remember?

All this? Over a cup?

"I d-donunnerstand…" he muttered, brokenly.

Dean spun round and glared hard at his little brother.

"You wanted to leave this place so badly, you put your life at risk, Sam!" Dean hissed angrily. "You selfish bastard! You're so willing to throw your life away in Dad's memory, but you don't care what it'll do to me!"

Sam stared at him, blinking against the growing headache.

"I…"

"What?" Dean stepped closer to the bed, then leaned down, almost nose to nose with his brother. "You gonna give me some pathetic, clichéd platitudes now bro? How we should get out of here and hunt in the name of Dad?"

"I-I'm s-sorry…" Sam's head started to spin, stomach churning. And worst of all… "M'thirsty… I was th-thirsty… needed w-water…"

Dean gaped at him, then grabbed at something on the bed, shaking it under Sam's nose.

"See this? It's a call button Sam! You use it to ask for help!"

Sam blinked at it a few times before replying, whilst Dean resumed his pacing.

"D-didn't want…" Sam rolled his face away, swallowing a gasp as pain spiked through his head. "W-wanted…"

"Right! It's all about what you want… " Dean finally stopped pacing and took a good look at his little brother, then stepped warily towards the bed, eyes widening with worry. "Sammy? You ok?"

"H-head… h-hurts…"

Sam had little warning, just the final, sudden, violent churn of his stomach.

Hot bile flooded his mouth like water from a cracked dam, and the next thing he knew his in-patient shirt was warm and damp.

But once he started, he couldn't stop.

Panicking, choking, trying to struggle into a sitting position, the all too familiar ringing noise in his ears drowned out his brother's worried voice.

"Shit!" Dean knelt and quickly slipped an arm behind Sam's back, gently pulling him up and rubbing his back, allowing the kid to vomit in safety. "Take it easy. It's gonna be ok, I promise. Just relax..."

Sam scrabbled desperately at the nasal canular, trying to get it off his face, gasping, glassy eyes rolling wildly in their sockets like a frightened colt.

"C'mon Sammy, slow it down!"

Dean tightened his hold on the kid, pinning his flailing arms down with one hand, and cupping the back of Sam's head with the other.

"Sammy, look at me." Dean gazed down at his struggling brother, and softened his voice. "C'mon look at me... that's it; just keep your eyes on me. Slow it down... nice and easy now."

Sad, watery eyes peered up at him, and gradually, Sam began to calm down.

But tears spilled over, ran down his face, and his body shook with exhaustion.

"I'm r-really sorry, D-Dean…" he whispered sadly. "J-just wanted w-water… so thirsty…"

Dean stared at him.

"That's really all it was?" he uttered in disbelief.

When Sam nodded tiredly, Dean glanced at the dry, chapped skin of his brother's mouth, and sighed, feeling guilty as hell.

He'd sure laid a lot of crap on Sam's shoulders in the short time the kid had been awake.

And that wasn't fair. Being scared was one thing, but to make his brother sick...

Picking up the now empty cup, and filling it with water, Dean gently pressed it to Sam's lips. His heart clenched with sorrow when the kid drank greedily.

"I... I'm so sorry kiddo, I didn't mean to get angry." But you scared the crap outta me! "Next time, just use the call button, ok?" Dean chided softly, taking the empty cup away. "Speaking of which…" he pressed the dreaded button. "You were supposed to be gettin' out today, kiddo. But the doc wants you in another night."

At Sam's inquiring glance he added "minor concussion when the floor came up and hit you over the head, dude." Dean smiled, and put on his best 'Bobby' voice. "Them floors are nasty creatures."

His little brother just stared at him, completely bewildered.

"Wha?"

Dean sighed deeply, and laid his little brother gently back against the pillows.

"Never mind," Dean muttered soothingly, pulling the covers up to Sam's chin. "Just... get some rest. But Sam?" He stared down at the kid, eyes full of fierce determination and love. "We're gonna talk about this."

A flash of lucidity on Sam's face surprised him, but not as much as the sad statement that followed.

"Why? Yadonwan... wannatalkboutanythin'anymore."

Nodding slowly, Dean considered that in all its truth.

"Yeah. But we can't go on like this, dude. S'gonna get us both killed."

And it was his own words that triggered it off.

May be Sam wasn't the only psychic in the family.

Because Dean felt a sudden, dreadful foreboding, a sense that everything he'd ever said, everything he'd ever promised...

...while I'm around nothing bad's gonna happen to you...

...felt like a huge lie in the making.

A dark shadow, deep in his heart, spoke its warning that no matter what he tried, no matter what lengths he went to, Dean was going to lose Sam.

One way or another.

So he made the only decision he could.

Dean Winchester went into denial and shrugged it off.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't going to listen to his instincts.

Instincts were overrated.

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Author's notes:

Sorry about that. The idea for this second chapter started off so promisingly...

...and look what happened!

I've no idea where this ending came from, and had actually hoped for a feel-good conclusion. But I think Series 2 itself, wormed its way into my mind and set up a picket fence, demanding a kind of link to the events of AHBL part 1. And I often wondered if Dean had in fact (deep down) sensed what was coming. He just strikes me as far more sensitive than he lets on.

And I'm sure you've all had the same experience when writing a fic. You start out with certain solid ideas, but they become by-passed and ignored when the moment comes, and you have little choice but to go with it.

If that makes sense.

Probably not.

You can tell I've been on call again, eh?

Especially from the typos!

Cheers everyone. Hope this isn't too big a disappointment.

Kind regards,

ST xxx