This story is part of my "Hospital Horrors" series.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural. All of the cool stuff belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW.

IN THE DARKEST CORNERS

By: Vanessa Sgroi

In the Darkest Corners

In the darkest corners,
shadows dance and writhe.
Sinuous and salacious.
Emboldened by fear.
Thirsting to ravenously gulp
the honeyed nectar of
loneliness and dread.

--Vanessa Sgroi, 2008

"Dean? Dean, c'mon, stay awake! We're almost there." Sam's worried voice filled the cool interior of the Impala, momentarily drowning out the repeated creaks of worn leather seats and soft, hitched breaths. Outside the vehicle, the evening sky hung low, populated by an abundance of persistently pregnant gray, grungy clouds that refused to release their burden of moisture beyond a few miserly, but fat, drops of rain that splat against the dusty windows.

"T-T-Tired, S-S-S-Sammeeee…" Dean's words were slurred and hardly reassuring. Despite his best efforts, his drooping eyelids finally dropped all the way closed.

Sam risked looking away from the road to glance at his brother, who lay slumped awkwardly against the passenger door. Red lines of gore ran from his forehead, down his cheek, ending at his chin where drops of crimson had first pooled in the cleft then dripped repeatedly off its point to land on his shirt, soaking into the warm cotton. The fluid was growing tacky as it dried. His clothes hid a few more injuries from Sam's eyes, but the head injury was the most worrisome.

Locking his eyes back on the road, Sam reached over and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean? Open your eyes!"

His only response this time was a barely audible moan. Dean's chin dropped toward his chest as his body went completely lax.

Sam's worry escalated tenfold. He kept his eyes peeled for the hospital sign he recalled seeing somewhere along this road while his mind drifted back to the events of the last couple of hours.

The nasty spirit they'd been hunting had taken an instant and extreme dislike to his brother. She'd ignored Sam's every attempt at distraction to concentrate on either throwing things at Dean or throwing Dean himself. It was her final throw that landed Dean where he was—slumped unconscious in the passenger seat of the Impala. He'd felt his stomach tighten when he heard the other man's head hit the corner of the doorjamb with a resounding thud only to breathe a small sigh of relief when Dean had gotten to his feet and stood grouchy and swaying, but mostly erect, while Sam had quickly finished salting and burning her remains. It was as they were making their way downstairs and toward the front door, however, that things went south. Dean had reached the bottom step and collapsed without warning. His eyes had simply rolled up in the back of his head and he went down, scaring the living hell out Sam. He'd knelt down next to his brother and had managed to rouse him enough to get him to the car with help—a lot of help.

The younger man spied a blue "Hospital" sign on the side of the road with an arrow pointing right. Sam took the corner fast, barely tapping the brake pedal.

Approaching the next intersection, a two-way stop for the cross street, Sam was just about to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the hospital perched on the corner, when a bright flash out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The driver of an oncoming car—a late-model, low-slung glittery silver Chevy Corvette—was running his stop sign. Sam slammed both feet on the brake pedal, the steady white-noise hum of the tires turning into agonized squealing as the rubber fought to find purchase. Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, and he cringed, expecting to hear the screech of tortured metal on impact. The Impala came to a shuddering halt with mere inches to spare as the Corvette raced by, leaving Sam stunned and openmouthed especially when the other driver stuck his hand out his window and offered a one-fingered salute.

Shaking in reaction to the near collision and turning the air blue with invective about pompous assholes with shiny sports cars, the youngest Winchester pulled himself together and looked over at his brother.

"Shit! Dean!" Momentum had carried him forward, and he had half-slid into the footwell.

Throwing the car into Neutral, he reached over and frantically, awkwardly pulled Dean back onto the seat. After making sure his brother was settled, Sam put the car into gear and rushed on to the hospital.

Spying the sign for "Emergency", Sam tore into the parking lot and pulled up as close as he could to the entrance. One leg and arm were already out of the vehicle as he was throwing the gearshift into Park. The worried young hunter ran through the sliding glass doors and up to the Admissions desk, moving his way to the front of the small line.

"I need some help!"

The nurse gave him a dispassionate, and somewhat disgruntled, look and flicked her eyes to the end of the line.

"Sorry, but it's an emergency!" Sam's gaze darted to the people in line and then back to the nurse. "Please—my brother's out in the car. He … he hit his head and he's bleeding. I c-can't wake him up."

At his words, the woman's demeanor instantly changed. She spun on her heel and disappeared through a doorway behind her. Seconds later, two Patient Care Technicians and a triage nurse rushed out from behind a set of double doors to the right of the Admissions desk.

Sam joined them as they hurried out the entrance and to the parked Impala. He yanked the passenger door open and reluctantly stood back, allowing the two men to extract his brother's limp, bloody form from the car and lay him out on the gurney.

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked the nurse as they rushed back into the building. The scuffed black-and-white floor tiles blurred underneath the spinning wheels of the gurney.

Sam's mind raced for a plausible explanation, finally blurting, "We—my b-brother and I—we're flipping a house out on Old Stone Road. We were out there doing some repairs and he—D-Dean—fell. I-I didn't see it because he was upstairs. I was on the main floor and h-heard a-a loud bang and him yell." Sam silently chided himself for stuttering and hoped the medical professionals chalked it up to stress.

"Was he conscious when you found him?"

"Yeah, he—he was walking and talking. Then he passed out. But only for a minute or two. I-I helped him to the car. Then on the way here, he passed out again."

"Does he have any other injuries you know of?"

"He was favoring his left side. Might've hurt his ribs. I-I dunno what else."

They reached the curtain to one of the exam cubicles and the nurse held up a hand, pressing it lightly against Sam's chest. "I'm sorry. You're going to have to stay out here. There's a waiting room just around the corner. And we'll need you to fill out some paperwork."

"But…"

She disappeared behind the curtain before Sam could sputter any more in the way of protest. Seconds later a tall, middle-aged man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat, dark hair tousled from restless fingers, cut in front of Sam and pushed into the cubicle, the metal rings clinking as he yanked the curtain closed.

Sam dropped his forehead against the wall and took a couple of deep breaths to help steady is wobbly knees before making his way back to the admissions area and the indicated waiting room, stopping first at the desk for the paperwork. The young hunter, gripping the clipboard tightly, finally sank down into a tattered-looking chair in the corner. He spent several seconds staring blankly at the empty boxes on the form. Name? What name should I use? With a sigh, Sam pulled out his wallet to find their most current insurance ID card.

Sam Stanley.

He wrote "Dean Stanley" in the name box, knowing his brother's wallet carried an identical card. Sam was halfway through completing the form when a little girl's quavery query caught his attention.

"Mommy? Why is that man bleeding?"

"Ssh, honey, it's not polite to ask such things. Now sit down."

"But Mommy—he's bleeding all over his papers! Can't we give him a Band-Aid?"

Curious, Sam glanced around the room but didn't see anyone bleeding. He shrugged and his gaze finally settled on the little blonde girl who'd spoken. She was standing near the chairs directly across from where he was sitting, and she was staring—at him! The second he made eye contact, the little girl inched forward. Her deep blue, intensely serious eyes locked on his face.

"Do you need a Band-Aid? Maybe my mommy kin get you a Snoopy one." Her solemn whisper barely reached his ears.

Sam was about to tell her he didn't need a Band-Aid since he didn't have a cut when he noticed that there was indeed blood smudged on the paperwork in his hands. He frowned as he looked for its source, noticing first the tear in the sleeve of his sage green shirt and then finally locating the red and ragged gouge trailing down his left forearm, ending across the fleshy part of this thumb. It was still sluggishly bleeding.

Damn, I think that's gonna need stitches.

The tall, lanky hunter blinked at the wound in bemusement. The throb and sting of the wound had been masked by his consuming concern for his brother. The act of gazing at it apparently tore away the mask, and the pain returned with a vengeance.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the little girl. "It's okay. The doctor will fix me right up."

"Will he give you a Snoopy Band-Aid?"

Sam offered the little four-year-old blonde a quick smile. "I'm sure he will."

"Anna-Marie, leave the poor man alone," scolded the little girl's mother.

At her mother's reprimand, Anna-Marie wiggled her fingers in a goodbye wave at the tall man with the pretty eyes. She climbed into the chair next to her mother and sat but continued to watch him with a small frown of concern.

Sam was just about to return his attention to the paperwork on his lap when he suddenly heard a commotion and loud screaming coming from down the hallway. He immediately recognized the rasp of his brother's voice.

"NO! NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

TBC…