Author's Note: I've been cleaning out the hard-drive lately. I've got all this stuff in there I started one, two, and sometimes three seasons ago that I never finished for various reasons. A lot of the time it's just because I lost confidence in the piece. In revisiting some of them I'm finding them too far along NOT to complete. I figure even if I've lost confidence in them, they may appeal to someone out there. It seems a pity to waste all the work I did put into them even if it turns out my lack of confidence was justified

Anyway. This was started sometime in season two. I added a bit here and there early in last season. I've just now finished it. Given the events of the S3 finale I thought this would be a good time to bring it to light.

My inspiration was from – obviously – the S1 episode Faith, and specifically Sam's line about "scouring the Internet for the past three days." Oh really? Hmm. So while Sam was busy doing that, what was Dean doing?

I'll be posting it in 3 or 4 sections.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

-T

I am a dumbass.

That's what I want carved into my headstone.

I mean, come on! I admit that I didn't always pay attention in school, when we actually got the chance to go to school, but I musta been paying attention somewhere. I know that electricity and water don't play well together. Hell, that's why you use electricity to off a freakin' rawhead in the first place!

So what did my dumb ass go and do? It got itself got electrocuted because I was layin' in a puddle playing hero with a damn taser. Now I'm stuck in this cruddy room with a TV that only picks up five channels, eatin' food that tastes like sawdust, and being harassed by nurses who look like Meatloaf in drag. Hell would be more fun. Definitely more interesting.

Did I mention I'm dying? Probably should include that part. One hundred thousand volts isn't good for the heart. It's going to give out any day now – okay so they gave me a month, tops. Honestly, if I had the energy I'd be out in the hall doing laps just to hurry it up.

I'd also add "died of boredom" to my headstone but that wouldn't make sense. I'm dying because I'm a dumbass. I'm only bored because I'm dying.

Maybe I should back things up to the beginning. Might as well. I don't have anything else to do.

DAY 1

We had a gig. Kids turning up missing. Everyone thinks when kids get gone they've been nabbed by a pervert. Well, that isn't always the case. Cops don't know how to read the signs. They look in all the wrong places. When kids go missing around water, and no body ever turns up, odds are it wasn't a pervert or a drowning that got 'em.

The Williams sibs were just your average lower middle-class rug-rats. Latch-key kids, and probably not old enough to be lookin' after themselves, but then sometimes ya got to do what ya have to do. I think me and Sammy are lucky to be alive sometimes. I wasn't much more than six when Dad left us alone for the first time. Sammy wasn't even out of diapers. No problem there, by that time I'd already changed a lot of damn diapers and could do it with my eyes closed. One day when Sam's giving me some shit I'll have to bring that up – you know, if I end up living longer than a month.

These kids were sitting ducks though, not like me and Sammy. I'd known what was out there and I could use a gun.

Rawheads like swamps and marshes best, and the Williams' were renting a house with an old creek bed at the back of the yard. If a rawhead hadn't taken a liking to the place the most dangerous thing about it would have been the mosquitoes. Me and Sam checked it out. As usual the cops probably didn't bother, and why should they? There was hardly any water in the old creek. It stunk like a toilet. There was no sign that the kids had been down there.

Oh, and that was because they were told not to go anywhere near it.

Riiiight. Sure way to get a kid to do something is to tell 'em they're not allowed to do something. When me and Sam were little we tried that a couple times and got our heads knocked together. We learned pretty quick that in our case Dad took following the rules real seriously. He doesn't give orders without a good reason and he expects them to be followed without question – for your own good. That's something Sammy never seems to get.

Of course the Williams kids make a bee-line for the creek as soon as they get the chance. Rawheads like to snag kids that break the rules. Sam says it's about some karmic code or whatever. Like a rawhead has morals. I think the naughty ones must taste better or something.

'Cause yeah - when a rawhead takes a kid you won't find a body. That's how we knew the Williams' kids were still alive. Another kid a block away went missing only a week before the other two did. The rawhead probably already ate and wasn't hungry, but how could it resist a couple of rule breaking kids blundering onto its own turf? That'd be like some sexy nurse walking in the door and offering to blow me right now. I feel like shit. My blood pressure is so screwed up I probably couldn't get it up. But I'm not gonna turn that down. No way. Of course that isn't going to happen. The nurses here make a warthog look like Miss America.

So Sammy fought Dad all the time about the drills we had to do, always trying to get out of doing 'em, always asking questions about why we had to learn it at all. It's hard for him. He didn't get "it's for your protection." It took a while before Sam connected what we did with how we lived. Dad and I tried to keep it from him as long as we could, but even when he figured it all out he didn't understand. Other people had bad things happen to them and they never trained like soldiers or lived on the road all the time. They just got over it and moved on. Sammy didn't understand that most people don't know what's really out there. Since we did, we were the only ones who could do something about it.

My point is that Sam hated Dad's version of a higher education. He hated learning to fight. He's good at it, but he hates it. He didn't like handling the guns, was always cutting himself with the knives. Dad rode him all the time too so that didn't help. The one thing Sam did like though was tracking. He's a damn good tracker. I overlook stuff. Sammy can find the most itty bitty clues. I think he's part bloodhound.

Sam found the rawhead's trail right away, and we followed it until we figured out where it was headed. A ratty old house sat down at the end of the stream where the water finally gurgled down into a drain on its way to wherever the hell creeks go – the ocean? I dunno. Wasn't paying that much attention in science class. In any case we knew the rawhead wasn't gonna eat the kids right away, and it couldn't keep 'em in the swamp right behind their own house, so it was probably going to stash them somewhere. That place was just as good as any.

To make a long story short – or shorter anyway – we were right. The kids were there, scared out of their wits but alive and not hurt as far as I could see. I couldn't see the rawhead either but it was there all right, hiding in another favorite place – under the stairs. Sam probably has some nasty bruises from where he fell when it grabbed him. He's probably sitting on a bag of ice somewhere right now. The rawhead took a nice slice out of his ankle too. I hope he remembered to wash the cut out good. Those things grow germs like nobody's business. It would suck if I died of heart failure and Sam died of some crazy-ass infection two days later.

At least I'd have company, and Sammy's pretty good company – when he's not complaining about something. Used to be he bitched and moaned because he didn't understand stuff. Now I think he bitches and moans because he knows too much. By that I mean he tries to distract himself from thinking too much about things that freak him out. He's got a lot to freak out about right now too. I don't know how he keeps it together sometimes. I hope he can keep it together when I'm gone. I'm scared for him. Maybe more scared than I've been since the fire. Something isn't right. When something isn't right I usually go in with both guns blazing but this...I don't know. I don't have any answers. I think Dad does, and I think maybe he's scared too.

Whatever the answers are, I won't be around when they come out. I'm dying remember? I'm a dumbass.

Because...while Sam got the rug-rats out of the house, I went after the rawhead by myself, no backup. I didn't want to give it the chance to escape and anyway, I figured Sam would be back after he locked the kids in the car. I knew Sam would lock them in the car. When I first started Hunting with Dad and we had to have little Sammy along, that's what we used to do with him.

Rawhead and Bloody Bones. Their name fits them. They're nasty things, all scabby and rotting, and they stink to high heaven. The whole basement of that house stunk like it or I might have smelled it out before it came after me. Rawheads are big too, and real fast for their size. If I hadn't seen it coming out of the corner of my eye I wouldn't be dying now. I'd be dead. That thing hit me like a freight train. I lost my weapon.

Things get a little mixed up after that, probably because it all happened so fast. I remember falling. The gun was nearby so I scrambled after it. The rawhead was pretty pissed off by then. I figured it was going to break my neck and then go after Sam and the kids. I really wanted to keep my head attached to my body, and I definitely didn't want it to hurt my brother. It had killed enough. I was going to fry the son-of-a-bitch. I snatched up the taser and fired.

I hit it dead on, at a pretty close range, and knew right away it was toast. A split second after that I realized I was laying in water, and it was standing in the same water, and water is a real good conductor of electricity. I had just enough time for the "oh shit!" to pop up in my head before I got nailed.

I never really thought about it before, but after getting lit up like a Christmas tree like I did, I think I would definitely choose lethal injection over the chair. The shock didn't knock me out; I was wide awake when it first hit me and I stayed that way until the very end. I could actually feel the path the electricity took through my body because of the way my muscles contracted. Everything locked up tight all the way up from my feet, to my head, and down both arms. I couldn't let go of the taser. I couldn't yell for help because I couldn't get my mouth open. My jaw was locked up so tight I'm surprised I didn't break any teeth. Strike that yell for help – I probably would have just been screaming, 'cause it hurt like a mother.

It must have blanked me out at some point. I only remember pain, and then suddenly I wasn't in the basement anymore. I was getting little snapshots of what was going on around me but I had a hard time making any sense of it. I guess I must have been going in and out of consciousness. I could hear sirens and muffled voices. People were talking to me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. They sounded like a Charlie Brown cartoon. Sometimes I could see faces - but nobody I recognized – and when I tried to ask for Sam I couldn't. That freaked me out. I remember grabbing something, somebody's shirt, and someone holding me down.

The someone turned out to be Sam because I heard him just fine, telling me to calm down, they were only trying to help. I wasn't sure why I needed help but I trusted Sammy. Besides, I was in no shape to take on any fight. My heart wasn't beating right. I think it must have stopped again because all of a sudden everything went black again and I heard Sam say, "No. Nonono...Dean come on!"

I figured I was dead. I was never going to wake up again - but I did. I woke up really fuzzy in the thinking department, and my head was throbbing like I had super bad hangover. My chest hurt too. It felt like something the size of a Mack truck was pushing down on it. I couldn't catch my breath, and I was tired, real tired. Still half asleep, I thought. Hadn't woke up all the way.

I remember babbling at the nurses but I don't know exactly I was saying to them. I wasn't real with it for a while. I had no idea where I was, how I'd gotten there, or to tell the truth, who I was. The nurses who did talk to me called me "Dan." So did the doctor. I almost corrected him, but by then I was coming around a little more and figured Sam had pulled out an alias. Turns out I was right. My name is Dan. Dan Berkowitz.

Eventually a doctor showed up to talk to me. First thing I asked him was if the Williams kids were okay. They were. They'd been brought to the hospital with me to be checked out and their grateful parents had already picked them up. I asked about Sam and the doctor told me he was still downstairs talking to the cops. He told me something else too:

"Your brother's knowledge of CPR is why you're sitting here with me now."

Didn't surprise me none.

Basic first aid was another one of Dad's drills. Me and Sam both knew CPR. We could set bones and sew up wounds. Sam once told me when he got to Stanford he had a choice of becoming a doctor or a lawyer and he picked lawyer. Personally I think he should have become a surgeon. The nasty cut he sewed up on my leg once barely left a scar. His stitching is that good.

Speaking of Stanford. I want to go on record and say something about my brother. He's not as honest and upstanding as he likes to make himself out to be, which only makes sense. He's related to me and Dad after all, and he was raised the same way I was. Sam would like to be a good citizen and follow all the rules, but the fact is, he isn't and he doesn't.

We moved around a lot when we were kids. Home was either the car or a motel room. Dad got by the same way me and Sammy do now – fraud. Dad can run a great con too. He could officially be called a grifter. Me, I'm just a hack compared to him.

Dad started early, way before he starting Hunting, when he dropped out of school and lied about his age so he could join the Marines. For a high school drop-out Dad's pretty sharp about a lot of stuff. He taught us the best he could, but he knows his limits. If we wound up staying in any one place for more than a week he made sure Sammy and I went to school. I hated it. I was real shy as a kid, and real far behind everybody else no matter where we went. To make up for it I acted out. I was a real smart ass, always in the principal's office. I found out real quick that if I smarted off, people didn't seem so scary, and the other kids would be too busy laughing to notice how dumb I was.

Sammy never had the same problems I did. Still doesn't. My people skills still suck. Sam got Dad's grifter gene 'cause he can charm the pants offa anyone. He will too if he has to, so don't let him fool you with his innocent act. As far as school went, Sam wasn't as far behind as I was because he started school on time. I was four, almost five when Mom died. I hadn't been to school yet, and Dad didn't make me go until Sam was ready too. That tells you how bad it was for me.

Sam liked school, and always did good wherever we went. It shouldn't have surprised Dad as much as it did when Sammy took off for college. I think it was the suddenness of it that made Dad so mad. He definitely wasn't happy to have Sam out on his own, but I also think he felt guilty for not seeing it coming. Of course Dad would never admit that.

To get into Stanford Sam needed his school transcripts and diploma. He didn't have either one. He had taken all the tests and stuff you needed for college but tracking down transcripts from all the schools we went to would have been a bitch and he never bothered to get his GED. So yeah, Sam makes himself out to be all honest and all, but he lied like a dog to get into college. His transcripts were made up. His diploma was fake. I think he even tweaked his test scores a little bit. He's an awesome computer hacker.

I laughed my ass off when he told me he was going to law school. The only thing Sam knew about the law when he took off to California was how to break it.

While little brother was charming the police, lying about our identities, and paying the bill with a stolen credit card, I was lying here in bed with a freakin' elephant sitting on my chest, being patronized by the doctor. Here's a tip: don't try to bullshit someone who deals in bullshit on a daily basis. I saw right through him from the minute he opened his mouth.

The doctor was rolling off a bunch of technical terms and test results to me as if a) I could understand what the hell he was saying and b) I couldn't read between the lines and realize it was a cover. He was beating around the bush trying to avoid telling me something bad. I finally just interrupted him.

"What does all that mean, exactly?"

"It means, that your heart was badly damaged by the shock you received."

No shit sherlock. I'd sorta guessed that already.

"Oh. Kay. What do we do to fix it?"

"Replace it."

I wasn't expecting that.

Wasn't expecting this one either:

"Unfortunately, the odds of us finding a donor heart in the time you have left are very slim, therefore eliminating transplantation as an option."

"How much time are we talking?"

He avoided the easy answer. "If you take it easy you may have two weeks, perhaps a month."

A month. I've got a freakin' month left to live. Oh wait, I have a month if I take it easy. I don't want to take it easy! I don't want to lay in bed waiting to die, I want to go and blow out all the stops. Get drunk, get laid – eat, drink and be merry – all that happy horseshit.

But like the Stones say, you can't always get what you want. I'm lucky if I can make it to the bathroom. Pissing on my own is about as wild as I'm gonna get. Ooh! I guess the next time I go I could make it a real adventure and try to stand up while I pee. Whaddya think?

Jesus, this sucks.

I really didn't say much after the doctor dropped the bomb on me. I asked him if he'd talked to Sam (he hadn't) and if I could have a television (he would see what he could do.) I only needed two things, and I told him straight up when he asked.

I needed him to break the news to Sam

I REALLY needed a television

The best way I could think of to get my head screwed back on was to flip through some TV. I needed to blank out, get away from reality for a few. I needed some time before I had to deal with Sam, and while I was dealing with Sam, the TV would give me an excuse not to look at him, especially when he first walked in the door. I couldn't look at him. I knew he'd have on that horrible kicked dog expression that I hate. If he started crying I wasn't sure what I'd do, but whatever it was, I didn't want to do it.

At least not in front of him.

He took longer than I expected. I was getting tired, and I was getting cranky. Daytime TV was a distraction all right, it was painful to watch. All I got was Montel, soap operas, and commercials for feminine hygiene products. And who the fuck came up with the Snuggle Bear? Can someone please tell me that? The thing is damn creepy. Animated toys in general are creepy. Chuckie anyone? I totally can picture some poor chick doing her laundry late at night. She starts up the washer, and out of the shadows comes this fluffy white bear. It shoves her head into the washer and hits the spin button...

Death by fabric softener.

When he finally showed up, Sam was not in the mood for any crap and neither was I.

You know I really wanted him to leave. I wanted him to get out and go find Dad. He probably thought I was just blowing smoke with the smart ass comments, hiding how I really felt, but that wasn't the case. I didn't know how I felt yet. I wasn't being smart to cover anything up, I was being smart because I wanted to piss him off. If I hadn't been so damn tired it might have worked. I just couldn't get going enough to push the right buttons.

I just laid it on the line. "I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it."

He says, "Watch me."

Watch you? That's what I don't want to do Sammy. I don't want to watch you watch me die. I don't want to watch you kill yourself trying to find some miracle somewhere that will save my life. What good is it anyway? My life isn't worth shit. You don't need me anymore. I can't help you. Whatever this freaky shit that's going on with you – I don't know what to do about it! It scares the living crap out of me.

And Dad? He doesn't need me either, or he would have taken me with him after the demon instead of dumping my ass and disappearing without a damn word. Like I wouldn't worry? Like I couldn't help?

It's just...I don't see the point. I'm tired. I'm tired of everything. I just want it to be over. I want to stop moving around all the time. I want to stop worrying about you and Dad all the damn time. I'm sick of eating mini-mart food and having my clothes stink like grave rot no matter how much I wash 'em.

I'm ready, Sammy. I just don't know how to make you understand. You know that scared feeling I got that night when I saw your room go up in flames, and heard Dad yelling for Mom, it hasn't gone away. I'm always looking over my shoulder. I'm always running. Just like that night. If it happened again, if I lost you or Dad – or God forbid both of you – I couldn't handle it. I just couldn't handle it at all.

This thing, with my heart, it gives me an out. It's a good one too. Nothing gory, nothing real painful and slow. I'll die a hero, saving a couple of little kids. Just let me go, okay?

How could I tell him all that though? I mean if I felt that way why not just shoot myself in the head? Same difference. He wouldn't get it no matter what I said, and I'm not that good at saying stuff in the first place. What do I feel? I feel relief. I know that now. Game over. Time to go home.

God. A home. Is it too much to ask for paradise to be a place of my own? A place where I could just kick back and relax with a comfy chair, a big screen TV and a refrigerator stuffed with beer and pork rinds? Maybe a girl too. A cute girl. And no reason whatsoever to leave home again.

Sam's gonna screw up my afterlife.

"Watch me," he said.

"Watch you what?" I asked him. "You gonna arm wrestle Death, Sammy? Play a little Texas Hold'em? Man, I'm doomed then because your poker face sucks and your upper body strength..."

"I believe in miracles, Dean"

"Well, bully for you, Billy Graham."

That's when the tears started. I guess it does suck to have your dying brother bite your head off when all you're trying to do is make it better.

"Come on, Sammy, don't do that."

"I can't lose you."

Wasn't much I could say to that, because he was going loose me, faith in miracles or not.

I couldn't look at him anymore. I looked out the window instead. I couldn't see the tears, but I could still hear the hitch in his breath. It reminded me of the time when he was six and had the hiccups for two days straight. We tried everything to get rid of them. Nothing worked.

"You'll just have to hook up with Dad..."

Ooh. Boy. That was the wrong thing to say.

"Hook up with Dad?! We can't even find him, Dean! How long have we been looking now? You think I'm going to walk out of here and just run right into him?" He let his breath out in a huff, irritated now. At least the tears had dried up. "How likely is that?"

I abandoned the window. There wasn't anything out there anyway, just a dull grey sky and a parking lot. My chest was starting to hurt. I rubbed it with one hand and even if the monitor wasn't letting me know what was going on, I could feel how my heart was fluttering. The beat was off, skewed a little sideways, and not very strong at all. I was out of breath too. It screwed up my voice. I couldn't get it much past a whisper.

"Why wouldn't you?" I asked. "Have you called him?"

It was Sam's turn to do the not-look dance. "No. Not yet."

"You don't think he'd come." I said flatly, because I was – am – afraid it's true.

Sam looked startled. "No. God, no, that's not it." His face kinda – crumpled. He was on the verge of a breakdown. "I'm just not ready to make that call, you know? 'Hi Dad, it's Sam. How are things going? Killed that demon yet? By the way, Dean is dying.' "

I laughed. " ' Dear Dad. Things are great here at band camp. Got bitten by a rattlesnake. Have twenty-four hours to live...' "

It made him smile, just a little. Meltdown aborted. "I'm not making that call because you aren't going to die."

"There are a few doctors running around this place who'd disagree with you."

"I have hope, Dean."

"You need to have reality, Sam."

We stared each other down. I won. He turned away.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "Look. You just...you get your rest, okay? I'm gonna find a motel."

"Get some sleep yourself, Sammy."

He shook his head. "No. I have work to do."

That's the last thing he said to me, just a half hour ago. After he left one of the nurses came in and gave me some hell. I am supposed to be getting oxygen, but I hate having rubber tubes looped around my ears and stuffed up my nose so I take it off every chance I get. I made a deal with her though - if she brought me paper and a pen, I'd take my oxygen like a good boy.

Now here I sit with a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen, and that damn tubing wrapped around my head while Sam is off hunting his miracle. There's a tap dancing hippo working out inside my ribcage. Even with air shooting up my nose it's hard to breathe. There is nothing but crap on TV.

It's going to be a long day, and I'm seriously not going to be able to sleep tonight.