A/N - written for the ohsam! Hurt/Comfort Challenge. I lumped together two prompts, the first being that Sam is hurt on a hunt and doesn't realize it due to Ezekiel's presence, and the second that Sam realizes there's something really wrong with him, and jumps to the wrong conclusion.

Warnings for Season 9 spoilers, blood, gore, frank discussion of physical injuries, vomiting, canon typical ghost on boys whumpage, and a few naughty words. And alternating POV.

Goes AU during s09e09 Holy Terror, so that they've worked the case of the biker murders, but Kevin is still hanging out in the bunker. And just remember, when Sam gets a few weird thoughts and isn't really thinking clearly in the later part of the story, he's on narcotic pain meds.

"So I found us a hunt ... " Sam began as soon as Dean took his first sip of coffee.

"Sam ... " Dean grumbled warningly.

"Just a good old fashioned salt and burn, Dean." Sam shoved a newspaper across the table. "And it's not even 350 miles from here. Vengeful spirit haunting one of the old motor lodges on the original Route 66 outside Galena. Someone's trying to restore the place, and the spirit keeps destroying the construction equipment."

"Sam, it's only been a little over a month since the angels fell, then you got knocked out going after Abaddon, and you've had your bell rung a couple times since then. I'm not 100% sure you haven't had a concussion. " Dean tried to argue.

"So?" Sam shrugged.

"So this is right after you almost died, that's what!" Dean threw his hands up. "You coughed up blood for weeks! You ran fevers that should have killed you! You lost almost thirty pounds! You need to take care of yourself, Sam. There's no way you can be 100% yet."

"But I am, Dean, or at least pretty close to it." Sam insisted. "I've gained about twenty of those thirty pounds back already. I feel great! I'm running again - I ran three miles a day for the past four days. Whatever the trials did to me, they're undoing even faster. Actually I'm better than I was before the trials. I haven't felt this healthy physically since I was soulless!"

Dean's blood ran cold.

"Seriously, Dean," Sam continued. "I know you're worried. You're my big brother and you've always worried about me and I appreciate that. But I'm fine, and I want to do this. It's just a salt and burn. We could do it in our sleep."

Dean plastered on a smile he didn't feel and nodded. "If you think you're all right, I'll trust your judgement."

Sam smiled, his ten thousand watts of sunshine smile, which had always, from their childhood days, brightened Dean's day and lightened whatever burdens he carried.

This time, however, it just twisted the knife in his gut a bit more.

Tracking the spirit turned out to be one of the simplest jobs they'd done.

When the interstates were built in the 1950's and one of the other local highways was widened and repaved, the motel had languished and eventually closed. Mr. and Mrs. Nussbaum, the older couple who owned it, had continued to live on the property. The husband died a few years later of natural causes in a local hospital. The wife had remained at the motel and became a reclusive cat hoarder until someone realized in 1964 that she hadn't been seen for a while. Local police found her dead in the motel, having passed away at least several weeks before and more likely several months.

Considering that Myrtle Nussbaum was the only recorded death on the property and bitter about losing their livelihood, it seemed a no-brainer that she was the resident ghost. And handily enough, she was buried in an old church cemetery on the outskirts of town.

Of course they had to wait until after dark to dig up and burn the old biddy. Sam picked up his shovel and turned over soil like it was an Olympic event, despite having spent nearly the past twenty years whining about how much he hated opening up graves.

Dean stopped for water or to stretch out his cramping muscles twice, while Sam kept digging without a break.

They had just cleared the top of the old fashioned pine box and cracked it open in a few places with their shovels when the air around them suddenly turned cold.

Without a sound or a moment's hesitation, both brothers tossed their shovels onto the ground above. Sam linked his hands together like a step, and hoisted Dean up so that he could scramble out and reach down to pull Sam up as well. Dean grabbed the bag near the headstone, tossing the salt to Sam while he pulled out the lighter fluid with one hand and grabbed a salt loaded shotgun with the other.

Sam shoved his knife into the cardboard container, ripping the side open, and dropped the knife on the ground by his feet. He twisted the two ends of the carton to dump the entire pound of salt into the grave.

Dean fired a shot at the specter approaching them, muttering something about crazy cat lady ghosts being worse than witches. The spirit disappeared, while Dean tossed the lighter fluid to Sam and dug in his own pocket for a lighter.

The ghost reappeared behind them, knocking Sam into the open grave, where he landed on top of the already damaged coffin lid with a sickening crunch.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, the sound almost drowned out by another shotgun blast.

"I'm okay!" Sam shouted back, holding up his hands for Dean to pull him out of the grave again.

Sam spun around, still laying on the ground, grabbed the lighter fluid, plunged his knife into the side, and dumped the liquid into the grave below.

"Back!" Dean shouted.

Sam tossed the plastic bottle down and pulled away from the edge at the same moment Dean tossed in the lighter.

Mrs. Nussbaum appeared on the other side of the grave, moving toward them quickly, but erupted into flames before she could cross the open hole.

Dean, still on his knees, leaned back on his heels and dropped his head onto his chest to catch his breath.

Sam rolled over onto his back, panting and laughing.

"I missed this," he turned his head to grin at Dean.

"Are you on drugs?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean, me and you, the salt and burn, the simple jobs, the adrenaline, no angels or demons or Leviathans or whatever." Sam answered.

"Yeah, the good old days." Dean snorted. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam sat up.

"When then let's cover up Moaning Myrtle and get out of here before the cops show up." Dean shoved himself to his feet and reached for a shovel.

Sam stood as well, and immediately fell over.

"Sam!" Dean dropped the shovel and whirled around, dropping to his knees to grab two hands full of his brother's jacket.

"Dean, I'm fine!" Sam protested.

"Then why did you ... "

"I don't know," Sam shook his head. "My left foot just wouldn't hold me for a moment. It doesn't hurt, but maybe I hit it harder than I thought when I fell in the grave."

Dean reached for his brother's leg, but Sam stopped him.

"Just help me stand up and walk it off." he asked.

Dean straightened slowly, holding Sam's arms, lifting him to his feet.

Or rather, foot.

Once Sam stood upright with his weight on his right foot, his left foot didn't reach the ground, and was turned outward at an unnatural angle.

"Holy shit, you're bleeding!" Dean watched in horror as the red droplets rolled across Sam's shoe, gleaming the lantern light. "Sit back down."

Dean lowered Sam back down to the grass, grabbed his knife from his belt, and reached for Sam's ankle.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Sam spluttered. "These are my favorite jeans!"

"Fuck the jeans," Dean muttered, neatly slicing the pants leg beside the inner seam.

He pulled the fabric back to reveal the leg underneath, smeared with blood, but not enough to obscure the fact that an inch of jagged white bone stuck out through the front of the calf a few inches above the ankle, and the foot was twisted sideways.

"Sammy ... " Dean murmured, going pale.

"It doesn't hurt!" Sam shook his head, looking at his leg in confusion.

"It's because you're going into shock." Dean immediately snapped into field medic mode.

He ran to the car, returning with a blanket, rags, and a jug of holy water.

"Dean!" Sam huffed.

Dean threw the blanket around Sam, then doused rags with water. "Gonna wash you up." Dean informed him. "Clean shirt, cut the jeans the rest of the way off, story's gonna be you fell down the stairs."

"I can do this!" Sam protested with a bitchface. "My leg is broken, not my hands!" He grabbed the cloth Dean was using to wipe his face. "You get the stuff in the car."

Dean looked at him for a long moment. He then held up his hand, two fingers raised in a victory sign. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam flipped him a bird. "How many am I holding up?"

"Fine," Dean grumbled, surrendering the wet rag. He turned away muttering about pain in the ass little brothers as he gathered up the shovels and equipment bag.

Dean got everything else loaded in the car, then wrapped Sam's leg with the cleanest rags he could find. He helped Sam change into a clean t-shirt, flannel overshirt, and boxers, draped the blanket around him, and assisted him to the car. Dean then changed into something not covered in grave dirt as well.

"It really doesn't hurt?" Dean asked again, once they were on the road.

"No, Dean, it really doesn't hurt," Sam insisted.

"Zeke!" Dean growled.

Sam's eyes flashed blue.

"Yes?" the angel asked, holding Sam's body rigid.

"What the hell?" Dean flung a hand toward Sam's deformed leg.

"Hell has nothing to do with this." Ezekiel frowned. "Sam's leg twisted beneath him when the spirit threw him into the hole."

"No kidding!" Dean thundered.

"I do not understand the purpose of this conversation." Ezekiel replied.

"Can you ... I don't know ... " Dean slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. "He doesn't even hurt!"

"I have suppressed Sam's pain receptors," Ezekiel explained. "Otherwise, he would be in great pain much of the time due to the damage to his body. I can lessen the suppression, but more than his ankle will hurt."

"Dammit." Dean hit the steering wheel again. "You're gonna have to. He's gonna know something is wrong when a compound fracture doesn't even hurt."

"I shall do so," Ezekiel agreed. "However, I will warn you, that the fractures are going to heal much more quickly than expected. You should be prepared to address that matter with Sam as well, unless you wish me to reset his memory for the entire time the leg is broken."

"No!" Dean jerked his head over to look at the angel. "You do NOT wipe out that much of his memory!"

"As you wish," Ezekiel nodded, and in the next moment, the figure in the passenger seat was Sam again.

"Dean?" Sam raised a hand, pointing at the upcoming road sign. "We're crossing the state line already? How fast are you driving?"

"Don't worry about it." Dean shook his head. "I'm just getting you to a hospital."

They went to Joplin Mercy Hospital, Dean figuring that both a bigger town and one they hadn't just burned an old woman's corpse in being to their favor.

Needless to say, Sam was taken back to the treatment area immediately.

The doctor's announcement that Sam needed immediate surgery wasn't a surprise to either of them.

"Both the tibia and fibula are broken here," she indicated the area where the bone protruded through the skin. "and again here," she pointed at his ankle. "they're snapped clean in two. If you were a smaller person, you'd have bone sticking through the skin there as well. We're going to go in and put everything back in place. We'll use screws through here," she laid her pen across the ankle bones in the x-ray. "to hold the ankle in place. With the higher fracture,we'll just have to see what it looks like when we get it cleaned up, but screws or metal plates or possibly both there as well. You're going to be a metal detector's worst nightmare."

"What about long term?" Dean asked. "It's all going to heal, right? He's gonna be able to walk fine?"

"Oh, he's definitely going to hurt when it rains," the doctor announced. "We'll know more after the surgery, but considering the fact Mr. Dougherty is relatively young, healthy, and not overweight, chances are good that he will make a full recovery."

Sam just shrugged. "Whatever we've got to do."

Consents were signed, and Dean was ushered out of the room so Sam could be prepped for surgery.

Dean managed to catch a two hour nap in the empty waiting room. He flipped through the less than two dozen channels on the hospital's television, finding nothing to watch, and sweet talked a nurse's aide out of a cup of coffee from the staff break room. He prowled the perimeter of the room, purposefully keeping his mind blank to avoid the thoughts he didn't want to deal with at the moment.

After six hours, he leaned over the unit clerk's desk.

"When is the doctor going to come tell me about my brother?"

She clicked a few buttons on the computer. "Your brother is still in surgery."

"What do you mean he's still in surgery?" Dean demanded. "They told me four to five hours! What's wrong?"

"Let me see if I can get an update from one of the techs," she smiled sweetly, reaching for the phone.

She dialed a few numbers, and carried on a hushed conversation with whoever answered that went on long enough that Dean started to become alarmed. Once she hung up, she smiled again.

"Everything is fine, Mr. Dougherty," she assured. "Your brother is doing well. They were just delayed in getting started. He apparently has a high tolerance to anesthesia."

"He's a big guy," Dean nodded, relaxing. "It takes a lot to put him under."

"Well the anesthesiologists thought they had compensated for his size, but he just wasn't going under. They gave more meds until the point they were afraid to give him anything else, and he was still perfectly alert and oriented half an hour later. The tech said it was funny, the doctor said 'We really need you to go to sleep so we can fix this leg.' and within a minute, he was under."

Dean was thankful he had already finished the coffee, because otherwise he probably would have dropped the cup.

Sam came out of surgery shortly before lunchtime. Dean was allowed to see him for a moment in recovery, but he was still unconscious. The doctor urged Dean to go get something to eat and some rest and come back that evening, when Sam should be awake and in his own room. He only agreed after being assured that Sam would not be awake for several hours, and that the nurse would call Dean's cell the moment he was.

Sam woke alone in a hospital room, with his left leg heavily bandaged, and began the familiar routine of calculating his surroundings. Daylight outside, so probably still Tuesday. A little after five according to the clock, so it's probably early evening. Empty chair beside the bed. No Dean. No pain. His eyes followed the tube taped to his arm up to the iv bags hanging by the bed. Broad spectrum antibiotic, bigger bag probably fluids for hydration. He reached up and pushed the bigger bag aside to see if there was anything else hiding behind it. There wasn't, so he was either still under the effects of the anesthesia, or the pain meds had been injected into the iv port.

"Oh, there you are," a nurse announced from his other side, startling him. She smiled as she jotted down the numbers from the monitor. "We weren't expecting you wake up quite so soon. I'll let the doctor know you're awake."

She left, and ten minutes later, a young doctor, no probably not a doctor, probably a trainee or resident or intern of some kind, stood over the bed, chart in hand.

"Mr. Dougherty, hi, I'm Dr. Bahri." the young man smiled and held out a hand for Sam to shake. "I assisted Dr. Simmons with your surgery. Everything went well. We placed screws in both bones in your ankle, and placed a screw and plate on your higher tibia fracture, and a plate on the higher fibula fracture. Those are permanent internal fixations, which means they'll stay in your leg. We won't be going back to take them out unless there's some sort of problem. It's going to take a while, probably two to three months before you're going to be able to begin physical therapy, but you should eventually make a full recovery. Of course, once your ankle has been fractured, it will always be susceptible to re-injury, so you'll have to be careful with it. Do you have any questions?"

"How long am I going to have to stay?" Sam asked. "And how could I be so badly injured when it didn't even hurt until I got to the ER?"

"It's not uncommon for someone with a fracture not to feel the full brunt of the pain at first. It has to do with the trauma to the tissues, the sudden swelling and so forth slowing the pain message from translating to your brain. My brother broke his leg playing football in college, and thought it was just bruised until he tried to walk on it. And besides, with all the damage from the electrocution, it's not surprising that your nervous system is a little wonky. As far as how long you'll be here, as long as everything goes well, three days or so." Dr. Bahri smiled. "Anything else?"

Sam frowned for a moment, wondering if he should correct the doctor and point out that it was Dean who had been electrocuted, and then wondering how the doctor even knew that, because it was many years and fake identities ago. When he realized Dr Bahri was still looking at him, Sam shook his head. "Not right now. I may have some questions later."

The doctor nodded. "That's to be expected. You're probably still a little fuzzy headed from the anesthesia."

Sam nodded in agreement, even though he realized at the moment that he actually wasn't.

"So could I ask you a few questions?" Dr. Bahri asked, gesturing at the chart.

"Sure," Sam shrugged, looking around the man to see if Dean was going to step up and stop the interrogation.

Dean was still nowhere in sight.

"Something came up with your insurance, when our clerk was verifying benefits. Apparently the insurance company had flagged your chart on their end. You were in Linwood Memorial Hospital in western New York state last month when there was a fire and explosion. Blue Cross asked if any of the injuries we were treating were sustained in the fire, you know, because of liability reasons, that the other hospital's insurance would be liable for those, you understand?" He paused, and Sam nodded. "Well, obviously this broken leg is new, but we had Linwood email us a copy of your chart, so we could see what was going on with you while you were there." The wannabe doctor flipped a page or two, and then tipped his head at Sam. "Where have you been for the past five and a half weeks, Mr. Dougherty?"

"Excuse me?" Sam frowned.

"It's not about your family taking you from Linwood." the doctor shook his head. "Under the circumstances, no one would question that. But I've never seen anyone recover from an electrocution like this, and especially not in under two months. According to their data, which of course ends right about the time of the explosion when the power went out, you were on the verge of being declared brain dead. Your last CT scan showed basically no brain function. Your MRI's showed massive burns to your internal organs. The only reason they hadn't pulled the plug on you already was because your brother refused to let them do so. Pardon me for saying this, but your recovery is nothing short of a miracle, so you can certainly understand my curiosity, right?"

Sam shook his head and frowned at the man again. "I was in a hospital?"

The man laughed. "I'm sure you don't remember it. You were comatose. But you know that you were electrocuted, right? And you know that you've been unwell and have been recovering, don't you?" The young man's mirth melted into concern.

"I ... I have gaps in my memory." Sam answered truthfully. "I know I was ... not myself, and I've been ... getting better, but I'm not sure ... I knew what ... happened."

"That's understandable." the resident shrugged. "I'm surprised that you're walking and talking at all. According to this," he held up the chart. "There was a downed tree in the road, and you came in contact with a high voltage power line. Does that sound familiar?"

"I think ... " Sam called on his acting skills. "I think my brother told me that. I don't really remember it."

"Yeah, well, like I said, the fact you're even able to have this conversation with me is unbelievable." the resident snapped the chart closed. "Your internal organs, including your brain, were cooked from the inside out." He paused, looking down at Sam's leg. "Mr. Dougherty, are you sure that you're ok with your brother? I mean, someone with your type of injuries, still recovering ... he shouldn't be leaving you alone. And he shouldn't let you near stairs unsupervised. Maybe we should contact Family Services, see if we can get him some help taking care of you ... "

"No," Sam shook his head, almost too adamantly. "He does fine. We have a couple friends who help him take care of me. I ... I got up while he was sleeping and tried to go downstairs. He told me not to."

The resident sighed and nodded. "I'll trust you on it this time. But if this becomes a habit, if you keep ending up back at the ER because your brother isn't taking good care of you, or he isn't watching you like he should, the administration is going to call Adult Protective Services, and there won't be anything I can do about it."

"That's not going to happen," Sam promised. "My brother takes good care of me."

"I sure do, Sammy!" a voice boomed from the doorway.

Dean walked in, a salad and a milkshake in hand.

"I brought you dinner, better grub than you could get in this place." Dean's smile was a little too tight, as if daring the resident to say anything to him.

"Ok, then," the young doctor backed away toward the door. "Glad to see that you're recovering so well, Mr. Dougherty. Let us know if you need anything. You should be discharged the day after tomorrow if everything goes well."

He pulled the door partly closed as he left, and Dean pushed it the rest of the way closed.

"Let me guess," the older brother rolled his eyes. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge?"

"Maybe not yet," Sam hedged. "Dean, what the hell happened when the angels fell?"

"Don't you remember?" Dean asked, putting the food on the tray table and rolling it to the bed.

He didn't look Sam in the eye.

"I remember being outside the church when the angels were falling." Sam informed him, watching for a reaction from Dean. "Then I apparently don't remember anything until I woke up about thirty something hours later in the front seat of the car, on the way to the bunker."

"Yeah ... " Dean prompted.

"But that doctor," Sam pointed at the door. "Said that I was in a hospital in New York about to be declared brain dead. The injuries he's describing that I had, there's no way I could have recovered from that in a day and a half. There's no way I should have recovered from it, period!"

Dean hesitated a heartbeat too long. "What can I say, Sammy. The trials wiped you out pretty fast. Letting go of them, apparently, you're healing even faster."

"Why did you not tell me I was in the hospital?" Sam continued.

"Did it matter?" Dean shrugged. "They weren't doing anything but telling me to let you go and that death was a part of life and all that bullshit."

"I think it was kind of a significant thing ..."

"Sam, seriously? The angels had fallen and they were seriously pissed and after us and blew up the hospital and demons were popping out of the woodwork and Cas lost his grace and we didn't know what the hell was going on with Kevin." Dean snapped. "So forgive me that I didn't hold your hand and gently explain that you'd been in a hospital that I had to carry you out of before somebody smited your ass while we were high-tailing it across the country!"

"How did the angels find us, Dean?" Sam folded his arms. "Because if I'm not mistaken, we're still branded with Enochian sigils."

Dean sighed. "I screwed up. I panicked. The doctor told me you were dying. They sent a fucking grief counselor in to talk to me, for God's sake! I ... I prayed. I tried to pray to Cas because I didn't know yet he had fallen, and when I didn't get an answer from him, I put out a message to any angel that was willing to help and gave our location. Unfortunately, most of the ones who showed up weren't there to help."

"Most of them," Sam frowned. "So some did come to help?"

"One," Dean snorted. "Some guy named Ezekiel, old friend of Cas'. He held them off while I got you out of there."

"But he couldn't heal me?" Sam tilted his head, trying to puzzle this out.

"He tried, but he was injured from the fall," Dean answered. "He wasn't running on full mojo. I dunno, though. He apparently got enough juice in you to kickstart this amazing healing you seem to be doing on your own." Dean gestured vaguely at Sam. "I mean, go from coughing up blood and being unable to eat to eating more than me and running marathons and setting some kinda world grave digging record in just a few weeks."

Sam nodded, watching his brother carefully.

He knew without a doubt that Dean still wasn't telling him everything.

Physical therapy came in for a few minutes after supper, just to help Sam stretch his hip and knee a little, keep him from getting too stiff from having to keep the leg propped up, help him get a little more comfortable in bed. The nurse came in with Sam's evening dose of pain meds just after.

Sam frowned at the pill she offered him. "I'm really not hurting that much."

"But you are hurting some, now?" Dean asked.

"Well, yeah, but it's really not bad right this minute." Sam nodded. "It's more like a mild headache than a broken bone."

"That's because you still have a little of your last dose in you," the nurse explained. "If you take this one now, it will start to take effect by the time the other wears off completely. Otherwise, in an hour or so when the other completely wears off, you'll be wishing you had taken it."

"Sam, I know you don't like taking meds, but you need to get some rest so you can get better," Dean looked at Sam significantly, reminding him that he had more than just a broken leg to recover from. "This is will knock the pain out and hopefully knock you out so you can get a decent night's sleep."

Sam watched Dean for a long moment, watched how the nerve in his jaw ticked almost imperceptibly, and wondered why his brother wanted him drugged and dulled when they weren't in a secure location. It was like there was something hovering just beyond the edge of Sam's grasp, something that would make all this make sense.

"Ok," he agreed, holding out his hand and gesturing for Dean to hand him some water. "You're right, a good night's rest will help."

The nurse handed Sam the paper cup with the pill, and watched while he swallowed it. "Let me know if you need anything." she patted his shoulder and then turned to Dean. "You've got about an hour before visiting hours end. But he's probably going to fall asleep on you by then anyway."

Dean smiled and thanked her as Sam watched, trying to unravel what secret his brother was keeping.

After 45 minutes, Sam feigned sleepiness, because Dean didn't seem inclined to leave otherwise. It was only for Dean's benefit, however, as Sam spent the first half hour alone flipping through channels and wishing he had the Men Of Letters' book on Sumerian mythology he had started reading before they had set out on this job.

His cell phone rang, startling him. He frowned at it for a long moment, before lifting it to see an unfamiliar number on the caller id. He frowned again, realizing by now it was on the third ring, and if he didn't answer soon, it would go to voice mail. Curiosity won out, and he pressed the button to accept the call.

"Hello, Sam," rumbled a deep voice on the other end. "Did I wake you?"

"Cas?" Sam pushed himself up a little higher in bed. "No. it's ... are you ok?"

"I'm fine, Sam. I spoke with Dean and he told me about your injury. I wished to call and express my condolences and offer whatever assistance I can, although without my powers, that would be limited." Cas continued.

"I appreciate the offer anyway, Cas." Sam thanked him. "You know one thing you could do for me would be to stop by the bunker some time. I'd love to see you and Dean was pretty upset when you left."

"I do not understand why." Cas stated. "Dean was the one who asked me to leave."

"Dean asked you to leave?" Sam said. "Why? Did you two have a fight?"

"He said that I was a danger to you if I remained there." Cas answered. "He said that the angels who were after me could come after you and Dean and that you were too weak to be involved in a fight."

"Huh." Sam couldn't think of anything better to say at the moment. "Can I call you back at this number, Cas?"

"This is my store supervisor's phone. You can call this number and she can get a message to me to call you." Cas replied solemnly.

"Ok, thanks Cas. Take care of yourself." Sam ended the call, and stared at the phone in his hand for several minutes.

Obviously, Dean was hiding something. Why would he think Cas was a danger to Sam? Why wouldn't he want Cas in the bunker, where they could keep him safe?

Most importantly, why did he lie to Sam about why Cas left?

Sam woke as the sunlight began to creep through the closed blinds, slightly disoriented until he remembered that he was in a hospital.

The other questions - what time it was, where was Dean, those sort of things - all took second place to the fact they had given him two liters of fluid yesterday, and he really needed to pee. He looked around the room, but of course the nurses hadn't left him a walker or wheelchair or even crutches.

According to the clock it was right at seven, which meant shift change, and not much chance of getting assistance for the next little while.

He stood hesitantly, testing his leg, and found that it didn't hurt much. He hobbled to the bathroom, mindful to try to avoid putting his full weight on the leg as much as possible.

When he opened the door to return to bed, he found the dayshift nurse standing in his room, and she proceeded to throw a fit.

"What are you doing out of bed? You're not supposed to put weight on that leg! You've probably ruined your surgery! Stop! Just stop right there, don't move, and let me get someone to help you back into bed!"

She grabbed his arm, but before Sam could even think about what he was doing, she was flying across the room to land in a heap in the floor.

She scrambled up and ran into the hall shouting, returning with two male staff members and another nurse pushing a wheelchair. They made Sam sit in the wheelchair, and pushed him the last four steps back over to the bed. The orderly helped Sam lift himself from the chair, and held him steady while he turned on his good leg and got back in bed.

"Now stay put!" one of the men ordered. "Don't get out of the bed for anything! If you need something, press the button," he put the call button on Sam's lap." and someone will come help you. I've got to go call this in."

He rushed out of the room. The orderly and the nurses followed behind, taking the wheelchair with them.

Sam replayed the events over and over in his mind, trying to decide if he had thrown the woman across the room, or exactly what had happened.

The orderly returned a few minutes later with Sam's breakfast tray, but by the time he added sweetener to his coffee, someone else came in pushing a wheelchair and announced he was here to take Sam to x-ray.

Sam took a few sips of the coffee, not mourning over leaving the wet cement looking oatmeal and indistinguishable fruit cup. He would call Dean and ask for a decent breakfast.

Dean arrived on the ortho floor when visiting hours began at 8:30, coffee, oatmeal, pumpkin bread, and a banana from Starbucks in hand in response to Sam's message. Well, to be honest, Sam didn't specifically ask for those items, just some decent breakfast and a large coffee. Yes, Dean was probably overcompensating due to guilt, but well, Winchester.

The young male doctor who had been in Sam's room yesterday was at the nurses' station, looking at something on the computer.

"Mr. Dougherty?" the man hailed. "Could I speak with you a moment?"

Dean's heart leapt into his throat. "Is my brother ok?"

The doctor was already around the end of the counter, waving Dean toward a consultation room.

Dean's feet forgot how to move when he realized the doctor was headed into one of those rooms where they take the family to give them bad news.

"He's all right," the doctor assured. "I just have a couple questions."

Sighing aloud in relief, Dean followed the man into the room and sat while the doctor closed the door and came to sit across from him.

"I'm Dr. Bahri, we met yesterday?" The man prodded, and continued once Dean nodded. "Mr. Dougherty, you do know there's something very strange about your brother, right?"

"I ... I don't ... know what you mean," Dean stammered, praying that it was true.

"Your brother ... " Dr. Bahri shook his head and gestured at the chart on his lap. "This morning, he needed to go to the bathroom, so rather than calling for a nurse, he got out of bed and walked to the bathroom on his own. Without any assistive devices. He said that he was sleepy and didn't think about what he was doing."

"He's always been pretty tough." Dean said with a smile, hoping that his bluff held.

"Mr. Dougherty, he broke his leg and ankle in multiple places," Dr. Bahri explained as if he were talking to a child. A particularly dense child at that. "Yes, he had the surgery yesterday, but there's no way his leg should have even supported his weight today. He certainly should have been in too much pain to even try walking on that leg."

"Well then why did you let him up?" Dean demanded. "Why didn't someone come help him, and stop him from getting up and hurting himself?"

"That's the thing, Mr. Dougherty," the doctor frowned. "He didn't hurt himself. We x-rayed his leg to see how much damage he had done to the surgical repairs. Not only was there no damage, but he's healed to the point that it looks like he had the surgery two or three weeks ago. His incisions are healed enough that we could take the staples out. There is very clear bone regeneration on the x-rays that should not be physically possible. All of this, on top of the fact that your brother was on the verge of being declared brain dead just over a month ago. The nurse who found him claims that he somehow threw her across the room without touching her. I ask again, Mr. Dougherty, what is going on with your brother?"

Dean stared at the coffee cup in his hand, his mind scrambling for an explanation. He sighed. "I don't know, and even if I did, I couldn't tell you."

Dr. Bahri narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Dean bit his lip and gave his best disarming smile. "I don't suppose we could just chalk this one up to ... I don't know, something that may have happened while my brother was in the military, and just let it go?"

The doctor stared at him for a full minute. "I'm going to have to talk to my supervisors about this. I'm still a resident, so I don't have the authority to sign off on something like this, and even if I did, to do so would be putting my medical license in jeopardy."

"Maybe you could schedule some more tests for this afternoon, and if you haven't come up with a reasonable explanation by tomorrow, talk to them?" Dean suggested.

"I can try that," Dr. Bahri nodded, still watching Dean like a hawk. "But you have to understand, I'm not the only one who's aware that something strange is going on here. Hospitals have well-developed gossip grapevines. HIPAA rules or not, people are going to be talking about something like this."

"I suggest you don't let them." Dean ground out as he stood and pushed past the doctor out into the hall.

This time, he noted the security guard casually leaning against the counter at the nurses' station, making conversation with someone behind the desk, but watching the door of Sam's room. He made his way down the hall, plastered on a fake smile, and pushed the room door open.

"Heya, Sammy. Brought you some breakfast." He dropped the cup and bag on the tray table. "You need to eat, keep your strength up, build some bones."

"Dean," Sam frowned. "What is ... "

"Hold that thought," Dean waved as he walked to the bathroom. "Be right back."

He paused at the bathroom door, turned back around, and softly said "Zeke."

Sam's eyes immediately flashed blue, and he sat up straighter, his hands stilling on the bag in front of him.

"Yes, Dean?" the angel questioned.

"How much longer?"

"Just a few days, a week, maybe, and your brother will be strong enough to survive without me." the angel answered. "As my strength builds, his also builds, and we are able to strengthen one another, the speed of which increases exponentially. He won't be fully recovered in that time, but strong enough that he would not require hospitalization. Fully recovery would take two to three weeks more."

"Just hurry," Dean nodded.

In the blink of an eye, Sam was back, grumbling that he didn't ask for all this.

Dean shut the door behind him, pulled out his phone, and sent a quick text to Garth.

Need MIB protocol ASAP.

Sam pulled his breakfast out of the bag, dumping the raisins and nuts into the oatmeal and wondering why Dean brought so much food. Sam was never big on breakfast, always preferring to have his main meal at lunch when possible.

He ate the oatmeal, glancing over at the bathroom door when he heard Dean's text message alert sound. A few spoonfuls later, he heard the sound again, and wondered idly if texting with someone half naked in a bathroom counted as an obscene phone call.

He finished the oatmeal and most of the banana by the time the door opened and Dean returned.

"I guess you were pretty hungry," Dean said, gesturing at the empty bowl.

"I guess it's recovery from the past year," Sam shrugged. "Food tastes better than it has in a long time, and I've been pretty hungry the past few weeks."

"You need it," Dean agreed. "Need to get your strength back."

Dean swiped the remote from the nightstand and draped himself over the armchair by the bed.

Sam finished his banana and tossed the peel at Dean's head. Dean didn't say a word, just caught it and tossed it into the trash.

Something was officially up. Dean could not possibly be that into a documentary on some dead NASCAR driver.

"So Dean," Sam began, watching his brother carefully. "What did the doctor tell you on the way in?"

"Huh?" Dean turned after hesitating a fraction of a second too long. "Didn't they come in and talk to you this morning?"

Sam was more convinced than ever that something was going on. "They just said my leg looked really good in this morning's round of x-rays. I thought you might have gotten more info out of them."

Dean nodded and flipped the channel as the current program went to a commercial. He didn't react to hearing that Sam had more x-rays this morning.

Which meant he already knew.

Sam continued to watch Dean, who was now pretending to be completely enthralled with a rerun of Family Feud.

A tech came in to check Sam's vital signs and ask if he needed anything.

"Is physical therapy coming up this morning?" he asked.

She took a step back, color rushing to her face, before she stammered "Uh, um, I'm, um not sure. Orders ... changed."

She rushed out of the room like she was being chased.

Sam glanced over at Dean, who continued to watch tv and ignore the whole incident.

All attempts at conversation were met with one word answers from Dean.

Sam looked toward the door at every sound or shadow that passed by in the hall, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Three hours later, it did.

The door was flung open, and several voices spoke at once.

"... have to know that this is most irregular ... "

"... ma'am, I assure you that you really want to cooperate ... "

"... just let me get my medical director ... "

"... discharge instructions will not be necessary ... "

Two figures stood in the room, both dressed in black suits with sunglasses and ear pieces like secret service agents. They were escorted by a state police officer, two nurses, and Dr. Bahri.

Sam looked from one newcomer to the other. "Garth? Kevin?"

Dr. Bahri's eyes widened.

Dean stood up, completely unfazed, stretched slightly, and put his hands on his hips, drawing his jacket back.

The younger nurse's eyes bugged and Dr. Bahri's mouth dropped open.

Sam looked over to see Dean give him the signal to play along. Dean was displaying a gun and knife in his waistband and the straps of a shoulder holster. Sam suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, not bothering with a bitchface because Dean wasn't looking at him. There was no telling what was going on, so all he could do was go with it.

"We've come to pick up Raymond Samuel Dougherty." Garth announced, waving a handful of papers.

Dean nodded. "About time."

"You can't just take this man out of the hospital!" Dr Bahri protested. "He's still in need of medical care!"

"We'll be taking him somewhere else that he will receive medical care, so I suggest you make sure we have all of his records as I asked." Garth said authoritatively. "We can do this the easy way, or I can make a phone call and have this hospital locked down until we have Mr. Dougherty securely removed."

Dean took a step forward.

"No, no, agent, that won't be necessary," Dr. Bahri made a placating gesture with his hands. "Karen, please make sure someone is printing off Mr. Dougherty's chart."

"X-rays too," Kevin spoke for the first time, his face still turned toward Sam.

"Yes, yes, copies of the x-rays too," Dr. Bahri shot a nervous look at the dark suited men before turning back to the nurse.

"Not copies. The originals." Garth said.

"But our records are computerized." The doctor protested. "There are no originals. We just print out what we need to."

"Then you'll be deleting Mr. Dougherty's records as soon as they're printed." Garth replied.

Another look of panic crossed the doctor's face. "I ... we ... I don't have authority to do that."

"Fine," Kevin shrugged. "We'll handle it from our end."

The nurse nodded quickly and fled the room.

"Now I suggest you do whatever you need to prepare Mr. Dougherty for transport, because we will be leaving this facility in 22 minutes." Garth instructed.

"Grab him a pair of scrub pants, would you, because I cut off his jeans in the field." Dean requested.

Dr. Bahri's eyes widened again and he gulped, nodding. He looked over at the other nurse, but she didn't seem to want to be left alone in the room any more than the young doctor. He walked over to the door and called down the hall "Sheila? Can you grab a clean pair of scrub pants, size large? Extra long if they have any."

Apparently satisfied that she would get the pants, the doctor turned back to the nurse still in the room. "You take his IV's down and check his vitals while I take a look at the leg."

Dean stepped back to let them work and the two of them moved to either side of the bed.

The nurse had disconnected the IV and placed a bandage over the spot on Sam's arm in under a minute, and began calling off his vitals as the doctor cautiously removed the brace and bandage on Sam's leg.

"Mr. Dougherty, tell me if I do something that hurts you," the doctor instructed as he prodded the area.

"No, it's fine," Sam shrugged. "Well, I mean, not fine, it hurts a little, but yeah. I'm still on pain pills."

The doctor looked up at Dean, and then over at Garth. "Should I take the staples out, or do you want to have that done wherever you're taking him?"

Garth looked at Dean, who shook his head.

"Just do whatever he needs to prepare him for transport." Dean said. "We'll handle it from there."

"Get him some crutches so he can transfer." Garth told the returning nurse, who hovered in the doorway.

She took off again, replaced by the nurse bringing the scrub pants. Kevin took them from her hand without a word and laid them over the end of the bed.

The doctor bandaged Sam's leg and secured the brace into place. "He's ready to go."

He moved away from the bed as Dean stepped forward and helped Sam shimmy into the scrub pants which were, of course, too short. He untied the hospital gown in the back and tossed Sam his shirts, which Sam was able to put on unassisted.

The two nurses returned, one with crutches, and the other with a wheelchair, murmuring something to Garth about picking up the chart at the desk on the way out. He nodded and thanked her, while Dean and Dr. Bahri helped Sam to sit on the side of the bed, and then stand and sit in the wheelchair.

"Is he due any meds?" Dean asked.

Dr. Bahri consulted the paper chart in his hands. "He had a 12 hour pain med at 8 this morning. He can take a non-opiate based short acting drug if he needs breakthrough pain relief. Otherwise, he's not due for anything else until this evening."

"Thank you." Dean nodded, took the chart from the doctor's hand, and gave it to Kevin.

Dean pushed Sam in the wheelchair out of the room, down the hall, pausing while Garth picked up the chart at the nursing station, and to the elevator.

Dr. Bahri accompanied them as far as the elevator door. "What should I tell anyone?" he asked.

"Just tell them a couple of feds came in for the patient with a court order." Dean shrugged. He moved his hands to rest on his hips, drawing his jacket back again to expose his weapons. "No one else really needs to know anything."

The doctor nodded, and stepped back as the elevator dinged open.

Dean rolled Sam in and turned him to face the door. Garth, Kevin, and the police officer also stepped inside.

"What the actual ... " Sam began as the doors closed.

"Take me around to get my car," Dean spoke over him to Garth. "Then we'll convoy out of here, get about five miles down the road before we stop and sort out."

Garth nodded.

"This is unbelievable." Kevin grinned.

Upon reaching the ground floor, they rolled Sam out to a black SUV that was parked along the curb behind a police car. Dean and the officer helped Sam into the back seat, and then Dean buckled in beside him. Garth and Kevin got in the front. The officer went to his own car and flipped on the lights, but did not sound the siren.

Following Dean's directions, Garth drove them around to the side parking lot, where Dean hopped out and got into the Impala. The three vehicles pulled out onto the main road, the police car escorting the SUV and Dean following in the rear.

"Garth, what in the hell is going on?" Sam demanded.

Garth looked up at Sam in the rear view mirror. "Dean said we needed to get you out of there ASAP."

"What's with all the cloak and dagger crap?" Sam gestured at the two men in the front seat. "And how did you get a real cop involved in this?"

"Oh, that's my cousin Harlan," Garth smiled. "He hunts a little on the side, so when I told him that we needed to get a hunter out of the public eye pretty quickly, he was glad to help."

"By pretending to be the NSA?" Sam huffed.

"That was Dean's call," Garth shrugged. "I just did what he asked."

A little over five miles outside town, the police car pulled off the road and around to the back of an abandoned store. The SUV and Impala followed.

Harlan and Dean helped Sam out of the truck, and Dean held him up while Garth adjusted the crutches for Sam's height. Harlan shook their hands, hugged Garth, and excused himself to get back where he was supposed to be.

"Kevin, you'll ride with us back to the bunker," Dean thumbed toward the Impala.

Kevin grabbed a backpack out of the back of the SUV, loosened his tie, and climbed in the backseat.

"Here," Garth handed Dean some prescriptions. "You'll need these. What?" he shook his head at Sam's raised eyebrows. "I still have my dental license. I can still legally write prescriptions. There's an antibiotic, a medicine to prevent blood clots, and a pain pill. If you need something for muscle spasms, let me know. I can call that to a pharmacy."

Sam shifted his right crutch so that both crutches were under his left arm, and held out his hand to Garth. "Thanks, Garth. We owe you."

"Oh don't be silly," Garth grinned, carefully hugging Sam's right side as to not pull him off balance. "We don't keep score here. We just help whomever needs it."

He released Sam, and then hugged Dean. "Call me if you have any questions, but try to keep him off that foot for at least a few more weeks."

"Sure thing, man." Dean nodded. "Appreciate everything you did."

"Ok, well, I'm gonna tell Kevin goodbye and then I gotta get this truck back." Garth tipped his head toward the SUV. "You guys take care and I'll talk to you soon."

He walked over and pulled the back door of the Impala open, leaning down to speak to Kevin.

"Ok, Dean, what is all this?" Sam demanded quietly.

"I had to get you out of there ASAP." Dean whispered urgently.

"And what? Our usual slipping out the side door too tame for you this time?" Sam snorted.

"Sam! They had security watching your room! Did they really not tell you what they found when they examined you this morning?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam shook his head.

"Your incisions are closed! They could have taken the staples out already. And they can actually see bone regrowing already on your x-rays!" Dean hissed. "This whole trial thing is working some kind of freaky mojo on your system. Your doctor thinks you're Wolverine or something! I had to get you out of there before someone really did call that super secret scary branch of the government and you ended up in some top secret lab being probed!"

"Ok," Sam sighed.

"Ok?" Dean repeated.

"Ok," Sam said. "I get why you did it, and I agree, even if I do think all this was a little over the top. Maybe I need to send you LARPing again to get it out of your system."

"Shut up," Dean grumbled, walking over to get in the driver's seat.

Whatever Kevin was doing in the backseat, he did it quietly, and the familiar roar of the engine in combination with a strong dose of morphine derivative soon lulled Sam to sleep.

Dean shook him awake gently as he pulled into the garage at the bunker.

"Don't know who thought it was a good idea to put so many fucking stairs in this place." Dean grumbled.

"It's fine, Dean," Sam said. "My bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the library are all on the main level. I'm not going to need to go up and down stairs much."

Dean insisted on going downstairs first, so that he could catch Sam if he fell. By the time he got Sam settled in the library, Sam's stomach was growling, and Kevin announced he was hungry too.

"How about a couple sandwiches for now, and then I go get Sam's scripts filled? I can pick up something better for dinner." Dean offered.

"I really don't think I need ... " Sam began, but Dean cut him off.

"You're taking the medicine to prevent the blood clots," Dean replied in a voice that didn't leave room for argument. "You're not gonna survive all the shit you've been through and die of something like that. Or an infection, so you're taking the antibiotics too. The pain pills? I'll leave that up to you. But even if you don't need them, it would be good to have them on hand for when we do need them."

Sam really couldn't argue with that logic, so he just just told Dean to plan on a big dinner, because he was starving.

After the sandwiches, Sam picked up his book of Sumerian mythology, and Kevin went back to work on the tablet, both so engrossed that they didn't realize Dean was back until he told them to clear the table for dinner.

Sam ate three servings of salad, two of Dean's jumbo bacon cheeseburgers, all of his fries, and was reaching for the few fries left on the plate Kevin had pushed away when he realized that Dean was staring at him.

"I told you I was hungry." Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, we see," Kevin agreed.

"I'll feed you as much as you want to eat," Dean said. "Just remember, though, that you're not going to be moving around much to burn off all these calories."

Sam nodded, stifling a yawn.

"Ok, Sasquatch," Dean stood. "Bedtime."

"Dean," Sam growled.

"C'mon," Dean tugged at Sam's arm. "You need your rest if you're going to get better. I'll carry your book for you."

Sam told Kevin good night and made his way down the hall slowly. His only previous experience with crutches had been nearly fifteen years ago, and he was still a little unsteady on them this time.

Dean followed behind, opened the door and flipped on the light for him, and grabbed Sam a t-shirt and sweats from the drawer.

"I can handle this, Dean," Sam grumbled.

"Ok, you change, and I'll go get your meds." Dean hesitated a moment until Sam gave him a dirty look.

Dean returned to find Sam changed, propped up against pillows on his headboard. Sam took the antibiotic and anti-clotting medicine, but balked at the pain pill.

"You may not be hurting right now, because you had long acting pain medicine this morning, but it's going to wear off." Dean warned.

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam grumbled. "It didn't hurt that much before they started giving me pain meds."

Dean didn't answer, just watched Sam like he was waiting for something, long enough that Sam angrily barked "What?"

"Nothing," Dean shook his head and turned to the door. "Call me if you need me."

He flipped the light off and closed the door behind him.

Sam, surprisingly, fell asleep much sooner than he would have thought.

Sam woke two hours later, and he hurt.

After spending a few minutes shifting around to accommodate his leg, he realized that it wasn't the only thing that hurt. He literally hurt all over.

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing deeply and relaxing his body as much as possible. When the pain didn't subside, he tried to distract himself by mentally cataloging the books he wanted to read over the next couple weeks.

He briefly debated getting up and getting a pain pill, but quickly realized that he didn't know where Dean had put them, and banging around on crutches in the dark would probably wake the other residents of the bunker.

He spent half an hour telling himself that it wasn't worth proving Dean right before he finally decided that it wouldn't be the first time his brother had rubbed his face in an impulsive decision.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed Dean, rather than yell and wake Kevin.

Dean answered on the second ring, his voice rough and sleep slurred. "S'mmy? Wha's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, but could you get me that pain pill?" Sam sighed.

"Be righ' th'r," Dean said before hanging up.

Sam pushed himself up in bed and turned on the lamp. Dean came in momentarily with two pain pills and a glass of water.

"Garth says you can take two if you need them," Dean explained.

Sam didn't argue, just took both pills, popped them in his mouth, and washed them down.

Dean's forehead creased. "You ok? You want me to get you some ice or a hot pack or something for your leg?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "I'm just ... I hurt all over. I know it's probably from falling into the grave, but ... "

"But what?" Dean's eyes widened.

"I don't know," Sam shook his head again. "It's almost like when I was going through the trials. I just hurt all over, especially my chest."

Dean's hand immediately shot out toward Sam's forehead. "You're not running any more 105 temps or coughing, are you?"

"No, nothing like that." Sam let Dean touch his forehead and both cheeks before shoving his hand away. "I guess you were right. I was pushing myself too hard and I'm not as healed as I thought I was."

Surprisingly, Dean didn't answer as Sam thought he would have. He just looked at Sam speculatively, and said "I'm gonna make sure you get fixed this time."

"Dean," Sam huffed.

"I shouldn't have let you go on hunts so soon," Dean said.

"It was my decision to go," Sam reminded him. "In fact, I'm the one who found this last hunt. I just ... it's frustrating, this not feeling like myself. You know, before Charlie came, and before we went after Cas, I felt better, and then afterwards, I felt bad again for a few days. I should have learned by now."

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered.

There was guilt in his eyes, and Sam knew he wasn't apologizing for letting Sam work cases. Before he could ask, Dean stood, patted Sam's good leg, told him to get some rest, and left the room.

The pain began to ease, but Sam's mind raced, convinced there was something huge he was missing in this whole situation. He mentally pictured a wall, and began placing all the disjointed pieces of the puzzle on it, like Dad working a case.

Laying on the ground beside the car, outside the church, watching the angels fall, knowing he was going to die.

Waking up thirty-two, thirty three? hours later in the car, wondering why Dean didn't take him to a hospital.

Finding out later that Dean had taken him to a hospital, but didn't tell him.

Injuries that should have been fatal, inexplicably healing.

Waking several times the first week with the taste of blood in his mouth.

A very vivid snippet of a dream, Dean saying "There ain't no me if there ain't no you."

Being in the abandoned diner with three demons, while Abbadon had Dean trapped outside. Waking up to find the three demons dead and Dean standing over him.

The demon in Iowa, who took one look at Sam and smoked out.

Dean claiming to have found April's address on the other reaper when he obviously hadn't.

Seeing Cas seriously wounded in April's apartment, being knocked out, and waking up to find Cas healed and April dead.

Dean telling Cas to leave the bunker and then lying about it.

Telling Dean that he is happy, despite everything going on around them.

Running into the doorway to see Dean leaning over what appears to be Charlie's dead body. Dean yelling "Zeke!" Waking up beside Dean and Charlie, who is awake and talking, not knowing how he got to be across the room and unconscious.

Dean not appearing to be concerned about the fact Sam had been unconscious.

In the restaurant, finding himself covered in blood, but no wound. Chef Leo asking "What are you?"

Dean refusing to let Sam come to Idaho to help Cas.

"You're all duct tape and safety pins inside."

Missing blocks of time, time that Sam thought he had just zoned out, although he had never done so before.

The nurse flying across the room.

The guilty look in Dean's eyes, not just tonight, but several times now.

The diner. There was something about the diner, and the three dead demons, if Sam could just put his finger on it. He concentrated, and it was almost as if he felt something in his mind shift.

He saw Dean run into the door of the diner. He saw the demons dead on the floor. There was something wrong with the picture, but he didn't know what.

Dean is in the doorway, shocked. The demons are dead on the floor.

Sam wasn't sure how long he fixated on the scene before he realized what was bothering him.

The demons were dead on the floor.

Dean wasn't holding the knife.

Sam was.

Dean didn't kill those demons.

Dean was lying to him.

But about what, and why?

Sam continued to make a mental tally of the facts he knew.

He had been on the verge of death, and then miraculously healed.

He physically had felt great for days or even weeks at a time, but relatively minor exertions had set him back significantly.

He woke up several times with the taste of blood in his mouth.

A demon had been afraid of him.

Chef Leo didn't think he was human.

Vesta said he shouldn't be alive.

Dean wasn't freaking out over Sam's missing chunks of time, or the apparently frequent unconsciousness.

Dean had obviously done something which had precipitated Sam's healing, and he didn't want Sam to know about it.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he had killed the demons in the diner, not Dean, and that he had thrown the nurse across the room when she grabbed him.

He felt fine after falling down a grave and breaking his leg in multiple places, but felt like he'd been hit by a bus after nothing more strenuous than a car ride.

He tried to remember the last time he felt as bad as he had when he woke up this evening. The trials? Almost. This didn't feel quite the same. Actually, it felt more like the first time he had been drying out from demon blood.

He woke up with the taste of blood in his mouth.

"Dean, no." he whispered into the darkness.

He suddenly realized why the King of Hell was in the dungeon, rather than permanently removed from earth.

Running into the doorway to see Dean leaning over what appears to be Charlie's dead body. Dean yelling "Zeke!" Waking up beside Dean and Charlie, who is awake and talking, not knowing how he got to be across the room and unconscious.

Obviously, Dean had called for Ezekiel to heal Charlie, and Sam had been knocked out when the angel appeared.

Why would an angel knock Sam out? Because he was an abomination.

Giving up on sleep for the time being, Sam began to weigh out the possibilities of confronting Dean. Unless he had proof, Dean would deny everything.

Sam reached over into the nightstand drawer, fished out a flask of holy water, and took a drink.

Nothing. But then again, when he was drinking Ruby's blood, holy water didn't bother him until he had consumed quite a bit of demon blood.

Surely the Men of Letters had something about how to detect demon blood. He could start looking in the morning.

Now that he had a plan, he consciously cleared his mind, focused on a blank spot in the darkness, and tensed and relaxed each of his muscles until he was able to fall asleep.

The following morning, there was a soft knock on Sam's door.

"Yeah, Kevin, it's open."

Kevin's head popped through the door. "Just warning you, Dean's planning to bring you breakfast in bed."

Sam nodded. "Thanks."

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He hurt all over again this morning, but not as much as last night. Of course, he probably still had at least a little pain medicine in his system. He stood carefully and reached for the crutches, not bothering to change from his pajamas.

Dean was apparently putting the finishing touches on a breakfast tray when Sam entered the kitchen.

"Hey Sammy," Dean frowned. "Are you ok? I was gonna bring this to you."

"Not an invalid, Dean," Sam snapped, the words coming out much harsher than intended. He sighed and forced himself to continue more civilly. "I just think the more I'm up and moving around, the sooner I'll feel like myself again."

Dean's face didn't smooth out the way Sam expected. "What's wrong, Sam? You don't feel like yourself?"

For a moment guilt flooded Sam, the knowledge that Dean had, since he was four years old, had been programmed to take care of Sammy at all costs. In the next heartbeat, white hot anger drowned the feelings.

It didn't matter why he did it. Dean had no right to give Sam demon blood without his consent.

And Dean did it because Dean didn't want to be alone, not because Sam wanted to live at all costs.

But confronting Dean without proof was useless, so Sam forced himself to take a deep breath and count to ten.

"I just ... I know, I fell into a grave and broke my leg in four places and had surgery and then nearly screwed up my surgery, but I just don't feel as good as I did last week." Sam sighed. "I promise I'll take it slower, not try to push myself to much, but I'm gonna go nuts if you keep me propped up in bed for the next six weeks."

Dean nodded, his face still not completely relaxing. "Just don't push yourself too hard and make things worse, Sam. And you gotta tell me, if something hurts or whatever. I gotta know what's wrong with you to take care of you."

"Dean, I'm thirty years old." Sam answered. "At some point, you've got to let me take care of myself."

"Maybe," Dean said, with a hint of teasing smile at his mouth. "Here, Sasquatch. Eat up and get your strength back. And so you can take a pain pill, because we all know you get sick if you take them on an empty stomach."

He spread out eggs, sausage, fried potatoes, pancakes, and cantaloupe on the table, and despite Sam's protests that it was way too much food, the younger brother actually ate a lot more of it than he thought he would.

Dean chased Sam and Kevin into the library while he cleaned the kitchen afterward. Sam found several books on demonology, but none strictly about demon blood. He piled them onto the table next to the armchair, telling Kevin that he wanted to do some research into demon blood.

Kevin found a couple more for him. The two settled in, Sam with his books and Kevin with the tablet. Dean checked on them a few times during the day, but mostly left them at it, announcing that he was going to check out the antique cars in the garage and figure out what was needed to get each of them running again.

Life went on like that for the next few days. Dean was actually excited to have an excuse for a few days of downtime to tinker with the old cars. None of them would run, of course, having not been started for more than forty years the belts and hoses had dry rotted and the oil and gasoline had degenerated and would have to be cleaned out, but apparently all of them had been well maintained before, and Dean had found the records for each vehicle. The Thunderbird was a 1955, the first year made, and had less than 10,000 miles, which had Dean speculating how much they could get for it at the Barrett-Jackson auction.

Dean's excitement over the cars kept him pre-occupied enough that he didn't ask too many questions about what Sam was reading, and didn't seem to notice that Sam kept asking for iron rich foods, things that would build up his own blood. Sam wasn't going to complain.

It was on the fourth day, after skimming through all of the books he had initially selected and three more after that, that Sam finally found a recipe for a spell to detect demon blood in human blood.

The good news was that it seemed fairly straightforward, and they should have all the ingredients in the bunker. The bad news was that it called for two gills of blood, which was about ten ounces.

Ten ounces wasn't that much, for a healthy adult. Donated blood was usually taken 16 ounces at a time. Of course, blood banks wouldn't even think of taking blood from someone who had just had surgery, or who was still anemic from coughing up blood at a frightening rate for the better part of a year. In addition, blood banks had equipment to remove blood safely and efficiently that of course wasn't laying around the bunker.

Sam had bled more than that a few times after hunts gone wrong, and he knew what herbs to take to build himself back up afterwards.

Nothing to do but to suck it up and do it.

Sam spent the rest of the day slinking around, ducking into the storeroom to grab a few things when he was supposedly going to the bathroom, sneaking into the infirmary for a few others while Dean cooked dinner. He had everything he needed by bedtime.

The following day, Sam waited until Dean was in garage and he and Kevin were settled into the library. About half an hour later, he stretched and pushed himself to his feet.

"My leg is kinda cramping. I think I'm gonna go stretch out on my bed for a while." he told Kevin.

Kevin looked up with a frown. "Are you ok? Do you need me to get you some medicine or ... Dean ... or something?"

"It's just muscle spasms." Sam shrugged. "Part of the healing process. If I need anything, I'll call one of you."

Kevin stood and stretched as well. "I think I'll take a break and go play some Skyrim. All these symbols are starting to run together."

Sam shook his head. "You've been on baby sitting duty."

"Are you surprised?" Kevin snorted.

"Not really," Sam said, shoving his book into his belt and reaching for his crutches.

He hobbled down the hall and closed his bedroom door, listening for the sound of Kevin's door closing.

Sam sat on the bed, pulling out the nightstand drawer in which he had collected everything, placing it on the floor before lowering himself to sit beside it.

He figured if he timed everything right, he would finish with the spell shortly before Dean came in for lunch, realized Sam wasn't in the library, and looked for him, so that he could confront his brother on his own terms.

He flipped the book open to the proper page, propping it against the dresser, and put the bowl in the center of the floor. Unfortunately, all the iv tubing in the infirmary had been dry rotted, and there probably wasn't any in the Winchester first aid kit, which of course was in the trunk of the Impala and there was no way Sam would be able to get to the car without Dean's knowledge. That meant he was going to have to draw out the blood with a syringe and the largest syringe the Men of Letters had was 30cc, which was about an ounce.

He forced himself to aim the syringe carefully, not to push too far in and puncture through the vein, and draw the blood out slowly, to keep the vein usable. After what seemed like an interminably long time, the syringe was finally filled, and he emptied it into the waiting bowl. The second syringe went a little faster, but in trying to go even faster on the third take, he blew out the vein and had to move to the cephalic vein.

He forced himself to draw slowly and steadily, and even so, he still blew the second vein and had to move to a third by the time he was drawing the ninth syringe.

Finally, finally, he had all ten ounces in the bowl. He pulled the book into his lap and began to measure and add the other ingredients, chanting in Latin after each one.

Once everything was in the bowl, he gave one final stir, read the last phrase, and watched for the mixture to change color.

Nothing happened.

He checked his watch, sat back, waited five minutes, and looked again.

Still no change.

He read the spell through again, counting off each ingredient in turn, carefully repeating the incantations, and still nothing.

He double checked the conversions of the archaic measurements to standard quantities, making certain he had used the correction amounts, and read the instructions yet again. By the end of all that, there was still no change to the mixture.

It was supposed to turn orange if demon blood was present, with a lighter color signifying a greater concentration. Pure demon blood would turn the concoction almost lemon yellow.

The blood in the bowl was just as red as it had been when it came from Sam's veins, with specks of herbs stirred into it.

Sam must have done something wrong. There was just no other explanation.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the pressure on the forming bruises inside of his left arm. He picked up the bowl, grabbed one crutch, and hobbled down to the bathroom to rinse it out.

He came back, sat down, read the instructions through once more just to make sure he wasn't missing anything, and started again.

He blew out the third vein on the inside of his arm on the third syringe. He turned his arm over and tried the one on the underside, but by this point his hands were shaking, and he stuck the needle straight through, ruining that vein as well.

He managed to draw enough from one of the veins on the top of his good foot to finish that syringe off, but by the time he emptied the blood into the bowl, a bruise began creeping underneath the skin around the puncture, indicating that vein was now ruined as well.

He laid the syringe beside the bowl, rubbed his hands over his face, and sighed. He hefted himself onto the bed and reached across for the bottle of water Dean had left for him.

He took a deep breath, a swallow of water, another breath, more water, until he felt calmer. He put the water on the nightstand on the closer side of the bed and returned to his spell.

He drew another syringe full of blood from the other vein in the top of his foot, but as he reached over to empty it into the bowl, he dropped it. Of course, since he was already having a bad day, the plastic syringe split down the side, despite having been only dropped a few inches, and spilled the contents.

"Fuck!"

He wiped up the blood with an old towel he had brought into the room, stamped as property of the Starlight Motel, where the hell ever that was.

He had another syringe, so he unscrewed the needle from the broken one to attach to the new one.

A strange blackness began to creep in around the edges of his consciousness.

A civilian wouldn't have known what it was, wouldn't have realized how very wrong this feeling was until it was too late.

Sam was not a civilian.

He had been possessed by some random demon as a teenager, by Meg as a young adult, by Lucifer himself, and by the Wicked Witch just a few weeks ago.

Something was trying to take over his consciousness and force Sam into a remote corner of his own mind.

He closed his hands, clenched his fists, and fought back the darkness. He envisioned a light, flowing outward to the edges of his mind, pushing away the darkness.

Once he felt certain that the darkness would stay at bay for a little longer, he opened his eyes and immediately yanked his shirt aside to look at his tattoo.

It seemed to be fine. Of course, it had been fine this morning, when he had been washing up shirtless in front of the mirror.

It couldn't be a demon trying to possess him, so the only possibility was that the demon blood was trying to make him lose control, trying to make him stop the spell.

He nearly laughed out loud at that thought, realizing that he must be on pain meds to think that demon blood was sentient.

Sam took a few more sips of the water, focusing on consciously relaxing himself so that he could finish this. Dean would be coming in any time to start lunch.

Actually, Dean had usually started lunch already by this time.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sam returned to the spell.

He rolled up his right sleeve, knowing this was going to be awkward, trying to draw blood from his dominant arm with his left hand without ruining the veins, but he was running out of other options.

He forced himself to breathe deeply, concentrate on working slowly, and managed to draw seven usable syringes of blood, blowing out two veins in the process and spilling another ounce because his hands were shaking so much.

This time, he measured very carefully, and double checked the amounts of all ingredients before adding them to the bowl, making sure to clearly enunciate the Latin phrases.

The mixture still did not turn orange.

Sam leaned back against the bed, his head tipped back on the mattress, facing the ceiling.

Maybe the herbs weren't fresh enough. The stinging nettles had just been bought a few weeks ago, but he honestly couldn't remember how old the tincture of wormwood was. Possibly before Dean went to Purgatory? And the Ashwagandha had been in the Men of Letters' stash. Sure it was a dried herb, and Sam had never heard of it going bad, but maybe whatever chemical in it that reacted for the spell had become inert in the past fifty years?

He sighed, wondering how he was going to get replacement ingredients without Dean finding out. None of them were very rare, so he could in theory buy them all online, but if he got a package in the mail, Dean was going to get nosy.

The darkness began to seep in again.

Sam sat up, growling "No!" out loud.

He reached under the bed where he kept a mason jar of holy water and a box of rock salt. He unscrewed the jar lid, threw a large handful of the salt in, fished out the rosary and tossed it across the room, put his hand over the mouth of the jar and shook it enough to partially dissolve the salt. He brought the jar to his mouth and chugged it as fast as he could.

This time, there was a reaction.

Almost as soon as the salted water hit his stomach, it began to roil inside him, cramps starting seconds later. Within in a minute, he was forcefully vomiting, the fluid coming up so fast it flooded his mouth and poured out of his nose.

The jar fell from his hand and shattered as water mixed with stomach acid sprayed across the room.

"Sam?" Kevin shouted from the doorway.

Sam tried to raise his head to look at him, but between the cramps that kept him doubled over and the vomit that refused to even slow, he was doing well just to not fall over face first.

"Dean, come quick! Sam's room! I don't know! Hurry!" Kevin screeched into his phone.

The blackness spread in from the edges again, and this time Sam recognized it for what it was, not a demon trying to possess him, but his own body trying to shut down on him, pulling him toward rest and recovery, telling him to stop, but he had been too stubborn to listen.

He slapped one hand down on the broken glass, using the pain to help keep him alert, to keep him awake until Dean got there.

Sam heard the thunder of running footsteps coming down the hall, and knew that he only had to hold on a few more seconds.

"Zeke!" Dean shouted from the doorway, his voice even more panicked than Kevin's had been.

Sam's last thought was that he hoped the angel didn't smite him for the demon blood.