The distant rhythmic beeping woke him; the annoying cadence drawing him up to the surface from where the sedatives had plunged him into compliant unconsciousness.

But though he was awake, the world was still a confusing haze; his clouded mind overwhelmed with disturbing images he was unsure whether were memories or dreams.

Dean frowned as the images continued to loop in a haunting circle.

A heated argument...a disorienting crash...a bleeding little brother lying unconscious beside him in an overturned Impala.

The memory seemed too loud, too vivid, too real to be a dream.

Which meant Sam needed him.

Dean swallowed, the metallic taste of blood lingering in his dry mouth. "Sam..." he called urgently, because that was his instinct – to check on his brother.

Especially since he knew with increasing clarity that something was wrong...

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam..." he called once more, only louder, and pushed himself up on his elbows; lifting his aching head from the flat pillow to glance down the length of his own body before looking around the curtained room for his brother. "Sam..."

But Sam didn't answer.

And Sam wasn't in sight.

Dean's stomach twisted with panic. "Sammy..." he tried again.

Still nothing.

Dean sighed, collapsing on the mattress and blinking drowsily; frustrated by how detached he felt – his body exhausted and lethargic while his mind buzzed determinedly as it trudged through the sludge of lingering sedation, desperately trying to remember what had happened.

Because he had seen the minor cuts on his arms and hands just now...could feel the sting of a slightly deeper cut on his forehead...had seen the blood smeared on his jeans.

All of which supported the vague memory that he – and presumably, Sam – had been in a car accident.

But beyond that, Dean couldn't remember.

And it was pissing him off.

A few seconds passed.

Dean shifted as he lay on his back and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling; wondering where the hell he was – where the hell Sam was – and why the hell his entire body throbbed like he had been hit by a freakin' truck.

Someone laughed softly as one of the pale green curtains was pulled back.

"Maybe because you were hit by a freakin' truck," a voice commented, the tone slightly amused before sobering. "Or at least your car was..."

Dean blinked again at the unexpected response, realizing he must have spoken aloud, and turned to see who had entered the room.

The woman smiled down at him as she stood beside the bed, a medical chart propped in the crook of her arm as she jotted notes. "Hey, darlin'..." she greeted warmly, like they were meeting in a bar instead of a hospital. "Glad to see you're awake."

Dean stared at her.

"You were sedated when you arrived in the ER," she continued. "Which means you must've given them trouble at the scene..." She paused. "You look the type..." she told him, the comment matching her expression as more flirtatious than disapproving.

Dean ignored her invitation of being easy prey. "ER?" he asked instead.

...which would explain the curtained room, the beeping monitors in the hall, and the scrub-clad nurse standing beside him.

"Mmhmm," the nurse confirmed distractedly, still jotting her notes. "But don't worry. You're fine. No broken bones, no internal damage. Just a few various cuts you sustained from all the broken glass. But we've disinfected those, so they should heal without any problem."

Dean blinked at her.

The nurse nodded, perceiving Dean's silence as shock about escaping the wreck virtually unscathed.

"I know. It's hard to believe," she agreed. "But all of your tests and x-rays came back clean...which means you're incredibly lucky, given the type of car accident you were in." She paused, smiling. "Maybe you should go play the lottery or something with all of that luck," she teased.

Dean didn't respond.

The nurse's smile lingered anyway. "You'll be sore for a few days and will need to take it easy," she advised. "But otherwise, you should be fine. We'll discharge you soon." She paused once more, glancing at her patient. "Is there anyone we can call to come pick you up?"

Dean said nothing, his mind furiously filling in the blanks as the nurse had rambled; the final remnants of sedation immediately clearing as the realization of being in a hospital triggered another realization – that he was not in the same hospital as Sam.

Because Sam hadn't been so lucky; the kid's injuries having been more severe because Sam's body had taken the brunt of impact when the truck had raced through the intersection and had slammed into the Impala.

Dean remembered it now – all of it – and his reaction was instant.

"Where am I?" he demanded, sitting straight up and blinking against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.

The nurse closed the chart she held and arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Where am I?" Dean repeated, grabbing the nurse's arm as if he could squeeze the information out of her.

The nurse frowned. "You don't know?" she asked hesitantly, concerned by the implication that her patient was suddenly disoriented to the point of not recognizing his obvious surroundings...even after she had already told him that he was in the ER.

Dean ignored her question. "Where am I?" he growled, tightening his grip on the nurse's arm.

The nurse winced but didn't struggle against him, reminding herself of her training – to remain calm when faced with an aggressive patient. "Sir..." she began reasonably, setting the chart on the nearby counter. "If you'll just relax..."

Dean snorted at the nurse's impossible suggestion and focused instead on the nametag clipped to the pocket of her blue scrub top; the hospital's name printed in bold letters – HERITAGE MEMORIAL.

Dean nodded, having his answer, and glanced again at the nurse. "The trauma center...what's it called?"

Because while Dean remembered Sam had been taken there – and that Garth had promised to go along and keep watch over the kid – he didn't remember its name.

"Saint...something...?" Dean prompted, staring at the nurse expectantly.

"Saint Francis," the nurse responded, shifting in Dean's grasp.

Dean nodded and released his hold on the nurse as he reached to disconnect the IV line from his hand.

The nurse rubbed her skin, as if she could smooth away the red mark of her patient's handprint, and narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Leaving," Dean replied simply, sliding the IV's needle from the back of his hand and snatching off the tape that had secured the line to his arm.

The nurse shook her head at Dean's announcement. "You can't leave."

Dean snorted. "Watch me," he quipped, pushing himself to his feet and feeling incredibly thankful to still be wearing his clothes and boots.

Because although he would leave the hospital in a bare-assed gown, like he had done a few times before over the years, he did not enjoy that type of exit.

The nurse shook her head. "Sir, you can't leave until you've been discharged."

Like such a formality would matter to Dean.

It didn't.

Dean hardly glanced at the nurse as he crossed to the curtain separating the treatment room from the hallway, reaching to pull back the pale green fabric but then turning as he heard the nurse open a drawer.

She froze beneath her patient's paralyzing stare.

Dean arched an eyebrow, uncertain what the nurse was intending to pull from the drawer of syringes...but having a damn good idea. "If you sedate me again..." he growled warningly. "I'll sue your ass and the hospital's."

The nurse blinked.

"My brother's a lawyer," Dean informed like it was true. "And a damn good one," he added, not sure why he had made either statement – except that he knew that detail would only sharpen his threat of a lawsuit...and he knew that Sam would've been a damn good lawyer if he had just left the kid alone, if he had just let Sam be happy and safe at Stanford.

But it was too late for that now.

It was too late for a lot of things.

Dean sighed, feeling his chest tighten with suppressed emotion, and then refocused on the nurse still staring at him wide-eyed from across the room.

Dean held her gaze, further confirming he was not fucking around, before yanking back the curtain and disappearing into the hallway.

"Coming through..." someone yelled loudly, and Dean sidestepped an approaching stretcher; glancing at a blood-covered kid as he was quickly wheeled by and loaded onto a waiting elevator, undoubtedly bound for surgery.

"Ma'am, you can't go..." a nurse told a woman trying to board the elevator as well.

"But he's my son," the woman defended.

"Yes, I know," the nurse patiently responded. "But you have to stay here," she ordered brusquely, pushing the struggling woman back.

"No!" the woman pleaded, lunging toward the elevator doors as they slid shut.

The woman screamed in response to being so abruptly cut off from her son; her cry utterly heartbreaking.

Dean shook his head in sympathy and then focused on the map on the opposite wall.

Our Family of Hospitals, it proudly proclaimed and then illustrated the happy little family scattered all over town.

Dean crossed to the map, squinting as he visually tracked the distance between Heritage Memorial and St. Francis; storing the information for his impending road trip, courtesy of whoever's car was easiest to steal.

Dean nodded at his plan, briefly rubbing the stinging cut on his forehead before turning to find to the parking lot...and smacking into the woman from earlier.

"Whoa..." Dean commented and blinked at the woman now standing beside him in the middle of the hall.

Her clothes were streaked with blood; her expression as shocked and scared as her tone as she began repeating the same three words over and over while staring at the last place she had seen her child – the elevator.

"Please don't die...please don't die..."

Dean swallowed, identifying with the woman's desperation – because that was always his plea whenever Sam was hurt – and glanced at the elevator doors as the woman continued to stare at them.

"They won't let him die, will they?" the woman asked, suddenly grabbing Dean's arm.

Dean winced as her fingers unintentionally dug into one of his open cuts.

"Will they?" she pressed, squeezing his arm.

Dean clenched his jaw at the pain that flared. "Lady, listen..." he began, his tone surprisingly polite and gentle as he pried her hand away.

Because while Dean had sympathy for her situation – especially since it seemed to so closely match his own crisis – he also had his own kid waiting for him at St. Francis Trauma Center.

...which meant he didn't have time to comfort this stranger currently hanging on his arm.

"Will they?" the woman hysterically demanded about the doctors allowing her son to die, clinging to Dean even tighter. "They can't!" she insisted, tears welling in her eyes. "They can't let him die! He's all I have..."

Dean swallowed against the emotion that swelled in his throat.

Because he knew how that felt.

"He's all I have," the woman repeated and then shook her head in denial of her world crashing down. "Oh my god..."

Dean stared at her, the urgency to reach his brother steadily increasing with the hammering of his heart.

Because Sam was all he had; was the reason he kept going; was the absolute last person in the world that Dean loved.

And the last time Dean had spoken to his brother, it had been in anger; it had been with the intention to verbally wound.

And the last time he had seen the kid, Sam had been unconscious and covered in blood.

Just like this woman's kid...

Dean swallowed once more, again forcibly uncurling the woman's fingers from his arm.

Because he had to go.

He had to find Sam.

He had to see his brother.

He had to know if his kid was okay.

And he had to do it now.

"Ma'am..." Dean began, his tone harsher than before.

"Ma'am..." a nurse echoed, approaching from behind.

Dean turned, the woman following his lead, and sighed with relief at the nurse who was clearly there to rescue him from the hysterical mother still clinging to his arm.

The nurse smiled pleasantly and then redirected her attention to the woman beside Dean. "Ma'am," she said again. "I need you to come with me."

The woman stared at her but didn't move.

"Please..." the nurse added and reached for the woman's other hand; the one not holding onto Dean. "I'll take you to wait for news about your son. You'll want to be where they can find you, right?"

The woman nodded through her tears. "Yes. Of course."

"Then come with me," the nurse replied and smiled as the woman reluctantly released Dean and took her outstretched hand.

A few steps down the hall, the woman glanced over her shoulder at Dean but said nothing as the nurse continued to lead her away.

Dean watched them go, nodding his thanks to the nurse and rubbing his arm as he wiped away a trickle of blood from the cut that had taken the most abuse from the woman's tight grip.

Dean sighed, glancing again at the map on the opposite wall – double-checking the route from Heritage to St. Francis – and then turned toward the ER's exit; sidestepping a doctor too engrossed in the chart he held to watch where he was going.

"Sorry," the doctor belatedly apologized but kept walking.

Dean shook his head and did the same; crossing the chaotic waiting room and exiting through the automatic doors before pausing on the sidewalk; visually scanning the dimly lit parking lot for an easy mark...and realizing it was right in front of him.

A car parked by the curb with its keys still in the ignition and its doors unlocked; both details overlooked in the driver's rush to enter the hospital.

Hello, opportunity.

Dean twitched a smile as he nodded his appreciation.

A stranger's distracted forgetfulness becoming his stroke of luck.

"Hey, buddy..." someone barked across the parking lot.

Dean glanced in the direction of the brusque voice.

The approaching officer gestured toward the parked vehicle. "Move your car," he ordered.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the officer's assumption that since he was standing beside the car, the car was his.

"This is a no parking zone," the officer added, nodding at the sign that declared the area off limits to parked vehicles, risking fines and towing if ignored. "So, move it."

Dean glanced at the sign and then back at the officer.

"Now," the officer snapped. "Or I'll have to ticket you..."

Like that threat mattered to Dean...especially since this wasn't even his car.

But Dean played along, slightly amused that he was not only stealing a vehicle right in front of an officer but was doing so under the officer's command.

Sam would roll his eyes when Dean told him about it later.

If Sam was awake when Dean finally reached him...

If Sam was okay...

If Sam was even alive...

Dean swallowed at the thought, refusing to believe the last possibility that crossed his mind.

Because Sam had to be alive.

Garth would've called if something had happened, right?

Not that Dean even knew where his phone currently was.

Probably in the Impala, if he had to guess...

Dean sighed, refocusing on the officer and blinking as he realized the man was much closer than before.

"Hey..." the officer yelled harshly, annoyed with what he perceived as blatant disobedience. "Did you hear me?" he asked, stomping over to Dean and then softening marginally when he realized Dean had obviously been involved in some type of accident.

Dean shifted as the officer stared at him, feeling the man's eyes taking in his cuts and the blood on his jeans.

"Look, I'm sorry for whatever you've gone through tonight," the officer allowed. "I am. But..." He gestured toward the sign. "I have a job to do."

Dean nodded.

Because so did he.

But he couldn't do his job until he was with Sam.

...which meant he needed to move his ass.

"Buddy..." the officer prompted, narrowing his eyes at Dean in concern. "Are you okay? Maybe you shouldn't be driving..."

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine," he assured, knowing his distraction had nothing to do with his own minor injuries. "I'm just worried about my brother," he confessed, also knowing such honesty would further soften the officer.

It did.

"I understand. I'm sorry," the officer replied genuinely. "I hope everything works out okay."

"Me, too," Dean agreed, crossing to the driver's side of the car he was about to steal.

"Drive safe," the officer advised.

Dean nodded, ducking inside the car that didn't belong to him and cranking its engine; feeling the officer watch as he eased the vehicle away from the curb and into the flow of traffic heading out of the hospital's complex and back to the highway.

Several miles down the road, Dean checked his rearview – snorting an amazed laugh at what had just happened – and then blinked as he suddenly realized his phone was still in the pocket of his jeans; having not noticed it until now when he felt the unmistakable pinch of the hard plastic against his leg.

"Please work..." Dean muttered as he dug the phone from his pocket; alternately glancing between the road and the glowing caller display; impressed that the phone seemed unharmed from the wreck.

Dean nodded his approval and then frowned as he noticed he had one missed call from Garth.

"Ah, shit..." Dean hissed, hating the way his stomach automatically clenched with dread and hesitation.

Because what if Garth had called to say that Sam didn't make it?

That Sam was dead?

That Sam had died thinking Dean hated him?

Then what?

Dean sighed harshly. "Stop it," he growled to himself as he pushed the button to activate his voicemail; pressing the phone to his ear while holding his breath.

"Please enter your password," the robotic voice annoyingly requested.

Dean did so with one hand – 0502.

May 2nd.

Sam's birthday.

Dean smiled sadly, briefly closing his eyes. "Please be okay..." he whispered like a prayer to the silence inside the stolen car and refocused on the road as Garth's voice began to speak in his ear.

"Hey, Dean...it's Garth. Um..."

There was a pause – a long pause.

Dean swallowed at the implications. "What?" he demanded, as if Garth could hear him.

Garth sighed on the voicemail before continuing. "Listen...Sam's hurt pretty bad, man. Worse than I thought. That truck..."

Dean could picture Garth shaking his head, undoubtedly replaying the wreck he had witnessed as he had followed behind the Impala earlier that evening.

"It crushed him pretty good. Broke his right arm...possibly fractured his right leg...and..."

Dean narrowed his eyes; dread twisting his stomach into a tighter knot at Garth's obvious stalling. "And...?" he sharply prompted the voicemail.

Garth sighed again. "The doctors say the impact broke most of Sam's ribs on the right side, too...which caused all kinds of damage."

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel, feeling his heart hammer in his chest.

"He, um..." Garth paused once more. "He's got a punctured lung, ruptured spleen, lacerated liver...I think they said something about his kidneys...I think...I'm not sure...they were saying so much."

Dean glared heatedly, pissed that Garth didn't fucking know.

Because this shit was serious.

Jesus...

"Anyway..." Garth's voice momentarily faded in the message. "Sam's in surgery now."

Dean nodded at the news, having expected as much.

"He's lost a lot of blood, though...a lot...the spleen and the liver...you know..."

Dean did know...and it scared the shit out of him.

"I, um...I told Sam you were coming," Garth assured Dean in the message. "Told him you were on your way...I mean...I hope you are..."

"Damn right I am," Dean commented, checking his rearview as he continued to drive the stolen car and follow the map he had memorized from the wall in the ER.

"I don't know if he heard me," Garth confided worriedly, his voice once again fading out as his phone's reception wavered. "But I told Sam you would be here when he woke up..."

Dean nodded, because that was certainly the plan.

"So...anyway..." Garth continued. "I hope you're okay...and that you get here by the time Sam's out of surgery." He paused, laughing awkwardly. "'Cause I would hate to have lied to him, you know?"

Dean did know...because he hated lying to Sam, too.

And yet he had done it – over and over.

And he knew that Sam had lied to him as well.

But that shit had to stop.

Dean sighed, continuing to listen to the message and hoping Garth finished before his time ran out.

"Anyway...that's the report from here. I'll tell you more later. And oh...don't worry about the Impala. I had a friend of a friend pick her up...he's a hunter...so everything's safe and secure...and he's gonna keep her at his garage until...well, whenever."

Dean nodded, thankful for one less thing to worry about.

Especially since it sounded like Sam would need all of his attention right now...and for some time to come.

Dean sighed harshly; hating that his brother had been so severely injured and knowing recovery would take months.

But that was fine.

Because Sam was going to recover from this.

Dean would accept no other outcome.

And then he and his brother were going to get some shit straight between them.

Starting with Dean apologizing for what he had said before the wreck...

"Okay, well...I'm probably almost out of time," Garth guessed. "So...see you soon," he told Dean before the message abruptly ended.

"Yeah..." Dean agreed, resisting the impulse to call Garth now for a new update on his brother since he knew he would see the scrawny hunter in person in just a few minutes.

Dean sighed, tucking the phone back in the pocket of his jeans as he checked his rearview and signaled to exit the highway.

"I'm coming, Sammy..." Dean whispered to his brother. "Just hang on..." he urged, willing the kid to fight through his injuries; to come out of surgery alive.

Dean clenched his jaw, his chest tight with emotion.

"Just hang on..." he repeated, pressing the gas pedal of the stolen car a little harder; eager to reach Sam and to resume the protective role he had neglected for too damn long.

TBC