Never say never
I seem to be on this kick of writing things I thought I'd never write. I wish I knew why, because then I could make it stop.
This is a House/SPN x-over, done for no better reason than I wanted to see if I could have these two worlds collide without ruining either. It did occur to me that you could really do something with Dean and Wilson's brother issues. Notice I said *you* could do something. Me, I basically wrote a House ep with a SPN diagnosis.
Basically S2-ish for both shows, but no majors spoilers. Not beta'd so any/all comments, especially re: Dean's characterization, are welcome.
My Brother's Keeper
~~**~~
Before:
~~**~~
"So these dray...draw...things...."
"Draugr," Sam said absently. He was leafing through a battered old text he'd smuggled out of the local historical society, hunched over on the passenger side of the seat with the book balanced on his knees. He scanned the flashlight over the text, peering intently and if his lips moved every once in a while, well, Dean was storing that up for the next time College Boy pulled out the ten dollar words.
"Whatever. They're zombies, right?"
"No, Dean, they're not zombies. They're undead corpses."
"Not seeing the distinction here." Dean started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in an impatient rhythm the minute he turned off the ignition. He got that they needed to know what they were up against; he just didn't care about the meaningless details. "I mean, it's a rotting, walking ex-human who needs to be returned to his final resting place so we can finally have some rest. And relaxation. Something we are in serious need of because--in case you hadn't noticed--I haven't relaxed in weeks."
"Not with anyone other than your right hand," Sam muttered under his breath. If he noticed Dean glaring at him from the corner of his eye, he did a good job of ignoring it. Instead he held the book up to show Dean an illustration, an old woodcut engraving of a rotting, walking ex-human. "This is important, Dean. A zombie is mindless. It's motivated purely by a need to feed."
"Mmmmm brains." Dean looked sideways at Sam, a broad grin on his face.
"Yeah, brains," Sam said with a sigh. "A draugr, on the other hand, has a...personality, for lack of a better term. It has thoughts, desires."
"No brains?" Dean asked, disappointed.
"They are described as having voracious appetites, but that's not their primary motivation," Sam said, referring once again to the text. "Draugrs covet. They want what they had in life."
"Okay, so hungry, coveting corpses." Dean nodded and opened his door. "We can do this."
"They're also shape shifters." Sam grabbed Dean's arm before he could slide out the open car door, keeping his fingers knotted in the cloth of Dean's sleeve until he paid attention. He didn't have to hold on for long; any mention of shape shifters tended to get Dean's attention real fast. "Usually animals, but it could be anything. And they can move through solid earth."
"How the hell we supposed to find something like that, let alone kill it?" Dean asked, dismayed.
"We find its grave. Draugrs live in their graves. Historically a barrow, but I'm guessing something more Early American traditional around this neck of the woods."
"So we find the grave, wait for it to come home, and then we salt and burn it?"
"Decapitate it."
"No salt and burn?" Dean shook his head and climbed out. He glanced up and down the empty county highway as he walked around the car to the trunk. "Man, you're killing all my fun here."
"A salt and burn wouldn't hurt," Sam conceded as he tossed the text in the back seat. He shut the passenger door behind him and joined Dean at the open trunk. "But decapitation's the key."
"Decapitation can be fun." Dean drew out a machete and gave it a couple of test swings, the blade glinting in the light of the rising moon. "Messy, but fun."
"Man, you seriously need to get a life," Sam muttered.
~~**~~
During:
~~**~~
"House, I have a new patient for you."
"Words that would bring me great joy if I actually wanted a new patient." House turned away from his computer with an exaggerated sigh as Cuddy slapped a file onto his desk. Try as he might he'd never been able to convince her that he didn't mind being idle. True, he enjoyed an interesting case, and sometimes he needed to step up to bat if only to reaffirm his reputation as the guy who could solve what all the other guys couldn't. But...if he could get paid for doing nothing then he was going to do as much nothing as humanly possible.
"Let me rephrase: House, I have a new patient for you." Cuddy leaned back, gaze direct. House stared at her, pondering the engineering marvel known as the push-up bra and wondering if he could convince her to allow him to destruct-test its structural integrity.
"Did you know Howard Hughes designed a bra especially for Jane Russell? Just think what he could've done for you."
Cuddy merely blinked yet it carried a clear message of rebuke. "Young male, early twenties, unresponsive, no obvious signs of trauma."
"Young male in his early twenties." House turned back to his computer. "He's drunk."
"Tox screen was negative."
"Stoned."
"His tox screen was negative," Cuddy repeated, enunciating each word slowly and precisely. "All his labs have been negative so far. Same with his x-rays."
House let out an annoyed grunt when Cuddy picked up the file and shoved it against his chest, but he deigned to actually open it once she stopped trying to shove it through his sternum. "He's a John Doe?"
"Cops found him laying in the backseat of a car in the parking lot of some cheap motel. They tried to roust him out, but when they couldn't get him to respond they called for an ambulance. He had no identification on him and the only identifying information from the car is that it had Kansas plates."
"Well, Dorothy, he's definitely not in Kansas any more."
"House...." Cuddy's familiar tone of exasperation was music to his ears.
"Excuse me, either of you Dr. Cuddy?"
"She is," House said instantly, pointing at Cuddy. She glared at him before they both looked toward the door. The young man who stood there was a little worse for wear: there were dark circles under his eyes and a hoarse quality to his voice. He was a man who'd either talked too much or not enough in recent days.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Cuddy asked.
"Some chucklehead downstairs said I had to get your okay to check my brother out of here."
Cuddy glanced at House, then snatched a photo from John Doe's chart. She walked toward the newcomer. He met her halfway across the office, a wary expression on his face, and she flipped the picture up before his eyes. "Would this happen to be your brother?"
"That's him. That's Sam." It was impossible to miss the sudden relief as Dean's posture eased. "So...what do I gotta sign?"
"He's in a coma. He's not going anywhere." Cuddy walked briskly back to the desk and clipped the picture back to the cover of the chart.
"Okay, maybe I didn't make myself clear so let me rephrase; I am taking my brother home."
"Kansas?" House asked in a deceptively casual tone.
Dean studied him through narrowed eyes before giving a terse nod. "Yeah, Kansas."
"What's the rush?" House asked. He yanked the file out of Cuddy's hands, intrigued now despite himself. "Aunty Em got supper on the table?"
"Nah, but Toto misses Sam something fierce," Dean replied in the same mocking tone. House let out an amused snort and shuffled through the labs, looking for whatever the emergency room doctor had missed because the E.R. docs always missed something.
Cuddy rolled her eyes at both of them. "Your brother is too sick to be moved."
"I'll sign one of those--whatchamacallits--against medical advice forms."
"Do you have power of attorney for your brother?"
"I...can get it." Dean didn't sound terribly confident of that fact and Cuddy's eyes narrowed in suspicion. House was…still intrigued. Even if the diagnosis turned out to be boring, there had to be something interesting, some juicy story behind the boys from Kansas.
"Do you have something against this hospital or just hospitals in general?" House asked, still perusing the file. He glanced up. "Or do you have something against your brother?"
"What do I have to do to get Sam out of here?" Dean gave House a dark look but House was used to all kinds of threatening looks. He barely noticed them any more. What he noticed was that Dean hadn't answered his question.
"You could try to get guardianship," Cuddy said. She walked over to Dean again, leaning in to speak in a low but determined voice. "But I'll warn you--if you try to deny him medical care, I'll file my own request for a court appointed guardian."
"Listen, Sweetheart, normally I'd love to stay and take in the view." Dean made a point of looking down her blouse, which both amused and annoyed House. "But you're starting to seriously piss me off."
Cuddy returned Dean's hard stare as she straightened up. "Deal with it."
~~**~~
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
House glanced up from the brother in the bed to the brother standing in the door. Dean had one hand still on the door and a large coffee in the other. He actually needed a little less coffee and a little more sleep; he was dead on his feet. Which was better than being half-dead in a hospital bed, but not by much.
House merely gave Sam a careless wave. "Just trying to wake him up. Sounds crazy, I know, but when a coma patient wakes up, we call that getting better."
"Sounds crazier than you realize." Dean closed in on the other side of the bed, close enough to take House out if necessary, not close enough for the cripple to be a threat to him. "First, the whole waking thing? Been tried. Second, you do not want to be any where near Sam when he does wake up."
"Not a morning person?"
"Recently...not so much." Dean glanced down at Sam even as his hand crept to the small of his back, reassuring himself that his gun was still tucked in his waistband. He looked back up at House. "Like I already told Dr. Cuddy...."
"How much cleavage is she flaunting today?" House asked as he ripped a sheet from the EEG machine and studied the tracings.
"Er...not much," Dean asked, perplexed by the question.
"Damn, you must've scared them into hiding."
"Sorry about that, Festus, but...." Dean's voice trailed off, confused by the reluctant grin on House's face. Confused and decidedly annoyed. At least he understood Dr. Cuddy's reactions, her motivations; he knew what to expect. House seemed to have a knack for doing the opposite of expected. "My brother is lying here, dying, and you're laughing? You think this is funny?"
"Hysterical," House said as he tossed the chart on the bed near Sam's feet. "Not the dying part; that's rarely funny. Especially in cases like this. I mean look at him. He's just lying there, being extremely unfunny."
"Yeah, well, Sammy's priorities are a little screwed up."
"Must be a bummer for you."
"Seriously, dude, you got a problem with me?" Dean set his coffee cup on the bedside table and faced House, one hand hanging free at his side, the other resting against his hip, mere inches from the grip of the gun.
"I like you just fine." House turned square to the bed, facing Dean. "Except when you're not answering my questions about what happened to your brother. Then again, if you did answer you'd just lie and that would lead to erroneous diagnoses and potentially dangerous treatments so maybe you're going about this the right way. Just keep your mouth shut and let me figure it out myself. It'll still lead to erroneous diagnoses and dangerous treatments but it will eliminate all this tedious discussion."
"There's another way to eliminate discussion," Dean said pointedly. Two ways, actually, but Dean kind of had a rule about shooting non-evil human beings. Didn't stop his trigger finger from twitching, though.
"Court order says you can't take him."
"Screw the court order," Dean argued. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever paid much attention to the law before, other than trying to find ways around it. "You don't even know what's wrong with him. You sure as hell can't fix it."
"And you do know?" House asked.
"Yeah, I do. That's why you gotta let me take him."
"But that would be breaking the rules and I never do that." House affected an innocent expression, which gave way to a long, appraising look directed at Dean.
Dean wasn't a fool. He recognized that his determination to get Sam away from the hospital had only piqued House's curiosity. Unfortunately, as much as Dean didn't need anyone's curiosity aimed in his direction, he simply didn't have time to finesse the situation.
"Technically I don't gotta do anything for you," House continued. "But why don't you try telling me what's wrong with him. If it sounds reasonable, I might be persuaded to help you."
"You wouldn't believe me." Dean groaned when House simply shifted his weight, leaned comfortably on his cane and waited. Dean turned away, running a hand through his hair, but when he turned back House was still waiting. Dean gave his hair a frustrated yank, then let his hand drop. "A Norse corpse stole his soul."
House did nothing more than stare for a moment, then he let out an amused grunt. "That's...that's really very good. Easily the most imaginative story I've ever heard."
"No story," Dean said, staring directly at House. "Trust me--I'm not that creative."
"Wouldn't he be dead if his soul was missing?"
"No, undead. And undead usually means unhappy," Dean said flatly. "Which is why the whole waking the undead thing is a bad idea."
"You seriously expect me to believe your brother is a zombie?"
"Not a zombie. He's just...empty." Dean leaned against the bed, his hands braced against the edge of the mattress as he looked down at Sam. "I gotta find the thing that took his soul, waste the bitch, and get Sam's soul back where it belongs."
"No judge is going to believe a story like that." House was blunt, but his tone wasn't unkind.
"Duh," Dean snapped. "That's why I'm not going to tell the judge the truth. I'll make something up. Something he will believe."
"No judge will believe you over me." House paused, frowned, then shrugged. "Okay, no judge will believe you over Dr. Cuddy."
"Screw Cuddy. Screw the judge for that matter. I'm taking him."
House held up his finger, head tilted thoughtfully. "Give me a day."
"Why?"
"What's your hurry?" House flung his hand in Sam's direction. "It's not like he's going to get any more undead, is he?"
Dean wouldn't admit it, but he wasn't sure it was possible to be more, or less, undead. He thought it was one of those things where you either were or you weren't. "Fine. Twenty-four hours. Then we're out of here."
~~**~~
House tossed the file across the room from the door, somehow managing to slide it right in front of Wilson. The fact that it had to slide through Wilson's lunch to get there did not detract from the accomplishment in his mind.
"You couldn't just send one of your lackeys with a consult?" Wilson asked, plucking a piece of lettuce from his tie.
"Got a weird case. Can't figure it out."
Wilson rolled his eyes, but he batted away a few crumbs clinging to the chart and started reading. After a moment's silent perusal he concluded, "It's not cancer."
"I know what it isn't. Tell me what it is."
"Well...." Wilson studied the labs more carefully. "There's no obvious sign of infection or metabolic disorders. Heart appears to be functioning normally. There's no sign of…." Wilson looked up at House with an incredulous grimace. "What the hell's up with his EEG?"
"If I knew that, I might know what's wrong with him."
"You do have a neurologist on your staff. What did Foreman say?"
"I believe his exact words were: what the hell's up with this EEG?" House began pacing to the balcony door and back, waiting for Wilson to work past all the obvious suggestions and join House at the scratching of the head stage.
"There's almost no higher brain function left. He's nearly brain dead."
"Undead, according to his brother."
"You're treating a zombie?" Wilson looked both amused and skeptical.
"So far I've mostly been watching the zombie do nothing." House gave a helpless shrug as he pivoted around his cane and headed for the balcony door again, limping heavily. Watching a patient vegetate was counter-productive. And not nearly as exciting as watching Dog the Bounty Hunter, which is what he would have to Tivo if he couldn't get this case figured out in a timely fashion. "I got nothing."
Wilson glanced over from the file. "What's wrong with your leg?"
"Nothing that hasn't been wrong with it for six years."
Wilson sighed and shook his head as he bent over the chart again. "Could it be psychosomatic?"
"No," House said sharply. He just couldn't win. If he didn't admit pain Wilson thought he didn't need vicodin, but if he did show pain Wilson assumed it was all in his head. "My leg really hurts."
"I was referring to the brother actually."
House drew up short, his gaze distant as he considered the possibility.
"Admittedly, it doesn't explain the EEG," Wilson added.
"Nothing explains the EEG," House said dismissively. He bounced his cane against the carpet a couple of times, then pointed it at Wilson. "A psychogenic coma: I like it."
"Of course you do. It means someone is more messed up than you are." Wilson closed the file and held it out to House. "Good luck figuring out what caused it."
"You're going to find out."
"What? Why me?"
"Because you're good at that pseudo-psychobabble caring crap."
~~**~~
House slammed the glass door shut and the resulting thud jerked Dean out of a restless doze. His arms shot out spastically, trying to hold him in the chair as he looked around, momentarily disoriented.
"When's the last time you got any sleep?" House asked as he strolled up to the foot of Sam's bed.
"Two seconds ago," Dean said, irritably rubbing at his eyes. He spent his nights trying to find the draugr's grave and his days with Sam. Neither was conducive to getting any decent shut-eye. He glanced over at the late afternoon sunlight coming through the blinds, squinting at a silhouette. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Wilson." The silhouette emerged from the obscuring light as he moved toward the bed.
"Great. Another overpaid guy in a monkey suit." Dean leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. He jerked his thumb in House's direction. "He's already got Huey, Dewey and Louie poking and prodding every five minutes. What the hell do you have to add?"
"Sometimes having a fresh perspective...."
"Oh, please," Dean groaned. "I don't need perspective. I need to take care of Sam."
"What are you going to do? Toss him in the back seat of your car again?" House asked.
"Because tossing him in a bed has helped so much," Dean retorted.
"House," Wilson warned sharply. He turned toward Dean, his hands held out at his sides in a placating gesture. "I understand how you feel."
"Peachy. You're the shrink, right?" Dean was more resigned than upset. A shrink was inevitable given what he'd told House.
"No, I.... It's just that I've got brothers myself. I know what it feels like to worry about a sibling."
"Really?" Dean said with evident disdain. Since he'd bet his car that Wilson had never even heard of a draugr, there was no way he could know how Dean felt. "When your brother loses his soul, then you can tell me you know how I feel."
Wilson's expression didn't change except for a slight tightness around his mouth. His hands dropped and he turned toward the monitors. Dean's forehead folded into a frown as he watched, then he slowly turned his gaze toward House. House immediately tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, refusing to meet Dean's eyes.
Wilson turned back to Dean, his hands shoved awkwardly in the pockets of his lab coat. "I really do get it. He's your brother. It's your job to take care of him. You always have, you always will. But...but sometimes what your brother needs is something you can't give him. Sometimes the best thing you can do for him is realize that someone else can help him better than you can."
Dean's eyes were locked with Wilson's as he rose from the chair and approached the bed. The thing was, he thought Wilson was completely sincere. Wrong, but sincere. And the problem with sincerity was that when a person really believed what he was saying, it was a whole lot harder to convince him he was wrong. Dean sighed and finally looked away, his gaze sweeping over Sam. "Okay, maybe...but not this time."
"Oh, so close," House sighed in mock disappointment. He let his gaze drop from the ceiling and aimed it at Dean. "You really should listen to Wilson. He knows about making bad choices when it comes to brothers."
"Whatever." Dean's eyes went from House to Wilson and back again. Wilson glared at House and House blatantly ignored Wilson's glare. Dean threw his hands up, not wanting any part of whatever was going on. He had his own problems.
"What was Sam doing when he lost consciousness?" Wilson asked. Dean glanced over at House. When House nodded, Dean rolled his eyes but answered.
"We were chasing a draugr. Damn thing doubled back and got to Sam before I realized what had happened."
"And you know how to fix it?"
"Yes." Dean was growing impatient again. "If you'd all stop yacking and let me do it, he'd be fine."
"Why does he have to be with you when you kill this thing?" Wilson asked.
Dean glanced from Wilson to House, then finally down at Sam. "Because."
House looked at Wilson with another theatrical sigh. "How can we argue with logic like that?"
"Your twenty-four hours are almost up," Dean said in a belligerent tone.
"True," House said cheerfully as he pulled the door open, ushering Wilson out of the room ahead him with a not terribly gentle prod of his cane. "Fortunately for me there's still that little matter of a court order."
Seething, Dean watched House walk away. He was going to shoot the smug bastard, human or not.
~~**~~
Wilson stalked down the corridor, not slowing when House did. House considered that lapse, pondered the possible reasons for said lapse, then decided to take advantage of it. He veered off toward the lab where Foreman was engaged in another round of pointless tests.
"Oh, no, you don't." Suddenly Wilson was right at his elbow again. "You're not going pull this crap and then walk away like nothing happened."
"I am if you get out of my way."
"You didn't drag me along because you wanted to know about his brother. You dragged me along because you wanted to know about my brother."
"Actually I do want to know about his brother on account of he happens to be my patient," House said. It certainly sounded responsible, even admirable. And this time had the added bonus of being true. The fact that he'd been hoping for a two-fer did nothing to mitigate the fact that he'd been fulfilling his professional obligations. "It's not psychogenic."
"Are you serious?" Wilson asked with obvious surprise. "Were you listening to the story he gave us?"
"But the brother who gave us that story is walking and talking and not my problem. It's the unconscious brother I've got to figure out." House paused long enough to pull his prescription bottle from his pocket.
"You don't think both brothers could believe the story?"
"Maybe. I don't know. You're the one with brothers; you tell me."
"Why can't you just ask when you want to know something?" Wilson demanded, angry again now that House had so deftly reminded Wilson of his ulterior motive. House pretended he hadn't heard the question and reached for the door again. Wilson blocked his way and House jerked on the door handle, knocking the door against the back of Wilson's heels. The only obvious response was that Wilson's eyes grew darker. Pretty nifty trick, since Wilson's eyes were already pretty damn dark.
"Would you have told me?" House asked with a sigh.
"No."
"Well, then it's pretty obvious why I didn't ask. In fact, this whole conversation is obvious, as well as fruitless."
"You don't need to know everything, House."
"But it's fun," he whined.
"No, it's a distraction from your own miserable little life," Wilson said. "It's an excuse to not deal with your own problems."
"I'm trying to deal with a problem right now, which is that you're blocking my access to my minions.... Minion. Which reminds me, if you see Cameron tell her to go do her earnest, caring thing on the brothers Grimm. And if you see Chase, tell him...tell him my pencils need sharpening."
"House," Wilson rasped.
"Do you have any idea of the number of hours of worker productivity lost to dull pencils?"
"No, and neither do you. At least, not from first hand experience." Wilson shook his finger at House. "This isn't over."
"Fine," House sighed as he hooked his cane over his forearm. He pulled back his sleeve and fiddled with his watch. "Just tell me how long until it will be over so I can set the alarm."
Wilson's lips practically disappeared into an angry line, and then Wilson disappeared in a flurry of distinctly annoyed eyebrows and coattails. House stared after him for a moment. Huh. Getting rid of Wilson had been easier than he'd expected.
~~**~~
Dean had been reduced to digging through his pockets for stray change in order to find enough money to pay for lunch. His schedule lately hadn't allowed any time for hustling and he was getting pretty damn short on hard cash. Sometimes it sucked beyond measure that the only job he knew how to do and do well paid squat. Also explained why career day in high school never had a booth for hunters. No pay, no perks: no one in his right mind would choose this job.
"I've got it."
Dean turned, at first surprised then suspicious. He gave Wilson a sharp shake of his head. "I'm okay."
"Please," Wilson said in a weary tone. He handed a couple of bills to the cashier. "Fate seems to have decreed that I have to pay for someone's lunch every day. If it's not you, it'll be House."
Dean found the idea of having a complete meal tempting. The idea of cheating House out of a meal was even more so. "Thanks."
Wilson merely gave Dean a good-natured shrug and nodded at an empty table. Dean led the way slowly. He'd rather eat alone but the guy had just bought him lunch. He figured it would be rude to tell him to get lost. He didn't really care about being rude, but there was always the possibility that Wilson would take back the food. Survival dictated that he make nice.
"So what's the story with your brother?" Dean asked as he sawed up a slab of meatloaf, then drowned it in ketchup. Wilson merely looked at him across the table, eyebrows raised in a question. "Dr. House said...."
"House doesn't know as much as he thinks he knows," Wilson said flatly as he stabbed at his salad. "Is there anyway to contact your parents?"
"Not unless you see dead people," Dean said. Wilson stared at him a moment, then nodded without argument so Dean proceeded with his own questions. "Your brother?"
"A lawyer in Andover." Wilson set his fork down. "Does your brother have a history of mental illness?"
"There's nothing wrong with Sam's brain," Dean said, jabbing his fork in Wilson's direction. He realized there was a piece of meatloaf still on the end of the fork and he popped it in his mouth before it could fall off. Still chewing he continued, "Full ride to Stanford. He was going to go to law school."
"Intelligence and psychosis are not mutually exclusive. Why didn't he go?"
"Something came up," Dean said. "What about your other brother?"
Wilson leaned back in his chair, exasperated. "What is this--a game? I have to answer a question about my brother before you'll tell me about yours?"
Dean shrugged. He knew if Sam were there, and conscious, he'd tell Dean to quit pissing people off for no good reason. Sam wasn't there, and besides, Dean figured he had a good reason; Wilson's sincerity aside, he didn't trust these doctors. "Why do I have to answer questions about my brother?"
"Because your brother is the one who's sick," Wilson pointed out. Dean considered that information, then simply shrugged again. Wilson rubbed his fingers against his forehead, then dropped his hand in resignation. "My brother's been missing for ten years. He was living on the streets, homeless and high most of the time. Then one day he...left."
"You haven't seen him in ten years?" Dean couldn't imagine it. Sure, he and Sam hadn't seen each other for a while when Sam was in college, but he'd known where Sam was. Known he was safe. It wasn't the same thing at all.
"No," Wilson said tersely. He set his fork aside and gazed across the table at Dean. "Your brother...."
"Sam's about as well adjusted as anyone I know." Granted, that might not be saying much given some of the people Dean knew but still.... "Never really been sick other than the chicken pox when he was seven. And yeah, he's taken a few punches to the head but nothing that caused any serious damage."
"Before this happened was he having blackouts, headaches, blurred vision....?"
"Sam, he gets these headaches and he kind of...sees stuff but it's nothing."
"You know it's nothing because he's been checked out by a doctor?" Wilson's tone made it clear he knew damn well Sam hadn't been checked out by a doctor. Dean didn't care. He knew Sam's visions weren't an illness. They were just a freaky Sam thing. Which was not as freaky as the freaky Andy thing, but Dean wasn't going to mention that.
"House had patient recently. A young man who talked to God," Wilson continued in a conversational tone. Dean tilted his head, confused by what seemed to be a change of topic. "Admittedly lots of people talk to God. But this kid thought God was talking back. Only it turned out the kid had a virus in his brain: herpes."
"Sam doesn't get out enough for that," Dean chuckled.
Part 2/2
This is a House/SPN x-over, done for no better reason than I wanted to see if I could have these two worlds collide without ruining either. It did occur to me that you could really do something with Dean and Wilson's brother issues. Notice I said *you* could do something. Me, I basically wrote a House ep with a SPN diagnosis.
Basically S2-ish for both shows, but no majors spoilers. Not beta'd so any/all comments, especially re: Dean's characterization, are welcome.
My Brother's Keeper
~~**~~
Before:
~~**~~
"So these dray...draw...things...."
"Draugr," Sam said absently. He was leafing through a battered old text he'd smuggled out of the local historical society, hunched over on the passenger side of the seat with the book balanced on his knees. He scanned the flashlight over the text, peering intently and if his lips moved every once in a while, well, Dean was storing that up for the next time College Boy pulled out the ten dollar words.
"Whatever. They're zombies, right?"
"No, Dean, they're not zombies. They're undead corpses."
"Not seeing the distinction here." Dean started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in an impatient rhythm the minute he turned off the ignition. He got that they needed to know what they were up against; he just didn't care about the meaningless details. "I mean, it's a rotting, walking ex-human who needs to be returned to his final resting place so we can finally have some rest. And relaxation. Something we are in serious need of because--in case you hadn't noticed--I haven't relaxed in weeks."
"Not with anyone other than your right hand," Sam muttered under his breath. If he noticed Dean glaring at him from the corner of his eye, he did a good job of ignoring it. Instead he held the book up to show Dean an illustration, an old woodcut engraving of a rotting, walking ex-human. "This is important, Dean. A zombie is mindless. It's motivated purely by a need to feed."
"Mmmmm brains." Dean looked sideways at Sam, a broad grin on his face.
"Yeah, brains," Sam said with a sigh. "A draugr, on the other hand, has a...personality, for lack of a better term. It has thoughts, desires."
"No brains?" Dean asked, disappointed.
"They are described as having voracious appetites, but that's not their primary motivation," Sam said, referring once again to the text. "Draugrs covet. They want what they had in life."
"Okay, so hungry, coveting corpses." Dean nodded and opened his door. "We can do this."
"They're also shape shifters." Sam grabbed Dean's arm before he could slide out the open car door, keeping his fingers knotted in the cloth of Dean's sleeve until he paid attention. He didn't have to hold on for long; any mention of shape shifters tended to get Dean's attention real fast. "Usually animals, but it could be anything. And they can move through solid earth."
"How the hell we supposed to find something like that, let alone kill it?" Dean asked, dismayed.
"We find its grave. Draugrs live in their graves. Historically a barrow, but I'm guessing something more Early American traditional around this neck of the woods."
"So we find the grave, wait for it to come home, and then we salt and burn it?"
"Decapitate it."
"No salt and burn?" Dean shook his head and climbed out. He glanced up and down the empty county highway as he walked around the car to the trunk. "Man, you're killing all my fun here."
"A salt and burn wouldn't hurt," Sam conceded as he tossed the text in the back seat. He shut the passenger door behind him and joined Dean at the open trunk. "But decapitation's the key."
"Decapitation can be fun." Dean drew out a machete and gave it a couple of test swings, the blade glinting in the light of the rising moon. "Messy, but fun."
"Man, you seriously need to get a life," Sam muttered.
~~**~~
During:
~~**~~
"House, I have a new patient for you."
"Words that would bring me great joy if I actually wanted a new patient." House turned away from his computer with an exaggerated sigh as Cuddy slapped a file onto his desk. Try as he might he'd never been able to convince her that he didn't mind being idle. True, he enjoyed an interesting case, and sometimes he needed to step up to bat if only to reaffirm his reputation as the guy who could solve what all the other guys couldn't. But...if he could get paid for doing nothing then he was going to do as much nothing as humanly possible.
"Let me rephrase: House, I have a new patient for you." Cuddy leaned back, gaze direct. House stared at her, pondering the engineering marvel known as the push-up bra and wondering if he could convince her to allow him to destruct-test its structural integrity.
"Did you know Howard Hughes designed a bra especially for Jane Russell? Just think what he could've done for you."
Cuddy merely blinked yet it carried a clear message of rebuke. "Young male, early twenties, unresponsive, no obvious signs of trauma."
"Young male in his early twenties." House turned back to his computer. "He's drunk."
"Tox screen was negative."
"Stoned."
"His tox screen was negative," Cuddy repeated, enunciating each word slowly and precisely. "All his labs have been negative so far. Same with his x-rays."
House let out an annoyed grunt when Cuddy picked up the file and shoved it against his chest, but he deigned to actually open it once she stopped trying to shove it through his sternum. "He's a John Doe?"
"Cops found him laying in the backseat of a car in the parking lot of some cheap motel. They tried to roust him out, but when they couldn't get him to respond they called for an ambulance. He had no identification on him and the only identifying information from the car is that it had Kansas plates."
"Well, Dorothy, he's definitely not in Kansas any more."
"House...." Cuddy's familiar tone of exasperation was music to his ears.
"Excuse me, either of you Dr. Cuddy?"
"She is," House said instantly, pointing at Cuddy. She glared at him before they both looked toward the door. The young man who stood there was a little worse for wear: there were dark circles under his eyes and a hoarse quality to his voice. He was a man who'd either talked too much or not enough in recent days.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Cuddy asked.
"Some chucklehead downstairs said I had to get your okay to check my brother out of here."
Cuddy glanced at House, then snatched a photo from John Doe's chart. She walked toward the newcomer. He met her halfway across the office, a wary expression on his face, and she flipped the picture up before his eyes. "Would this happen to be your brother?"
"That's him. That's Sam." It was impossible to miss the sudden relief as Dean's posture eased. "So...what do I gotta sign?"
"He's in a coma. He's not going anywhere." Cuddy walked briskly back to the desk and clipped the picture back to the cover of the chart.
"Okay, maybe I didn't make myself clear so let me rephrase; I am taking my brother home."
"Kansas?" House asked in a deceptively casual tone.
Dean studied him through narrowed eyes before giving a terse nod. "Yeah, Kansas."
"What's the rush?" House asked. He yanked the file out of Cuddy's hands, intrigued now despite himself. "Aunty Em got supper on the table?"
"Nah, but Toto misses Sam something fierce," Dean replied in the same mocking tone. House let out an amused snort and shuffled through the labs, looking for whatever the emergency room doctor had missed because the E.R. docs always missed something.
Cuddy rolled her eyes at both of them. "Your brother is too sick to be moved."
"I'll sign one of those--whatchamacallits--against medical advice forms."
"Do you have power of attorney for your brother?"
"I...can get it." Dean didn't sound terribly confident of that fact and Cuddy's eyes narrowed in suspicion. House was…still intrigued. Even if the diagnosis turned out to be boring, there had to be something interesting, some juicy story behind the boys from Kansas.
"Do you have something against this hospital or just hospitals in general?" House asked, still perusing the file. He glanced up. "Or do you have something against your brother?"
"What do I have to do to get Sam out of here?" Dean gave House a dark look but House was used to all kinds of threatening looks. He barely noticed them any more. What he noticed was that Dean hadn't answered his question.
"You could try to get guardianship," Cuddy said. She walked over to Dean again, leaning in to speak in a low but determined voice. "But I'll warn you--if you try to deny him medical care, I'll file my own request for a court appointed guardian."
"Listen, Sweetheart, normally I'd love to stay and take in the view." Dean made a point of looking down her blouse, which both amused and annoyed House. "But you're starting to seriously piss me off."
Cuddy returned Dean's hard stare as she straightened up. "Deal with it."
~~**~~
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
House glanced up from the brother in the bed to the brother standing in the door. Dean had one hand still on the door and a large coffee in the other. He actually needed a little less coffee and a little more sleep; he was dead on his feet. Which was better than being half-dead in a hospital bed, but not by much.
House merely gave Sam a careless wave. "Just trying to wake him up. Sounds crazy, I know, but when a coma patient wakes up, we call that getting better."
"Sounds crazier than you realize." Dean closed in on the other side of the bed, close enough to take House out if necessary, not close enough for the cripple to be a threat to him. "First, the whole waking thing? Been tried. Second, you do not want to be any where near Sam when he does wake up."
"Not a morning person?"
"Recently...not so much." Dean glanced down at Sam even as his hand crept to the small of his back, reassuring himself that his gun was still tucked in his waistband. He looked back up at House. "Like I already told Dr. Cuddy...."
"How much cleavage is she flaunting today?" House asked as he ripped a sheet from the EEG machine and studied the tracings.
"Er...not much," Dean asked, perplexed by the question.
"Damn, you must've scared them into hiding."
"Sorry about that, Festus, but...." Dean's voice trailed off, confused by the reluctant grin on House's face. Confused and decidedly annoyed. At least he understood Dr. Cuddy's reactions, her motivations; he knew what to expect. House seemed to have a knack for doing the opposite of expected. "My brother is lying here, dying, and you're laughing? You think this is funny?"
"Hysterical," House said as he tossed the chart on the bed near Sam's feet. "Not the dying part; that's rarely funny. Especially in cases like this. I mean look at him. He's just lying there, being extremely unfunny."
"Yeah, well, Sammy's priorities are a little screwed up."
"Must be a bummer for you."
"Seriously, dude, you got a problem with me?" Dean set his coffee cup on the bedside table and faced House, one hand hanging free at his side, the other resting against his hip, mere inches from the grip of the gun.
"I like you just fine." House turned square to the bed, facing Dean. "Except when you're not answering my questions about what happened to your brother. Then again, if you did answer you'd just lie and that would lead to erroneous diagnoses and potentially dangerous treatments so maybe you're going about this the right way. Just keep your mouth shut and let me figure it out myself. It'll still lead to erroneous diagnoses and dangerous treatments but it will eliminate all this tedious discussion."
"There's another way to eliminate discussion," Dean said pointedly. Two ways, actually, but Dean kind of had a rule about shooting non-evil human beings. Didn't stop his trigger finger from twitching, though.
"Court order says you can't take him."
"Screw the court order," Dean argued. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever paid much attention to the law before, other than trying to find ways around it. "You don't even know what's wrong with him. You sure as hell can't fix it."
"And you do know?" House asked.
"Yeah, I do. That's why you gotta let me take him."
"But that would be breaking the rules and I never do that." House affected an innocent expression, which gave way to a long, appraising look directed at Dean.
Dean wasn't a fool. He recognized that his determination to get Sam away from the hospital had only piqued House's curiosity. Unfortunately, as much as Dean didn't need anyone's curiosity aimed in his direction, he simply didn't have time to finesse the situation.
"Technically I don't gotta do anything for you," House continued. "But why don't you try telling me what's wrong with him. If it sounds reasonable, I might be persuaded to help you."
"You wouldn't believe me." Dean groaned when House simply shifted his weight, leaned comfortably on his cane and waited. Dean turned away, running a hand through his hair, but when he turned back House was still waiting. Dean gave his hair a frustrated yank, then let his hand drop. "A Norse corpse stole his soul."
House did nothing more than stare for a moment, then he let out an amused grunt. "That's...that's really very good. Easily the most imaginative story I've ever heard."
"No story," Dean said, staring directly at House. "Trust me--I'm not that creative."
"Wouldn't he be dead if his soul was missing?"
"No, undead. And undead usually means unhappy," Dean said flatly. "Which is why the whole waking the undead thing is a bad idea."
"You seriously expect me to believe your brother is a zombie?"
"Not a zombie. He's just...empty." Dean leaned against the bed, his hands braced against the edge of the mattress as he looked down at Sam. "I gotta find the thing that took his soul, waste the bitch, and get Sam's soul back where it belongs."
"No judge is going to believe a story like that." House was blunt, but his tone wasn't unkind.
"Duh," Dean snapped. "That's why I'm not going to tell the judge the truth. I'll make something up. Something he will believe."
"No judge will believe you over me." House paused, frowned, then shrugged. "Okay, no judge will believe you over Dr. Cuddy."
"Screw Cuddy. Screw the judge for that matter. I'm taking him."
House held up his finger, head tilted thoughtfully. "Give me a day."
"Why?"
"What's your hurry?" House flung his hand in Sam's direction. "It's not like he's going to get any more undead, is he?"
Dean wouldn't admit it, but he wasn't sure it was possible to be more, or less, undead. He thought it was one of those things where you either were or you weren't. "Fine. Twenty-four hours. Then we're out of here."
~~**~~
House tossed the file across the room from the door, somehow managing to slide it right in front of Wilson. The fact that it had to slide through Wilson's lunch to get there did not detract from the accomplishment in his mind.
"You couldn't just send one of your lackeys with a consult?" Wilson asked, plucking a piece of lettuce from his tie.
"Got a weird case. Can't figure it out."
Wilson rolled his eyes, but he batted away a few crumbs clinging to the chart and started reading. After a moment's silent perusal he concluded, "It's not cancer."
"I know what it isn't. Tell me what it is."
"Well...." Wilson studied the labs more carefully. "There's no obvious sign of infection or metabolic disorders. Heart appears to be functioning normally. There's no sign of…." Wilson looked up at House with an incredulous grimace. "What the hell's up with his EEG?"
"If I knew that, I might know what's wrong with him."
"You do have a neurologist on your staff. What did Foreman say?"
"I believe his exact words were: what the hell's up with this EEG?" House began pacing to the balcony door and back, waiting for Wilson to work past all the obvious suggestions and join House at the scratching of the head stage.
"There's almost no higher brain function left. He's nearly brain dead."
"Undead, according to his brother."
"You're treating a zombie?" Wilson looked both amused and skeptical.
"So far I've mostly been watching the zombie do nothing." House gave a helpless shrug as he pivoted around his cane and headed for the balcony door again, limping heavily. Watching a patient vegetate was counter-productive. And not nearly as exciting as watching Dog the Bounty Hunter, which is what he would have to Tivo if he couldn't get this case figured out in a timely fashion. "I got nothing."
Wilson glanced over from the file. "What's wrong with your leg?"
"Nothing that hasn't been wrong with it for six years."
Wilson sighed and shook his head as he bent over the chart again. "Could it be psychosomatic?"
"No," House said sharply. He just couldn't win. If he didn't admit pain Wilson thought he didn't need vicodin, but if he did show pain Wilson assumed it was all in his head. "My leg really hurts."
"I was referring to the brother actually."
House drew up short, his gaze distant as he considered the possibility.
"Admittedly, it doesn't explain the EEG," Wilson added.
"Nothing explains the EEG," House said dismissively. He bounced his cane against the carpet a couple of times, then pointed it at Wilson. "A psychogenic coma: I like it."
"Of course you do. It means someone is more messed up than you are." Wilson closed the file and held it out to House. "Good luck figuring out what caused it."
"You're going to find out."
"What? Why me?"
"Because you're good at that pseudo-psychobabble caring crap."
~~**~~
House slammed the glass door shut and the resulting thud jerked Dean out of a restless doze. His arms shot out spastically, trying to hold him in the chair as he looked around, momentarily disoriented.
"When's the last time you got any sleep?" House asked as he strolled up to the foot of Sam's bed.
"Two seconds ago," Dean said, irritably rubbing at his eyes. He spent his nights trying to find the draugr's grave and his days with Sam. Neither was conducive to getting any decent shut-eye. He glanced over at the late afternoon sunlight coming through the blinds, squinting at a silhouette. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Wilson." The silhouette emerged from the obscuring light as he moved toward the bed.
"Great. Another overpaid guy in a monkey suit." Dean leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. He jerked his thumb in House's direction. "He's already got Huey, Dewey and Louie poking and prodding every five minutes. What the hell do you have to add?"
"Sometimes having a fresh perspective...."
"Oh, please," Dean groaned. "I don't need perspective. I need to take care of Sam."
"What are you going to do? Toss him in the back seat of your car again?" House asked.
"Because tossing him in a bed has helped so much," Dean retorted.
"House," Wilson warned sharply. He turned toward Dean, his hands held out at his sides in a placating gesture. "I understand how you feel."
"Peachy. You're the shrink, right?" Dean was more resigned than upset. A shrink was inevitable given what he'd told House.
"No, I.... It's just that I've got brothers myself. I know what it feels like to worry about a sibling."
"Really?" Dean said with evident disdain. Since he'd bet his car that Wilson had never even heard of a draugr, there was no way he could know how Dean felt. "When your brother loses his soul, then you can tell me you know how I feel."
Wilson's expression didn't change except for a slight tightness around his mouth. His hands dropped and he turned toward the monitors. Dean's forehead folded into a frown as he watched, then he slowly turned his gaze toward House. House immediately tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, refusing to meet Dean's eyes.
Wilson turned back to Dean, his hands shoved awkwardly in the pockets of his lab coat. "I really do get it. He's your brother. It's your job to take care of him. You always have, you always will. But...but sometimes what your brother needs is something you can't give him. Sometimes the best thing you can do for him is realize that someone else can help him better than you can."
Dean's eyes were locked with Wilson's as he rose from the chair and approached the bed. The thing was, he thought Wilson was completely sincere. Wrong, but sincere. And the problem with sincerity was that when a person really believed what he was saying, it was a whole lot harder to convince him he was wrong. Dean sighed and finally looked away, his gaze sweeping over Sam. "Okay, maybe...but not this time."
"Oh, so close," House sighed in mock disappointment. He let his gaze drop from the ceiling and aimed it at Dean. "You really should listen to Wilson. He knows about making bad choices when it comes to brothers."
"Whatever." Dean's eyes went from House to Wilson and back again. Wilson glared at House and House blatantly ignored Wilson's glare. Dean threw his hands up, not wanting any part of whatever was going on. He had his own problems.
"What was Sam doing when he lost consciousness?" Wilson asked. Dean glanced over at House. When House nodded, Dean rolled his eyes but answered.
"We were chasing a draugr. Damn thing doubled back and got to Sam before I realized what had happened."
"And you know how to fix it?"
"Yes." Dean was growing impatient again. "If you'd all stop yacking and let me do it, he'd be fine."
"Why does he have to be with you when you kill this thing?" Wilson asked.
Dean glanced from Wilson to House, then finally down at Sam. "Because."
House looked at Wilson with another theatrical sigh. "How can we argue with logic like that?"
"Your twenty-four hours are almost up," Dean said in a belligerent tone.
"True," House said cheerfully as he pulled the door open, ushering Wilson out of the room ahead him with a not terribly gentle prod of his cane. "Fortunately for me there's still that little matter of a court order."
Seething, Dean watched House walk away. He was going to shoot the smug bastard, human or not.
~~**~~
Wilson stalked down the corridor, not slowing when House did. House considered that lapse, pondered the possible reasons for said lapse, then decided to take advantage of it. He veered off toward the lab where Foreman was engaged in another round of pointless tests.
"Oh, no, you don't." Suddenly Wilson was right at his elbow again. "You're not going pull this crap and then walk away like nothing happened."
"I am if you get out of my way."
"You didn't drag me along because you wanted to know about his brother. You dragged me along because you wanted to know about my brother."
"Actually I do want to know about his brother on account of he happens to be my patient," House said. It certainly sounded responsible, even admirable. And this time had the added bonus of being true. The fact that he'd been hoping for a two-fer did nothing to mitigate the fact that he'd been fulfilling his professional obligations. "It's not psychogenic."
"Are you serious?" Wilson asked with obvious surprise. "Were you listening to the story he gave us?"
"But the brother who gave us that story is walking and talking and not my problem. It's the unconscious brother I've got to figure out." House paused long enough to pull his prescription bottle from his pocket.
"You don't think both brothers could believe the story?"
"Maybe. I don't know. You're the one with brothers; you tell me."
"Why can't you just ask when you want to know something?" Wilson demanded, angry again now that House had so deftly reminded Wilson of his ulterior motive. House pretended he hadn't heard the question and reached for the door again. Wilson blocked his way and House jerked on the door handle, knocking the door against the back of Wilson's heels. The only obvious response was that Wilson's eyes grew darker. Pretty nifty trick, since Wilson's eyes were already pretty damn dark.
"Would you have told me?" House asked with a sigh.
"No."
"Well, then it's pretty obvious why I didn't ask. In fact, this whole conversation is obvious, as well as fruitless."
"You don't need to know everything, House."
"But it's fun," he whined.
"No, it's a distraction from your own miserable little life," Wilson said. "It's an excuse to not deal with your own problems."
"I'm trying to deal with a problem right now, which is that you're blocking my access to my minions.... Minion. Which reminds me, if you see Cameron tell her to go do her earnest, caring thing on the brothers Grimm. And if you see Chase, tell him...tell him my pencils need sharpening."
"House," Wilson rasped.
"Do you have any idea of the number of hours of worker productivity lost to dull pencils?"
"No, and neither do you. At least, not from first hand experience." Wilson shook his finger at House. "This isn't over."
"Fine," House sighed as he hooked his cane over his forearm. He pulled back his sleeve and fiddled with his watch. "Just tell me how long until it will be over so I can set the alarm."
Wilson's lips practically disappeared into an angry line, and then Wilson disappeared in a flurry of distinctly annoyed eyebrows and coattails. House stared after him for a moment. Huh. Getting rid of Wilson had been easier than he'd expected.
~~**~~
Dean had been reduced to digging through his pockets for stray change in order to find enough money to pay for lunch. His schedule lately hadn't allowed any time for hustling and he was getting pretty damn short on hard cash. Sometimes it sucked beyond measure that the only job he knew how to do and do well paid squat. Also explained why career day in high school never had a booth for hunters. No pay, no perks: no one in his right mind would choose this job.
"I've got it."
Dean turned, at first surprised then suspicious. He gave Wilson a sharp shake of his head. "I'm okay."
"Please," Wilson said in a weary tone. He handed a couple of bills to the cashier. "Fate seems to have decreed that I have to pay for someone's lunch every day. If it's not you, it'll be House."
Dean found the idea of having a complete meal tempting. The idea of cheating House out of a meal was even more so. "Thanks."
Wilson merely gave Dean a good-natured shrug and nodded at an empty table. Dean led the way slowly. He'd rather eat alone but the guy had just bought him lunch. He figured it would be rude to tell him to get lost. He didn't really care about being rude, but there was always the possibility that Wilson would take back the food. Survival dictated that he make nice.
"So what's the story with your brother?" Dean asked as he sawed up a slab of meatloaf, then drowned it in ketchup. Wilson merely looked at him across the table, eyebrows raised in a question. "Dr. House said...."
"House doesn't know as much as he thinks he knows," Wilson said flatly as he stabbed at his salad. "Is there anyway to contact your parents?"
"Not unless you see dead people," Dean said. Wilson stared at him a moment, then nodded without argument so Dean proceeded with his own questions. "Your brother?"
"A lawyer in Andover." Wilson set his fork down. "Does your brother have a history of mental illness?"
"There's nothing wrong with Sam's brain," Dean said, jabbing his fork in Wilson's direction. He realized there was a piece of meatloaf still on the end of the fork and he popped it in his mouth before it could fall off. Still chewing he continued, "Full ride to Stanford. He was going to go to law school."
"Intelligence and psychosis are not mutually exclusive. Why didn't he go?"
"Something came up," Dean said. "What about your other brother?"
Wilson leaned back in his chair, exasperated. "What is this--a game? I have to answer a question about my brother before you'll tell me about yours?"
Dean shrugged. He knew if Sam were there, and conscious, he'd tell Dean to quit pissing people off for no good reason. Sam wasn't there, and besides, Dean figured he had a good reason; Wilson's sincerity aside, he didn't trust these doctors. "Why do I have to answer questions about my brother?"
"Because your brother is the one who's sick," Wilson pointed out. Dean considered that information, then simply shrugged again. Wilson rubbed his fingers against his forehead, then dropped his hand in resignation. "My brother's been missing for ten years. He was living on the streets, homeless and high most of the time. Then one day he...left."
"You haven't seen him in ten years?" Dean couldn't imagine it. Sure, he and Sam hadn't seen each other for a while when Sam was in college, but he'd known where Sam was. Known he was safe. It wasn't the same thing at all.
"No," Wilson said tersely. He set his fork aside and gazed across the table at Dean. "Your brother...."
"Sam's about as well adjusted as anyone I know." Granted, that might not be saying much given some of the people Dean knew but still.... "Never really been sick other than the chicken pox when he was seven. And yeah, he's taken a few punches to the head but nothing that caused any serious damage."
"Before this happened was he having blackouts, headaches, blurred vision....?"
"Sam, he gets these headaches and he kind of...sees stuff but it's nothing."
"You know it's nothing because he's been checked out by a doctor?" Wilson's tone made it clear he knew damn well Sam hadn't been checked out by a doctor. Dean didn't care. He knew Sam's visions weren't an illness. They were just a freaky Sam thing. Which was not as freaky as the freaky Andy thing, but Dean wasn't going to mention that.
"House had patient recently. A young man who talked to God," Wilson continued in a conversational tone. Dean tilted his head, confused by what seemed to be a change of topic. "Admittedly lots of people talk to God. But this kid thought God was talking back. Only it turned out the kid had a virus in his brain: herpes."
"Sam doesn't get out enough for that," Dean chuckled.
Part 2/2