Where Angels Sleep
Summary: In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it.
A/N: This is a (belated) birthday gift for sendintheclowns. Sam's illness is all her fault, so I take no complaints :) Much love and thanks to Gem for beta'ing this despite the, um...somewhat graphic and squicky content. If bodily functions freak you out, be warned they abound in this fic.
A/N: While rereading I found a massive plot hole I left, so I made a very minor addition to make myself feel better.
Disclaimer: Nope--I'm just playing with other people's toys.
"It's taken ten thousand days
To get stuck in my ways
It offers no grace
I cannot stand this place
With love and my faith
I walk away slowly
I don't know where
The angels sleep"
-from "Where Angels Sleep" by Bebo Norman
Where Angels Sleep
It started out as a cold.
Nothing spectacular and nothing noteworthy. Sam had been congested, coughing and sneezing, and looking generally miserable as he tried to research their latest hunt in the small town of Wimbly, Ohio.
The over-the-counter medications weren't doing much except making him sleepy, and Dean didn't really feel like playing nursemaid. When Sam was injured--that was one thing. But when he was just pathetically ill, it was another. He was a good big brother and he'd done his share of caring for his baby brother, but he wasn't about to wipe his brother's nose for him.
Besides, they had a hunt, and the hunt always came first. No little cold was a reason to postpone the saving of innocent lives.
That mantra was growing thin and tired after everything that had happened in the last few months, but it was all they had, all they had ever had, and it was enough to keep them going.
To Sam's credit, he tried. He forced his way through books and pored over his laptop, even joined Dean for the final showdown, during which Sam averted disaster by a coughing fit that doubled him over just as the spirit tried to run him through with a fire poker.
It was enough time for Dean to vanquish the thing, and it disappeared in an explosion of light and energy. Both brothers hit the floor, until the room was left in eery silence.
Sam coughed a few more times, the tickle erupting again.
Dean pulled himself upright next to his brother.
"Lucky cough there, Sammy," Dean joked, patting Sam on the back.
Sam blinked up at him, inhaling with difficulty. "Are you suggesting that my cold saved my life?"
Dean shrugged. "Whatever. All I know is that getting impaled on a fire poker would be a lame-ass way to die."
Sam just glared, or attempted too, before he was cut off with a vicious sneeze.
With the hunt over, Dean was itching to get back on the road. Staying in one spot made it too easy to think, and ever since their dad had died, Dean had not been overly fond of thinking.
Sam, however, seemed to want to do nothing more than sleep.
And sleep some more.
He'd crashed hard after the hunt, and Dean had barely been able to pull his brother out of bed for a full day. Dean was going a little stir crazy with it--with nothing on TV and no place to go, he'd cleaned his guns, sharpened his knives, and done all the laundry--even Sam's--before he plopped down hard on the bed in acknowledgement of his utter boredom.
Sam wasn't even sick enough to nurse, or he might have taken to that role, just for something to do. Sam was pale and greasy, but coherent and capable of walking when he needed to. Dean fed him cold pills every six hours, made sure he had plenty to drink, and continued to go crazy with nothing else to occupy his time.
Breakfast had been doughnuts from a gas station and lunch had been chips from a vending machine. Now it was dinner time and Dean needed out.
Besides, he told himself, Sam needed to eat, keep his strength up, or he'd never beat this cold.
With his brother's well-being (and his own restlessness) in mind, Dean gathered his jacket and his keys. Sam was curled up in the sheets, half-watching the television from his bedridden vantage point.
Sam looked up at him, pure misery written in his face.
A sarcastic quip languished in the back of Dean's throat and he opted for compassion instead. "You should really eat something."
"Dean," Sam croaked. "I don't think I can move."
Dean sighed. They could order in, but that would mean more time cramped in this motel room. No, he needed to get out. But Sam was in no position to be in public. "Why don't I pick something up for you?"
It was hard to tell, but Sam's eyes seemed to brighten. "Really?"
Sam's hope solidified his decision and he grinned broadly. "Sure."
"Some salad, maybe? Soup?"
"Dude, beggars can't be choosers. I'll see what's available."
Normally, Sam would probably protest, push the issue some. But he was tired and weak and Dean saw him give in without any reluctance. "I'll be back in a few. Try not to cough up a lung or anything while I'm gone."
Beggars or choosers, there were only two eating places open in town. One was the diner they'd eaten every meal at. It was typical for a small town, but a little greasier than Dean cared for and far pricier than it should have been. Between the two of them in their week stay there, they'd probably tried everything on the menu and found little worth eating.
The other place was a dinky fast food joint, some local chain, that hardly looked sturdy enough to still be open. But the parking lot was two-thirds full and, when he went inside, he found it buzzing with local teens and young families.
The line wound around a metal railing, and children scurried in and out. Tentatively, he took his place in line, perusing the menu.
He found burgers, chicken sandwiches, shakes, and more burgers. Double burgers, triple burgers.
Suddenly he found himself at the front of the line and a teenaged kid was staring at him expectantly. "Can I take your order?"
The kid sounded somewhere between bored and dumb, Dean couldn't decide which.
"Yeah, I'll take a spicy chicken special."
"Do you want fries with that?"
Dean looked at the menu, then at the kid. "Doesn't the special come with fries?"
The kid looked blank, then looked at the menu, too. He laughed. "My bad," he snorted, pushing a button. "Anything else?"
"Do you guys have...like...a salad?" Dean asked, eyes still studying the menu.
The kid snapped his gum. "Nope. Some of our sandwiches come with lettuce, though. Even a tomato when we're not out."
"So no Caesar salad or anything?"
The kid stared. "We're a burger joint, dude."
Dean stared back. "Right."
"You don't want a burger?" the kid sounded genuinely confused, maybe hurt.
"My brother was just kind of wanting a salad."
"We're known for our burgers."
"Fine," Dean said with a sigh. "Give me a double burger special."
The kid's face brightened. "Great, that'll be 8.34," he said.
Dean could barely muster a smile as he handed a ten to the kid and waited for his change. When the order was ready, the kid handed it to him, leaning over the counter secretively. "Trust me," the kid said with a knowing nod and a broad smile, "the burgers are the best."
When he returned to the motel room, Sam was curled up under the covers, his eyes peeking out to watch the TV. When he heard Dean's presence, he shifted, pushing himself up gingerly.
His hair was mussed and lay strewn about his head randomly. He blinked wearily up at Dean. "Did you get a salad?"
Sam sounded so congested that Dean felt apologetic when he answered. "Sorry. Just a burger."
Sam stared. "A burger?"
Dean pulled it out of the bag and held it out. "It's got lettuce on it."
Disbelieving, Sam stared on. "You're unbelievable," he said finally, reaching a hand out to take the wrapped sandwich. "I've got a cold and you're feeding me grease."
"Hey," Dean said with a shrug, settling on his own bed. "It's better than letting you starve to death."
Dean didn't even look up for Sam's death glare.
As much as Sam bemoaned Dean's choice in food, it seemed to be the nourishment he needed. Within a few days, he was more or less recovered, and the brothers were on the road again. Sam was still somewhat congested but his cough was less rattling than before, and he was thoroughly engaged in the background for a series of peculiar deaths in Wisconsin.
"This doesn't make any sense," Sam said, staring at his notepad. "Five deaths, all at Lake Evans. One drowning, one self-inflicted gunshot wound, one drug overdose, one burned alive, and one animal mauling. The people didn't have any connections to one another. They all just died up at Lake Evans. Different ways."
"Maybe they're not connected then? Maybe we're looking for a pattern when really it's coincidence?"
Sam shook his head. "Five deaths, all within the same two-mile radius. Lake Evans is huge--and full of vacation spots. Not to mention, they all died at the same time of day--or night, actually," Sam explained, plopping the collected evidence in front of Dean. "It's too specific to be chance. But the different modes of death are keeping the police from drawing any conclusions."
Dean perused the papers. "But one of these was a suicide--how does that fit in?"
"Ghosts have been known to make people kill themselves."
"Usually as an MO. These deaths--drowning, fire, overdose, suicide, mauling--they're so different. What kind of Casper is that inventive?"
"No, they usually find a ritual, a routine--we just assume that the method of murder is part of that," Sam said. "But in this case, the routine could be anything--including details of the spirit's interaction with the victim before the death that just ends in a different style of murder."
Slightly disturbed, Dean snorted. "You think a little too much like a deranged spirit sometimes."
Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed. "Maybe the point isn't how they die; it's when and where they die. Either way, five people are dead and there's probably a spirit behind it and it's our job to do something about it."
"Okay, okay," Dean conceded. "We'll check it out in the AM."
Dean was used to Sam's eccentric behavior.
The way he liked to mix his mashed potatoes with everything. The way he jiggled his knee when he was bored. The way he woke up at ungodly hours to do who knows what.
So waking up to find Sam absent in the morning wasn't uncommon. Sometimes, he found Sam in the chair with the laptop. Sometimes, Sam was reading. Sometimes, Sam was out getting coffee. Sometimes, he was in the bathroom.
Therefore, there really wasn't anything amiss when he awoke to find Sam's bed rumpled and empty and the bathroom door closed. He decided to turn on the TV and wait.
He flipped between a game show and a talk show and waited.
The talk show broke into a heated fight between an ex-girlfriend and the sister. Dean was so intrigued that he forgot he was waiting.
At commercial, he checked the clock and realized how long he'd been waiting without a sound from the bathroom.
He hit the mute button and listened. "Sammy?"
He stood, moving toward the door.
"Sam, what are you doing in there?"
A beat passed. "Nothing," came the muffled replied.
"Nothing? You've been in there for over fifteen minutes. Did you fall in?"
Dean glanced at his watch. "We have places to go, people to see," he said. "And I'd prefer being clean when we do it."
"Just give me five minutes." Sam's voice sounded terse and pained.
"Five minutes," Dean agreed. "Then we have to get moving."
As promised, five minutes later, a slightly disheveled Sam emerged from the bathroom, sliding awkwardly by his brother. Dean eyed Sam, but said nothing, and left his brother to finish getting ready while he showered. A short time later, the two departed for the library in silence.
The shelves of books seemed to do something to ease Sam's foul mood, and soon he was fully immersed in research.
Dean, for his part, could have been more interested if he'd made the effort, but Sam was so thoroughly engaged and just looked so content in his full-on geekishness that Dean didn't see the need to infringe in Sam's territory. Besides, if he leaned back just right, he could catch a glance at the librarian in the next row shelving hard bound copies on the top shelf.
He caught her eye and she did a double take, and Dean bolstered his grin, and she blushed into her task. He was about to waggle an eyebrow when Sam's voice distracted him.
"Hey, I think I found something."
Sam's timing was impeccable. Dean leaned back toward his brother with a huff of annoyance. "What?"
If Sam noticed, he didn't show it. His excitement was palpable. "So, check this out. 1933. Dr. Ronald Brammer, local physician, is found murdered out at Lake Evans. It says here that Brammer ran a hospice center of sorts--often dealing with terminal patients. People came to him from miles around."
"Well, that sounds lovely," Dean said, fiddling with his sleeve. "Who killed him?"
"They found a patient out at the lake with him. The guy was incoherent, though, and never recovered enough to even be questioned seriously about it."
"So we're thinking the good doctor is back, trying to make his killer known?"
Sam shrugged. "Seems plausible."
Dean considered, nodding slowly. "Seems worth checking out. Where can we follow up?"
"Says here his assistant was Gladys Devries. She handled transferring his files after he died. We could see if she's still alive."
A smile slid over Dean's face as he reclined back in the chair. "Sounds like a plan."
"Could you put these away? I just want to go to the bathroom before we go."
"The bathroom?" Dean asked. "Really? Didn't you spend enough time in there this morning?"
"Dean, please?" Sam asked, already backing up toward the door.
"You seemed to have developed quite a small bladder," Dean quipped.
"It's not my bladder," Sam added over his shoulder.
Dean scrunched up his nose in disgust. "That was way more information than I needed," he muttered.
Gladys Devries lived in a rundown bungalow home in the southwestern end of town. From the outside, it clearly had been a quaint house once, but the siding was old and drab with weather, and the plants had grown beyond their prime. There was an odd collection of garden gnomes and fake deer strewn in the rockbed that surrounded the porch, and the steps did more than their share of creaking as the boys climbed them.
Dean rang the bell and a cat scurried between their feet, mewing in agitation. The brothers exchanged glances as the door opened.
Another cat flitted out before the screen was all the way open. And in the entryway stood a little old woman, no taller than five feet, standing in a faded blue dress that fell just below her knees. Her stalkings sagged into a pathetic pair of penny loafers. She stared up at them through wire glasses and in her skinny arms, she held another purring cat.
"Gladys Devries?" Dean asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
"Yes?" she replied in a scratchy voice.
"We're students over at Gingham Community College. I'm Dean and this is Sam," Dean explained with a smile. "We were hoping to ask you a few questions."
"Questions? What for?" she asked.
"We're history majors and we're doing a paper on local historical figures. We were hoping to talk to you about Ronald Brammer."
"Students, huh?" she said, giving them a thorough once over. "Well, come on in then."
She pushed the door open for them, and the slid inside. The living room was mint green, floor boards to crown moulding. The plaster was cracking and flaking in spots, and the shag green carpet was worn and tattered.
The room seemed to strive to look like a parlor, with classically designed furniture in floral prints. There were rickety wooden shelves adorned with slightly browned doilies, all bedecked with cat figurines of various sizes.
Two more cats trawled the floor, mewing uncertainly at the unusual company. Gladys Devries ambled to a chair and sat down, stroking the cat in her arms as she did so. "Sit, sit, please," she said, waving her free hand wildly in a gesture of invitation.
Both boys perched on the edge of the couch, shifting slightly as they tried to familiarize themselves with their surroundings.
"So what brings you two here again?"
"We were just wondering if you could tell us about Ronald Brammer," Sam said finally with a cordial smile. "We were told you used to work for him."
"Dr. Brammer? Why, he was a bleeding heart if I ever saw one," the old woman crooned, a small smile coming to her face.
Sam smiled reflexively, leaning closer in empathetic listening. "In what way?"
The cat in her arms twittered against her hold but she did not relinquish it. "He never could leave someone in need out there. Always taking in strays--animals, people, it didn't matter. Children, adults, anyone who needed it."
"A real humanitarian, huh?" Dean chimed in, ignoring the cat that beseeched his attention by rubbing against his leg. "Never hurt anyone."
A shadow flickered across the woman's aged features. "He always had the best intentions."
The brothers caught her hesitation and exchanged a glance. Sam wet his lips and looked back up at her. "What do you mean?"
"Everything he did, he did for the betterment of the people who needed him."
"What kind of things did he do?"
"You know, the typical things. Doctors in those days were far more responsible for patients than the ones nowadays. Lots of house calls. Far less worry about billing procedures. If someone needed medicine, it didn't matter how, Dr. Brammer always got it for them."
She paused, and Sam and Dean shifted closer, waiting for her to continue.
"That was just his way. We wanted what was best for people," she explained, fingers absently stroking the cat's head. She shook her head. "Didn't make him very popular to some."
"And why's that?" Dean asked.
"For his attitude to the depressed."
She sighed, as if they should understand. "He just didn't believe people should have to live if they didn't want to. He knew there were better things for them, things they couldn't find her. Some of them were hurting, some were dying, some were just..too sad for this world." Her voice trailed off.
Sam licked his lips, hesitantly. "What did he do for them? Counsel them?"
She looked up suddenly, gripping her handkerchief. "He always tried that first, of course. But it didn't always work. Some people--they were just too far gone. So he just eased their burden."
"Eased their burden?" Dean searched for clarification to the growing pit in his stomach.
Her eyes went downward and her face grew solemn.
Dean glanced at Sam. Their eyes locked. Her silence was all the confirmation they needed.
"I never had any part of that, though," she added. "I just did paper work on it. Heard things. You know."
Nodding awkwardly, Dean hedged. "Did he leave anything behind? Files, papers, that kind of thing?"
"For awhile it stayed in the office when Dr. Lawson took over. But a fire took it all out a few years later."
"Any family still around?"
She tickled the cat's ears. "No. He never married and was an only child. Everything was auctioned off."
Dean feigned interested and motioned at Sam. They would get no more from her. "Well, I think we have what we need."
Her smile returned with warmth. "Just call me if you think of anything."
They offered hollow but cordial smiles as Dean prepped to go.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he did. "Do you think I could, uh, use the bathroom?"
"Sure, sonny," she said, raising a bony finger. "First door on the left."
Dean cast a curious and annoyed glance at Sam as he slunk out of view. Then, awkwardly, he turned back to the old lady, a smile plastered on his face.
She smiled back at him, her thin lips revealing her yellowing teeth. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"
The bathroom was small and pink. Very pink.
Pink tiles. Pink vanity. Pink toilet.
Then, to top it off, Mrs. Devries accented with pink washcloths, towels, even pink, rose-shaped soap.
If Sam hadn't already been nauseous, he would have certainly become so by stepping in there.
As it was, he barely took the time to lock the door before undoing his belt and sitting readily on the (pink) toilet seat.
Just in time.
His stomach was clenching wildly and he could not help but leaning his head in relief against the pink patterned wallpaper that adorned the walls.
It was the ugliest bathroom he'd ever seen, and he'd seen a lot of ugly bathrooms.
But, at that moment, it was the best place Sam had ever been.
Dean was running out of things to talk about. He now knew about her preference for bridge, her quilting club, and how hard it was to keep up with now that arthritis had set in. He knew that sugar was outrageously priced and that TV had become a conduit of the devil.
Also, she had seven cats, three boys and four girls. Named after her favorite biblical characters--Gideon, Haggai, Moses, Leah, Esther, Eve and Rosie. And, no, Rosie wasn't biblical, but it sure sounded nice.
He was more than a little relieved when Sam finally reappeared from the bathroom, and was so hasty in getting them out the door that he didn't notice Sam's disposition until they were out on the yard.
Sam looked terrible. Dean wondered how he hadn't noticed it until now. Before he had figured it was just the lingering effects of his cold--it hadn't been a week since Sam had been in the thick of it, and his brother still would be caught in a fit of coughing from time to time.
But, no, it was something else. Sam was unnaturally pale and drawn, walking guardedly as he followed Dean out. "What's up with you? You spent like fifteen minutes in there. I was dying out here."
Sam looked up at him through his fringe of bangs. "Sorry."
"Sorry? I was like two minutes away from having to crochet with her. What's wrong?"
"Well, let's just say that if things don't improve, I'll be wishing for my own Dr. Brammer to put me out of my misery."
Dean snorted and began down the walkway. "Just head down to Lake Evans and I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige."
"So you think he's continuing his life's work even in death?"
"Seems like it," Dean replied easily. "I figure the good doctor is haunting the lake, finding unsuspecting souls and reaching into their minds to pick the method of death. Eased their burden, as our good friend Gladys would say."
Sam considered. "So their greatest fear, a fantasy--something prominent. And he then finishes them off that way for their own good. Makes sense."
"Makes sense?" Dean asked incredulously. "Hardly. I mean, what kind of freak does that? Kills people for their own good? I mean, who says he gets to decide?"
Sam followed him, his gait somewhat more careful. "How do we decide? We all make judgments, Dean."
"We base it on something more than a feeling."
"I'm sure he did, too."
Dean stopped and looked hard at his brother. "What's up with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're defending this guy?"
"I'm not defending him."
"Then what the hell do you think you're doing? Comparing us to him? We're nothing like that," Dean said.
"I never said we were," Sam tried to explain. "But sometimes, if there's enough pain and desolation, I don't know, maybe death is better in that case."
Dean waited for Sam to continue, trying to gauge how serious Sam was. "You a bit suicidal there, Sammy?" he asked, sounding light, but real concern lacing his voice.
Sam smiled wearily and rubbed a hand over his face. "No," he said. "I'm just saying that maybe I understand the appeal."
"Doesn't make it right. Death shouldn't be something we give into it. We need to fight it and go down right. That's where that guy's wrong."
"I'm not saying he did the right thing."
"Then what are you saying?"
Sam sighed, his frustration enhanced by his weariness. "Dead is dead, Dean," Sam said. "There's nothing glamorous about any of it."
"Some ways are more worth it."
"In the end, you're still dead. Heroes and wimps, bad guys and good guys, they all end up in the ground. There isn't glory in death. There's just death, no matter how you look at it."
"That's pretty bleak coming from you," Dean commented.
"You're missing the point. It's not about our deaths, it's about our lives. Sometimes we just have to trust ourselves to know what we're doing is right."
There was a moment of silence. "That's beautiful, Sammy." Dean choked up in jest. "Really beautiful."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's just go back to the motel."
Dean swatted the back of Sam's head, and moved toward the car, Sam following right behind.
It was only a ten minute drive to the motel, but it was the longest ten minutes of Sam's life. No matter how he sat, the growing need to use the bathroom was overpowering him. He shifted uncomfortably as they paused at a red light, glancing nervously at Dean as he tried to hide his discomfort.
Dean seemed to drive at an unnaturally leisurely pace, and Sam thought he was going to be sick. Why on earth did Dean pick today to obey the rules of the road?
"You okay, man?" Dean asked.
Sam kept his eyes ahead, swallowing grimly. "Just drive, Dean," he ordered, in a low and dangerous voice.
Dean just raised his eyebrows and drove on.
Over a pothole. Full on.
The car jarred painfully.
Dean snickered. "Sorry."
Sam got back at his brother by thoroughly monopolizing the bathroom. By the time Sam was done, Dean didn't want it anymore anyway.
But there was little glory to his victory. Truthfully, Sam felt even worse than before. His stomach rarely felt at rest and the churning in his intestines seemed to be intensifying by the second. Whatever he'd eaten, it sure had done a number on him, and he was desperately hoping for reprieve.
Dean tried to cajole him into going out for dinner, but the plaintively deadly glare Sam leveled at him convinced him to leave his brother for a short dinner run of his own. It wasn't like Sammy would keep anything in his system for long anyway.
By the time Dean came back, Sam was seated, back against the headboard, knees drawn to his chest and head down.
Dean studied him, waited and watched. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Sam said shortly, not even looking up.
There was a hint of pain in Sam's voice and more than a little exhaustion. "You don't look fine."
Still, Sam didn't move. "Just something I ate," Sam added in a monotone voice.
Sam slowly raised his eyes, leveling his brother with an iron stare. "Do you want to sort through the contents of my intestines to find out or let me suffer in peace?"
Dean opted for peace.
But peace was harder to find even without Dean nagging Sam. Sam's illness was pervasive, and seemed to permeate all they did. The night dwindled by the dim light of the television, but Dean muted it so Sam could sleep.
But Sam didn't sleep, and neither did Dean.
Sure, his brother tried to be discreet, but the hourly trips to the bathroom made that kind of impossible. Though the low pitched keening was maybe a little much.
But Sam looked so utterly spent that Dean couldn't really complain or even tease, the way he normally would have. He just lay quietly in the opposite bed, tense and waiting for any sign that Sam needed his help.
Sleep came to him sometime in the early hours of the morning. He vaguely heard Sam trudge back and forth in a ceaseless path to the bathroom, but he did not rouse fully from sleep.
A familiar rustle from the other bed told him Sam was up for another round. He cracked his eyes open. 3:21.
He sighed and closed his eyes. At this rate, they would never finish this hunt. Sam would be worthless to him tomorrow, not that he would be feeling overly chipper himself.
He awoke with a jerk.
He glanced at the next bed. Sam wasn't there.
That was weird. He always heard Sam coming and going from the bed. He'd heard him go, but not come back.
He tried to ignore his nerves.
Tentatively, he swung his legs out of the bed. Standing, he began his way cautiously through the dark to the bathroom.
He could see the light peeking from beneath the door. He paused and listened.
He respected Sam's privacy nine times of ten, only invading it when a joke seemed to perfect or when his concern was too high.
Given Sam's ailment, he knew that his brother likely would want more privacy; however, his concern was skyrocketing beyond what Dean was comfortable controlling.
He nudged the door opened, peering in cautiously, and his heart skipped a beat.
Sam was heaped, half-naked on the floor. His limbs were tangled amongst each other and throughout the nooks of the small room. The beige floor was stained with red and Dean didn't even want to think about that.
"Sammy," he called again, more desperate this time, trying to maneuver his way in. His movements were frantic, laced with a worry he had no words for.
He shook Sam's shoulder gently, hoping to elicit some response. Sam's limbs merely jostled with the movement, and Dean's fear deepened.
Where was the injury? Dean's fingers probed quickly at Sam's head, his arms, his back, looking for the source.
Then he realized what it was. Sam, in his unconsciousness, had soiled himself, and it wasn't just feces that had come out.
If Dean hadn't been so freaked out, he would have been grossed out, but there was no time for petty disgust, not now, not with Sam laying unconscious in his own excrement and blood on the bathroom floor.