The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor buzzed with electric current, while the smell of disinfectant mingled with the stale, fetid odor unique to aging and illness.
Sam stood outside the ICU's glass window, staring at Dean and Bobby Singer inside, their bodies covered in tubes and wires. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
The attending physician was a middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. In a flat voice, he said, "The two patients' conditions are very serious. Their physiological age reads as over ninety, but the rate of cellular deterioration is abnormal. All their organs are failing simultaneously."
"We've performed every test available, but we can't identify the cause. Frankly, in their current state, they could at any moment—"
He paused and glanced at Sam's reddened eyes. "My recommendation is that you notify their other family members and begin making funeral arrangements."
"If they have any unfulfilled wishes, it would be best to make use of the time they have left."
"Thank you, Doctor." Sam's voice was hoarse. "Can I have a moment alone?"
The Doctor nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and left.
Sam pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
Every flicker of the monitor's numbers felt like a heavy hammer striking his heart. Dean's heart rate was only forty-five, and his blood pressure was dangerously low. Bobby was worse; his breathing depended entirely on the machine.
Two hours.
Lohr would need at least two hours to get here from the Land of Balance, and that was under ideal circumstances—if the Ghost Ship traveled at full speed without encountering any obstacles.
But Dean and Bobby might last two hours. Or they might not.
And Lohr would need time to deal with the situation once he arrived.
Sam closed his eyes and took a deep