Out of Reach, for supernarttu, 1/2
Title: Out of Reach
Author: jojospn
Recipient: supernarttu
Rating: T
Wordcount: ~9,000
Warnings: Some dark scenes (hallucinations, frightening or disturbing content)
Author's Note: I hope I did you justice with your prompt my dear!
Summary: When Sam's hallucinations drive him into a coma, Dean takes every measure possible to bring his brother back. Even if it means going into Sam''s subconscious to do it
Out of Reach
Sam Winchester was exhausted.
As a freshman at Stanford, he had been warned of the brutal all nighter. The hours of guzzling can after can of Red Bull while ferociously finishing up 20 page term papers or cramming for finals. Granted, Sam had never procrastinated to the point of needing to pull one off in order to pass in his latest monstrosity, and rarely had he stayed up until dawn studying for an exam. And so, Sam had never truly understood what it was like to be physically and emotionally exhausted until reuniting with Dean seven years earlier. And even then, he was usually able to grab a few hours’ sleep, either in a crappy motel or riding shotgun in his brother’s beloved vintage Impala. In fact, he had gotten used to running on fumes, relying on a large double double to get him through the endless hours of research and interviews.
But now, with Lucifer constantly tormenting him, never giving him a moment’s peace, Sam Winchester was sleep deprived to the point of being physically ill. Of course, he had tried to hide the fact from Dean, despite knowing that nothing could get past his brother’s eye. Pesky cough? < i>Are you ok, Sammy? Slight fever? Maybe you should sit this one out, Sam. Mother henning to the point of driving the young hunter insane. Dean had always been like that, the consequences of having been brother and parent to him since he was still in diapers. But this time, it was not the added attention which was prompting Sam to keep his condition a secret from his brother. Sam Winchester, truth be told, was more than worried about his prognosis: he was damn well terrified. And if he were that scared, then Dean would be a basket case.
But of course, Dean was not stupid, knew right from the start that there was something not right with his brother’s behaviour. That he was restless, on edge, dangerously thin. Because, needless to say, the kid wasn’t eating either. Dean had noticed how thin his younger brother was, his ribs clearly jutting from his back and abdomen. God, he knew it had been bad, but to see his brother’s skeletal form had been disturbing to say the least. Sitting on his bed, oblivious to the B movie showing on NBC, Dean watched his brother as he sat on his own bed, wringing his fingers like an anxious groom waiting at the altar. His eyes were staring unseeing at the TV screen, his hair in disarray from having run his fingers through the locks nervously. Dark circles hung from beneath his hazel eyes, and beads of sweat trickled from his forehead. Every now and then, he would mutter something (no, get out of my head, you sonofabitch, LEAVE ME ALONE) and every time, Dean would try to provide some sort of comfort, be it a hand on his shoulder or rubbing his upper back in circles, a trick he had used when Sam was a kid to help calm him down. Normally this worked like a charm, but lately, nothing Dean tried could calm his brother, and eventually Dean had moved back to his bed, afraid that his attempts at comfort would result in Sam either hurting Dean or himself. It was all he could do to sit there, but with Bobby gone and Cas MIA, presumed dead, there was little, if anything, the older brother could do for the younger.
“You ok, Sam?” Dean knew the question would fall on deaf ears, but he asked anyway, not so much for his brother’s benefit but more for his own. As expected, Sam did not respond, merely began to rock back and forth on his bed, once again clutching at his temples, to the point of drawing blood. Alarmed, Dean was off his bed in a flash, his barely touched beer crashing to the motel room floor. “Sam! SAMMY!”
For Sam’s eyes had suddenly rolled back in his head, body limp as he fell face forward off the bed. In moments Dean was at his side, desperately searching for a pulse. Though present, it was weak, sporadic, and Dean felt his heart sink. This wasn’t good. Trying to fight back his terror, he held his brother’s head up with a trembling hand, memories of that horrible night in Cold Oak flashed in his mind, like the unwanted verses of an annoying song.
…I’ll take care of you. That’s my job, right? Take care of my pain in the ass little brother?
Dean had been devastated. That night, the one that had changed the Winchesters’ lives forever, he had watched his younger brother die in his arms. He had promised his father that he would look out for Sam, always look out for Sammy; a promise which he had ultimately failed to keep, prompting him to sell his soul to a crossroads demon. History had a terrible habit of repeating itself, and as Dean Winchester held his unconscious brother in his arms, he was deathly afraid that it cyclical pattern was about to bite him in the ass.
The Winchesters were never ones to rely on hospital care, not unless there was no other alternative. And Dean desperately wished that this was something he could fix, something that a few shots of whiskey, some stitches, and a good night’s sleep would cure. But that was the problem. Sam wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating, and frankly looked like death warmed over. This was one time when he would definitely have to break their cardinal rule; hell, he should’ve brought Sam to a hospital long ago. And even though Sam had inherited his father’s stubbornness, Dean still felt the familiar guilt he always experienced in regards to his brother’s wellbeing. Watch out for Sammy, his father had drilled into him, even at the tender age of four. And now, as Dean pulled out his cell phone and frantically dialled 911, he could hear his father’s voice in his head, scolding him even from beyond the grave. You were supposed to take care of him. You were supposed to protect him, Dean…
“Shit,” Dean murmured, impatient as the muted ring of the other line continued. Dammit, aren’t there supposed to be dispatchers at the other line? But finally, after what seemed like an eternity but truthfully was only half a minute, a kindly voice on the other end answered, and Dean hurriedly spat out his location, eyes peeled on his brother. He was burning up, had to have had a fever of at least 105 or higher. As he rushed to the motel bathroom in search of a cloth to dampen, the elder Winchester tried to calm himself down, to push away the nightmarish memories of the night Sammy had died, and to think only on the now. “Help is coming, Sammy,” he promised, laying the cold washcloth on his brother’s fevered forehead. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
spn
Dean felt numb. Throughout the seemingly endless ride to the hospital in the back of the tiny ambulance, he had watched as paramedics worked tirelessly on Sam, fighting to keep what little contents he had in his stomach down. It seemed as if he were frozen in time, in a world where everything around him stopped in its tracks, leaving only him and his intense fear as he watched his brother fight for his very life. When the paramedics whisked his brother away, Dean could only stand by the door helplessly, watching as his very life, the only family he truly had left, was taken from him, no longer in his hands but in those of strangers. He had promised he’d take care of Sam, had promised, from the time his brother was still a newborn. And now, standing alone in a crowded hospital lobby, Dean was terrified that he was about to break that promise.
He had tried to follow Sam as he was wheeled to the ER but had been restrained by hospital staff. “But, my brother…” Dean had protested feebly, but his requests had fallen on deaf ears.
“I’m sorry sir, you can’t possibly see your brother now. His condition is far too unstable. The doctors need to work on him.”
“No! I need to see Sam!”
“I understand, sir, I can’t imagine what you are going through right now, but you will not be helping your brother if you get in the doctors’ way. If you just follow me I will escort you to the waiting room.”
Dean had tried to protest, but at this point the fight was gone from him, as some power source had been severed, leaving him helpless and vulnerable. Without a word, he allowed himself to be led to an overcrowded waiting room and plopped on one of the few remaining uncomfortable plastic chairs, where he buried his head in his hands. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when he had finally gotten his brother back.
The hours ticked away slowly, and gradually the number of people in the stifling room began to diminish; until only Dean remained, pacing the sterilized prison anxiously. It hadn’t taken long for Dean’s anxiety to once again flair up. That pent up energy which truthfully was intense enough to make him want to lose control. It was taking more than a little will power for him to keep his destructive behaviour at bay, to keep from overturning tables or pounding his fists against the wall. Truthfully, he had been moments away from giving in to his urges when a tall woman, her blonde hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, walked in, a clipboard in hand. Her surgical mask was pulled down, revealing a tight lipped frown, one the doctor was trying hard to keep neutral. But it was the eyes which gave her away, soft brown orbs filled with sadness as she approached the lone man in the once overly crowded space.
“Mr. Jones?”
Dean nodded, struggling to control the pounding of his heart in his chest. He had never felt this terrified since the night he had been mauled by Lilith’s Hellhounds, or the moments in Stull Cemetery before his brother had jumped in the pit. Thoughts of every moment he had lost, or nearly lost, his brother flashed before him, a slideshow of memories Dean Winchester would far sooner forget.
“It’s like I had one job. That one job. And I screwed it up. I blew it…”
“Go ahead, Roy, do it. But I’m going warn you, when I come back I’m going to be pissed.”
“Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you.”
“Mr. Jones? I’m doctor Anders, Sam’s attending physician. Mr. Jones?”
Dean blinked, unaware that he had blanked out. “How’s Sam?” he had finally asked after regaining some of his composure. The doctor nodded sympathetically, flipped through the medical charts attached to the worn clipboard, as Dean looked on, trying to keep his frustrations at bay. He’d already been waiting for hours in this goddamned dump of a waiting room, at least she could show a little decency and let him know how his brother was doing…
“Sam has been stabilized,” Dr. Anders continued, the pages of Sam’s medical history settling softly on the corkwood. “He is severely dehydrated, and is sleep deprived. What worries the most, however, is the swelling in the brain.”
“The what?”
“Has Sam suffered any serious falls as of late? It would be understandable, where his malnutrition would easily result in a state of dizziness.”
Dean closed his eyes, trying to look back on past events. Come to think of it, Sam had fallen on more than one occasion, the most recent just a few days earlier. How could he have not noticed? Shit, his brother was possibly dying before his eyes and he had done nothing.
I was supposed to protect you…
“We had no choice but to put Sam into a medically induced coma. Our hope is that in his comatose state the swelling to the brain will go down, while we feed him intravenously.” She looked up, gently placed one hand on Dean’s shoulder. Blankly, he pushed it away. He didn’t want some stranger’s cold comfort. He wanted his brother. He wanted Sammy. “I wish I had better news, but I didn’t want to give you any false hopes. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but the only thing we can do now is hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
No. No way could this stranger be writing him off. Not his Sam. She had no clue who they were dealing with, after all. He was Sam freaking Winchester. The man had survived being stabbed, shot, struck by lightning, even a stint in Hell. No way that a coma was going to bring him. And she didn’t know Dean. A man who would sell his soul for his brother. No, he was not about to let Sam slip away again. Not on his watch.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course,” the kindly doctor nodded, “this way.” Numbly, Dean followed as Dr. Anders led him along a few corridors, brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs, to the ICU. With each step, Dean felt the dread, the intense fear, building up inside his chest, tightening like a vise. As they walked, the doctor filled him in further on Sam’s condition, but the words were meaningless, empty. Eventually, Dr. Anders noticed that she was being ignored, and remained silent the rest of that seemingly endless journey to his brother’s bedside. And when Dean finally found himself in the room where his brother lay comatose, the doctor wisely left him alone, stating only that she would return shortly to check up on Sam. “Get some rest,” she did manage to say before slipping out the door. “You look exhausted. You should at least try to get some sleep, grab something to eat.”
As if I could really sleep with my brother dying beside me. But instead of voicing his true opinion, Dean merely nodded his thanks and waited for the kindly doctor to leave before beginning his vigil at Sam’s bedside. The younger man looked so still, deathly pale, cheeks sunken from lack of nourishment. Beside him, a maze of equipment hummed and beeped, the machines that were keeping him alive. Looking down at his brother, Dean realized just how young, how helpless, Sam looked in this state. And sitting at his bedside, listening to the whoosh of the ventilator, Dean realized just how helpless he was as well. Demon deals were out of the question. Hell, he remembered how the last one had turned out, and besides, there was probably no demon who would deal. Crowley sure as hell wouldn’t. For a moment, he thought of a faith healer, and memories of Roy LaGrange, the preacher who had healed him from his damaged heart, flashed before him. But those miracles had come at a horrible price: one innocent life in exchange for another, and Dean would rather die than kill anyone.
“I don’t know how to help you, Sammy,” he murmured, reaching for his brother’s limp hand. Gently he squeezed, praying for any response, and not in the least surprised to receive nothing in return. No gentle squeeze back, no flutter from beneath his lids. And for the first time in a long time, Dean felt a lone tear as it slid across his cheek. “I’m so sorry man. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let Cas break that wall. I should’ve been there to protect you. Seems like the only thing I do is let down the people I love…”
Dean paused for a moment, wiped the tears with the back of one trembling hand. “I need you, Sammy. I can’t lose you, man. I’ve already lost Bobby, Cas. I can’t lose you too. Please.” The tears were flowing freely at this time, and Dean did nothing to stop them as he sat at his brother’s bedside, still holding his hand. It seemed so thin, a vast contrast from the strong grip Sam had had even a few months earlier. Subconsciously Dean ran his thumb against his brothers, staring out the window and its view of an adjacent hospital wing. He had to do something, to somehow save Sam. There was no way his brother was going to live like this, lying helpless, hooked up to a seemingly endless stream of tubes and machines. No, he would find a way. Or his name wasn’t Dean Winchester.
(To Part Two)
Author: jojospn
Recipient: supernarttu
Rating: T
Wordcount: ~9,000
Warnings: Some dark scenes (hallucinations, frightening or disturbing content)
Author's Note: I hope I did you justice with your prompt my dear!
Summary: When Sam's hallucinations drive him into a coma, Dean takes every measure possible to bring his brother back. Even if it means going into Sam''s subconscious to do it
Out of Reach
Sam Winchester was exhausted.
As a freshman at Stanford, he had been warned of the brutal all nighter. The hours of guzzling can after can of Red Bull while ferociously finishing up 20 page term papers or cramming for finals. Granted, Sam had never procrastinated to the point of needing to pull one off in order to pass in his latest monstrosity, and rarely had he stayed up until dawn studying for an exam. And so, Sam had never truly understood what it was like to be physically and emotionally exhausted until reuniting with Dean seven years earlier. And even then, he was usually able to grab a few hours’ sleep, either in a crappy motel or riding shotgun in his brother’s beloved vintage Impala. In fact, he had gotten used to running on fumes, relying on a large double double to get him through the endless hours of research and interviews.
But now, with Lucifer constantly tormenting him, never giving him a moment’s peace, Sam Winchester was sleep deprived to the point of being physically ill. Of course, he had tried to hide the fact from Dean, despite knowing that nothing could get past his brother’s eye. Pesky cough? < i>Are you ok, Sammy? Slight fever? Maybe you should sit this one out, Sam. Mother henning to the point of driving the young hunter insane. Dean had always been like that, the consequences of having been brother and parent to him since he was still in diapers. But this time, it was not the added attention which was prompting Sam to keep his condition a secret from his brother. Sam Winchester, truth be told, was more than worried about his prognosis: he was damn well terrified. And if he were that scared, then Dean would be a basket case.
But of course, Dean was not stupid, knew right from the start that there was something not right with his brother’s behaviour. That he was restless, on edge, dangerously thin. Because, needless to say, the kid wasn’t eating either. Dean had noticed how thin his younger brother was, his ribs clearly jutting from his back and abdomen. God, he knew it had been bad, but to see his brother’s skeletal form had been disturbing to say the least. Sitting on his bed, oblivious to the B movie showing on NBC, Dean watched his brother as he sat on his own bed, wringing his fingers like an anxious groom waiting at the altar. His eyes were staring unseeing at the TV screen, his hair in disarray from having run his fingers through the locks nervously. Dark circles hung from beneath his hazel eyes, and beads of sweat trickled from his forehead. Every now and then, he would mutter something (no, get out of my head, you sonofabitch, LEAVE ME ALONE) and every time, Dean would try to provide some sort of comfort, be it a hand on his shoulder or rubbing his upper back in circles, a trick he had used when Sam was a kid to help calm him down. Normally this worked like a charm, but lately, nothing Dean tried could calm his brother, and eventually Dean had moved back to his bed, afraid that his attempts at comfort would result in Sam either hurting Dean or himself. It was all he could do to sit there, but with Bobby gone and Cas MIA, presumed dead, there was little, if anything, the older brother could do for the younger.
“You ok, Sam?” Dean knew the question would fall on deaf ears, but he asked anyway, not so much for his brother’s benefit but more for his own. As expected, Sam did not respond, merely began to rock back and forth on his bed, once again clutching at his temples, to the point of drawing blood. Alarmed, Dean was off his bed in a flash, his barely touched beer crashing to the motel room floor. “Sam! SAMMY!”
For Sam’s eyes had suddenly rolled back in his head, body limp as he fell face forward off the bed. In moments Dean was at his side, desperately searching for a pulse. Though present, it was weak, sporadic, and Dean felt his heart sink. This wasn’t good. Trying to fight back his terror, he held his brother’s head up with a trembling hand, memories of that horrible night in Cold Oak flashed in his mind, like the unwanted verses of an annoying song.
…I’ll take care of you. That’s my job, right? Take care of my pain in the ass little brother?
Dean had been devastated. That night, the one that had changed the Winchesters’ lives forever, he had watched his younger brother die in his arms. He had promised his father that he would look out for Sam, always look out for Sammy; a promise which he had ultimately failed to keep, prompting him to sell his soul to a crossroads demon. History had a terrible habit of repeating itself, and as Dean Winchester held his unconscious brother in his arms, he was deathly afraid that it cyclical pattern was about to bite him in the ass.
The Winchesters were never ones to rely on hospital care, not unless there was no other alternative. And Dean desperately wished that this was something he could fix, something that a few shots of whiskey, some stitches, and a good night’s sleep would cure. But that was the problem. Sam wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating, and frankly looked like death warmed over. This was one time when he would definitely have to break their cardinal rule; hell, he should’ve brought Sam to a hospital long ago. And even though Sam had inherited his father’s stubbornness, Dean still felt the familiar guilt he always experienced in regards to his brother’s wellbeing. Watch out for Sammy, his father had drilled into him, even at the tender age of four. And now, as Dean pulled out his cell phone and frantically dialled 911, he could hear his father’s voice in his head, scolding him even from beyond the grave. You were supposed to take care of him. You were supposed to protect him, Dean…
“Shit,” Dean murmured, impatient as the muted ring of the other line continued. Dammit, aren’t there supposed to be dispatchers at the other line? But finally, after what seemed like an eternity but truthfully was only half a minute, a kindly voice on the other end answered, and Dean hurriedly spat out his location, eyes peeled on his brother. He was burning up, had to have had a fever of at least 105 or higher. As he rushed to the motel bathroom in search of a cloth to dampen, the elder Winchester tried to calm himself down, to push away the nightmarish memories of the night Sammy had died, and to think only on the now. “Help is coming, Sammy,” he promised, laying the cold washcloth on his brother’s fevered forehead. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
spn
Dean felt numb. Throughout the seemingly endless ride to the hospital in the back of the tiny ambulance, he had watched as paramedics worked tirelessly on Sam, fighting to keep what little contents he had in his stomach down. It seemed as if he were frozen in time, in a world where everything around him stopped in its tracks, leaving only him and his intense fear as he watched his brother fight for his very life. When the paramedics whisked his brother away, Dean could only stand by the door helplessly, watching as his very life, the only family he truly had left, was taken from him, no longer in his hands but in those of strangers. He had promised he’d take care of Sam, had promised, from the time his brother was still a newborn. And now, standing alone in a crowded hospital lobby, Dean was terrified that he was about to break that promise.
He had tried to follow Sam as he was wheeled to the ER but had been restrained by hospital staff. “But, my brother…” Dean had protested feebly, but his requests had fallen on deaf ears.
“I’m sorry sir, you can’t possibly see your brother now. His condition is far too unstable. The doctors need to work on him.”
“No! I need to see Sam!”
“I understand, sir, I can’t imagine what you are going through right now, but you will not be helping your brother if you get in the doctors’ way. If you just follow me I will escort you to the waiting room.”
Dean had tried to protest, but at this point the fight was gone from him, as some power source had been severed, leaving him helpless and vulnerable. Without a word, he allowed himself to be led to an overcrowded waiting room and plopped on one of the few remaining uncomfortable plastic chairs, where he buried his head in his hands. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when he had finally gotten his brother back.
The hours ticked away slowly, and gradually the number of people in the stifling room began to diminish; until only Dean remained, pacing the sterilized prison anxiously. It hadn’t taken long for Dean’s anxiety to once again flair up. That pent up energy which truthfully was intense enough to make him want to lose control. It was taking more than a little will power for him to keep his destructive behaviour at bay, to keep from overturning tables or pounding his fists against the wall. Truthfully, he had been moments away from giving in to his urges when a tall woman, her blonde hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, walked in, a clipboard in hand. Her surgical mask was pulled down, revealing a tight lipped frown, one the doctor was trying hard to keep neutral. But it was the eyes which gave her away, soft brown orbs filled with sadness as she approached the lone man in the once overly crowded space.
“Mr. Jones?”
Dean nodded, struggling to control the pounding of his heart in his chest. He had never felt this terrified since the night he had been mauled by Lilith’s Hellhounds, or the moments in Stull Cemetery before his brother had jumped in the pit. Thoughts of every moment he had lost, or nearly lost, his brother flashed before him, a slideshow of memories Dean Winchester would far sooner forget.
“It’s like I had one job. That one job. And I screwed it up. I blew it…”
“Go ahead, Roy, do it. But I’m going warn you, when I come back I’m going to be pissed.”
“Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you.”
“Mr. Jones? I’m doctor Anders, Sam’s attending physician. Mr. Jones?”
Dean blinked, unaware that he had blanked out. “How’s Sam?” he had finally asked after regaining some of his composure. The doctor nodded sympathetically, flipped through the medical charts attached to the worn clipboard, as Dean looked on, trying to keep his frustrations at bay. He’d already been waiting for hours in this goddamned dump of a waiting room, at least she could show a little decency and let him know how his brother was doing…
“Sam has been stabilized,” Dr. Anders continued, the pages of Sam’s medical history settling softly on the corkwood. “He is severely dehydrated, and is sleep deprived. What worries the most, however, is the swelling in the brain.”
“The what?”
“Has Sam suffered any serious falls as of late? It would be understandable, where his malnutrition would easily result in a state of dizziness.”
Dean closed his eyes, trying to look back on past events. Come to think of it, Sam had fallen on more than one occasion, the most recent just a few days earlier. How could he have not noticed? Shit, his brother was possibly dying before his eyes and he had done nothing.
I was supposed to protect you…
“We had no choice but to put Sam into a medically induced coma. Our hope is that in his comatose state the swelling to the brain will go down, while we feed him intravenously.” She looked up, gently placed one hand on Dean’s shoulder. Blankly, he pushed it away. He didn’t want some stranger’s cold comfort. He wanted his brother. He wanted Sammy. “I wish I had better news, but I didn’t want to give you any false hopes. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but the only thing we can do now is hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”
No. No way could this stranger be writing him off. Not his Sam. She had no clue who they were dealing with, after all. He was Sam freaking Winchester. The man had survived being stabbed, shot, struck by lightning, even a stint in Hell. No way that a coma was going to bring him. And she didn’t know Dean. A man who would sell his soul for his brother. No, he was not about to let Sam slip away again. Not on his watch.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course,” the kindly doctor nodded, “this way.” Numbly, Dean followed as Dr. Anders led him along a few corridors, brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs, to the ICU. With each step, Dean felt the dread, the intense fear, building up inside his chest, tightening like a vise. As they walked, the doctor filled him in further on Sam’s condition, but the words were meaningless, empty. Eventually, Dr. Anders noticed that she was being ignored, and remained silent the rest of that seemingly endless journey to his brother’s bedside. And when Dean finally found himself in the room where his brother lay comatose, the doctor wisely left him alone, stating only that she would return shortly to check up on Sam. “Get some rest,” she did manage to say before slipping out the door. “You look exhausted. You should at least try to get some sleep, grab something to eat.”
As if I could really sleep with my brother dying beside me. But instead of voicing his true opinion, Dean merely nodded his thanks and waited for the kindly doctor to leave before beginning his vigil at Sam’s bedside. The younger man looked so still, deathly pale, cheeks sunken from lack of nourishment. Beside him, a maze of equipment hummed and beeped, the machines that were keeping him alive. Looking down at his brother, Dean realized just how young, how helpless, Sam looked in this state. And sitting at his bedside, listening to the whoosh of the ventilator, Dean realized just how helpless he was as well. Demon deals were out of the question. Hell, he remembered how the last one had turned out, and besides, there was probably no demon who would deal. Crowley sure as hell wouldn’t. For a moment, he thought of a faith healer, and memories of Roy LaGrange, the preacher who had healed him from his damaged heart, flashed before him. But those miracles had come at a horrible price: one innocent life in exchange for another, and Dean would rather die than kill anyone.
“I don’t know how to help you, Sammy,” he murmured, reaching for his brother’s limp hand. Gently he squeezed, praying for any response, and not in the least surprised to receive nothing in return. No gentle squeeze back, no flutter from beneath his lids. And for the first time in a long time, Dean felt a lone tear as it slid across his cheek. “I’m so sorry man. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let Cas break that wall. I should’ve been there to protect you. Seems like the only thing I do is let down the people I love…”
Dean paused for a moment, wiped the tears with the back of one trembling hand. “I need you, Sammy. I can’t lose you, man. I’ve already lost Bobby, Cas. I can’t lose you too. Please.” The tears were flowing freely at this time, and Dean did nothing to stop them as he sat at his brother’s bedside, still holding his hand. It seemed so thin, a vast contrast from the strong grip Sam had had even a few months earlier. Subconsciously Dean ran his thumb against his brothers, staring out the window and its view of an adjacent hospital wing. He had to do something, to somehow save Sam. There was no way his brother was going to live like this, lying helpless, hooked up to a seemingly endless stream of tubes and machines. No, he would find a way. Or his name wasn’t Dean Winchester.
(To Part Two)