Fic: Never Say Die
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working. Missing scene for "Faith."
Author's note: This fic was written for iamstealthyone, the best beta ever. Happy Birthday, hon! I hope you don't mind I did this one without you. Many thanks to swanseajill for stepping up to the plate.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Five minutes.
That's all it takes Sam to hustle two terrified, sobbing little kids to the Impala.
Five minutes to load them into the back seat, pry loose small, clutching fingers, make soft, reassuring noises.
Five minutes to warn them to stay put, to lock them in.
Five minutes too long.
He's flying down to the basement, feet pounding on rotten wood, when his eyes register the scene at the bottom of the steps and everything slows and stutters to a series of snapshots:
The rawhead, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling, limbs twitching.
Click.
Wires coiled across the floor and the acrid smell of burning.
Click.
Dean, sprawled in a puddle, dirty water soaking into his jeans, Taser in one limp hand. Motionless.
Click.
Just like that, every single one of his father's painstaking lessons flies out of Sam's head. He doesn't check to be sure the rawhead is dead, or whether there's still live current flowing through the Taser. He doesn't insure the basement is secure, doesn't confirm that there are no more monsters lurking in the shadows. He doesn't care that the creature is behind him, that he's possibly vulnerable to further attack.
The only thing he does care about is getting to his brother.
"Dean!"
He leaps over the last few steps and crashes to his knees, reaching for Dean with shaking hands. Dean's still, so still, and that's just wrong because his brother is always in motion--fingers drumming, leg bouncing, cleaning guns, sharpening knives, making those dumb-ass faces when he's bored...
"Hey, hey."
He slips his palm under Dean's skull and his brother's head lolls like a baby's. His skin is clammy and chalky pale, his lips dusky blue. Sam's stomach twists into a knot as he presses his ear to the soft, worn cotton stretched across Dean's chest.
Silence.
Oh, God, oh, God.
Dean's not breathing.
Dean's heart isn't beating.
Dean's...
"No!" Sam digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and shakes him. "Dean! Breathe, damn it! Breathe!" He slaps Dean's face hard enough to leave marks, but his brother's head just rolls with the force of the blow, no resistance.
Swearing under his breath, Sam grabs Dean under the arms and drags him from the water. "You can do this, you can do this," he chants to himself. "Just like Dad taught you."
His breath rasping in harsh pants, he lays Dean flat, tipping his chin up to insure an airway. Pinching Dean's nose, he covers his brother's mouth with his own and delivers two breaths. Then, placing the heels of his hands in the middle of Dean's chest, he presses firmly.
"One, two, three--damn it, Dean, don't you do this to me--seven, eight, nine--c'mon, please--twelve, thirteen..."
When he reaches thirty he stops and puffs two more breaths into Dean's mouth. "Dude, you're never gonna live this down," he says, his voice cracking, as he returns to the compressions. "If you stop this shit right now, I promise I won't mention it."
...five, six, seven... Dean's body rocks gently under the force of Sam's hands, and his fingernails scratch against the concrete. Sam's vision blurs, and he scrubs his face against his sleeve, surprised when it comes away wet.
Damn, damn, damn. He needs to call for help, but he can't stop, has to keep pumping, keep breathing.
"Mister?" A child's voice, soft and hesitant.
Sam snaps his head around, rhythm faltering.
The little boy stands halfway down the steps, dirty, tear-streaked face twisted with apprehension. "I know you said to stay in the car, but--"
"Get over here!" Sam curses himself when the kid flinches and turns, ready to bolt. "No, wait! Please. I... I need your help." ...twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three... "What's your name?"
The boy watches him for a moment before inching down one step, then two. "Luke." He frowns and tilts his head. "What's wrong with him?"
...twenty-nine, thirty. Sam pinches Dean's nose, blows two more breaths. "My name's Sam and this is my brother, Dean. He's hurt real bad." One, two, three... "Luke, do you know how to use a cell phone?"
"Yeah."
"There's one in my jacket pocket. Take it outside and call 911. Tell them where we are and that we need an ambulance right away." Twelve, thirteen, fourteen... His shoulders ache and his skin feels stretched too tight, as if he may just explode any moment.
Luke's at the bottom of the stairs now, but he's not moving any closer. Sam bites back the urge to yell, but the words catch in his throat and sting his eyes.
"Luke, my brother and I--we helped you, right?" he says, and he doesn't care that his voice trembles, that he's one step away from begging. "Now it's your turn to help us."
And thank God, Luke gives a little nod and shuffles forward. Sam indicates the pocket with a tip of his chin, and Luke reaches in, keeping his body as far away from Sam as possible. It would almost be funny if Sam didn't feel like screaming.
"Hurry," he grits between his teeth. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... "Hurry, Luke."
The kid jackrabbits up the steps, and Sam grasps Dean's chin. One breath. Two. He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh, God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working.
"Don't you quit on me, you bastard," he chokes, and it sounds as if he's speaking through ground glass. "You do, and I'll sell that stupid car for scrap metal, I swear to God, I will. You hear me?"
And maybe Dean does, maybe Sam should've been threatening Dean's baby all along and to hell with CPR, because his brother jerks, arms flailing, sucks in a ragged breath, and coughs weakly.
"Dean!" Sam hauls him up by his jacket and props him against his body. "That's it, deep breaths. You can do it."
He's got one arm looped around Dean's chest, his cheek pressed against Dean's temple, and it scares the hell out of him that his brother doesn't resist, doesn't spit out some wiseass remark, just leans his head on Sam's shoulder and pulls in short, choppy gulps of air.
"You're gonna be okay, man. Everything's gonna be okay." He knows he's babbling but can't seem to stop, the relief so sharp and pure he feels lightheaded.
"Chest hurts...like a bitch." Dean scrabbles weakly at Sam's sleeve until his fingers curl around Sam's wrist. "...happened?"
"What happened is you were supposed to zap the rawhead, genius, not yourself." Sam tries for sarcasm but his voice breaks and the damn tears are back.
"That fugly bastard...dead?"
"Yeah." Sam sneaks a look over his shoulder, grimaces. "Yeah, you got it."
"Kids?"
Sam huffs, exasperated. "The kids are safe. Now would you just shut up and breathe? Help's on the way."
"Don't need--" Dean goes rigid, fingers digging into Sam's wrist, and his respiration speeds up. "God...this...this sucks."
"Easy, easy," Sam says, massaging still-twitching muscles. "Try to relax."
Dean bats at his hands. "Dude, stop...feeling me up. Just...get me outta here."
It's the first glimpse of the real Dean, and Sam's simultaneously relieved and annoyed. "Forget it. You're not going anywhere but the hospital."
"No hospital," Dean snaps, pushing upright. "'M okay. We should get out...before the cops come."
Sam tightens his grip and it's easy, way too easy to restrain the guy who can usually knock him on his ass. "You're not okay. You just took 100,000 volts. So lay back, shut up, and stop being a pain in the ass."
"Fine." Dean sags with a pained grunt. "Bossy bitch."
He's ashen, dark circles bruising the flesh beneath his eyes, and the heartbeat under Sam's palm feels weak and erratic. Add to that the fact that he's just given in way too easily, and a chill prickles the back of Sam's neck.
"Whatever," Sam says, wishing the damn ambulance would hurry up. "Truth is, you look like crap. And you can't tell me you don't feel like it, too."
"No reason to be...such a freakin' girl...about this."
He knows how much Dean hates being helpless, especially in front of his little brother. Knows Dean's just mouthing off, venting his frustration. The insult doesn't even have any teeth. But something inside Sam just...snaps, the dam bursts, and all his carefully checked terror overflows. "How about because you died, you stupid jackass! Is that a good enough reason?"
Dean goes still. "What?"
Sam clenches his jaw and blinks hard. "Your heart stopped, Dean. Your heart stopped and you weren't breathing and I thought..." He catches himself, barks a ragged laugh. "But hey, I got to try out that CPR Dad taught us."
He hears the faint wail of sirens, and then Luke appears at the top of the steps. "Mis--Sam? The ambulance is coming." There's a note of pride in the kid's voice.
"That's real good, Luke," Sam calls, the words thick and sticky in his throat. "Send them down, okay?"
"Sam..." Though Dean doesn't look at him, cool fingers creep up to cover Sam's hand on his chest.
"Yeah. Me, too." Sam says quietly.
They don't talk while they wait for the paramedics. Dean sucks in air as if just filling his lungs is a full-time job, and Sam holds on, concentrating on the throb of Dean's pulse as if there'll be an exam later on.
As if he can cause it to strengthen by sheer will alone.
When the EMTs descend he's asked a few rapid-fire questions and nudged gently but firmly out of the way. Dean is passive under their hands, and Sam tells himself he's overreacting, that his brother doesn't look worse than he did five minutes ago. But the EMTs are grim-faced, speak in clipped tones, and use words like arrhythmia and cyanotic.
"Sir?" The cop tries to draw him away from the action, giving up when Sam stubbornly refuses to budge. "Can you give me your name?"
"My name? Ah..." Sam drags his eyes from Dean, his brain a half-step behind. Insurance. They're gonna need insurance. "Berkovitz. Sam Berkovitz."
The cop jots it down on his pad, then cocks an eyebrow. "Kids upstairs say you and your brother saved them from a monster."
With a forced laugh, Sam shakes his head. "Don't know about a monster, but the guy's right over there." He gestures to the sprawled body, his gaze drifting back to Dean.
"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
"Well, my brother and I--"
The paramedics have Dean hooked up to an EKG, an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth, and are easing him onto a gurney. Sam leaves the cop mid-sentence, striding to his brother's side.
"Is he okay?"
The older of the two glances over his shoulder. "We've got him stabilized. We'll be taking him to Lutheran General Hospital."
Sam locks eyes with Dean, then looks at the EMT. "I'm riding with you."
The guy just shakes his head. "I'm sorry, that's not possible."
He turns back to the gurney but Sam stops him with a hand to the chest. "He's my brother, and I'm the only family he's got right now. I'm coming with."
Compassion seeps in, and the guy seems to really see him for the first time. "Sir... Sam, is it?" When Sam nods, he continues. "I can't let you ride with us--it's against policy and there's just no room. I'm sure you don't want to get in the way of your brother receiving the treatment he needs."
Sam bites his lip, a thousand arguments bubbling up inside him. He opens his mouth, but Dean's voice, little more than a raspy whisper, cuts him off.
"Sammy."
He shoulders past the paramedic. "I'm here."
Dean blinks up at him. Pain lines his eyes and mouth, but his gaze is clear. "I need you...to take care of the car. Don't leave it here."
"Dean--"
"I mean it, Sam. One scratch...and I'll kick your ass."
Sam's shoulders slump and he nods. "Okay. But I'll be right behind you."
The paramedic taps him on the shoulder, and Sam steps back. He trails the EMTs up the steps and watches as they load the gurney into the ambulance. When the doors shut, concealing Dean from view, it feels as if something tears loose deep inside him.
As the ambulance pulls out of sight, the cop clears his throat. Sam turns to him with a sigh. "Sorry. I just--"
"Hey, no problem." He gestures to where his partner has buckled the two kids into the cruiser. "We need to get them checked out. Why don't you follow us and we can finish this at the hospital."
Sometimes he gets so used to all the evil in the world, the good takes him by surprise. Sam's eyes sting, and he looks away, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That'd be good."
He slips behind the wheel of the Impala and guns the engine. The car feels impossibly empty without Dean's humming and tapping and griping. For a moment he just curls his fingers around the steering wheel and breathes.
Dean's gonna be fine. He's one of the strongest people Sam knows--the hardest head on the planet, doesn't bat an eye when you're stitching him up... Hell, he's breezed through having a bullet dug out of his leg with just a few swigs of Wild Turkey to cut the pain. He'll be okay.
He has to be okay.
The cruiser pulls out, and with a shaky exhale of air, Sam follows.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fifteen hours later Sam lets himself into their darkened motel room. He shuts the door, engages the deadbolt, the chain. Stares at Dean's flannel shirt, tossed carelessly on a chair when he changed to a button-down a lifetime ago. Everything blurs, colors jumbling together, and he presses his back to the wall, sliding slowly down.
"We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most, maybe a month."
Dean's gonna die.
His breath catches, stutters, and he grinds the heels of his hands into wet eyes.
No.
No.
He hauls himself off the floor and starts a pot of coffee brewing, then boots up the laptop and gets to work.
Two days later he's gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and jittery from too much caffeine, but he's tracked down his dad's friend Joshua and his first real lead.
"So the guy's an honest-to-God faith healer? Not a fraud?" he asks, chewing his lip as he paces the room.
"That's what it looks like. People are heading out there in droves, hoping for a miracle." Joshua pauses and his voice deepens. "Sam, no one's investigated this guy, we can't be sure what he might be up to."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "But you said he's healed people, right? For real."
A long pause, and Joshua sighs. "Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a new kidney."
"Okay." He works hard to keep his voice carefully neutral. "Thanks for the info, Joshua. I really appreciate it."
"You're welcome. I hope this is what you're looking for. Just...be careful, Sam. And when you find your old man, tell him to give me a call."
"I will." Sam disconnects, drops into a chair, and closes his eyes, pressing the phone to his temple.
"There's gotta be something you can do, some kind of treatment."
"We can't work miracles. I'm really sorry."
"No one's investigated this guy. We can't be sure what he might be up to."
"But you said he's healed people, right?"
"Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a kidney."
Sam opens his eyes. Lips pressed to a thin line, he tugs the laptop closer, pulls up Google, and types in three words:
Reverend Roy LeGrange.
End
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working. Missing scene for "Faith."
Author's note: This fic was written for iamstealthyone, the best beta ever. Happy Birthday, hon! I hope you don't mind I did this one without you. Many thanks to swanseajill for stepping up to the plate.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Five minutes.
That's all it takes Sam to hustle two terrified, sobbing little kids to the Impala.
Five minutes to load them into the back seat, pry loose small, clutching fingers, make soft, reassuring noises.
Five minutes to warn them to stay put, to lock them in.
Five minutes too long.
He's flying down to the basement, feet pounding on rotten wood, when his eyes register the scene at the bottom of the steps and everything slows and stutters to a series of snapshots:
The rawhead, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling, limbs twitching.
Click.
Wires coiled across the floor and the acrid smell of burning.
Click.
Dean, sprawled in a puddle, dirty water soaking into his jeans, Taser in one limp hand. Motionless.
Click.
Just like that, every single one of his father's painstaking lessons flies out of Sam's head. He doesn't check to be sure the rawhead is dead, or whether there's still live current flowing through the Taser. He doesn't insure the basement is secure, doesn't confirm that there are no more monsters lurking in the shadows. He doesn't care that the creature is behind him, that he's possibly vulnerable to further attack.
The only thing he does care about is getting to his brother.
"Dean!"
He leaps over the last few steps and crashes to his knees, reaching for Dean with shaking hands. Dean's still, so still, and that's just wrong because his brother is always in motion--fingers drumming, leg bouncing, cleaning guns, sharpening knives, making those dumb-ass faces when he's bored...
"Hey, hey."
He slips his palm under Dean's skull and his brother's head lolls like a baby's. His skin is clammy and chalky pale, his lips dusky blue. Sam's stomach twists into a knot as he presses his ear to the soft, worn cotton stretched across Dean's chest.
Silence.
Oh, God, oh, God.
Dean's not breathing.
Dean's heart isn't beating.
Dean's...
"No!" Sam digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and shakes him. "Dean! Breathe, damn it! Breathe!" He slaps Dean's face hard enough to leave marks, but his brother's head just rolls with the force of the blow, no resistance.
Swearing under his breath, Sam grabs Dean under the arms and drags him from the water. "You can do this, you can do this," he chants to himself. "Just like Dad taught you."
His breath rasping in harsh pants, he lays Dean flat, tipping his chin up to insure an airway. Pinching Dean's nose, he covers his brother's mouth with his own and delivers two breaths. Then, placing the heels of his hands in the middle of Dean's chest, he presses firmly.
"One, two, three--damn it, Dean, don't you do this to me--seven, eight, nine--c'mon, please--twelve, thirteen..."
When he reaches thirty he stops and puffs two more breaths into Dean's mouth. "Dude, you're never gonna live this down," he says, his voice cracking, as he returns to the compressions. "If you stop this shit right now, I promise I won't mention it."
...five, six, seven... Dean's body rocks gently under the force of Sam's hands, and his fingernails scratch against the concrete. Sam's vision blurs, and he scrubs his face against his sleeve, surprised when it comes away wet.
Damn, damn, damn. He needs to call for help, but he can't stop, has to keep pumping, keep breathing.
"Mister?" A child's voice, soft and hesitant.
Sam snaps his head around, rhythm faltering.
The little boy stands halfway down the steps, dirty, tear-streaked face twisted with apprehension. "I know you said to stay in the car, but--"
"Get over here!" Sam curses himself when the kid flinches and turns, ready to bolt. "No, wait! Please. I... I need your help." ...twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three... "What's your name?"
The boy watches him for a moment before inching down one step, then two. "Luke." He frowns and tilts his head. "What's wrong with him?"
...twenty-nine, thirty. Sam pinches Dean's nose, blows two more breaths. "My name's Sam and this is my brother, Dean. He's hurt real bad." One, two, three... "Luke, do you know how to use a cell phone?"
"Yeah."
"There's one in my jacket pocket. Take it outside and call 911. Tell them where we are and that we need an ambulance right away." Twelve, thirteen, fourteen... His shoulders ache and his skin feels stretched too tight, as if he may just explode any moment.
Luke's at the bottom of the stairs now, but he's not moving any closer. Sam bites back the urge to yell, but the words catch in his throat and sting his eyes.
"Luke, my brother and I--we helped you, right?" he says, and he doesn't care that his voice trembles, that he's one step away from begging. "Now it's your turn to help us."
And thank God, Luke gives a little nod and shuffles forward. Sam indicates the pocket with a tip of his chin, and Luke reaches in, keeping his body as far away from Sam as possible. It would almost be funny if Sam didn't feel like screaming.
"Hurry," he grits between his teeth. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... "Hurry, Luke."
The kid jackrabbits up the steps, and Sam grasps Dean's chin. One breath. Two. He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh, God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working.
"Don't you quit on me, you bastard," he chokes, and it sounds as if he's speaking through ground glass. "You do, and I'll sell that stupid car for scrap metal, I swear to God, I will. You hear me?"
And maybe Dean does, maybe Sam should've been threatening Dean's baby all along and to hell with CPR, because his brother jerks, arms flailing, sucks in a ragged breath, and coughs weakly.
"Dean!" Sam hauls him up by his jacket and props him against his body. "That's it, deep breaths. You can do it."
He's got one arm looped around Dean's chest, his cheek pressed against Dean's temple, and it scares the hell out of him that his brother doesn't resist, doesn't spit out some wiseass remark, just leans his head on Sam's shoulder and pulls in short, choppy gulps of air.
"You're gonna be okay, man. Everything's gonna be okay." He knows he's babbling but can't seem to stop, the relief so sharp and pure he feels lightheaded.
"Chest hurts...like a bitch." Dean scrabbles weakly at Sam's sleeve until his fingers curl around Sam's wrist. "...happened?"
"What happened is you were supposed to zap the rawhead, genius, not yourself." Sam tries for sarcasm but his voice breaks and the damn tears are back.
"That fugly bastard...dead?"
"Yeah." Sam sneaks a look over his shoulder, grimaces. "Yeah, you got it."
"Kids?"
Sam huffs, exasperated. "The kids are safe. Now would you just shut up and breathe? Help's on the way."
"Don't need--" Dean goes rigid, fingers digging into Sam's wrist, and his respiration speeds up. "God...this...this sucks."
"Easy, easy," Sam says, massaging still-twitching muscles. "Try to relax."
Dean bats at his hands. "Dude, stop...feeling me up. Just...get me outta here."
It's the first glimpse of the real Dean, and Sam's simultaneously relieved and annoyed. "Forget it. You're not going anywhere but the hospital."
"No hospital," Dean snaps, pushing upright. "'M okay. We should get out...before the cops come."
Sam tightens his grip and it's easy, way too easy to restrain the guy who can usually knock him on his ass. "You're not okay. You just took 100,000 volts. So lay back, shut up, and stop being a pain in the ass."
"Fine." Dean sags with a pained grunt. "Bossy bitch."
He's ashen, dark circles bruising the flesh beneath his eyes, and the heartbeat under Sam's palm feels weak and erratic. Add to that the fact that he's just given in way too easily, and a chill prickles the back of Sam's neck.
"Whatever," Sam says, wishing the damn ambulance would hurry up. "Truth is, you look like crap. And you can't tell me you don't feel like it, too."
"No reason to be...such a freakin' girl...about this."
He knows how much Dean hates being helpless, especially in front of his little brother. Knows Dean's just mouthing off, venting his frustration. The insult doesn't even have any teeth. But something inside Sam just...snaps, the dam bursts, and all his carefully checked terror overflows. "How about because you died, you stupid jackass! Is that a good enough reason?"
Dean goes still. "What?"
Sam clenches his jaw and blinks hard. "Your heart stopped, Dean. Your heart stopped and you weren't breathing and I thought..." He catches himself, barks a ragged laugh. "But hey, I got to try out that CPR Dad taught us."
He hears the faint wail of sirens, and then Luke appears at the top of the steps. "Mis--Sam? The ambulance is coming." There's a note of pride in the kid's voice.
"That's real good, Luke," Sam calls, the words thick and sticky in his throat. "Send them down, okay?"
"Sam..." Though Dean doesn't look at him, cool fingers creep up to cover Sam's hand on his chest.
"Yeah. Me, too." Sam says quietly.
They don't talk while they wait for the paramedics. Dean sucks in air as if just filling his lungs is a full-time job, and Sam holds on, concentrating on the throb of Dean's pulse as if there'll be an exam later on.
As if he can cause it to strengthen by sheer will alone.
When the EMTs descend he's asked a few rapid-fire questions and nudged gently but firmly out of the way. Dean is passive under their hands, and Sam tells himself he's overreacting, that his brother doesn't look worse than he did five minutes ago. But the EMTs are grim-faced, speak in clipped tones, and use words like arrhythmia and cyanotic.
"Sir?" The cop tries to draw him away from the action, giving up when Sam stubbornly refuses to budge. "Can you give me your name?"
"My name? Ah..." Sam drags his eyes from Dean, his brain a half-step behind. Insurance. They're gonna need insurance. "Berkovitz. Sam Berkovitz."
The cop jots it down on his pad, then cocks an eyebrow. "Kids upstairs say you and your brother saved them from a monster."
With a forced laugh, Sam shakes his head. "Don't know about a monster, but the guy's right over there." He gestures to the sprawled body, his gaze drifting back to Dean.
"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
"Well, my brother and I--"
The paramedics have Dean hooked up to an EKG, an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth, and are easing him onto a gurney. Sam leaves the cop mid-sentence, striding to his brother's side.
"Is he okay?"
The older of the two glances over his shoulder. "We've got him stabilized. We'll be taking him to Lutheran General Hospital."
Sam locks eyes with Dean, then looks at the EMT. "I'm riding with you."
The guy just shakes his head. "I'm sorry, that's not possible."
He turns back to the gurney but Sam stops him with a hand to the chest. "He's my brother, and I'm the only family he's got right now. I'm coming with."
Compassion seeps in, and the guy seems to really see him for the first time. "Sir... Sam, is it?" When Sam nods, he continues. "I can't let you ride with us--it's against policy and there's just no room. I'm sure you don't want to get in the way of your brother receiving the treatment he needs."
Sam bites his lip, a thousand arguments bubbling up inside him. He opens his mouth, but Dean's voice, little more than a raspy whisper, cuts him off.
"Sammy."
He shoulders past the paramedic. "I'm here."
Dean blinks up at him. Pain lines his eyes and mouth, but his gaze is clear. "I need you...to take care of the car. Don't leave it here."
"Dean--"
"I mean it, Sam. One scratch...and I'll kick your ass."
Sam's shoulders slump and he nods. "Okay. But I'll be right behind you."
The paramedic taps him on the shoulder, and Sam steps back. He trails the EMTs up the steps and watches as they load the gurney into the ambulance. When the doors shut, concealing Dean from view, it feels as if something tears loose deep inside him.
As the ambulance pulls out of sight, the cop clears his throat. Sam turns to him with a sigh. "Sorry. I just--"
"Hey, no problem." He gestures to where his partner has buckled the two kids into the cruiser. "We need to get them checked out. Why don't you follow us and we can finish this at the hospital."
Sometimes he gets so used to all the evil in the world, the good takes him by surprise. Sam's eyes sting, and he looks away, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That'd be good."
He slips behind the wheel of the Impala and guns the engine. The car feels impossibly empty without Dean's humming and tapping and griping. For a moment he just curls his fingers around the steering wheel and breathes.
Dean's gonna be fine. He's one of the strongest people Sam knows--the hardest head on the planet, doesn't bat an eye when you're stitching him up... Hell, he's breezed through having a bullet dug out of his leg with just a few swigs of Wild Turkey to cut the pain. He'll be okay.
He has to be okay.
The cruiser pulls out, and with a shaky exhale of air, Sam follows.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fifteen hours later Sam lets himself into their darkened motel room. He shuts the door, engages the deadbolt, the chain. Stares at Dean's flannel shirt, tossed carelessly on a chair when he changed to a button-down a lifetime ago. Everything blurs, colors jumbling together, and he presses his back to the wall, sliding slowly down.
"We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most, maybe a month."
Dean's gonna die.
His breath catches, stutters, and he grinds the heels of his hands into wet eyes.
No.
No.
He hauls himself off the floor and starts a pot of coffee brewing, then boots up the laptop and gets to work.
Two days later he's gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and jittery from too much caffeine, but he's tracked down his dad's friend Joshua and his first real lead.
"So the guy's an honest-to-God faith healer? Not a fraud?" he asks, chewing his lip as he paces the room.
"That's what it looks like. People are heading out there in droves, hoping for a miracle." Joshua pauses and his voice deepens. "Sam, no one's investigated this guy, we can't be sure what he might be up to."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "But you said he's healed people, right? For real."
A long pause, and Joshua sighs. "Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a new kidney."
"Okay." He works hard to keep his voice carefully neutral. "Thanks for the info, Joshua. I really appreciate it."
"You're welcome. I hope this is what you're looking for. Just...be careful, Sam. And when you find your old man, tell him to give me a call."
"I will." Sam disconnects, drops into a chair, and closes his eyes, pressing the phone to his temple.
"There's gotta be something you can do, some kind of treatment."
"We can't work miracles. I'm really sorry."
"No one's investigated this guy. We can't be sure what he might be up to."
"But you said he's healed people, right?"
"Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a kidney."
Sam opens his eyes. Lips pressed to a thin line, he tugs the laptop closer, pulls up Google, and types in three words:
Reverend Roy LeGrange.
End