Summary

Mary Winchester has been killed on a hunt. Her now second death has hit both of her son's hard. But one of them may never recover from the loss when grief manifests itself in an unexpected way.

Warnings

Possible character death but can't say for sure one way or another because that would take away from the story. But be full aware I have written a lot of fanfiction for many different fandoms (here under several names and in other places) and have ended stories both ways – with surviving and not surviving. So maybe. Maybe not. So thought I would mention it in case that uncertainty doesn't work for somebody.

Characters:

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

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Heartsick

Chapter One

Placing his hand against his own chest Dean rubs at the layer of fabric there and at the tightness underneath. But it does little in the way of relief. It isn't the first time he's found himself doing this over the last few days. Sam has also noticed a time or two. On those occasions his brother had taken note of it before Dean had even realized what he was doing.

But he had played it off, grumbling about getting too old to be living off bacon cheeseburgers and french fries. His brother had been nagging him about his eating habits more than usual lately as Sam was on one of his rabbit food eating kicks. So Dean's suggestion that it was his diet that was catching up with him was an easy distraction to hook his brother on.

But Dean knows deep down that is not the cause. His chest isn't tight because of too much greasy food and his increasing age. He knows this because of when it first happened.

He had been alone in his room, seated on the bed, holding a photo of he and his brother and their mother. He even recalls what he had been thinking at the time. After Mom was returned to us why didn't we take more photographs? he had been asking himself.

Seems they should have learned their lesson given how precious few they had after the fire all those years ago. Why didn't they take more this time around? Seems like they should have known all too well that the saying you don't know what you have until it is gone is true. They lived it after all.

But they hadn't. And now their mother was gone a second time. Again they were left with only a handful of tangible reminders. That realization had been settling into Dean's mind when his chest had become tight that very first time. It had come over him as a wave of nearly suffocating pressure. It had completely submerged him under its weight and he felt like he was drowning.

The very same thing is happening now as he thinks about it.

Dean takes in a deep breath, a near gasp, and finds his heartbeats have sped up in pace and become uneven in rhythm.

He wishes he knew when all this would relent. Despite his cynicism he still questions the extent of its persistence and weight. He pleads for mercy asking silently there must be an end to this sometime, right?

He asks not because he really believes there is one. The question comes out of the depth of the ache. The loss has torn something out of him – completely severed it this time round. And the emptiness and sadness encompass him. He wishes he could release it, just let it go. But he can't. It clings to him relentlessly. And in some twisted way he needs it. Perhaps it's penance for his failure to protect his family. Or maybe he just deserves it in general. He has never been the most upstanding person after all.

He forces himself to inhale more fully and breath it out very slowly. He hones in on that singular task as the desperate need for air overwhelms him.

"Dammit!" he manages to huff out under his breath as his efforts seem to be failing and he's so light headed he thinks he might pass out. He curses himself for losing focus and gets himself back in line. One full breath in and one full breath out. Steady the pace. And stay calm in the head.

Despite his efforts his chest continues to tighten and there's a cement filled knot forming in his stomach. The rate of his heart hasn't slowed and he's pretty sure if he moves at all it will result in him being passed out cold on the floor.

A piece of him is tugged to call Sam. The phone is right there on the desk where he sits and its within easy reach. He stretches his fingertips towards it and makes contact with its surface but another thought lobbies for position and, ultimately, wins out. He doesn't want Sam to see him like this if at all possible. Why should his little brother have to clean up the disaster he's become. He's got enough to deal with on his own.

So he pushes the phone away. It skids across the tabletop and only stops, finally, because it slams into the wall adjacent to the desk.

He slogs through several more rounds of his one full breath in and one full breath out - steady the pace - and stay calm in the head mantra. Finally the drowning sensation begins to subside ever so slowly. By the time the wave has receded enough that his surroundings are coming back into focus he is worn out and covered in a layer of sweat. The cool air of his bedroom connecting with his moist heated skin sends a shiver through him.

He slowly blows out a tired exhale and looks down to the open journal on the desk in front of him. The discarded pen he had been using to write in it lays forgotten tucked in the crease.

He doesn't feel up to returning to it so he picks up the pen and sets it aside. Then carefully closes the book. Normally, he would immediately put it up in its proper place. But right now he could care less. So he gets up and leaves it abandoned on the desk.

He looks around the room for a moment. His mind is slow to process the details of it. Mostly he just wants to sleep – for a really long time. But knows that with sleep comes unwanted things – nightmares and memories of things he can't handle right now.

He also knows he can't focus on any task requiring much in the way thinking right now. He just can't seem to hold a line of thought at all. But he's crawling out of his own skin so he needs to do something. His gaze wanders the room without any clue what he's searching for. He feels hopelessly lost for a long moment until, finally, he spots something which will at least keep his hands occupied. If nothing else.

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Sam makes his way along the curve of the hallway towards his brother's room. He carries a plate in one hand and a tall slender glass in the other. The plate contains a turkey sandwich loaded with veggies and made with two slices of organic wheat bread. The glass is filled to the brim with the best premium orange juice he could find.

He holds just a sliver of hope that he can get Dean to eat and drink something marginally in the way of healthy. He's been hold up in his room for much of the time since their mother died. The times he has emerged he's been one of two things - either a sluggish sullen rag doll or a well oiled machine in constant motion. He alternates between the two extremes.

Sam is struggling too and doing his best to process the loss. It hurts, something has been stolen from him yet again, but he's finding ways to let it out. He draws and writes in secret like a mad man and takes out pent up energy by working out as if he is training for a triathlon. He's even read a few self help books on coping with grief online. And it seems to be taking the edge off. The pain is still there but most of the time it is some semblance of manageable.

But Dean is different.

He's completely and utterly grief stricken. And if there is one thing Sam knows it's that Dean has trouble letting go of the sharp edged things. Especially if he harbors even an ounce of regret regarding it. And this particular loss, well, he has a vice grip on it. Which means Sam knows his chances are slim, like the odds of hitting the trifecta kind of slim, that he'll be able to get Dean to loosen his grasp on it even a little.

Sam could try to forcefully wrestle it free but that would only make his brother fight to hang on to it more. Challenging Dean will get him nowhere – at least nowhere he wants to be. Sam knows his only chance is a subtler, possibly sneakier, approach. He'll do what he has to.

He wishes he knew better how to help Dean. It feels like he's tried everything. He's sat with his brother in a silence doing his best to not lay on any pressure to strike up conversation. To just simply hang out and watch a movie or play cards. Other times he's offered a few carefully chosen words and hoped his brother might latch on to the opening to talk. He's dug up jobs for them, presenting the opportunity for distraction, if only for a little while. He's even played a small prank or two on Dean in hopes of eliciting a pissed off reaction. Or maybe, if he's lucky, a prank in return. At least then Dean would be expressing something, anything, to him.

But so far nothing has worked even in the slightest.

In fact, Sam's not even sure that Dean has been tuned in for most of it. Because his brother, despite offering typical replies and actions in line with his personality, is clearly faking it or on some kind of autopilot.

Sam's leaning towards the latter since seemingly without realizing it Dean's snarky comments and indifferent replies are tending to be out of sync with what's going on around him. His reactions at times, more often than not, are delayed far behind what has taken place. And that's how Sam knows it's bad. Even consumed with thoughts of whatever big thing was going down some piece of his brother's brain has always been right on top of things and his reflexes always right on time. The absence of that is disconcerting to say the least.

Sam allows himself a faint sigh as he closes in on Dean's bedroom door.

Upon arriving in front of it he places the plate in his left hand on top of the glass in his right and balances it there. He takes in a deep calming breath. Then gives a quick rap of the knuckle on the wood of the door. He doesn't wait for any type of reply. He does this deliberately as he's well aware if he did hesitate all he would get in response would be Dean's voice telling him that visiting hours are over and to try back later if he dares. Or even more likely no real verbal response at all. Just a inaudible grumble or disgruntled grunt from the other side of the closed door.

When Sam turns the knob with his free hand he does look down at the floor however. Unexpectedly opening the door on Dean Winchester's private space could get you more of a sight than you bargained for. So to be safe Sam decides to divert his gaze long enough to determine if the coast is clear.

"What the hell, man. Ever hear of letting someone say come in first?" his brother's voice pipes up.

"Sorry. I – uh – forgot," Sam replies as it's the only thing he can seem to come up with quickly on the spot.

"You forgot?"

"Guess so," he answers, feigning a stumped tone to his voice. He shifts his gaze up a fraction. It's just enough to get a glimpse of the room. He visually assesses the scene for a split second to see if it's safe to look up fully. His brother is seated on the floor leaned back against the side of the bed and, thankfully, fully clothed. So Sam lifts his gaze the rest of the way.

It's then that he notices the collection of knives laid out on the floor in a semicircle around where his brother sits. And there's a sharpening stone gripped in his fist. Not wanting to ponder on that whole situation too long Sam speaks back up.

"Oh, hey, I brought food," Sam offers as he enters further into the room. Dean looks over at him for a quick beat and then back to his weaponry. Then replies.

"That's not food, Sam. That's bunny rabbit chow."

"Rabbit's don't eat turkey, Dean. And bunny rabbit isn't even the right term."

His brother doesn't verbally reply just sort of shrugs his shoulders a bit. There's a long string of silent beats before an offended expression crosses over Dean's face. He has just caught up fully and appears insulted that Sam thought he didn't know about rabbits and their food preferences and the related terminology.

But, suddenly, it's Sam who feels like he's trailing behind because he's just noticed something important which he hadn't caught before. Dean's other hand.

While his right hand holds the sharpening stone that Sam has already taken note of it's the left he registers now. Dean's palm is rested flat against his chest. His fingertips are pressed slightly inward as he rubs at his sternum through the cotton of his t-shirt. His hand moves rhythmic up and down over the spot, working away at some hidden affliction.

He has caught Dean doing this several times in the last few days. And every time he seems to not have known that he was even doing it until external attention was brought to it. Then a lame excuse always came next.

Sam notes that he is going to have to find a new approach if he's going to get the true cause out of his brother. He studies the motion for a moment, trying to determine its origin on his own.

Then suddenly his mind clicks back in and he realizes his mistake. He's stared at one place for too long. Because it has drawn Dean's attention there as well. And, instantly, his brother's hand shifts and his fingertips begin to scratch furiously at his chest and up along to the skin of his neck and down along his arm.

"Dude, do we have bedbugs? Because I am seriously itchy," Dean asks.

"Not that I know of," Sam replies in a resigned sounding voice. He doesn't bother to hide the tone because they both know Dean's question really isn't a question but a lame attempt to cover. Neither of them addresses it though. Dean because denial is his forte and he'll swear up and down and until the cows come home that it never happened. And Sam because he's treading a fine line here and he doesn't want to tip the scales against his already slim chances of getting through to Dean by pissing him off.

"So where do you want the food?" Sam inquires as a way to change the subject.

"Rabbit chow."

"Right. Where do you want the rabbit chow?"

"Back in the kitchen," Dean states in way that seems to indicate this should have been obvious.

"That works. I was going to make a bite for myself so we can eat together," Sam replies. A bit of hopefulness slips through in his tone at the possibility that this might pan out after all..

"I meant you can take it back to the kitchen and put it in the fridge or eat it yourself or maybe throw it in the trash if the first two don't work for you."

Sam can almost see his sliver of hope as it flickers out but he can't stop himself and plows ahead anyway.

"Dean, come one man. You need to eat something with actual nutritional value."

"Look, thanks for the room service but I'm not hungry."

"How are you not hungry? You barely leave this room and when you do you barely eat anything and none of its healthy," Sam responds. It comes out all wrong, too forceful and accusatory, and he bites down on his bottom lip, bracing for the backlash.

"Appetite is on the fritz I guess," his brother replies. It is flat, indifferent, and not the tone Sam expected it would be delivered in. It throws him for a moment. Then he opts to let this battle go and focus on winning the war.

He heads over to the desk and sets the glass and plate down there. His back now turned to Dean he lets his expression fall a bit. He's had to school his features into a somewhat neutral expression in order to conceal the true level of his worry so his brother doesn't go into complete lockdown mode. And it feels good to not have to think about it if only for a fleeting moment.

"I'll put it over here just in case," he offers while he's still turned away. No reply comes and Sam takes another moment's rest before he has to put his mask back on. He spots Dean's journal on the desk and he dares to let the flicker of hope re-ignite. Writing in it has always been something Dean has enjoyed and taken pride in. So maybe there's hope yet.

He decides he can't stall any longer and works to put his masked expression back on his face. Once in place he turns around towards the center of the room again. He immediately makes an attempt to break the silence by making a casual offer.

"Want an extra set of hands?" Sam inquires and gestures towards the weapons laid out on the floor. But Dean doesn't respond in any way. His head is hung slightly and his gaze is directed down at his lap and at the sharpening stone grasped in his hand. But it's a blank stare not one of inspection or thought. He's completely tuned out.

Sam takes the opportunity to survey his brother. Dean's posture is slumped and his shoulders are curved in almost protectively towards his chest. Dean's skin is paler than it should be in places yet flushed pink in others. His eyelids are at near half mast and the hard set of his jawline makes it look like he's bearing down against something painful. And there is a slight swelling to his cheeks and his hands that wasn't there even the last time he saw him which was only the night before.

The most noticeable thing though is his brother's breathing. The pace of his inhales and exhales is faster than normal and shallow in depth.

Sam once again takes advantage of his brother's checked out state and moves to him and squats down.

"Dean?" he says softly in attempt to draw his brother out. He wants to place a hand on Dean's shoulder but he's not sure how it will be received so he resists the temptation. And instead repeats his name again.

"Dean? You with me, buddy?"

For a long string of seconds there is absolutely no response so Sam decides to risk it and places a hand on his brother's shoulder and shakes it slightly. It seems to bring Dean around. His bowed head shifts and he looks up. He seems surprised to find Sam right there in front of him as if he doesn't recall how his brother got there. But the confusion is swiftly tucked away and Dean manages a half hearted reply.

"What – uh – yeah I'm right here where I've been since you barged in here. Not cool by the way."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"Whatever, Matlock," Dean replies as his expression shifts into annoyance.

"So?" Sam questions and moves from his squatting position to sit on the edge of the bed.

"So what?"

"Did you want me to work on some of the blades? You have a second stone someplace, right?"

"Thanks. But I'm good."

"It'll go faster with two of us," Sam comments as casually as possible.

"Fast wasn't what I was going for."

"Let me help," Sam tosses out too quickly. He immediately regrets the choice of words. He'd done the one thing he had reminded himself not to do about a dozen times as he had headed down the hallway towards his brother's room. One simple rule and he couldn't follow it. Don't use the word help in any way, shape or form if you want the conversation to not turn ugly. Because Dean is highly allergic to it.

Sam can almost feel the shift in mood become palpable in the air of the room.

"I also kind of wanted to do this alone!" Dean snaps out at him. His voice is lower, grittier, now. And has a coldness to it. In that moment Sam knows there is no hope of salvaging the conversation. He involuntarily lets out a frustrated huff of air.

"Alone means get out!" Dean nearly growls at him. Its tone is harsh and threatening. Sam knows if he says anything else Dean will only dig his heels in more so he, reluctantly, rises and heads for the door.

He pauses just inside the threshold long enough to offer one last thing. His back is turned away from his brother and that makes it slightly easier to get the words out since he knows they won't be well received. And he questions if he should even say them but he decides to go for broke and pick up the pieces later.

"Believe it or not you're human Dean. And humans need help from each other from time to time. You don't have to carry the load all on your own. I'm human too and your brother to boot. That's what I'm here for. And I won't think any less of you if you want to talk. You know where to find me."

When the last word is out he starts to move again to leave the room. There's a tense silent beat as he does so. Then his brother's voice pipes up. It's as Sam expected - cold, harsh and annoyed in tone.

"Close the door on the way out!" he demands.

He does what Dean requests but not for him – for himself. He feels like he is about to lose it and leaving the door open will tempt him to about-face and deliver a few choice words to his pig headed brother.

Once outside the room he realizes he doesn't feel so well. He has to force his suddenly weighted legs to respond to the command to start walking back along the hallway. He doesn't make it far before he finds himself light headed. So he stops and leans his shoulder against the wall of the corridor for support. Then takes in a few deep deliberate breaths. It settles his head a bit but he finds his stomach is on the bad side of queasy. And he feels faintly flushed. The coolness of the wall feels good though so he turns slightly to put his back flat against its surface. The sensation quells the nausea considerably and reigns in his body temperature.

Exhaling, he slides down the wall behind him and crumbles into a seated heap on the floor. He looks around the empty hallway for nothing in particular until his attention is drawn to Dean's room as music pipes up from there. He listens for a long string of seconds to the sound of AC/DC's Thunderstruck as it radiates out from Dean's room and saturates the air of the corridor.

He's recovered his equilibrium somewhat and manages to peel himself off the frigid floor and moves the few remaining feet to the two steps which mark the bend in the hallway. He sits down on the top one and runs his palms down over his face.

Whatever it was that overtook him and made him queasy and light in the head has passed. In a way it reminds him of how he had felt at the onset of a vision. But no images or anything vision like had invaded his mind.

And the only uncomfortable thing which remains is a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach - a sinking feeling that things are about to get even worse than they already are.

Sam tries to focus in on the feeling as it burrows its way deeper into his gut and does his best to block out everything else. He attempts to get a hold on it so he can examine it more closely and gain some specifics. He is not rewarded with anything of great detail. But one thing does show itself to him – it's hazy around the edges but the gist of it comes through with clarity.

He braces against the realization of it.

Something is seriously wrong with his brother. Sure he's grieving deeply but there's something more. Sam can't pinpoint it precisely, can't even really begin to decipher it, but it exists.

And Dean just might be too weary, too broken, to fight it.

To Be Continued...