A/N: I've had this idea for a while and have finally managed to crank it out. Unfortunately, my muse seems to only love tragedy, so... sorry. You may want tissues. Also, thanks to the lovely Endless Secrets for the beta.
Disclaimer: Y'all should be very glad they're not mine.
Warnings: Language (Dean has a potty mouth when he's scared for Sammy); Character Death
Dean dipped the washcloth into the bowl of cool water sitting on the bedside table and used it to gently wipe away the sweat collecting on his little brother's brow.
"How ya doin', Sammy?" he asked, pushing the damp curly locks away as he did so. Since early that afternoon, Sam had been running a fever - a high one. It was nearly eleven PM and the fever was only getting worse.
" 's Sam" his little brother slurred, "and 'm hot."
"Yeah, I know you are, kiddo. Don't worry though," he encouraged, carding a hand through Sam's sweat-soaked hair, "you'll feel better as soon as Dad ganks the witch that's causing this."
John watched as the woman turned from the sidewalk and walked into a secluded alleyway. He wondered if this was a shortcut of some kind - no one else was wandering the streets this time of night. He had originally planned to follow her from her shop back to her house, but he thought he might as well seize this opportunity. The sooner she dies, the sooner Sam gets better.
So he grabbed his gun from the glove compartment of the Impala and stuffed it into his front pocket, jogging across the street in order to catch up with woman.
He turned into the alleyway and tensed, only a slight hitch in his breath giving away his anxiety. It was a dead end, and the witch was casually leaning against the back wall, waiting for him.
He immediately drew his gun and aimed it between her eyes. "I know what you are."
The woman did not appear surprised by the comment, or the gun for that matter. They both waited a moment in silence, studying each other. Finally, the woman sighed.
"I cannot help your son." She spoke quietly and calmly, with traces of what John almost thought was pity.
John's grip on the gun tightened and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he growled, "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," she answered delicately, "that there is nothing you or I – or anyone for that matter – can do for your son."
She paused, a faraway look in eyes. Suddenly a vivid violet poured from her pupils and her words became softer but layered with ancient power.
"Fire tried to consume him once and failed." She turned her eyes to John's, and if he hadn't been busy trying to contain his battling surprise, rage, and fear, he would have noticed the tears forming there.
"It won't fail again, hunter." The violet slowly faded as she closed her eyes, and her voice drifted into a whisper. "I'm sorry."
There was the loud crack of a gunshot and the witch's body collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He noticed that his hands were shaking and weren't showing any signs of stopping, so he quickly stuffed them into his pockets and made his way back to the Impala. The fact that his boys were miles away made him unconsciously quicken his steps.
Burning.
He was burning.
He could feel the fire eating him alive. There wasn't any pain, though, it was just so hot.
He was suddenly aware of someone sticking something in his mouth. "De'n," he tried to say around the obstacle, but he was cut off by his brother.
"Shuddup, Sam. Gotta take your temperature."
He gave a muffled "hmphf" in response, which quickly morphed into a moan.
"Shh, I know, kiddo, I know," he heard his brother's quiet reassurances and when he felt the hand cup his forehead and the cool thumb rub soft circles, he immediately leaned into it, wanting to draw as much comfort and coolness as he possibly could. A beep sounded a few moments later, quickly followed by what he now knew to be the thermometer being removed from his mouth. A second later he heard a mumbled, "Shit," and felt the cool hand and circling thumb leave his forehead.
He hadn't even realized that he'd whimpered until he heard Dean's whispered assurances from somewhere above him.
He tried to pry heavy eyelids apart, but before he could he felt the thick comforter leave him only to be followed by a rush of freezing air that sent goosebumps racing across his arms and legs. Suddenly Sam felt himself being lifted and carried bridal style towards another part of the house they were squatting in.
"D'n?"
"Hold on, Sammy." He felt as Dean expertly twisted a knob and opened the door, and when Dean flicked on the overhead light he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and burrowed his head into his brother's chest.
"I know, buddy. You're just gonna have to bear with me." Next he felt himself being lowered to the ground and nestled sitting up into a corner of cold tile. Am I in the shower?
"De'n, wha?"
Before he could coherently finish his thought, he was suddenly assailed by freezing streams of water. The abrupt cold was so shocking that he couldn't help but gasp, inhaling a mouthful of water as he did so. As he was coughing and sputtering, trying to clear the cold from his lungs, he felt Dean kneel beside him - completely ignoring the fact that he was becoming soaked as well - and hold him so that it was easier to breathe.
"Shit, sorry Sam." He nestled himself closer to Sam and held him so that he wouldn't need to worry about accidentally breathing the water in again.
"D-d-d-de'n," Sam barely managed to say through his chattering teeth.
"I know, I know. But I've gotta get your fever down, kiddo, and this is the fastest way I can think of. Shh, sorry Sammy..."
He trembled as Dean held him closer, to the point where he could feel the goosebumps on the arms that were wrapped around him. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, Dean holding him under the freezing water and constantly murmuring reassurances.
Unfortunately, it didn't help much. He knew the cold wasn't helping; he still felt like he was on fire. In fact, the longer they sat there, the hotter he felt. The more he felt like he was burning.
Burning.
He was burning.
He was going to burn alive and Dean wasn't going to be able to do anything about it.
His big brother wasn't going to be able to save him. Not this time.
He was going to die. He knew it. He could feel it.
Before he was swallowed by the black, he sent out a silent prayer that the fire wouldn't take Dean too...
He was scared.
He was really fucking scared.
He was really fucking scared because Sam wasn't cooling down, even as they sat under the freezing water from the shower. They both had goosebumps and were shivering, but even then Sam was a fucking furnace and the longer they sat there the worse Sam's breathing got until he sounded like his lungs were being viciously attacked by a cheese grater and fuck fuck fuck what the hell am I supposed to do?
All of a sudden Sam tensed in his arms. "Sa-?"
He was cut of by the sudden and violent thrashing of his little brother's body.
"Sam!"
Oh god oh god he's having a seizure, he's having a fucking seizure.
Dean couldn't do anything in the cramped space of the shower except quickly turn off the water, sit there helplessly watching as his brother's limbs went haywire, and hold his head to make sure Sam didn't give himself a concussion. As the thrashing continued, he realized that he was supposed to be timing this and started counting in his head, his worry rising as he encroached the two minute mark.
That worry quickly morphed into fear when he counted past three minutes, and that fear soon transformed into unbridled terror as he encroached five minutes.
It's been too long. Oh god Sammy, it's been too long...
Finally, finally, after six and a half minutes the thrashes began to slow down until they stopped completely, just after seven minutes. Dean was sure he now sported an entire head of grey hair because holy fucking shit.
"Shit, Sammy," he whispered, closing his eyes and bending down to rest his forehead against his little brother's burning one. It was slightly cooler, and Dean let out a shaky exhale into his brother's soaked hair. "Thank god." He took another moment to compose himself and then easily scooped the motionless Sam into his arms as he stood up, nestling Sam's face into his neck as he began to walk back to the bed. He was happy to notice that Sam no longer sounded like he was gargling glass in order to breathe. In fact...
He couldn't hear anything.
His steps immediately slowed as he reached the bed, concentrating on trying to feel Sam's warm breath against his neck and looking down to watch the rise and fall of his brother's soaked chest.
Nothing.
In that split second Dean swore he felt his blood run cold with panic and dread, his brain failing to comprehend the fact that Sam wasn't breathing, that his little Sammy wasn't fucking breathing.
He thought he might've screamed Sam's name as he quickly lay him down on the carpet in front of the bed, hands immediately flying to his neck to feel for a pulse. One cupped Sam's face while the other shifted, trying desperately to feel a heartbeat, something, anything...
Nothing.
Dean was pretty sure his heart stopped then because how could his heart be beating when Sam's wasn't beating, when Sammy's heart wasn't beating.
Thank god their father had drilled first aid into their heads because before Dean was even conscious of what he was doing his body was performing compressions and rescue breathing on his little brother.
He was doing CPR on his little brother and how the hell did a fever turn into this so fast?
He continued to pump his arms over Sam's small chest he's still so small and continued to give him two breaths god, he's still not breathing after each round of compressions.
I'm gonna lose him. Oh god, I'm gonna lose my Sammy...
"No!" It came out more like a choked-off sob.
He ignored the muscles in his arms screaming at him to give up.
He ignored the dizziness demanding him to let him go.
He ignored the tears building and telling him that he's too late that it's been too long that he needs to stop because Sammy's gone.
It's at that moment that Dean broke, completely and utterly shattered, because he realizes it was true. He was too late. It had been too long.
Sammy was gone.
Oh god.
Sammy's gone. Sammy's gone. Oh god, how am I supposed to live if Sammy's gone. Oh god. Sammy's gone. Oh god, Sammy's gone...
John could never admit when he was afraid. You could only see it in his actions - in the way he basically ignored all the posted speed limits, in the way his jaw was clenched and his fingers had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he raced back to his boys.
Because there were only two things in this world that could make him feel afraid. And there was only one person he could explain that to.
Mary, please let them be okay...
The witch's final words were doing a number on him and he couldn't explain why. He had killed her, so whatever curse she had been putting on Sam was broken. He was fine. He was safe. Dean was fine. Well, maybe a little worried about his brother - but he was safe. They were both fine and safe.
He pressed a little harder on the accelerator.
By the time he screeched to a stop in front of their current house, John's only thought was that he had to find his boys. He had slammed the car door and was halfway up the steps to the porch when his brain finally registered that there was noise coming from inside the house. A noise he had hoped to god he would never hear again.
Wailing.
He had his gun drawn and was ripping open the front door before he could comprehend what he was doing.
"SAM! DEAN!"
He raced through the house to the boys' bedroom, heart pounding so hard and fast he wasn't sure it was actually beating, and flung open the door.
"DEA-"
His cry caught in his throat at the sight before him. Dean was sitting on the floor, a limp Sam clutched in his arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth, sobs raking his entire frame. One arm was wrapped tightly around Sam's back and the other was gripping his head, holding it tightly against Dean's neck.
And Dean was wailing. Oh god, that noise was coming from his son.
He knew there was only one reason that Dean would be making that heart-shattering keening noise, but he couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. Sam was just, just...
He staggered over to his boys and fell to his knees in front of them. He didn't think Dean had realized he was there and oh Mary, please no, please, I can't-
Slowly his trembling fingers found Sam's limp wrist and even before he could try to find a pulse he knew he wouldn't find one. Sam was cold, his skin greying in death, and it was too late.
He was too late.
His hand moved to join Dean's on the back of Sam's head, fingers curling in the thick brown locks and reminding him of how many times he'd had to force Sam to get a haircut because he was always wanting it long and oh Mary, why'd they have to take him too?
John thought he was broken before. Now he was shattered, completely and utterly beyond repair. He could no longer see through his tears as he brought his other hand up to bring the still sobbing Dean to his chest, cradling both of his boys against him. Boy, he had to correct himself, because Sammy was gone.
Sammy was gone.