An AU one shot where Sam has asthma and Dean's memory is falling to pieces. Story contains spoilers for episode 12x11. Essentially it's missing (and made up) scenes from Regarding Dean.
Disclaimer: This story is AU. I tried to get all the medical facts straight, but if I screwed something up, comfort yourself in the knowledge that this story is AU, and maybe on that universe stuff just so happens to work that way.
This story and its content was commissioned by ZeldaIsis. I had a lot of fun writing it and I apologize that its compilation is ridiculously tardy. Thanks for having the patience of a saint.
Characters and some dialogue belong to Supernatural and the CW.
"Dude!" Sam turned and looked at his brother in utter disbelief. Never, in the history of the Impala, had his brother ever done something so careless with his car. "R for reverse, Dean."
Dean looked over at him with a vacant look that had "hangover" written all over it. It was irritating. Sure, they hadn't had it easy lately, and that crap with Guantanamo had affected him more than he would admit. All the same, his patience with his brother's habit of drinking to numb the bad was wearing on his last nerve. It wasn't the time. If Dean wanted to crawl into a bottle when they weren't on a case, fine. But, choosing to get sloshed when he was supposed to be on his game and looking sharp, it was a great way to arrange for an early funeral.
And, in so many words, Sam told him just that. But, Dean still wasn't listening.
"Dean?" After no reaction, Sam reached out and grabbed his brother's shoulder, "DEAN."
That finally broke through the fog and Dean looked over at him, his vacant look dove straight into confusion and he answered with, "Who's Dean?"
So not what he had expected to come out of his brother's mouth. Reaching over, Sam killed the engine and looked at him. "You're Dean—did you hit your head last night or something?" Sam asked, grabbing Dean's chin and looking closely at his eyes.
Dean jerked his head free from Sam's grip and brushed his hand away, "No, I didn't hit my head." He stopped, "At least, I don't think I hit my head." He grinned, "It was a pretty epic—"
"Epic night; yeah, I heard." Sam sighed, "Look, why don't you let me drive back to the room."
Dean scoffed and cranked the engine again. The car came back to life and Dean popped her into reverse.
"Dean…"
"Sam. I'm fine." Dean said as he moved the car through parking lot.
Sam gave him a dubious look and Dean rolled his eyes, "Okay, fine. I've got a set of monkeys pounding on the bongos in my brain. But, other than that, there is nothing wrong with me."
"Lamp! Right. So close..."
Sam looked at the sticky note on the lamp and frowned. "Okay," he said, turning to face his brother. "This is obviously progressing quickly. It's time to call in some reinforcements."
"Reinforcements, Sam; really?" Dean chuckled and held up a hand, "Let's not get carried away, just yet."
Dean reached out and took his phone out of his hands, and Sam sighed. "Dean. This is serious. The spell, or hex or, whatever, is getting worse—pretty damn fast—and I don't think we should screw around with it."
"Hey. I don't either. Okay? All I'm saying is, we've been at this shtick damn near our whole lives. Between the two of us, that's a lot of know-how. I have no doubt we can figure this out."
"Yeah, I'm sure we can, but I want to make sure we get it figured out before it's too late!"
"Well hell, Sam. So do I! You think I'm enjoying this?"
Again, he sighed, "You know that I don't."
"One hour, Sammy. That's all I'm asking. One hour for us to see if we can solve this thing, and if we can't, you can call in whoever you want for help."
"Dean," Rubbing a hand across his brow, Sam stopped and looked at his brother again, "I don't think we can gamble with time on this one."
"It's an hour, Sam. I'm not going to be sitting in a corner drooling over myself in an hour."
"Dean, in the ten minutes it took to drive here from the coroner, you forgot the name for a "light stick". You forgot the names of the members of Bon Jovi—"
Dean scoffed, waving his brother off, "Sam, that's—"
"Bon JOVI, Dean."
"So, what?" Dean griped and then stopped. He dragged a hand down his face and looked at him. "Look. This is my thing. Okay? I hear what you're saying, Sammy. I really do. But, I'm going through this... whatever 'this' is... it's happening to me. So, until I forget how to button my own shirt, I'm calling the shots on how we deal with it. That's it. End of story."
Sam stood there, glaring at his brother, and chewed on his cheek for a beat. Then he said, "Fine." He flashed Dean a toothy grin. Taking a step closer, he poked him in the shoulder, "I'll make you a deal. You give me the names of three objects, of my choosing, and I'll give you your hour. You can't? We do it my way."
"Aww, Sam—" Dean rolled his eyes, turning around in a circle," Who's wasting time now?"
Throwing his hands out, Sam needled, "What's the big deal, Dean? It's three little items. Unless..." He paused and gave his brother a broad smile, "Unless, you're afraid you'll fail?"
Dean glared at him, throwing them into a mini-standoff, but then replied with a grin of his own. "Fine. No problem." Rubbing his palms together, Dean pumped himself up and then beckoned Sam on, saying, "Come on. Hit me."
Sam took a quick glance around the room, and then pointed.
"TV." Dean scoffed, "Sammy, come on."
"Alright—" Sam walked into the bathroom for a second to grab something.
"Toothbrush—no, wait." Dean pointed with a flourish, "Complementary toothbrush."
Sam nodded with a smile of approval, because, seriously, it's not like he wanted his brother to fail. Dean was two for two so far. There hadn't been any hesitation with his answers, and Sam started to think that maybe Dean had been right. Maybe he had overreacted just a little.
Thinking that Dean had it in the bag, Sam picked up a notepad.
His brother gave him a triumphant smile, saying, "That is a..." Frowning, Dean stopped and took another look, and that feel-good feeling Sam had, quickly began to fizzle out. Dean stared, took a breath to answer, but closed his mouth and took another look at it.
The grin slid off Sam's face and he took a step closer. Holding out the notepad, he said, "Come on, Dean. Think. What is this?"
"That. That is a... a napkin?"
"Notepad."
"Damn it!"
Sam tossed the pad onto the table and snatched his phone from his brother's hands. Scrolling through his contacts, he glanced up, watching as Dean started walking around the room, mumbling to himself the names of different items.
"...window; table; chair; bed; phone… fluffy, miniature bed—"
"Pillow."
Dean turned and looked at him, "Pillow. Right." Turning back around, he continued, "End table; coat; gun; carpet; tiles..."
Lowering his phone, Sam listened as Dean moved into the bathroom. He was still naming off items and Sam decided the phone call could wait five minutes. Swapping his phone for a pad of sticky notes, Sam used his teeth to wrench the cap off of a sharpie and started slapping labels on pretty much everything. He couldn't imagine how frustrating it would be to slowly forget so many things at once. The least he could do was take a moment to make Dean's burden a little less awful.
Sam kept an ear out and listened as Dean moved around the bathroom. He was still naming things off, and he was doing pretty well, only getting tripped up a couple of times. That wasn't too bad, considering he was going through everything in the small room. From the shower curtain, to the bolts on the exhaust fan, he was picking the room apart.
"...mirror; sink; outlet; t—"
Scribbling halted, Sam raised his eyes to the bathroom and waited. Then Dean spit out "towel rack" and continued on.
"Towels; soap; razor; deodorant; wash cloths; Sam's froofy hair stuff..."
Pressing a label to the wall just above the light switch, he smiled. Dean might be having trouble remembering things, but he was still very much himself.
Standing in the middle of the room, Sam looked around to see if there was anything that he missed. From what he could tell, he'd hit all the important objects and fixtures. Nodding to himself, he picked his phone back up and started going through his contacts again. Really, he already knew who their best bet would be, but still, he had to take a look. Just to make sure there really wasn't any other option.
Striking out, Sam cursed under his breath and looked at the only contact he hadn't dismissed. He hesitated and again raised his eyes to the bathroom where Dean had apparently moved onto the med kit.
"Scissors; tape; gauze; tweezers; eye drops; band-aids...; tiny, little air freshener?"
Tiny, little— Frowning to himself, Sam tried figuring out what that last one could have been, but he came up empty and called to his brother. Dean's head popped out of the doorway, and Sam said, "Show me this tiny, little air freshener."
Dean disappeared back into the bathroom and then held out the object. Smiling to himself, Sam said, "Ah, no." His brother looked at him a little confused and Sam told him, "Inhaler."
He couldn't really fault Dean too much on that one. It had been more than a year since he'd needed to use it, because, for the most part, his asthma was very much under control. He might need to take a hit from the inhaler during allergy season, or if he got a face-full of smoke, or if he was chasing something down when it's below forty degrees outside. Even then, rarely was it anything serious. Because, he kept it under control.
The last time it hadn't been was back around the time when their dad had died. He was heartbroken and swimming through a sea of guilt. He was watching his brother being consumed by grief and a whole different kind of guilt. Stressed, and worried, and grieving, Sam hadn't taken care of himself. He hadn't kept up with his medications and he hadn't paid attention to the counter on his rescue inhaler.
The pollens of an early fall normally wouldn't have bothered him too much, as long as he was on his medications. But, back then, when he'd gone without the medicine? Yeah, he'd noticed the difference. He'd noticed the periodic coughing episodes and the tightness in his chest that would follow them. The times he'd been wheezy and short of breath hadn't eluded him either. He just hadn't paid much attention to them.
The symptoms didn't keep him from doing his job, and it hadn't been bad enough for either Bobby or Dean to notice. But, probably the main reason he hadn't paid attention to the warning signs of an impending attack, was because he just hadn't cared. He'd been so fucking conflicted, twisted up, and broken on the inside, that he couldn't find the drive or the energy to do anything about it.
The doctor in the ER had said it was probably the stress from losing their father, mixed with the other environmental triggers, that had kicked off probably one of the worst asthma attacks he'd had in the last decade. It had come on fast, and strong, and quite literally had knocked him flat on his ass.
Dean had been off somewhere else that day, and if it hadn't been for Bobby—if the man didn't think quick on his feet under pressure—Sam was pretty sure their dad wouldn't have been the only family Dean might have lost that year.
He couldn't remember much between thinking, shit, this is going to be bad, and coming around in the ER sucking Heliox from an oxygen mask. What he did remember, was seeing what it put his brother through.
Consciousness had come back to him slowly, but when his brain finally came back online, he'd opened his eyes and found himself looking directly into his brother's gaze. Leaning over him, Dean's hand had been buried in his hair, his fingers spasmodically grasping and releasing the long, sweaty strands, and he had smiled at him.
Relief that he was awake and going to be alright, quickly swung into fear, and then anger. His face had been captured by his brother's hands and then Dean's face was only inches from his own. He had received a small, jolting shake as harsh words were growled at him, asking him what he had been thinking? How could he have been so irresponsible; so stupid? He asked him how he could be so selfish to think that his asthma didn't affect anyone else but him. And, did he know how fucking close they'd come to losing him?
Giving him another, gentler, shake, Dean's face had crumpled. He'd pressed their foreheads together, asking him again if he knew how stupid he'd been to let it get so far out of control. And, with tears streaming down his face, Dean had choked on his emotions, asking him what he was supposed to do if Sam left him too.
Sam didn't remember seeing his brother openly cry after their dad had died. But, there he'd been, kneeling on the floor beside his bed and, holding his face in his hands, Dean had ducked his head into his arm and had completely broken down.
Because of something that had happened to him.
His selfish inactions had almost irreparably shattered his brother that day. Ever since then, he'd stayed on top of his medications and took them religiously. He paid close attention to how many hits he had left on the inhaler. And, he'd kept rescue inhalers stashed just about everywhere. In the car, in their med kit, in his duffle, in Dean's duffle, and probably two or three at Bobby's, back in the day.
Staying on top of his asthma was just about the most important thing he needed to keep up with, because he'd found out that day, he wasn't only risking his own life. He was gambling with his brother's as well.
Dean looked down at the inhaler in his hand, muttering, "That's right," and then tossed it back into the med kit.
Sam watched his brother walk back into the main room, and then looked back at his phone and dialed. Dean was heading over to the mini-fridge as the other end of the line picked up.
"Wee bit occupied at the moment."
"Yeah, well, we need your help, Rowena."
"Rowena; Sam, Really—Hey! Tiny vodkas... Score!"
"Well, that was a waste of time," Dean said, flipping on the light. He was shrugging out of his coat as Sam came in behind him and closed the door.
"No, Dean. It wasn't."
"Sammy, we're no closer now than we were before."
Draping his coat over a chair Sam worked on loosening his tie. Pointing at his brother, he said, "Not true. We found those glyphs on the tree—" Sam pulled out his phone— "which, I am sending to Rowena now."
"How are a few tree carvings supposed to help?"
Sam set his phone down on the table, "Because they could help us find the dead witch's coven."
"Okay...," Dean paused as he tossed his coat on the foot of Sam's bed, "Say we find the cloven—"
"Coven."
"Coven; whatever. Then what?"
"Well," Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not sure yet. It all depends on what Rowena can find out from the glyphs."
"Huh." Dean shrugged, "Okay. I guess that could work—hey, you hungry? I'm hungry. You feel like grabbing something to eat?"
"Hungry?" Sam stared at his brother for a beat and then said, "Dean, we just got back from checking out three different restaurants, and you just now realize that you're hungry?"
"Well, it's not my fault that my stomach didn't know it was hungry until now." His brother looked back at him, and, was that a pout?
Taken back a little by Dean's new bipolar personality, Sam sighed. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he reminded himself that his brother's actions and judgements weren't really in his control. That damn curse was messing with Dean's mind, and he told himself he was going to have to slow down a little and just go with the flow on this one. It wasn't that big of a deal anyway. Yeah, they'd just got back in and he'd planned on diving into some research, but he could easily bring the laptop and case files along with them.
So, dialing back his irritation, he took a breath and softened his tone, "Look, It's okay. We'll go out and get some dinner. But, first—" Sam wagged a finger in the air—"First, we ditch the monkey suits." He smirked at his brother and smacked him on the arm, "C'mon; get changed."
Flipping off the light to the bathroom, Sam walked out and over to the table. Pocketing his phone and wallet, he grabbed the car keys. He glanced over to see if Dean was ready, but after doing a double-take, he wasn't really sure what he was seeing. Turning around a half-step, Sam quietly observed.
Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, bent at the waist and fiddling with the laces to his boots. Taking a lace in each hand, he looked at them for a second and then crossed them. But, then it was like he got stuck, because he crossed them back and forth a couple of more times, and then he'd sigh and start over.
The whole scene made his throat go dry, and Sam swallowed. Using a soft tone, he called, "Hey, Dean?" His brother raised up and looked over at him with a slightly spooked look in his eyes, and using that same, soft tone, Sam asked, "You okay?"
Looking down at his boots, Dean started with, "I, uh... I..." He looked back at him and shrugged. "Sammy, I can't remember how to tie my laces."
It was like he'd already figured, but hearing the words delivered in his big brother's voice with that panicky undertone, made it so much worse.
Okay; here we go. That was the thought that slid through his mind. He'd hoped they would get it fixed before the curse could progress to the next level. But the pit of quicksand in Dean's head was working hard at sucking him down, and they were standing right in the middle of it. Sam wasn't going to let that happened, though. He wouldn't allow it to take his brother. They've defeated freaking Lucifer, for cripes sake. More than once. No way was it going to be a hex cast by some bastard witch that would get the better of his brother. Just wasn't happening.
Dean looked over at him, flashed him a nervous smile that wavered, and then it faltered all together. Sam took four long strides and then he was leaning over and grabbing his brother's shoulders. "Hey, Dean. Look at me."
Conflicted green eyes rose to meet his and Sam smiled, "Look, man. It's going to be okay."
Dean frowned and looked at him with an intense, quizzical look that reminded him so much of Castiel, and Sam wondered if Dean still remembered their friend. Then his brother's brow pinched, and his throat worked for a second, and he asked, "How can you say that?"
Sam gave him a hard look, "Because we're going to figure this out."
"But, you don't know that." Dean gave him a smile that seemed a little bit broken, "I mean; hell, Sammy. I can't remember how to tie my laces." Dean stopped and released a chuckle that held no humor. "Something I've done by myself since, like—preschool… It was unsettling at first, ya know, to forget the names to things, but—" he looked down—"tying my shoes?"
Sam could tell his brother was inching his way closer to falling off the deep end, and squeezing his shoulders, he tried to ground him. "Dean, the situation sucks and it's scary, but you have to hang in there. It's just a temporary frustration, and then you'll be back to normal."
Dean's response was to reach out and grab Sam's arm. His grip squeezed hard and he shook his head, "But what if we don't? What then? What am I going to forget next? Am I going to forget how to read, or how to use a phone?"
"Dean—"
"Or how to... to brush my teeth? Sammy am I going to forget about Dad, or mom—"
"Dean, slow down a s—"
"Or, Bobby; or—?" Cut off with a shaky breath, Dean turned haunted eyes on him, "Or, you, Sammy?" Dean gave him that same, broken smile from before, "Will I forget you, too?"
As a kid, all Sam Winchester wanted to be when he grew up, was to be just like his big brother. Dean had always seemed to him, strong and confident, and just larger than life. He'd grown up watching him take down all sorts of monsters. Ghosts, shapeshifters, werewolves, rawheads... Dean had been hunting and killing these things before he could legally buy a pack of cigarettes. That was his big brother. Dean Winchester, The Monster Killer. And, to see that same man looking at him with unabashed fear in his eyes, like he might turn into a mindless puddle of goo if Sam let him... Fuck, it was killing him.
Looking hard into his brother's eyes, Sam squeezed his shoulders, kneading them with his hands a couple of times as he worked past the tightness in his throat. Then he dug up all that plucky, Winchester-stubbornness and tried to pass some of it on to his brother. When he spoke, his voice was decisive and stern.
"Dean, enough. That's not going to happen. You're not going to forget about mom and dad. You're not going to forget about Bobby; and you're not going to forget me. We are going to fix this."
That time Dean didn't argue back. He sat there and searched his eyes for the truth, and asked, "How do you know that?"
He grabbed the back of Dean's neck, "Because, I do."
"But how do you know?"
"Because...," he stopped and sighed, and then Sam looked at his brother and gave him a smug grin. "Because I believe in us."Dean just sat and looked at him, but this time without all that gripping fear. Keeping his eyes locked on his brother's, Sam asked, "Okay?"
Dean hesitated a second, but then nodded, "Okay."
Sam gave him an encouraging smile. It seemed to have the desired effect, because Dean drew in a deep breath and smiled back.
Giving his shoulders one, final squeeze, Sam dropped down to one knee and tied his brother's shoe laces.
Sam turned the Impala into the parking lot to one of the twelve or so restaurants that lined an access road running along I-64. He'd decided on the way that going back to the place where Dean and that waitress got to know each other so well, probably wouldn't be the best idea. More than likely, she'd still be working her shift and Sam wanted to avoid the awkward conversation that would take place when Dean didn't remember her. Again.
It's too bad, too. The food had smelled great and he could only smirk to himself at how, twice now, they'd been cheated out of finding out just how good it really was. Plus, he would have loved to see Dean ride Larry.
That's okay, though. This other place was always packed every time they'd driven by, and living their life on the road, that told him that it was probably just as good. In fact, he'd already circled the parking lot twice, looking for a spot to park. In the end, they ended up parking at the drug store next door. Walking over from the adjacent lot, Sam had the feeling that they were in for a long wait before a table would be available, but he was surprised when the hostess called their party in under ten minutes.
Seated and drinks ordered, they were left alone with their menus. It was quiet between them for a while, as they looked over their choices, and Sam couldn't help sneaking a peek over his menu to see how his brother was getting along.
He watched Dean flip between the center page, looking back and forth between the pages on either side. His face was drawn into that intense scowl that always showed up when he was trying to work out the important stuff, like: which case to pick when two or more of them ranked as a top priority, or the best route to choose when they'd taken a wrong turn and ended up out in the middle of West Bumfuck, or when ordering a slice of pie—the cherry… or should he go with the Dutch apple?
Sam watched him flip between the back and front a couple of times and he was having a hard time believing this was his burger-loving brother. Usually it was Sam that sometimes took a while deciding on what he wanted. Dean more times than not, usually went straight to the burger section and had it all figured out in under three minutes. Sometimes, he didn't even bother with the menu, telling the waitress he wanted the greasiest, sloppiest, "so rare it might just moo" burger they've got.
Tonight, was a new experience. Sam had already turned the waitress away once, buying them just a little more time. He'd actually considered asking Dean if he needed any help deciding, but Sam didn't want to make it seem like his brother couldn't even order for himself anymore. So, he sat there and listened to the classic country music, took a few sips from his water, stole a couple of discreet glances at the trays of food that walked past their table, and waited for Dean to pick something out.
Sam was patient, and he really wasn't too terribly hungry, so he had no problem with the time it was taking his brother. But, then then their waitress made eye contact with him and he knew she'd be headed back their way any minute. He was just about to get his brother's attention when Dean whipped the menu around and pushed it across the table at him.
"Hey, that looks good, right?"
Sam turned the menu a little more to face him, craning his head to the side to see what Dean was pointing at. "Uhm…" he frowned as he took a closer look at the details. It wasn't the grilled pork chops that had him stuck somewhere between speechless and laughter. Sure, they were a lean meat, but they were pork and Dean had long ago declared all pork good. It was that they were accompanied by fresh, steamed broccoli, a baked sweet potato, a roll, and a side salad.
Sam's eyes snapped up, and he just looked at Dean for a second before asking, "Really?"
His brother shrugged with a grin, "I don't know. It's… colorful."
Sam was still gaping at this new species of Dean, wondering if his tastes could be changing along with his personality, when their waitress saddled back up to their table and greeted them with a cheery smile.
"Ready, fellas?"
Dean smiled up at her and opened his mouth to order, and Sam just knew what he was going to say. Part of him wanted Dean to order the pork chop dinner that came with three different kinds of vegetables, just to see what would happen. But he couldn't let his brother do that to himself.
"Yeah," he said, taking Dean's menu out of his hands, "You know what? Just a couple of bacon cheeseburgers; extra onions on his."
Dean seemed okay with that but made a face at the extra onions. Sam gave him a look, saying, "Trust me," and handed over the menus with a smile.
His brother tilted his head a little as he watched their waitress sashay away and Sam was relieved to see not all of Dean's tastes were altering. She turned a corner near the kitchen and Dean looked at him, "You think there was something wrong with the pork chop dinner?"
Sam shook his head, "No. But, I've got a feeling you'll enjoy the burger a lot more."
Dean looked a little dejected at that and it made Sam feel a little bad. Dean's hobby of booty-watching was still going strong, and like normal, but a lot of other parts of his personality were becoming more and more... If he had to describe it, he'd go with: innocent.
"Look," Sam said, softening his tone of voice and noticed how many times he's done that tonight, "When the food comes, if it doesn't hit the spot, we can wrap up the burger to go and order you the pork chops. How's that sound?"
Dean thought about it for a second, and then gave him a nod, "Sounds good."
When their food came, Dean grinned at the oversized burgers and mounds of fries as their plates slid in front of them. The waitress left them to it and Dean leaned in and took a big whiff of the open-faced burger, piled high with onions. He smiled, "I think you chose right, Sammy."
Sam smiled as he went about assembling/disassembling his own burger to match his tastes. He grabbed the top of the grilled bun and pressed it down over his burger and took a bite. And, you know, it's true that his tastes usually lean more toward the healthy side of the menu, but he wasn't against a good burger now and again. This one definitely fit under the "good" category.
He was just about to take another bite, when a petulant sigh came from the other side of the table. Looking over, he saw his brother scowling down at his untouched burger. Sam thought that perhaps it was the onions, or maybe even the burger itself might have been a wrong decision.
"Dean?"
There was frustration swimming around his brother's face when he looked up at him, saying, "It's just so big."
Sam looked down at the burger, unsure of what the problem was, and then back at his brother, "It's okay. If you don't finish it, we'll just get a doggie bag."
"It's not that," Dean replied, and leaned to the side, looking at his meal like he was trying to figure out how to jimmy a window without tripping the alarm.
Sam watched him, and asked, "Do you still want the pork chops?"
"No," Dean shook his head, smiling, "No. I'm pretty sure this is going to be really good."
Still not understanding the problem, Sam leaned over the table just a little, "Then what's wrong with it?"
Dean looked at him, and Sam saw the smile slide off his face. Replaced by something far humbler and, using the same words as just a minute ago, he shrugged. "It's just so… big."
Sam blinked and looked at Dean, then back down at his meal, and it clicked. "Do you, uh…" he stopped and thought about the best way to ask, but really there was no other way than to just come out with it. "Do you—do you want me to cut it?" Sam asked.
He'd considered telling Dean to cut it himself, but if his brother was having a hard time figuring out how to take a bite out of a hamburger, he's pretty sure he didn't want him trying to hold it down with one hand while wielding a knife in the other.
Dean looked back down at the burger and gave him a nod. "Yeah. I think that could work."
Putting down his own burger, Sam wiped his hands on a napkin and pulled his brother's plate over to himself. He picked up the steak knife that came with their meal and got to work.
Snagging a fry, Dean munched silently as he watched Sam saw his meal into two halves.
Pushing Dean's plate back over to him, Sam waited to see if cutting it in half would be good enough. He wasn't sure which part of Dean's memory was failing him to the point that his burger-handling skills were muffled, so he watched to see what would happen. It was almost like watching the underdog in a basketball game line up for the foul shot that could win them the championship. Sam held his breath and waited to see if his brother would sink the shot.
Dean gave the two pieces a hard look and then chose one. He brought it to his mouth, paused to give it another look, and then took a big bite. He chewed it for a bit and then looked over at Sam, giving him a goofy grin and a thumbs up.
Being just a little relieved when his brother had no further issues with his meal, Sam paid the bill and followed behind as Dean yammered on as they made their way to the exit. Around the middle of their meal, the younger Winchester had somehow opened up a tall can of continuous Dean monologue. All because of one simple question. Sam had asked if they needed to do some laundry and, without knowing what he was doing, had unwittingly peeled back the lid to the trick-canister and out sprung all of his brother's internal conversational topics.
Following behind as they weaved between tables, Sam lost most of what Dean was going on about, but he didn't think it would matter much. As it was, he'd barely been able to get a word in edgewise. This was less of a conversation, and more of a Dean Winchester info dump.
Holding the door open, Dean turned to face him, "…complete double standard, ya know? I mean, c'mon. If Yvette Mimieux could show her belly button in 1964 in Dr. Kildare, why the hell did the TV execs insist on keeping Barbara Eden's covered? I Dream of Jeannie aired from '65 to '70. It began one year after that episode of Dr. Kildare."
Ah, the great belly button controversy. Sam thought to himself as he fed the key into the Impala's ignition. Completely caught up now, he smirked, shaking his head as he gave it a crank, "I don't know, man. Morals and standards were a lot stricter back then. I guess they thought it was too racy—"
"And, that's ridiculous! Because, it was years before that—somewhere around 1960—when you could go to any beach and you'd see plenty of bikinis; frickin' belly buttons galore."
Pulling the car back onto the road, Sam took a breath to reply, but got run over by another one of Dean's chatter trains. Just like the others that had mowed down about eight of his remarks while they ate, this one appeared just as long, hauling cars packed to the brim with thoughts and opinions, and barreling past at speeds that would turn your shirt inside out.
"In fact—" turning in his seat, Dean smacked him on the arm— "they were even singing about it! Brian Hyland's Yellow Polka Dot Bikini was on the radio in 1960, and Marilyn Monroe ran around with her belly button revealed for two hours in Something's Got To Give back in 1962!"
"True—" Sam said, looking both ways before stepping onto Dean's Railroad. Holding up a finger, he wedged his way back into the conversation. "But, that was on the big screen, Dean. You can't compare censorship standards between movie studios and the TV networks. They're completely different animals. All those TV shows back in the 60s were like that: Gilligan's Island, I Dream of Jeannie, Gidget…, all of them had plenty of opportunities to use navel-revealing wardrobes, but none of them did. If they didn't consider it family-safe, it didn't happen—hell, they couldn't even say the word "pregnant" on I Love Lucy."
"I know; and it's stupid!" Dean replied, and Sam just let him ramble on.
Rarely did he win a debate over Dean and his belly button grievances. And as the day had progressed, his brother was becoming more open, and animated, and… passionate about things. Sam wasn't even going to try to win this one. Instead, he left Dean to gripe to himself over midriff injustices and turned his thoughts back to their current situation.
Scowling at a car heading toward them with their high-beams on, Sam thought again about how fast the curse was progressing. Dean couldn't figure out how to go about handling a hamburger. What the hell? Forgetting how to tie his shoes… Okay, yeah. That was alarming, but not all that devastating. But, having to cut his brother's meal into more manageable pieces, like he was five years old? Again—what the hell?
Something else, even more odd and unsettling? Aside from Dean continuing to call him Sammy every time he addressed him was, the last few times they'd gotten into the car, Dean hadn't griped about Sam driving. No complaining, moaning or passive aggressive remarks were made. No dirty looks, eye rolls or annoyed sighs. No opposition whatsoever. Dean simply strode over to the passenger side and jumped in, like it was second nature. Dean's whole demeanor was changing. He was happy. He was carefree.
Yes, it came at a cost, but Sam could tell Dean had already forgotten again, about their past. Now he was just some average guy, out grabbing a bite with his brother—at least he hadn't forgotten me, yet. Dean was living in the moment, and if Sam was honest with himself, he might feel just the smallest bit of envy at that.
What did it feel like to forget about monsters? Or to forget the constant ache of loss from dead friends and loved ones? To have no guilt over the fellow hunters that had died because of them, or the civilians they'd failed to save from any of the hundreds of kinds of evil walking the earth? He couldn't imagine what that was like; what it might feel like to have that weight lifted and to be a normal guy, ignorant of all the things out there killing people, and whose greatest stress was Barbara Eden's elusive belly button.
Sam took a glance to his right and watched Dean fiddle with the radio dial. He was trying to decide on a station, but no one was playing anything good. Sam considered reminding his brother of his coveted box of tapes under the seat, but then just sighed, leaving him to keep scanning the FM stations. They were almost back to the motel anyway.
The box of tapes—Zepplin, ACDC, CCR, Skynyrd, Seger… there were the soundtrack to Dean's life in a box. Albums his brother had listened to so much that some he'd actually worn the tape out and was on his third copy. There were few other things in his brother's existence that completed him as much as his tape collection, and Sam tried hard not to think about how this might be another nail slammed into the coffin of whatever was trying to bury his brother.
Or, maybe it's worse than that. Maybe it's trying to throw that coffin in head-first and bury it six-feet under. Maybe it won't stop until Dean is dead. Or, maybe it will leave Dean at whatever stage the curse had progressed to before Sam could—
"SAM."
The touch to his arm brought him out of his thoughts and he became aware of three things: A) Gauging by the way Dean was gawking at him, he'd tried to get his attention more than once. B) He was coughing. A lot, and C) He couldn't stop.
"You okay, man?" Dean asked, taking a closer look at him. "You getting sick or something?"
Sam tried to answer, but he couldn't stop coughing. He was an idiot for allowing his anxiety get the better of him, and now he was dancing all over the threshold of an asthma attack.
"Hey, easy." Dean's hand moved up to his shoulder, "Sammy, take it easy."
Reaching across his brother, Sam popped open the glove box and dug out a spare inhaler. Dean frowned at it, and Sam couldn't tell if he'd recognized it or not.
Trying his best to focus on the road, Sam considered pulling over, but he'd handled a coughing fit while driving before. It wasn't that complicated. Shake canister, press and suck in a breath. He wasn't light headed, and his vision was clear, so he decided to keep on driving toward the motel. It was only a few more miles anyway.
Shaking his inhaler, Sam turned his face into the crook of his arm and coughed. It was hoarse and painful as it ripped from his chest. Blinking past the tears in his eyes he took a hit from the inhaler. He frowned. Shook it again and took another hit. Nothing happened. Holding it out in front of him, he looked at the mouthpiece and depressed it again. He heard the hiss, but nothing came out. Frustrated, Sam tossed it on the seat and gasped as his lungs tried to suck in another breath.
Dean grabbed his arm again and asked him something. He looked scared, and Sam hated that he was adding more stress to Dean's already shitty situation. Unable to answer, he gave Dean what he hoped was a laid-back smile and concentrated on dragging in a breath when there was a chink in his coughing fit. It didn't help much, and he could already tell this was going to be a four-hit-attack... once he finally got to his inhaler.
Dean had stopped asking him questions, but he still held a firm grip on his arm and was shooting looks between him and the approaching motel. They were just about to pull into the parking lot. Just need to get the car parked and get into the room, and then everything will be fine. Stay calm…
The door to their motel room slammed open and the two of them stumbled through the doorway. Dean was essentially keeping him on his feet as he headed for the bathroom. His chest was heavy and the air was too thin. Every few steps he had to stop and take a breath, and each time it was harder to suck in enough air to keep the room from sliding away. Pushing himself away so he could get to what he needed, Sam patted Dean's chest, telling him he'd be okay. But, Dean was reluctant to release him and followed close behind as Sam headed to the bathroom.
He'd be there in eight or nine more steps, and then he could collapse. He could let his knees become the mush that they were so urgently trying to convince him they were. He just needed to get to the sink. He could snag the med kit, and then he and the kit could go crashing down to the floor together. Standing, sitting, leaning, or crashing... none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting to his inhaler.
It was just another few steps, but then everything started to warp and twist on him. Sam stopped and leaned over, bracing his hands against his knees, and took a couple of pathetic breaths. He thought if he just paused for a sec, the dizziness would pass, but then the floor did a neat fun-house move by tilting to the side. Standing still, he managed to stumble and lose his balance, landing on the floor in a fairly ungraceful heap.
Back in the day, his brother had seen him through dozens of bad attacks. He always knew what to say and how to speak in a tone that cut through the panic that sometimes clogged his mind. And, while it was true that Dean might not exactly be on top of his game—okay, right then he was about as helpful as an orangutan with an anxiety disorder—he was there. And that still made it better.
Dean grabbed him by his shoulders and was shouting at him. "Tell me how to help you. I don't... I don't remember what to do. Sam! What do I do?"
He wasn't sure how he was finally able to force the words out past the wheezing and the hacking and, you know, past the elephant that had decided his chest would be a great place to sit. Maybe it was because he knew he was royally screwed if he didn't, or, maybe it was because the fear in his brother's quivering voice was something that he never wanted to hear again. Whichever it was, Sam managed to point to the bathroom, and say, "In—haler."
Dean frowned down at him, and again the thought came to him that he was screwed. He was going to have to drag himself the last few feet into the bathroom after all. He pushed himself up on all fours, and then used the bed to haul himself to his knees. Dean's hands roamed over him, trying to help steady him. Sam pushed himself up with his arms, but the way that they shook, he knew standing wasn't going to happen. He was okay with crawling. There was no shame in crawling, if it meant restoring the ability to breathe.
Looking over, Sam watched in a detached way as Dean jumped up and clambered into the bathroom. He started hauling stuff out and each time Sam prayed he'd come out with a small red canister in his hand. But after the third try, and after he'd rejected a tube of toothpaste, Dean grabbed him by the shoulders. "What does it look like? Sam! Tell me what it looks like!"
His reflex response was red canister. But did Dean know what a canister was anymore? Was he still familiar with the color red?
He was pretty much straddling the line when he would have to collapse back down to the floor and dial 911, but he'd been through this enough times in the past to know that he still had enough air in him to try one more time to remind Dean what it was. He tried again by drawing up a more recent memory for his brother, and croaked out, "… tiny. air. fre—shener. "
Dean froze, his lips silently mimicking what he'd just said, and then his eyes darted to him and he shot to his feet.
Without his support system, Sam's arms crumpled under his weight and down he went again. He wasn't sure how long Dean was gone, time warped around him, just like his vision, and Sam started digging his phone out of his pocket. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done and by the end, he was trembling through a soaking sweat. He'd just gotten the phone dropped to the floor beside his face when Dean's knees landed right in front of him.
He couldn't see if he had his inhaler, but when his brother took the hand trying to unlock his screen and slapped something into his palm, he knew it by the feel of it. Using the last bit of his reserves, and praying he'd catch on, Sam gave it a few meager shakes while pushing it back at Dean.
For whatever reason, that sparked a flame in his brother's memory and then Sam saw all of his lights come back on. Dean became a blur of motion and then rough hands were grabbing him and yanking and moving him and then the back of his neck was draped over his brother's arm.
The inhaler touched his lips and then it slipped past his teeth and Dean shouted in his ear again, telling him to breathe in. He did, and with that measly, little breath came the familiar taste of Albuterol. His lungs coughed most of it back out, but Dean tipped his head over his arm more, opening up his airways as much as possible and they did it again, and then again. By the fourth hit of the inhaler, Sam wasn't gasping anymore. He was still coughing, but the wheeze was fading.
He tried taking in a deeper breath, but it was too soon. His eyes squeezed shut as a barking cough tore from his chest. Gentle fingers slid back damp bangs from his sweaty forehead and then he heard Dean shaking the canister again.
"Open your eyes, Sam. Look at me."
The command was routine after a serious attack and the familiarity of it was calming. Following orders, Sam squinted up at his brother. Dean looked back at him through his patented scowl of concern and the arm supporting his neck drew him in closer and held him a little tighter.
His lungs spasmed again and his eyes slammed shut against the painful cough that rattled in his chest. Groaning through the next few coughs, he rubbed his chest and turned his face into his brother's side. He wasn't sure if he was seeking comfort or maybe he was just trying to escape the pain, either way, he didn't really care. He was dizzy and exhausted, and he hurt, and pressing his forehead against Dean's side made it all suck just a little less.
The cough was hit or miss, but it was winding down and becoming more productive. He could feel the fluid in his chest shift and he took a relatively normal breath. God, it felt so good to breathe. You forget how good it feels to breathe, until you can't. He could breathe, and if he didn't move, the pain in his chest was starting to fade. Thirty-four years old and he was sprawled on the floor, in his brother's arms, and he really didn't care. It was a relief for him and he decided he wouldn't be moving for a while.
That decision lasted maybe a minute before a traitorous cough led into a stray jag, and Dean's hand took him under the chin. His brother moved his face away from his side and back into open air. Sam groaned in protest and Dean smoothed a hand along the side of his head, saying, "Keep breathing, Sammy."
And he did. The coughing soon subsided again and Sam drew in a couple of careful breaths. He opened his eyes again. Dean was still watching him, but he wasn't counting his respirations like he always did after an attack that bad. It was a reminder that things were not okay, and Sam forced himself back into action. Grabbing Dean's shoulder for leverage, he started pulling himself up.
"Where ya going, Sam?"
"Getting up."
Dean helped him to his feet, but he was still having an issue with dizziness and his first step almost had him going straight back down to the floor.
Dean's hands latched onto his biceps, keeping him on his feet, and he said, "Okay, you need to lay down for a while."
Sam shook his head, "No time."
"We got time, Sam. Rolanda hasn't even gotten back to you yet."
"Rowena." He responded, and it might have been from a recent lack of oxygen, but Sam couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of him as he corrected his brother.
"Right, Rochelle, that's what I said." Dean replied, and Sam looked at him as he was being pushed down to sit on the bed. Dean was grinning at him and he knew that last one was just his brother messing with him.
"Lay back, Sammy. Get a little rest."
Sam shook his head, but also wasn't fighting off the hands on his shoulders that were easing him in the direction of a mound of pillows that had suddenly appeared. It seemed like Dean had grabbed all of the pillows and piled them in that one spot and, damn, they felt good. And he was wiped the fuck out, so when Dean reached down to help him lift his legs onto the mattress, Sam didn't fight him on that either.
Dean's hand landed on his shoulder, "Let your system recover; get some rest, Sam."
He couldn't help nuzzling his face against the pillow as he gave the same reply as before, "We don't have the time—you don't have the time."
Dean sighed, "There is nothing you can do right now."
Rubbing a hand across his brow, Sam also sighed. "Let me see my phone."
Dean retrieved it from where it still sat near the bathroom doorway and handed it to him. Sam unlocked the screen and frowned down at the device when it showed a lack of notifications. Then, just to make sure, he went to his messages and opened the thread to Rowena. Nothing new. The last message was his picture to her of the glyphs.
Dean sat down on the side of the bed and watched him as he started a new message. I sent you a picture of some makings we found near the body of the which that cursed Dean. Did you get them?
Sam allowed himself to close his eyes as he waited for her reply. It was a relief when his phone buzzed in his hand not even a minute after.
I did.
Sam frowned at his phone. Are you still working on deciphering them?
Not exactly.
I sent them a couple hours ago, Rowena. This is important. What do they mean?
Patience, Samuel. I am aware of the urgency in this matter. It's a process but, not to worry. I'll get with you soon and you'll have your answer.
Sam's chest twisted with disappointment and frustration. He sighed and sent one more message. Please, Rowena. Hurry.
"No luck?"
Shaking his head, Sam sighed, "Not yet. She's still working on it."
Dean nodded and took the phone out of Sam's hand. "Then you have a little time. Rest for a few minutes."
He didn't want to, but at the same time, it's all he wanted to do. But he was the big brother now and, more than ever before, it was his job to watch out for Dean and to protect him and to keep him safe. How could he rest when he was losing his brother? It was a question he was using to fight off the sleep he knew he needed.
And it was working perfectly until Dean started playing dirty by brushing the hair back from his forehead, and then he did it again, saying, "Sleep, Sammy,"
Sam rubbed his face against the pillow and fixed his brother with a look, but Dean just smiled at him and smoothed his hand over his head again. Sam watched his brother's kind, affectionate smile for another few beats. The pull to close his eyes and just drift off to oblivion was almost impossible to resist. Dean was right; he was thoroughly taxed out, and he knew he needed a little rest. Especially if he was going to take on a coven of witches, solo.
"Hey," Sam blinked up at his brother. "Make you a deal."
Dean smirked, "What deal?"
"Come sit up here—" Sam thumbed the headboard next to him—"and I'll close my eyes for a while."
Dean gave him a look and Sam was fully prepared to nag his brother into the ground if he had to. He knew Dean would have a problem with it, but the way Sam figured, if his brother was sitting right next to him, he'd be able to fall into a light doze, knowing if Dean moved, it would be enough to rouse him. No way could he let himself fall asleep. Not when there was a huge chance Dean could decide to go on another walkabout. He'd already been through that once today and was not willing to take the chance of losing his brother, again.
Sam waited for Dean to respond and was ready to get back up if he refused, but to his utter astonishment, his brother shrugged and bounced up onto the bed beside him.
Dean reached over him to grab the remote of the nightstand and turned on the tv. Without looking at him he said, "Hey; I'm honoring my side of the agreement." Dean looked down at him, "Close your eyes, Sammy."
"… You just killed their brother. They'd sooner use your skin as an outfit."
Sam smiled at Rowena's declaration, and then held up the gun loaded with witch-killing bullets. "They can try." Rowena just looked at him without comment, and he took that as his cue to leave.
Closing the door to the Impala, Sam cranked the ignition and listened to the car wake up with a loud growl. He sat there for a second and waited for the growl to ease into a hearty purr and then he popped the transmission into reverse and backed out of the parking space. He was just about a mile down the road before the nagging, gnawing feeling of unease started to win him over and he whipped the car around into a squealing U-turn. He'd left without telling Dean.
The way things were going, it probably didn't matter much. There was an excellent chance that Dean had already forgotten that Sam was going anywhere—if he remembered him at all. But what bothered Sam even more was the thought of Dean coming out of the bathroom and finding Sam gone, forgetting who Rowena was, and freaking out. It was all a small chance, but his gut told him to take the extra few minutes and do it right.
Pulling the car into the same space he'd vacated less than five minutes ago, Sam killed the engine and headed back into the motel room.
"Back so soon?" Rowena's mockingly-sweet voice sang out as soon as he opened the door. Ignoring her, his eyes skipped around the small area, but he came up short.
Sam pointed at the closed bathroom door, asking, "He's still in there?"
Giving him a snort, the witch gestured around the room, saying, "Well, you don't see him out here, do ya?"
Leveling a look at her, Sam went to the door. He stood close and listened for a bit, but he wasn't hearing anything. Nothing but silence came from the other side.
"Dean?" He asked and leaned closer to the door. "Hey, Dean?" Sam called again and knocked.
The silence stretched on and Sam tried the handle. It was locked. He was positive he didn't lock it earlier when he'd left Dean in the bathroom. He knew this for certain, because he remembered being concerned that his brother might not know how to get out—even if it was locked from the inside. Sure, Rowena could have zapped the door with a little magic and Dean would have been freed, but Sam would really prefer to keep Rowena's spell work down to a minimum. Especially if he wasn't going to be around.
Sam knocked on the door harder, "Dean, I need you to answer me."
Still, there was no sound from the other side. Rowena had crept up beside him and looked up at him with honest-to-God concern in her eyes. And that didn't do anything toward easing his own nerves. He turned and pounded his fist against the door. "Dean, answer me or I'm coming in!"
The door rattled and banged within its frame from the force of the blows, but it did nothing to get a response out of his brother. A small, delicate hand touched the side of his elbow and he looked down at the witch again. They shared the same uneasy look, and then Sam moved her back a couple of steps and threw his weight against the door.
There was loud pop and then the door swung open, Sam rushing in right after it. And that's when he found Dean in the corner, on the floor, knees drawn up with his arms covering his head and muttering to himself, "I don't know... I don't know… I don't know..."
Sam took in his brother's mental state for a second. The amount of regression that had occurred in the last ten minutes was worse than the last twenty-four hours combined. It shoved a blade of fear right through him and his hand moved under its own will, patting his pocket and making double-sure he had a working inhaler on him.
He took a second to think about how he wanted to proceed and then moved forward, crouched down in front of Dean, grabbing his shoulders on the way down. If his brother knew he was there or felt his touch, he didn't show it. He just kept muttering, "I don't know," to himself, over and over again.
"Dean," Sam called and squeezed his shoulders.
The inside of his leg brushed against his brother's shin as he took a knee directly in front of him. Leaning to the side, so he could see Dean's face, Sam squeezed his shoulders in a firmer grip and called him again.
"Dean." The muttering halted and Sam waited to see what would happen next.
His brother lifted his head, locking their gazes with eyes that were bloodshot and frantic. His face damp from tears and panic sweats, pinched with confusion. His eyes scoured Sam's face for a brief moment and then on a hitched breath he whispered, "I don't know…"
Rubbing a hand up and down Dean's arm, Sam spoke to him in a tone he saved for traumatized kids. "What don't you know?"
"I don't… I don't…" Dean looked past him, and Sam followed his brother's gaze to the mirror above the sink.
Sam looked back at him and waited for him to continue, but he'd zoned out on him. Using a light touch, Sam cupped Dean's chin in his hand and directed his attention back to him, "Hey. Look at me." Green eyes skipped back to meet hazel, and again Sam asked, "What don't you know?"
"My… I…," Dean frowned and then leaned forward, whispering like he was about to spill the world's most sensitive secret. "I don't know… my name. My name. I can't… I don't…"
Dean broke off. His breathing turned shallow again and Sam worked to head off another panic attack. He grabbed his brother by the back of the neck and squeezed, speaking a command they'd both heard countless times ever since they were little. "Hey. Eyes on me."
There was a slight hesitation, but then his brother locked onto his gaze again.
Sam took a breath. "Dean. Your name is Dean."
Dean tested it out on his lips and then looked back at him, "My name is…"
"Dean." They spoke in unison and Sam smiled. "Yes. Your name is Dean. Dean Winchester. Your mother is Mary and I'm Sam."
"Dean…," A small smile crept onto his brother's face, "Dean Winchester." He looked back at him, "And, you're…"
"Sam." Again, they answered in stereo. "Right." Sam smiled at him.
Dean was quiet, and his brow pinched in concentration. Then he looked up at him apologetically, and asked, "H-how do I know you?"
It must have been one of the most terrible questions he's ever heard. His heart cinched and crumbled into dust, but he did his best to force an easy-going smile, "I'm your brother."
Dean smiled back at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "We're brothers?"
Sam grinned and this time didn't have to force it as much, "Yeah, we are."
He stood up and offered a hand. Dean took it and Sam pulled him up off of the floor. They stood there for a minute, Dean's eyes searching his again, and he said, "Brothers."
Sam confirmed it and, with a grin, landed a hand on Dean's shoulder. He held the door open for his brother and Dean was about to walk through, but then he stopped next to Sam and looked up at him. "I'm guessing you're older, since you're…" and gestured at his height.
Sam laughed, "Yeah. Not so much."
"Nononono… Brother." Sam shouted, then he pointed down the stairs at Boyd Loughlin, "Witch."
There was no pause or hesitation. Dean swung his aim around and shot Boyd in the heart.
Sagging in relief, Sam leaned against the bannister to catch his breath. Dean looked up at him and gave him a goofy thumbs up, and Sam decided dropping down to sit on the steps for a minute was well within his rights. After all, his brother did almost deliver a witch-killing bullet directly into his heart.
Dean looked at him and then a soft moan from the far wall drew his brother's attention. Rowena was picking herself up from the floor and Dean trotted over to give her a hand. Helping her to right herself, Dean asked, "You okay?" And brushed her down a little.
Rowena was adjusting her jacket and stopped to look at him. She paused, but then she smiled—and if Sam wasn't crazy… and if he wasn't seeing things—he saw a genuine, kind smile.
"No worse for wear, I guess," Replied the witch and then she patted his brother on the arm, "What do you say we go put all your puzzle pieces back where they belong?"
Dean looked at her like she was talking a different language, and Sam got up and jogged down the stairs.
"Hey," Sam said and put his arm around his brother's shoulders, steering him toward the stairs. "C'mon. There's something up there you've got to see."
Dean's eyebrows shot up, "Yeah? Is it cool?"
"Oh yeah," Sam smiled, and nodded, "So cool."
Pushing open the door to the study, Sam cast a glare at the dead butterflies over in the corner, and then ushered his brother into the room. Rowena slipped in behind them and strode over to where Gideon Loughlin lay dead. For a moment, Sam thought she was about to verbally whip the witch straight into a second death, but instead, she only gave him a salty smirk and walked past.
Rowena's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas as they fell up on the book. "There it is," She whispered, stalking toward it and stroked a hand over its pages as she rounded the podium where it lay open. "You can't even begin to imagine the power scribed upon these pages."
"Yeah, well, find us the right power and use it." Sam replied, lowering his brother into the chair he himself had been tied to not ten minutes ago. "And, you might want to hurry," Sam took a knee in front of his brother and grabbed his arm, "Dean's not looking so good."
Rowena's trance on the book lifted long enough for her to cast a glance their way and then she started flipping through the pages, "We're running out of time."
"Yeah," Sam frowned at the zoned-out expression on Dean's face. He looked almost catatonic. Reaching up to wipe away a line of saliva that ran down from the corner of his brother's mouth, Sam said, "I'm getting that."
Is it cool? That had been the last words his brother had spoken. Just after that, they were halfway up the stairs when Sam just about fell over him—one foot halted on the next step, Dean had been frozen. Ushering him on, had been easy enough, but now Sam could tell his brother had completely checked out.
Another wave of saliva started to spill over Dean's lips, but then it got sucked back when he took a breath in. Sam was just thinking that things were about to get worse when Dean inhaled again and started choking on his spit.
Cursing, Sam jumped to his feet. He grabbed Dean, pulling him out of the chair, and laid him on the floor. He was laying him onto his side, when Dean coughed and gasped. Turning his face toward the floor, Sam shoved a couple of fingers into his brother's mouth and swept the back of his throat, "Hurry, Rowena; he's not swallowing."
"I'm working as quickly as I can."
Sam massaged his brother's throat, trying to get his reflexes to help him to swallow. "Can't you just make the book show you?"
Rowena threw him a glare, "I could if I knew the name of the bloody spell!"
Sam laid himself down on the floor and looked into his brother's vacant stare. "Come on, Dean. You're stronger than this." He touched the side of his brother's face, "Think of off the shit you've lived through. All the impossible odds you've overcome. Don't let this beat you."
Dean's answer to that was to start choking on air.
"Nononono…" Sam took his brother into his arms. He kept his face turned and laid his neck over his arm, "Breathe, Dean. Breathe—Rowena!"
"I'm close—"
"He can't breathe—Dean! DEAN!" Sam watched his brother's eyes roll up and then his body went still. "NO!" Sam hollered and laid Dean back out on the floor. "C'mon, Dean!" Sam shouted, "Breathe!"
But there was no response. Sam did one more finger sweep to make sure his airway was clear, and then tipped Dean's head back and closed off his nose. He breathed for him and then looked across the room, "Rowena!"
"I think... yes! I have it!"
Sam wanted to shout at her to hurry the hell up, but instead, he pressed his mouth against his brother's and forced air into his lungs.
The chanting from across the room started out low. Picking up speed, Rowena began speaking louder. Sam blew another breath into Dean's lungs as she shouted something in another language.
A purple light saturated the room and he was about breathe for his brother again when a force pushed out from Dean and launched Sam across the floor.
His ears were ringing, and he was being shaken. Grunting, Sam cracked his eyes open, and then he smiled. Leaning over him, was Dean. He was saying something. Sam's bell was still rung, so he didn't have a clue what it was. Even so, his grin grew even bigger.
Dean stopped and looked at him like he was crazy. No two ways about it, Dean was wearing his patented "I'm worried about you/what the hell did you do to yourself" scowl. It was just about the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Laying his head back against the floor, Sam draped an arm across his eyes and released a barking laugh of relief.
He was still chuckling to himself when he felt Dean's hands capture his face. His head was lifted, and a hand explored the back of his head. Sam opened his eyes and laid a hand on Dean's arm, "I'm okay."
Dean stopped his evaluation but didn't release the hold he had on his head. He studied him, and then said, "Are you sure? Because you're behaving like you've got some head trauma going on."
Sam grinned, "I'm fine. Just relieved."
Dean frowned down at him for another moment, and then must have been satisfied because then he was getting hauled up to his feet.
Sam looked him over and asked, "How about you? You okay?"
"Uh, yeah," Dean looked himself over and grinned, "I think so."
Sam stared at him, still not completely certain… "What's your favorite dessert?"
Dean smiled, "Pie."
"Who's the only member of ZZ Top without a beard?"
Dean laughed, "Sammy, c'mon."
Sam challenged him with a raised eyebrow.
Challenge accepted, Dean's eyes narrowed into thin slits, "Frank Beard."
Sam looked him over again, and asked, "Who were the first television couple to be shown in bed together on prime-time television?"
"Fred and Wilma Flintstone."
"What singer/actor gave Marilyn Monroe a white poodle named Mafia?"
"Frank Sinatra."
"Which movie shows a flushing toilet for the first time on-screen?"
"Psycho."
Sam paused and sized his brother up. "What's Johnny Depp afraid of?"
Dean cracked a big, toothy smile and then Sam was grabbed and pulled in for a crushing hug, "Clowns."
Enveloped into his brother's embrace, Sam looked over Dean's shoulder and saw Rowena standing close behind. She smiled at him and this time Sam wasn't so surprised to see genuine kindness in the gesture. Giving him a wink, she slipped past and walked out of the room. Dean's hand came up to cup the back of his head, and closing his eyes, Sam returned the embrace.
Just like so many other times, evil had almost caused him to lose his brother. The most important thing in the world to him was seconds from being snuffed out. It had kicked and screamed and tried its damnedest to tear them apart.
They won this time.
They might not the next time.
But, for right then, Sam had his brother back and the only thing he wanted to think about at that very moment was putting Dean behind the wheel of his car and heading home.
Well, that and maybe buy him a pie on the way.
Fin.