Thank you so much for the reviews and to all those who have added it to story alerts, I'm new to fan fiction, so I didn't realise the limit on story notes so I had to cut short them short at the beginning.

Take My Breath Away, is a four-chapter story, and will be posted on a weekly basis. It was my first ever story, written last year and originally posted on another site under my old pename – Janger. I do hope you enjoy the rest of the story and I would love to hear your views if you have time to leave a review.

Lots of hurt and disorientated Dean in this one…

Take My Breath Away by Impaladreams

Chapter 2

As Dean closed the door behind him and set out on his Laundromat mission, Sam leant back against the headboard allowing his head to roll stiffly from side to side, his good hand gingerly prodding at his newly dressed head wound. His eyes scrunched as shooting pains gleefully joined the dull ache that filled his entire head. A groan escaped from his lips as he allowed his defences to collapse, he was vaguely surprised at how easily he had escaped his brother in Mother Hen mode.

Leaning forward, Sam swung his long legs onto the floor, his bare toes gripping into the deep pink carpet as a wave of dizziness engulfed him. 'Whoa! Head rush.' He sucked in a deep breath waiting for the room to slow down, eyes screwed tightly shut. As the room stilled he reached behind for his t-shirt and pulled it carefully over his still damp hair, slipping into his boxers as he surveyed the room with a new sense of discomfort.

He rose slowly, padding silently towards the bathroom, and once inside, he bent and retrieved his discarded jeans and grimy T-shirt, balancing them under his cast clad arm as he poured a glass of water at the plastic marbled sink.

He grimaced as he studied his reflection, unable to resist another probe at the dressing and turned his head to the side noting the scratches and now fading bruises on his neck. They'd been sustained at the bridge in Guthrie several days before, attacked by another of the 'Special' children the Yellow-eyed Demon had plans for. Sam frowned, worrying again just exactly what that meant.

Turning to leave he noticed the pink and white, lace clad doll that sat impassively on the toilet cistern, her legs impaled into the spare toilet roll, hidden by her layered dress. 'Why would…' He left the thought unfinished, shaking his head in bewilderment as he retraced his steps and flopped onto his bed, shuddering at the feel of the scratchy lace as it rustled beneath him. He quickly placed the water glass onto the nightstand and shrugged into his crumpled jeans.

Wincing, he reached across for the first aid kit lying open on his brothers' bed, sighing in relief as his searching fingers grasped the Tylenol bottle. He glared at the safety lid as he unsuccessfully tried to prise it open, unable to manage the press and twist one-handed. Frowning, he gripped the bottle between his knees and pressed down twisting and was rewarded after the third attempt with a click as the lid came free.

"Child-proof? More like Fort Knox," he grumbled to no one in particular, shaking out three tablets and swallowing them down, leaving the bottle lidless on the side.

Flipping the lid open on his laptop he settled onto the bed, his thoughts tuning in to research mode as he began his daily downloads.

*******

Soft snores accompanied the drone of the washing machines and steady rush of the water heater as Dean, exhausted, succumbed to sleep. He drifted deeper and deeper; head lolling to one side, breath low and steady. His eyelids twitched as vague thoughts and images flickered through his head just beyond his reach, his subconscious struggling to catch and hold onto them.

He never heard the click and beeps that signalled the end of the wash cycle, the steady snoring and trail of saliva tracking down his stubbled jaw, giving testament to his heavy slumber.

The harsh strains of Jimi Hendrix, Purple Haze, pierced the still air rocketing Dean forward, disorientated, but catching himself as he stumbled from the chair. Numb fingers scrabbled in his pocket to locate his phone, the source of the noise, his other hand supporting him against the top-loader.

Flipping the lid to silence the tones he staggered back into the chair as a wave of nausea rushed over him. "Ya' hello." He managed, as he dropped his head into his free hand, raking it through his hair.

"You get lost or laid, dude? What happened to the coffee and donut run?" Sam's low drawl emitted from the phone, the light tone failed to conceal the concern behind his words.

"Aah, shoot!" Dean grimaced as he pulled in deep breaths, pressing against his temples to try and relieve the pounding headache that'd taken up residence in his head. "Sorry, Sammy, I fell asleep. I'm still in the laundry room…Whoa, a little dizzy here, I musta stood up too fast." He blinked to clear his vision, "Just gimme a minute I'll put the dryers on then I'll head on out and pick up some breakfast. How's the head and arm, Dude?"

"Don't sweat it, I'm fine." Sam paused, "Look, you stay there and sort out the dryers; I'll head out and grab us breakfast. I could use a walk to clear my head."

"'Kay, Sammy, s'fine with me." He slurred, half awake. "Super-size me on the coffee will ya? Later, Dude." Dean leant back, snapping the phone shut and returning it to his pocket as the room slowly stopped revolving.

Dean scrunched his eyes, shaking his head as he tried to clear it. 'I think I need some fresh air.' He headed towards the door, blinking in the bright sunlight as he shielded his eyes, yawning deeply in the crisp morning breeze.

The sound of a door pulling to brought his gaze round to where his brother stepped from room 29 onto the boarded walkway. "Here, you take the key." Sam smiled as he took in the bleary eyed vision before him. "Dude, you look like the recently risen dead. Go get some sleep, I'll sort out the washing."

Dean scratched at his stubble, "Nah, I'm good. Go get me coffee, I'm dyin' here!" He took the proffered keys from Sam's outstretched hand. "Don't be long and don't talk to strangers!" He called at Sam's receding back as his brothers' long strides increased the distance between them, smirking he turned and retraced his steps into the warm, stuffy washroom.

Yawning, he bent and picked up the plastic basket, wondering how one body could possible contain so many aches. He ferried the damp clothes across to the two huge dryer units, feeding coins into the timer pay slots. The sudden click, hum and rumble sounded loud in the quiet room. Reaching for the wooden key fob discarded on the low table, he read aloud the name charred into the wood below the #29, "Strawberry Shortcake Suite." 'I guess young Muriel musta gotten her suites mixed up!' He thought wearily.

Again a wave of nausea swept over him and he sat and gagged, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth waiting for it to pass, his shaking hand snaked up to his forehead rubbing small circles to ease the pain. 'Maybe it's somethin' I ate.' He wondered, trying without luck to recall any of the many micro meals he'd heated up at the myriad of mini-marts they had stopped by. 'Oh God, so not a good idea thinking of food.' He swallowed thickly, 'Guess I'll just wait here for that coffee.' He decided, unwilling to face the pink and white horror-scheme that lurked behind the doors of #29. Carefully he dragged his chair and bags over to the back wall, stopping in front of the huge glass doors of the dryers and settled down to wait.

Leaning back, he relaxed, breathing deeply, watching the ever-changing patterns as the clothing rotated, twisting, tumbling over and over on their seemingly never-ending journey. Dean smiled as his mind wandered, 'Man. How many times did dad leave me to do the laundry? Then come down hours later, to find me fast asleep?' He mused, 'He'd give me rocks every time…I never could stay awake in a washhouse!'

His head nodded gradually to the left, coming to rest against the white plank door as he slowly drifted further from the shores of consciousness. Suppressed memories rose unbidden as they slipped the reins of his control, his already damaged defenses crumbling readily. On the other side of the white plank door, the powerful, newly serviced boiler once again flashed to life in an attempt to meet the morning rush for hot showers.

***

Sam exited the motel reception and trotted down the low steps, smiling as he replayed his brothers' recent trip. Muriel had turned out to be a seventy two year old Charmer, who'd answered Sam's request for directions with the low-down on the entire main street. Details of where to go and what would be open on an early Sunday morning now filled Sam's head as he headed briskly around the front of the motel, left hand disappearing momentarily into his inside pocket to return seconds later clutching his prized chopstick. He eyed it with satisfaction, pulled up his jacket sleeve and inserted it into his cast with the care of a surgeon making his first incision.

Scratching contentedly, he surveyed the silent scaffolding, 'At least there won't be the noise from half a dozen workmen, we should be able to get a decent sleep.' Turning his head to the side to read the large board that rested against the motels' outer wall. 'Far Horizons Motel, All the Comforts of Home in a Stylish, Modern, Air Conditioned Atmosphere. Daily/Weekly Rates Available. You're Always Guaranteed a Warm Welcome.' He chuckled to himself, 'Well, I might have to query the 'Stylish', then again I guess it is a style, just not one anyone in their right mind would want to live with.'

He lengthened his stride as he cleared the parking lot and headed into town, thoughts now focused on coffee and donuts.

Behind the motels' new sign, which had been propped there on the Tuesday in preparation for its imminent erection, the boiler room vent struggled against the obstacle, unable to clear the fumes, which had been gradually building all week. The only alternate source of escape was beneath the white plank door and into the washhouse where Dean now lay, unaware of the deadly poison that coursed, ever stronger through his veins, slowly surrounding him, invisible, odorless, silent, deadly.

***

The concentration levels of carbon monoxide within the poorly ventilated washroom rose without detection, slipping unseen through the cracks and gaps beneath the door. Lethal in its' anonymity, it gave no clue as to its presence. Impassive, merciless and ruthless, it selected its victims without discrimination.

Had there been anyone there to observe the scene, they would have seen nothing amiss. No sense or indication of the insidious threat that seeped its' way through unseen places, silently wrapping the unwary hunter in its' deathly embrace as he sprawled in seemingly peaceful repose. Dean rode the borderlands between deep sleep and unconsciousness as the carbon monoxide that impregnated the air, joined with the hemoglobin in his blood, willingly taking the place of the life-giving oxygen that his muscles so badly craved.

A closer observation would have revealed the flickers and frowns that rippled across his face, creasing his brow, soft breath catching in his throat as he struggled to escape the dreamland that now held him prisoner. The nightmares and memories that woke him every night, that left him gasping for air, weak and shaking as he desperately tried not to wake his brother, who lay silently pretending to sleep in whatever seedy motel room they called home for the night. Those same nightmares now held him captive, unable to break back through the veil to consciousness, to safety.

***

"Dammit, Dean! Where in Hell's name's Sammy? I left you here with two simple tasks, do the laundry and look after your brother." The angry voice of his father brought him leaping to his feet, fists rubbing eyes that took seconds to focus on the glowering giant, standing menacingly before him. Panic flared as the otherwise deserted laundry room swam into view.

"Dad, I…Shit! Sammy? He was here. I swear to God, I…" Dean stammered to the retreating back of his father as he turned on his heel and slammed open the door.

"Don't you cuss, boy? There'll be time to hear your sorry excuses later. Now get out here and help me to look for your brother!"

Dean, stumbled out on to the quiet street, "Jeez, Sammy, where'd you go?" He muttered under his breath, glancing about the street. "Dad, I'm sorry, he was reading. I was…"

"Hey, Daddy, when'd you get back?" The delighted, high-pitched voice of his nine-year-old brother came floating across the sidewalk as he bounced happily towards them carrying two ice-creams cones.

"Sammy, what the…? Where did you…?" Dean's queries were left unanswered.

"Sammy! Thank God!" The elder Winchesters' angry voice flooded with relief. "Just where have you been, you can't just wander off, it's not safe."

"Dad, I'm not a little kid anymore!" Sam interrupted, "I wanted to surprise Dean. Here, Dean. It's for you." Sam smiled as he thrust one of the dripping cones into the hand of his big brother. "You want this one, Daddy?" His wide eyes smiled disarmingly up at his now deflated father.

"No, Kiddo. You have it, son." He shook his head, amazed at how easily his younger son could knock the wind from his sails. "Don't you ever do that again, Sammy? Anything could've happened to you. Now go get your school bag and come upstairs."

He turned to his eldest, "You, get back in there and sort out those clothes. I'll deal with you later."

"Yessir! Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep, it was only for a minute, I swear." His fathers' icy glance silenced him. Eyes cast dejectedly to the floor, Dean pushed his way back into the now silent washhouse, and glared at the cone in his fist as sticky ice cream trickled down the sides. Angrily, he threw it into the waste bin by the door, wiping his hands on his jeans as he went to retrieve the wash load.

Dean stirred in the wicker chair, reliving the past, old emotions rising to the surface, feeling again the anger, the guilt and jealousy, mixed with a wild hope that his 'daddy' was still alive. Even if it was just to berate him for his failures.

Again, the scene changed.

Time had no meaning as he sat outside his burning family home, staring into the distance as flames jumped and leapt behind him. He could still feel the heat against the side of his head as he sat quaking on his fathers' lap cradling his baby brother in his arms. Rocking, silently feeling his heart freeze inside his chest, knowing that something bad had happened, that something had been taken away from him in the flames he'd seen reflected in his fathers' eyes. In the screams he'd heard as he ran from the house, stumbling with the weight of his brother.

He held on tight to the two things he had left in the world, his father, whose strong arms encircled him, who buried his face into his eldest sons hair as he tried to stifle the faltering sobs that wracked him, and his brother, his Sammy. "Mommy?" He barely breathed the word, for fear the world would shatter at the sound. Silently, he bit his lip as the tremors started to course through him, he clutched more tightly at the blanket wrapped bundle in his arms. "Mommy?" His lower lip began to quiver as the terror and shock set in. It was the last word he spoke for six months.

Silent tears escaped from between his closed lids as the unbearable pain of that most terrible of days tore through him, afresh.

The floodgates of his past now stood prised firmly open, forming a gateway for nightmares and memories that were still too raw to deal with.

He winced, hearing words from his fathers' mouth in a voice that was not his fathers, as he laid bare all his faults, failings and weaknesses in front of Sam, shattering his outer walls as if they were made of tissue paper. Feeling his heart crushed by the demon that had controlled his father in those awful, terrifying minutes in the cabin in the woods.

Flashing forwards to the hospital where he had lain, dying, vague memories that danced beneath the surface of his consciousness that held horrors he could only half remember even in his dreams.

Again, his fathers low voice, this time so full of love, telling him how proud he was of him, telling him to look after Sam, telling him goodbye and then the voice breaking as he told him how he might have to kill his baby brother if he couldn't save him.

He struggled to keep the panic at bay. It was always there now, just beneath the surface. He couldn't let Sam know, he couldn't believe his father had put this on him. Had made him promise, with what would be his fathers dying words. He couldn't believe his dad was dead, had left him to deal with it all, had given up his life, a life spent fighting monsters, hunting down the yellow-eyed beast that had killed his wife, only to end his life by making a deal with that very same demon.

Dean felt the guilt crash around him. His dad; strong, powerful, invincible, brought low, and reduced to begging to save his eldest sons life. A life he felt was not worthy of his dads', knowing his father was now suffering for all eternity in the fiery pits of hell.

"Oh, God, please no more, make it all go away! Sammy!" He screamed silently, begging for release as the visions flittered through his mind, some playing in vivid details, others vague feelings, like shadows that teased from the boundaries of his mind.

Their first werewolf hunt together, that had gone so horribly wrong, Sam holding him down, gripping his hand, trying to keep him still as his father dug the bullet from his thigh, then sewed him back together again. He could still taste the leather belt they had given him to bite down on to stop his screams.

He struggled up towards the surface, panic increasing his heart rate, his breaths coming faster, each breath stealing a little more oxygen from his blood. "Sammy? Please, don't leave me here. Sammy?"

He felt it before he heard it, as the phone in his pocket began to vibrate, 'Jimi Hendrix', Purple Haze' calling to him across the battlefield of his mind. It gave him a point to aim for; he called on all his reserves, fighting the lethargy that had overwhelmed him.

His head lolling backwards as his eyelids flickered open, head pounding, eyes swimming as a wave of nausea again swept over him, uncoordinated his arm twitched but failed to respond to the command to pick up his phone, falling useless at his side. His stomach muscles twisting as cramps ripped through his body, muscles denied the oxygen they needed to function properly. He pitched forward, doubled up as a tremor ran the length of his body and gravity took over, sending him tumbling to the floor and landing with a crack on the laundry basket, which shattered against the sudden assault.

The darkness claimed him as the first convulsions wracked his body, blood running from his nose and split lip where they had contacted the floor. A long drawn out, groan escaped his lips as he lay unconscious, shuddering, jerking uncontrollably, and slowly dying.

Chapter Ends

Same time next week! Please let me know what you think of it so far… sorry about the cliffie!