Hey, I know, two pre-story shout outs in a row. Please forgive my obstructiveness! ! I just wanted to really thank sammynanci and jack62192 for their continuously awesome reviews, not to mention all the guests who reviewed as well. They are all getting cookies. Everybody else, I'm sorry, but no. You missed your chance. Haha, but redeem yourselves this chapter! If I don't get enough reviews, I will never ever finish this story and then I will cry. Don't make me cry.

Anyway, as the great Monty Python creators say…

GET ON WITH IT!

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PREVIOUSLY:

Dean's eyes shot open and he gasped, writhing on the floor. His arm was snapping and cracking back into place, all in milliseconds, but to him it seemed much slower. His eyes rolled in his head, nerves writhing and spasming in agony.

Finally, his brain decided he could take no more. He let the darkness capture him, pulling him under like a sailor drowning at sea.

A typical Winchester Monday.

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Sam watched his brother sleep. Dean's breaths were deep and calm now, the pain dissolved from his features. Sam leaned back in his chair, settling in. He wouldn't leave this bedside. He brought a calloused hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted, but there was no way he was going to fall asleep. Dean looked so helpless, so drawn, he couldn't stand it. He scanned the room, ever alert, triple checking to make sure everything was all right. Bobby sat in the corner, snoring loudly, an empty scotch bottle by his side. Cas had stayed long enough to zap them all back to the motel room. He had helped Sam support Dean and carry him onto the bed. After that, he had vanished.

Sam sighed, shifting his position on the old chair. His eyelids were heavy, and his head started bobbing. He shook himself, sitting up and clearing his throat. He tried to make himself uncomfortable, which wasn't hard considering his massive shoulders were twice as wide as the back of the chair. Still, his body was worn out, and Sam found himself drifting.

The moment he shut his eyes, he was back at the warehouse. Smoke poured from the windows, and he could hear his heartbeat quicken.

'Where are they?' he searched frantically, feeling helpless. 'Cas should have been out by now! Something's wrong.'

He was running, as he had before, around the building, looking for them, for anyone. 'DEAN!' he shouted.

Sam doubled back to where he and Cas had been before. 'CASTIEL!?" he called desperately. This was taking too long. Cas just needed to find them and bring them back out. Where were they!? Sam punched the trash can.

Everything was surreal in his dream state. The sky was a menacing purple, and the whole thing was blurry. He couldn't run fast enough, his legs wouldn't work. His eyes were closed, and then open again. The smoke was grabbing at his clothing, pushing him closer to the fire. He needed his brother. He needed Dean.

Sam knew he was dreaming, but felt totally out of control. Usually, when he had nightmares, he could fend for himself; try to control the course of action. But this? This was just a replay, and it was haunting him.

Sam looked up at the top floors, expecting to see, as he had that day, nothing but thick black smoke seeping form the building like pus from a wound. But this time, what he saw was thick, red liquid, oozing and cascading down the brick- Blood, seeping from every crack, every window. He watched in horror, legs unable to move or to help, as his brother's body, bloody and mangled, appeared before him. Dean sat up, his face a mess of flesh and blood, metal scraps slicing through his skull. Dean's bloodshot eyes were bulging, oozing their way out of his head.

"WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME, SAM?" he glared at Sam, menacing. Red strands of bloody flesh and drool spewed from his mouth with every word. Sam wanted to vomit and run away, but he couldn't. He was cemented in place. All he could do was suffer through it. God, how he was suffering...

"Dean! I'm so sorry! Please, Dean. Please! I didn't-" Sam couldn't speak, he was too quiet, his throat unable to function. Everything was bloody and smelled like burning flesh.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT SAM. YOU KILLED MOM. YOU KILLED DAD. YOU KILLED JESSICA. YOU KILLED ME." Dean's ghastly face was inches away, screaming, yelling, accusing. Sam could feel himself deflating. He was begging now.

"Please…Dean…I love you…please…no…I didn't ever…no, Dean…God, please…you're my brother…Dean…" Tears were pouring down his face, his heart literally in pain. His chest and throat were burning. Sam felt the weight of the world crashing down on him. Never had he felt so alone, so useless, so much of a monster. He screamed into the fire. He begged for forgiveness, he bawled for it. He was so sorry, so guilty. Dean just laughed- just laughed and bled. Dean's face was melting now, and his sickening laughter turned into agonized shrieks.

"WHY, SAM? WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?! WHY?"

"DEAN! G-GOD PLEASE! D-DEAN I AM S-SO SORRY!" Sam couldn't speak or breathe through the tears. The nightmare was so real, the fire actually started to burn him. He felt the heat on his skin. The guilt crashed into him like waves. The flames stole the air from the room, and his breaths came shallower and shallower.

Dean's melting and gurgling shrieks pushed him into a state of panic he hadn't known existed. Sam began hyperventilating, tears streaming down his burning face and eyes rolling wildly around in his skull. The pain in his chest was agonizing, and streams of fire danced up and down his left arm. He stopped being able to think, to act. He just sat there, in a puddle of his brother's blood, weeping. He wanted to die.

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Dean actually felt pretty good, all things considered. Sure he was a little sore, and man did he have to take a wiz, but everything was fine. He would be up and ready to go in a few hours to get going on Plan B for Operation Monster Mash. But for right now, he was content in his dreams.

Man, was he content.

The two lovely ladies on the poles were blowing him kisses and working what God (Thank you, Chuck!) gave them. Dean was especially fond of the one on the right with the little black lace strap that barely qualified as underwear. She was strutting towards him now. Oh, this was gonna be good. She leaned into him, lips over his in a second. He grinned under her sexy kisses. "Hey there, Big Daddy." She crooned, playing with his hair. She stretched one leg over his lap, straddling him firmly. She spread her long fingers over his chest, rubbing and caressing his firm torso. She smiled biting her lip.

Dean huffed under his breath. "Oh thank God for daddy issues."

He tilted his head back, that trademark grin splitting his face from ear to ear. Dean let out a deep sultry laugh, cut short by a sharp breath.

"Wo-hoo, there, girly...Jesus Mary and Joseph!" He gasped. Whoa. Best. Dream. Ever.

She was sliding her hand down, down, down, down, teasing, grabbing, rubbing, until finally she grabbed onto his-

"Dean."

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" Dean shot up, humiliated and fuming as his dream vanished around him in a cloud of mist. The Van Halen that had been pounding in the background faded into the background of his mind. Castiel stood there in his signature trench coat, staring obliviously at the red and flustered expression on Dean's face.

"Dean, you-"

Dean put his hand up, silencing the angel. "Dammit, Cas! What have I told you about personal space? And privacy! My dream, my rules. Get out." He sighed. "I was having a very interesting…conversation with that girl until you decided to …" he made an allover gesture with his hands, "…Pop in!"

Dean sighed. "Please, Cas, all I'm asking for is a little time to myself, comprende?"

"Yes, Dean I understand. And under any different circumstances I would gladly comply, but Sam-"

Dean closed the distance between them in a second. "Sam? Why? What's wrong with Sam?"

"The Aswang is still very much in control over him, and your brother is currently having another attack, which is why I entered your subconscious reverie to inform you that it is, in fact, time to wake up."

And with that, Castiel extended his hand to Dean's forehead, and playtime was over.

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"Dammit, boy! Talk to me! Son of a bitch!" Bobby was over Sam, now, who was writhing on the floor. His heartbeat was erratic and his breathing coming in short spurts. Bobby was pinning him down, trying to make sure he didn't hurt himself.

Bobby had been dozing lightly on the loveseat when bloodcurdling screams had launched him upright. He had jumped around, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Sam had been on the floor, crying and screaming. Bobby rushed over to him, trying to calm him down.

"DEAN!" he was screaming. "DEAN! PLEASE! I'M SO SORRY! GOD, NO!"

"Sam! Your brother's fine! Dean's fine! It's ok! Relax, boy! Wake up!"

But Sam couldn't hear him. Sam had started to hyperventilate, his heart beating out of rhythm and his eyes dilating. Bobby had seen hunters have panic attacks before, but this was bad. Really bad. He was going into full cardiac arrest. They were losing him.

"DAMMIT!" Bobby had grabbed a paper bag and tried to force Sam to breathe in and out, but he was barely even conscious. Sam just kept crying and yelling for forgiveness, Bobby could feel the pain and guilt in his sobs, and it brought tears to the old man's eyes. It must still be the Aswang. This thing was torturing him now, in the cruelest way possible.

"DEAN! PLEASE!" Sam was writhing and weeping, deep long cries that cut through Bobby's soul. He tried again desperately to wake him up, to tell him that everything was ok. But nothing could cut through Sam's veil. This thing was going to kill him from the inside out, and there was nothing anyone could do.

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Dean woke abruptly to the sound of his brother's desperate, pleading shrieks. Forgetting his exhaustion and his soreness, he threw the covers back and ran to his brother who lay miserably on the floor.

"Bobby!" He yelled over the wails. "What the hell is going on!?"

Bobby's relief at seeing Dean up and about was very short-lived. The eldest Winchester wasn't even trying to mask his frantic expression. Sam let out one last short, pitiful cry and then stopped. His eyes widened, and his shoulders gave one last violent shudder before going lax. Bobby and Dean exchanged wide-eyed looks before both men started shouting in Sam's face.

"SAM?" Dean slapped Sam in the face. "WAKE THE HELL UP, YOU OVERSIZED BASTARD!" Dean shook his brother's shoulders violently, praying for a response. None.

Bobby had one hand on Sam's jugular, searching desperately for a pulse and not finding one. "Sam!" he yelled. Sam's eyes were unseeing, his expression unchanging.

Bobby was sitting back now, one hand still protectively on the boys chest. Bobby was shaking a bit, thoughts running rapidly through his mind. Sam was gone. Sammy, one of the boys he had practically raised, was gone.

Dean was still yelling frantically for his brother, but his eyes were wet, too. "SAM!" he continued. His brother still lay there unresponsive, his breathing stopped.

"SAM!" he cradled his brother's face between his hand, slapping each cheek.

"Sam?" Dean leaned back, removing his shaking hands from his brother's body, unable to touch his cooling skin. The world was crashing around him, a vortex sounded in his ears.

"Sammy..."

He had failed his little brother, his baby brother who always depended upon him. All the memories, the hunts, the good and bad times. All the birthdays that Dean would celebrate for him, the shitty cakes he would try to bake, the presents he would steal. He only did it for the expression, that temporary look of innocence, when Sam's goofy smile would light up his whole face.

Now, Sam's face was still. His smile gone, his skin pale.

The fireworks Dean bought for the Fourth of July that one year, the Legos that he let Sam shove down the vent in the Impala; it was just to make Sam happy…to show him. To show him how much he was loved...

...Ssomething he couldn't tell him anymore.

Dean realized at that moment that he had never actually told Sam that he loved him, and that he was the greatest little brother in the whole world. He needed Sam to know that. Sam needed to know how much he loved him.

And that son of a bitch was going to hear it whether he liked it or not.

Dean's pained expression became one of complete determination, of unadulterated rage and instinctual drive. He punched the wall, splitting his knuckles and bleeding on the shit carpet. He cradled Sam for a split second, and then lowered him back onto the ground.

"Not good enough. Not goddamned good enough, Sammy." He adjusted Sam's airway and began chest compressions.

"Come on, you fuckin' sasquatch." He huffed between beats.

"27….28…29…30." He stopped, and delivered two rescue breaths. No way was he telling Sam that he gave him mouth to mouth. They would never be able to look at each other again.

"You are not going to die. Not today." He grunted. "Not tomorrow." Another compression. "Not ever."

"Bobby! Dammit, call 9-1-1." Bobby snapped out of his daze and picked up the phone. Dean could hear the hurried conversation in the background, but didn't care.

"27…28…29…30." Two more rescue breaths. Dean stopped, checking for a pulse or breathing. He found none, but knew not to stop. "Here we go again." Dean repositioned his hands and kept going.

Dean was so focused he didn't even notice the EMTs rushing into the motel room. When they tried to move him away from Sam, he flailed and fought, catching one square in the jaw. It took, two of them plus Bobby to drag him away and keep him calm. They checked Sam and continued compression, loading him onto the stretcher. They ripped his battered plaid shirt off and charged the paddles. Everything happened in a blur, and to Dean the whole scene was fuzzy. "Clear!" he heard far off in the distance. Dean didn't even register Bobby's warm hand on his back, trying in vain to reassure him. "Clear!" Dean's hand slid down into his pocket, fingers brushing against a piece of frayed string and a worn metallic charm, one Sam had given him many, many years ago. Sam thought he had thrown it out, but how could he? Of course Dean went back for it. It was his Christmas present…

The EMT was standing in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. "Sir? Sir will you be riding with him? Sir?" he sounded so far away, so out of focus. "Sir? Sir, are you going into shock? Sir?" He felt a pair of gloved hands grab his shoulders and force him into a sitting position on the bed. They shone a flashlight into his eyes. It was annoying, and he didn't have time for them to be fussing over him. Dean swatted their hands away and tried to tell them to focus on his brother. They wouldn't listen. Instead the two men kept poking and prodding him. Now, Dean was not in a good mood presently, and he very kindly knocked the two men against the wall in an effort to get to his brother. He followed the EMTs out to the ambulance and climbed into the back with them. They told him to leave and ride in a separate car to the hospital, that he was in no condition to ride with them, but Dean gave them a glare that made their blood freeze.

So, let's just say they all had a change of heart and let him come along for the ride.

Dean never took his eyes of his brother. The medics kept working on him, with no response. Dean could hear the driver radio them into the hospital.

"Pzzzt…I've got one Caucasian male, approximately six foot four inches, weighing roughly 200 pounds…pzzzt…massive coronary, unresponsive."

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean kept his fingers locked together, elbows on his knees, staring intently on the lifeless form that was his brother. The AED was leaving angry red welts on his chest, and the EMTs were giving each other quick looks, but not once did they stop working on him. Dean wouldn't have let them stop anyway.

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Finally, they arrived at the hospital. "It's about damn time," Dean mumbled aloud. He ran the whole stretch of the hall behind the gurney until the nurses had to tell him to stop.

"Sir," she tried at first kindly with a hint of firmness. He easily brushed past her. She hustled, calling to him as he moved. "Sir? Sir!" Dean ignored her, jogging to keep up with the gurney. "SIR!" the young blonde managed to get in front of him and place both hands on his chest, keeping him from entering the adjoining hallway. Hell, Dean was ready to throw on a surgical mask and invade the OR.

In the end, security had to be called to convince the Winchester to sit calmly in the waiting room. When Dean finally took a seat, he couldn't keep still at all. His hands were shaking and he bounced his legs up and down. He bent his head continually and rubbed his neck. Every four seconds he would glance at the clock. Where was his brother? Was everything ok? Why was this happening? How the hell coud Sam have a fucking heart attack? The kid was a damn health nut! That monster was gonna get Dean's boot shoved so far up its ass it was gonna taste leather! Dean wanted to grab the thing by the balls and-

"Dean?" Bobby hustled into the waiting room, car keys in hand. "I just parked right outside. Where is he? Where's Sam? Is he gonna be ok? What's going on? Did you talk to a doctor yet? Boy, is he-" a look from Dean sucked the last few words from his throat. It wasn't a hostile or withering glare, simply, the look of defeat.

Dean Winchester looked defeated and pained. That charming glint in his eye was gone, replaced by a dull cold fog. His expression was sad and deflated, his head hanging limply into his hands. "Bobby…I don't know what to do…" He managed to lift his head again long enough to look into the old hunter's eyes. He was searching for something- for anything to give him hope. He saw none.

Bobby fidgeted, uncomfortable and anxious. He had had to comfort Dean once or twice when things got really bad, but he'd never had to do it without bourbon. "Jesus, son…" he trailed off; the only support he could give was a warm, heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. He felt the deep, struggling breaths, every intake more difficult than the last, as he tried to contain his tears. "It's ok, son. Let it go. It's only you, me, and the chairs." And Dean took in one more breath and held it, feeling the tears burning the back of his throat. He was ready to let it flow, to collapse and surrender. He was so ready...but...

"No," he exhaled, shaking himself off and looking at the ceiling, determined not to cry. What would his father say? Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew exactly what his John would say.

He would tell Dean to man up, go get a gun, and kill whatever was pissing him off. And this thing was definitely pissing him off.

Kill it. That's exactly what Dean intended to do, and God be damned if he wasn't gonna do it right this time.

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PLEASE REVIEW! I know not a lot happened in this chapter, but that's because I needed a transition chapter. Next chapter will be badass, I swear! I will send sneak previews of the next chapter to anyone who sends me a really good review! Haha…maybe. Depends on how good the review is! That and Misha Collins! I will send a Misha Collins to whomever writes the best review!