Summary

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

Warnings

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

Characters

Sam, Dean and some Castiel.

Author's Note

Thanks for reading!

And thanks for reviewing, following and favoriting (with three exclamation points)

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Heartsick

Chapter Seven

The foot traffic in the hospital has begun to pick up. And the long stretches of time when Sam is alone in the hallway are all but gone away now. He was forced to get it together and stand back up as more and more people passing by had glanced down at him questioningly as he sat on the floor outside Dean's room. He's now leaned back against the wall beside the door, doing his best to look casual.

Castiel still has not emerged from his second trip into the room. And it feels like it's been forever.

Sam pushes out an impatient breath and looks down at his injured right hand. His knuckles are red and swollen and the skin is cracked open in one spot. Clenched into a fist the pain is not that bad but he knows he needs to see if it works okay. So taking a deep inhale he opens his hand up and spreads out his fingers.

His index finger and its neighbor put up most of the protest. He can't fully straighten them out and they throb like nobody's business. And they are swelling faster than the rest. One or both of them may be fractured. He's pretty sure the wall won that fight.

But in a strange way Sam welcomes the pain. It gives him something to concentrate on overcoming. Makes him feel like he has a goal that he has a shot of reaching. Because right now the score at helping his brother is Dean's heart damage a hundred and Sam Winchester a big fat zero.

Finally, Sam hears movement from the other side of the door. He swiftly stuffs his wounded hand in the pocket of his jeans. He's not really sure why but he doesn't want Cas to see it. His best guess is that their focus should be on the person lying in the hospital bed and not on him.

The sound proves to be what he suspected. Only a beat after his hand is tucked away the door opens and Castiel slips out into the hallway.

"So?" Sam manages to get out despite his suddenly parched throat and lips.

Cas glances around at the comings and goings of hospital staff and visitors in the corridor. Then turns back to Sam and pipes up.

"Perhaps we should speak somewhere a bit more private."

"Right. I saw a small waiting room with a door down on the left. Let's go there."

Castiel simply nods in agreement and they head down the hall. The silence is too much for Sam to take so he asks a question that won't raise any eyebrows should someone be within earshot.

"Is he awake?"

"Not yet. I have summarized the sedative they gave him was rather effective."

"Maybe that's for the best. It's not like he rests a lot. Certainly not last night. It was almost two in the morning when I found him and he had been working down in the garage before that. He hadn't been to bed yet at all."

"I am unclear. What exactly happened?" Cas questions. The tone is caring and not demanding.

"A noise woke me up and I couldn't get back to sleep. I didn't know what it was at the time but now I'm pretty sure it was Dean trying to make it to my room. Anyway, I was awake and decided to go do some research. I'm walking down the hall and there he is out cold on the floor. Cas, he wasn't breathing. It scared the shit out me. I can't lose him yet again. I just...can't. I'm done. Anyway, when he came around he told me he thought he was having a heart attack. So I rushed him here."

"Yes. The heart damage is pronounced. I was able to sense it immediately upon laying my hand on him."

"Yeah that's pretty much what the Doc told me," Sam replies as they arrive at the small waiting room. Finding it unoccupied Cas proceeds in followed by Sam who closes the door behind them. As soon as their chances of being overheard are squared away he speaks up.

"Talk to me. What's going on? What'd you find out?"

"We have a problem," Cas tells him in a matter of fact tone.

"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," Sam responds. There's a bit of unintended irritation in his voice. Castiel sets him with a confused look for a beat then verbally reacts.

"I don't understand. You asked if I discovered anything not to tell you what you wanted to hear. Oh wait. This is one of those questions that's not what it seems, right?"

"Cas, just tell me what you found," Sam replies with frustration coming to the surface of his voice.

"I couldn't see it in its entirety. But what I could gather is that the physical ailment in his heart is bound to the ailment inside his head. I could sense that his heart damage, although significant, is something I could resolve on its own but the emotional damage is etched into him very deeply and I do not believe my abilities are of the kind that can heal the physical aspect while the two are intertwined."

"So you can't just focus your healing on the physical then?"

"That's what I am trying to tell you. I did that. But the tether is incredibly strong. Almost tactile. One seems to be fueling the other. And the emotional damage is so entrenched, so branded onto him, that as long as they are bound I cannot heal him."

The words impact Sam like a punch to the gut. And the apologetic expression on Cas' face and the certainty in his eyes only delivers an even harsher blow.

"I tried everything I could think to try and I failed."

"No. You did your best. You have nothing to apologize for. I know that if you could you would fix him," Sam offers back in a soft but confident tone.

"I wish I had the ability to do so. I truly do."

"I know."

"Perhaps there is something more I can try," Cas says as a thoughtful expression washes over his face.

"What's that?"

'"I can check with my contacts and see if anyone has any insight. I have never seen anything like this before but maybe one of my counterparts has encountered it and knows a way around it."

"Thanks Cas."

"It is no trouble. I shall return as soon as possible. Until then call if you need me."

"Will do."

"Oh and Sam."

"Yeah."

"He's stubborn as they come. There's fight in him yet. Mark my words."

Sam nods his head in appreciation and understanding. And in the next breath Castiel is gone.

Sam's nod of agreement to Castiel's words is, for the most part, nothing more than a polite gesture. Beneath the surface he's beyond worried.

Cas is right to some degree though. Dean is stubborn as all hell. But what if it's not enough? What if his brother's fight is no match for this battle.

Suddenly the pain in Sam's wounded hand draws his attention back to it. He carefully pulls it from his jeans pocket and cradles it in his good hand in attempt quell the ache. But it helps little. He concedes he probably should have asked Cas to heal it since he won't be expelling any energy on Dean after all. But for some reason he's oddly attached to the pulse of pain radiating from it.

As the throbbing in his hand amplifies tenfold his stomach sways. He swallows down on the bile that rises up into his throat and threatens to expel itself from his mouth. But the intensity of it only persists and soon he's feeling dizzy. Sam takes a wobbly step backward to try and regain his equilibrium. Fortunately, his leg brushes against the chair which stands behind him so he realizes how close it is.

He gives in to the light headed-ness and drops into the seat. He hangs his head, clutches his wounded hand and tries to ride out the assault. It is a long string of minutes before it relents and by its end Sam is exhausted from the effort. He's also frustrated. He can't seem to keep it together even though that might be the only thing he has to offer Dean.

He decides in that moment he will not forfeit this battle. He will not stop, he will not relent, until he saves his brother. He will win this war come hell or high water.

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Dean runs the tip of his tongue over his lips to moisten them and peeks open his heavy eyelids. Then swallows down against the rawness in his throat. There's a pressure pushing down on most of him. The small remainder of him is thoroughly numb.

As his mind slowly gathers itself he remembers something about them doing a test of some kind and that sedation was involved. It explains the disconnection he feels from the world outside of his own body. The external space around him is nothing more than foggy grayness.

He decides it's not worth fighting and gives in. Dean lets his eyelids fall shut again and allows himself to float in the haze.

His mind is somewhat awake though, working on its own momentum and not any direction Dean sends it in. The memory of the night before comes to him - of being in the bunker's garage working on the Impala.

But its recollection is startlingly altered. This time he's outside of himself watching the scene unfold rather than experiencing it firsthand. Now he's more like an observer. And the scene is not completely fluid. At first it arrives in his mind in brief flashes that start out blurry and overexposed. But, ultimately, the focus resolves slightly and the garage around him is more solid.

He sees himself working on the car then moving to the tool chest where he lays the wrench down. Watches as his copy stares at the cell phone lying there.

Remembering what is to come Dean calls out to himself to pick up the damn phone this time and call Sam. Despite the echo of his own voice in the hollow space of the garage the memory of himself does not heed his urging. In fact, he doesn't even to seem to hear it at all. It's like watching a movie and yelling at the character on the screen trying to warn them of impending doom. They always remain blissfully unaware of what is to come. And Dean watches himself deny the phone and walk over to the car. There he offers his apology and a pat on the hood to her.

The flashes of memory are beginning to be less overexposed and at a wider angle now. He sees himself glance back at the cell over on top of the tool chest and all the relentlessly tortuous thoughts from the night before suddenly come to life in the air of the garage. His copy is not actually speaking but somehow the words of his thoughts reverberate off the walls and ricochet back to him like well sharpened knives.

We weren't with her on that hunt. If we had been maybe we could have stopped it. I'll never know now. She was family – she was our god damn mother – and we couldn't keep her safe. I couldn't keep her safe. That was my job after all – look after family at all costs.

The thoughts are harsh and pathetic sounding all at the same time as they bounce around in the air of the garage. Harsh in their truth. Pathetic in his own stellar ability to throw a hell of a pity party.

Dean screams out, cursing at his copy. "Man up you fucking loser! Get your goddamn piece of shit ass together. And for once manage not to be such a failure."

But once again his words go unheard. And more of his copy's thoughts echo out through the bunker's garage.

I let her down. I let Dad down. And I especially let my little brother down. Sam finally got the chance to get to know our mother. To form his own memories of her. To ask questions he always wanted to ask her but never could because she was gone way before he even uttered his first word. And now he's been cheated all over again.

It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure.

The crushing weight of it begins to suffocate Dean and he struggles to fight the momentum of his own mind. Tries to gain control and reign in the recollection from spiraling any further. Claws desperately at the choke hold around his airway. Begs for it to relent and release him.

But his fight falls far too short. The words ring out in the hollowness of the garage around him. This time they are much louder in volume, almost deafening, and the cruelty of their tone more raw.

It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure.

The memory begins to flicker in and out erratically. It's there for a long collection of beats and then blackness crashes in. Then he's standing in the bunker's garage once again. The duration of how long each alternating round of blackness and memory lasts fluctuates wildly, sometimes staying for less than an instant and at other times for an eternity before its counterpart returns. There is no rhythm – no stability - and it sends Dean reeling.

In the blackness he feels himself being dragged down to a place completely devoid of air. He fights and scrapes to free himself from its pull but the increasing suffocation is draining him of every last ounce of strength.

Then suddenly he is standing in the bunker again, watching his copy falling to the floor. The words echo out again. It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure. The garage around him doesn't stay in focus long though and he senses the blackness as it approaches once again. The scene before him begins to break up, begins to pixelate, as the pitch blackness gains ground on him. The words repeat again. It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure. It's more distant sounding now but its truth impacts him just the same.

Despite the blackness increasingly overtaking him Dean suddenly realizes that the voice he hears this time around is not his own. He feels the pull of the blackness tugging at him to give in. He mentally digs in his heels to hang on to the scene for just an instant longer.

His gaze frantically searches the garage around him to find the source of the voice. For the first time his gaze is not fixed solely on the copy of himself that is now laid out unconscious on the floor. At first he finds nothing. But as the blackness latches on to him again and starts to pull him in he glances back to the copy of himself on the floor and finds what he is searching for. He only gets a glimpse of the blurry form of some kind of being looming over his limp body before the blackness becomes victor of their battle. It is enough to know it is nothing he has come across before. But somehow he senses it won't be their last meeting.

He is submerged in the blackness once more and his air is all but spent this time. And he knows he is falling over the steep edge into suffocation. His heart feels like its exploding, each beat crashing into his ribcage with immense force. His lungs are empty of oxygen and are collapsing in on themselves. The rush of blood inside his head is thunderous, almost deafening. The overwhelming urge to let go, to allow himself to succumb, grips him. The unrelenting words echo above the raging river of blood crashing through his head.

It's my fault. This is all on me. I'm a complete and utter failure.

But this time he finishes the thought, adding the ending that he knows always belonged there.

The world is better off without me.

He is about to allow the blackness to consume him completely when there is another distant voice calling out to him. He wants to ignore it. Wants to finally stop fighting the truth. Wants to finally reach the end.

But the voice nears and familiarity sets in. He wants to hide here – to seal himself off from the voice he knows belongs to his little brother.

Sam's better off without me anyway.

But his brother's voice only becomes clearer and more insistent.

"Dean! Dean! Stay with me, brother. Come on wake up!"

There's a omnipotent power in his voice and a pure unrelenting determination in his tone that even the blackness can't withstand. It releases him and with a jolt he breeches the surface into the light.

He gasps in an entire lungful of air in one inhale and opens his eyes. And finds Sam gazing down at him, panic in his expression and tears in his eyes.

To Be Continued...