Sorry for the wait! I know, I have a lot of excuses. I've been busy! Thanks again for reading!
It was eleven when Dean parked the Impala in front of Bobby's, and he was glad to finally be back. His lack of sleep as of late, mixed with so many miles of driving, was starting to take a toll on his body and he wasn't sure he could have made it much further without having to pull over and take a quick nap or risk falling asleep behind the wheel.
The kitchen light was on, but when Dean entered the old house, he found the kitchen, along with the rest of the main floor, empty. He took the stairs two at a time and had to smile when he came to his and Sam's shared bedroom and found Bobby sitting in the chair next to Sam's bed reading a book. Dean decided right then that he would never be able to fully express the amount of gratitude he felt toward the older man who had always been like family to him and Sam both, and was now the closest thing to a father either of them had. Sam, as per usual lately, was asleep. He looked comfortable though and, well, alive so Dean wasn't going to complain.
"Hey, Dean." Bobby's greeting stole Dean's attention away from his brother. Bobby had set the book on the night stand and was standing to stretch.
"Hey."
"Jesus, boy, you look like hell." Bobby said matter-of-factly
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Thanks." He said. But he hadn't really eaten, slept or showered in two days and he supposed it showed.
"I'll make you a sandwich I guess. Don't expect me to start doing your laundry and cleaning up after ya though." Bobby grumbled, but Dean knew he was only complaining on principle.
Dean sat on his bed. "I guess cooking for me will have to do for now." Also, saving my ass and taking care of my brother, he thought, but he didn't say anything. This was Bobby's attempt at lightening the situation.
If Bobby ever came back with that sandwich, Dean didn't know, because as soon as he laid back against the mattress of his bed he was out, his legs still hung over the edge and his boots were planted on the floor. His head just reached the wall adjacent to the bed and it had become an impromptu pillow. His neck bent forward at an uncomfortable angle, but Dean couldn't be bothered to undress and get into bed properly.
When he woke up again, the room was dark. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but his neck was sore as hell and he sat up stretching. Sam's mattress squeaked softly and Dean realized that he hadn't just woken up on his own free will. He was up in a heartbeat and at Sam's side. He was momentarily horrified to find that Sam was having an attack and was breathing – that meant he had slept through at least the first few minutes of it – but the shock of that realization quickly turned to relief that Sam was going to be okay. Every attack held the possibility of death, but this time Sam would pull through. Dean took Sam's hand and squeezed it for the next six minutes until it was over.
Rubbing at his eyes, Dean checked the clock and saw that it was just after midnight, but that couldn't be right. It was almost ten when Bobby called him in Marshall, and he had said that Sam had an attack just a half hour before that. Dean added it up quickly in his head. Three hours. They were down to three hours in between attacks, and who knows how long they were lasting now – Dean couldn't be sure how much he had slept through. At least three minutes, probably more.
He felt dazed, being pulled from sleep too soon, but too worked up now to fall back asleep. Instead, he headed downstairs for a cup of coffee and maybe that sandwich Bobby had promised. When this was all over, Dean was going to sleep for a week.
At five minutes to ten, Dean was pacing the kitchen impatiently while Bobby sipped on a cup of coffee and watched him with a half worried, half annoyed look on his face.
"Where is she, Bobby?" Dean demanded. Olivia's medicine woman should be showing up any minute, but Dean needed it to be now. Sam's last attack had lasted fifteen minutes, three and half of those minutes were spent waiting for Sam to breathe, and believing more and more as each second passed that he wasn't going to. When Sam had finally gasped in that lung full of air, Dean was so relieved that it made him dizzy and he had to sit down. When it was all over, he had gone into the bathroom and thrown up, then stood in the shower and let the hot water mask the tears that fell on his cheek.
He was the proverbial camel, only the straw that broke his back had been thrown on him long ago – maybe in the warehouse, maybe when Dad died – and he was somehow still going. The universe wasn't done with him yet, though, and seemed determine to keep adding straw after straw until the weight of it not only broke his back, but crushed him into the dirt until he was nothing.
"Olivia said around ten." Bobby reminded him. "It's not even quite that yet. Don't worry, she'll be here."
But Dean was worried. Because Sam wasn't going to make it through another attack, Dean was sure of that, and this medicine woman still needed to figure out what type of antidote Sam needed. She wasn't just going to show up with a counter-potion and save the day, it all took time. Time that was quickly ticking away as the woman continued to not be there.
Dean was about to complain again when a soft knock at the door stopped him. He was there before he had even processed the thought, and the door banged against the wall as he threw it open. The woman who greeted him was not at all what Dean had expected. Though, actually, he didn't really know what he had been expecting. Probably something like Dr. Quinn. This woman, though, had bright red hair that was shorter than Sam's and stuck out in every direction. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, and she wore a green dress with leggings. Dean's first thought was of Peter Pan.
"Hi, I'm Tamara." She said in a quiet, but self-assured voice. She held out a hand for Dean and he took it quickly, giving it one quick shake.
"Dean." Dean replied. "Sam is upstairs." He turned to lead her up the stairs and she followed quietly behind him.
Once in the room, Tamara immediately went for the chair by Sam's bed, and Dean watched the clock nervously. They were down to two hours until the next attack. Tamara had better move fast. She brushed the hair off of Sam's forehead and the gesture was so intimate, Dean almost felt like he was intruding by watching from the doorway. He bit at his lower lip as he watched. Tamara didn't do anything but look at Sam. Occasionally she would brush her hand against his cheek or rest her fingers in his hair. They stayed like that, silent – Dean in the doorway, Tamara in the chair, Sam in the bed – for five whole minutes before Dean just couldn't take it anymore.
"Can you help him?" He whispered. He didn't want to mess up... whatever it was she was doing, but he needed to know.
"Oh yes." Tamara said, standing suddenly. She turned and brushed past Dean on her way out of the room. Dean followed her down the stairs. "I'll just need to prepare some things. I shouldn't be long."
"Noon." Dean said, and Tamara stopped in the living room, turning to give Dean her full attention. Dean looked at her with pleading eyes. "He's going to have an attack at noon, and I don't know if he'll be able to... they're getting worse."
Tamara pressed her lips into a thin line as she considered that. "Well then I guess I'd better hurry." She said finally, and went back out the front door without another word.
Dean watched her go, and Bobby came to stand behind him at the window. The whole thing was so strange, and so not what he expected, that he didn't really know what to think about it. Did she really know how to save Sam? All she had done was sit next to him.
"She said she can help him." Dean said, looking to Bobby for some sort of confirmation.
Bobby reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Good." Was all he said, and Dean didn't feel any more assured.
Dean was having a nervous break down, he was sure of it. It was getting dangerously close to noon, and Tamara hadn't returned. At around eleven thirty, Dean had gone back upstairs to sit by Sam, and remained in the same position for twenty minutes, glancing anxiously between the clock and Sam. Ten minutes. They had ten minutes. Dean took Sam's hand and squeezed. Maybe, at least, Sam would know he was there. Dean's knee bounced impatiently as he waited and hoped that Tamara would miraculously show up and save the day just in time. He wasn't one for praying, but he did then in those last ten minutes.
As it turned out, they only had six minutes. At four minutes to twelve, Sam stopped breathing. "No," Dean whispered. "No, no, no." Maybe Sam could make it through one more. Just one more, he begged. Please just one more. But somehow Dean knew. He just knew. "Bobby!" Dean yelled desperately.
"Damn it." Bobby said under his breath when he came to the door and saw Sam, tense and twitching and not breathing.
"What do we do?" Dean asked, but Bobby didn't answer. He just stood behind Dean and a sense of understanding washed over both of them. They both knew.
A minute passed, then another, and another, and Dean was crying now. Sam's shaking was beginning to slow, and Dean wanted to take it as a good sign, that it was ending early, but he knew better. Sam's lips took on a terrible blue tinge and Dean squeezed his hand so tight he thought he might have broken a finger.
At three minutes and thirty seconds, Sam stopped shaking. His body went limp against the mattress, but he didn't take in a breath of air and the blue coloring of his lips didn't fade. Dean hunched over Sam and rested his head on his brother's chest. "Sammy, please." He begged. "You can't do this. Please."
At three minutes and fifty seconds, there was a bang downstairs. Bobby went to investigate, but Dean didn't see the point, and he remained in his position over Sam, crying and praying and offering up anything and everything he owned to anyone who might be listening if they would just give him one more day to save Sam.
Someone must have been listening.
A second later, Tamara burst through the door and before Dean could react, she was shoving a syringe into Sam's neck and pushing a bright green liquid into his bloodstream. Dean sat up and blinked. Too dumbfounded to do anything, too broken to even try.
"What was that?" He blurted.
"That," Tamara answered, "Is what's going to save Sam's life."
Tamara was looking at Sam, staring at him, with such expectancy that Dean felt a spark of hope in his belly. He turned his head slowly to Sam, afraid that even moving too quickly would ruin everything.
"It's too late." Dean whispered after a few seconds passed and nothing happened. "He hasn't been breathing for four minutes."
Tamara looked perplexed for a moment, then bent over and pressed her lips to Sam's. She's kissing him? Was the only thing Dean could think through his grief-clouded mind. That, and what the hell? He almost felt violated, like he should push her off of his brother, but then something amazing happened. Sam coughed, then gasped, and finally started breathing, and Dean realized what Tamara had been doing. Now that Sam was breathing – Sam was alive – he found it quite a bit easier to think.
Tamara took a step back, and Dean watched her with tears in his eyes. "Is he going to be okay?"
"Yeah." Tamara answered, putting her hand on her hips and grinning. "He's going to be just fine."
Tamara didn't stick around to see Sam wake up, but she assured Dean that he would, and Dean thanked her over and over again until she left. As soon as her car was out of sight, Dean went back upstairs while Bobby made grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Three hours passed, and Sam was still out, but he was still breathing, and if another attack was going to happen it should have happened by now. That knowledge felt light inside Dean's chest, and he was suddenly aware of just how tired he was. Once again, he fell asleep in the chair next to Sam's bed.
Someone was saying his name, but he was so tired. And sore. His neck was killing him. He heard his name again and Dean groaned and rolled his head back. The movement sent a dull pain through Dean's neck and shoulders and he instinctively brought a hand up to rub at the sore muscles. Blinking his eyes open, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Bobby's house, upstairs bedroom, and Sam–
Sam.
Dean snapped his head toward Sam, and the quick movement intensified the pain in his neck. He winced, but then saw Sam sitting up in bed and looking at him with an almost annoyed expression on his face, and Dean forgot all about his sore muscles.
"Sammy?" He asked cautiously, because there was at least a small chance that he was dreaming.
"Hey, Dean." Sam replied, then wrinkled his nose and said, "How long have you been sitting there?"
Dean thought about it, but didn't know exactly. Did Sam even know what had happened to him over the last few days? How much did he remember? After a minute, Dean just shrugged. "A while."
"Stalker." Sam teased, and Dean couldn't help the wide grin that appeared on his face. God, how long had it been since they had been able to joke around? How long had it been since they had even talked? Just a few days, Dean decided, but it felt like years. Sam grinned back and Dean stood, running a hand through his hair.
"How're you feeling?"
"Great." Sam answered, and Dean actually believed him.
Dean reheated the tomato soup from earlier, and Sam had apple sauce. Dean was happy to see Sam scarf it down like it was going out of style, and then ask for more. At least he had his appetite back. In fact, everything about Sam seemed completely fine, other than the obvious sore ribs, stomach burns and poor (but quickly improving) vision. It was like they were suddenly back exactly where they had been before Sam had been kidnapped from the hospital. It was almost too good to be true, but Dean wasn't going there. Not now. Until he had a valid reason to suspect something was wrong, he was going to relish in the fact that everything was okay.
"I like apple sauce." Sam said thoughtfully. He nodded appreciatively at the spoon in his hands. "Yeah. Better than yogurt."
Dean grinned. "Not quite as good as tomato soup, though." He teased, and Sam shot him a threatening glare that quickly broke into a wide smile.
Dean couldn't help but laugh. It felt good to laugh again.
Marcus was still out there somewhere, and Dean knew they would run into him again, but he would deal with that when the time came. There wasn't a force in heaven, hell or anywhere in between that could stop Dean from killing Marcus the second he saw him, and that thought made him smile even wider. Marcus didn't know what he had gotten himself into, and his time would come. But for now, the only thing Dean was concerned with was finishing his dinner, taking a long hot shower, and going to sleep.
Dean was going to sleep for a week.
Well, Dean is sure feeling optimistic. But like he's said before, it's not going to be over as long as Marcus is still out there, and I'm not sure killing him is going to go as smoothly as Dean thinks.
Thanks for reading!
