God, i thought i'd never be able to get this up!

Chapter 12

The birds chirped their morning greetings breaking the ominous silence that had fallen over the clearing. Leaves rustled in the light breeze, and the groaning of the shrunken wood fell into sync. The blackened shell of the cabin was stark against the roll of white fog that had drifted in, fading embers glowing brilliantly among the ash and charred wood. Its frame still stood, withered by flames and smoke, a lasting remnant of the destruction the fire had wrought

Sam hadn't remained frozen for long after the first part of the roof collapsed. He was back on the crumbling porch within seconds, but by the time he'd gotten to the threshold, the second half had started to waver and then fall, blocking any chance of re-entry and he stumbled back, dropping to his knees, retching repeatedly as reality hit home. His entire body shook as he waited for his brother's agonizing scream to reach his ears. But it never came.

The absence of the sound renewed hope in Sam. Fighting back tears, he rose from his position and searched the surrounding areas of the house frantically for any sign that his brother had found an alternate form of escape, screaming Dean's name repeatedly as he circled the cabin again and again. Sam raked his fingers through his locks and pulled at his hair in frustration at his brother's lack of response. He refused to believe Dean was still in the house. After all, he was sure Dean would've cried out, called his name, or…or something, anything. Wouldn't he?

When Sam finished his sixteenth lap around the area, he slid to the ground once again and tried to steady his shallow breathing. He drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin on his knees, his gaze transfixed on the cabin. Sam noticed for the first time that the caving of the roof had actually worked to diminish most of the flames and the walls of fire had been reduced to mere flickers. It baffled him that something that ravaged uncontrollably for hours was silenced in seconds.

The more he stared at the ruin, the more he felt Dean slipping away. Sam slowly allowed himself to consider the possibility that Dean didn't get out, that his brother was lying on the bottom of the scorched heap, broken and battered. But not dead. Dean wasn't dead for the simple fact that Sam wasn't going to let him die. He'd told Dean he was going to save him and he'd meant it.

But Dean always had insisted that was his job, to protect and save Sam, whatever the cost--a construct that had been drilled in the elder's head since childhood. Sam knew the logic was irreversible. Dean would never shirk his responsibility but the very thought of the elder sacrificing himself, angered Sam, because in his mind, the sacrifice was the betrayal. It was not a statement of love, but one of abandonment, resignation, and defeat. In offering himself up, Dean was leaving him alone, to fend for himself, the very thing Dean had worked so hard to prevent. And Sam could recall many a time he'd complained for such a chance, and Dean had risked all to ensure he'd had it, even when he disagreed entirely, and he'd done nothing but throw it in the elder's face. But now it was his turn to repay the favor. It was his turn to take the risk. Sam couldn't think of one reason, other than his father's insistence, that he should be saved and granted life, but was sure he could rattle off thousands in plea for his brother's.

The fog started to lift and Sam groaned at the aching present in his hunched form, his eyes rimmed red were still fixed on the rubble, his face emotionless, blank, empty. He lifted himself off the ground and slowly walked over toward the heap, studying it. He soon realized the only option he had was to walk over the top of the debris. He stepped gingerly onto the pile and shifted his weight unto it. Sam smirked slightly as he thought of what Dean would say to him "walking" over him, but then found himself biting his lip to fight back tears as he tried to find solace in convincing himself that the day he'd get to hear his brother's sharp remark would come. He'd make sure of that.

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His world was dark and hollow, everything Dean thought Death would be, but he felt awake, and relatively alive. It was a weird awake though; the kind that borders on semi-consciousness and the state of being completely detached from one's surroundings.

His face suddenly felt extremely warm, and this surprised Dean because he really couldn't feel anything anymore or hadn't for some time, he was only aware of things. He was conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, and the slight arch of his back as his air supply was depleted and his lungs worked futilely to take in even one small gasp of oxygen. But all of the heaves were void of feeling even though he knew they should be pain-filled. He was coherent enough to know something had fallen on him, but had no idea where it had landed in relation to his body. The pressure that should've accompanied the fallen wood was nonexistent. But this contact he could actually feel.

Dean worked to focus all of his dwindling attention on the warmth. His mind moved in a thousand different directions, providing challenge after challenge as he tried to hone in on it. The young man grew frustrated at the continuous wandering of his thoughts. His desperation to find the source escalated each passing moment as the heat gained intensity, its waves flowing through his body. The sensation was almost familiar, comforting.

He tried furiously to open his eyes, but the lids refused to crack. As if sensing his intent, the warmth laid hold on his eyes, the light brush of heat upon them beseeching them to open and see. The place of confusion and distraction to which he'd occupied shattered and every fiber in his being latched unto the sight that met his wide eyes and seemed to take proper function. His head was clear, focused, and with disbelief and rapture so apparent on his face, he gazed longingly at the pale face before him graced by a sea of blonde hair that framed it perfectly. Staring into the deep pools of blue, the only word to define the image before him escaped his lips.

"M-mom?"

A soft smile graced the woman's face at her son's recognition. She kneeled beside him, and brought her hand to his hair, stroking her fingers over his short sweat-soaked hair. A wayward tear trickled down Dean's face as he shut his eyes once again savoring his mother's gentle touch. The silence that surrounded him held her encouragement, her peace. Dean allowed himself to be completely consoled in her touch, a small smile adorning his face as he shifted his head in closer in towards her caress. She was here, just like he'd remembered, to comfort him in his end.

He brought his gaze back to her. His mother's face was turned, her eyes looking up towards something he could not see, but could only hear the noise drifting for the direction of her glance. He just watched her, taking in everything about her, until she turned back to him. It was the hint of sadness in her eyes that caused Dean to fear, panic arose within him as his mother whom he'd just found, gently pulled her hand away.

The absence of her touch brought immense pain shooting through every inch of Dean. A coppery taste filled his mouth, and his lungs screamed in agony as he heaved to breathe. Every feeling that he'd lost had returned in sheer force, and his body shivered under it. He felt the steel vice latch onto his arms and pull, the touch neither warm nor comforting, but threatening to tear him away from his mother.

A guttural scream poured from his lips as the vice spoke to him, words not understood. The pain in his body pulsated, but it was nothing to the beat of his own heart as he was ripped away further and further away from his mother. His mind begs her to stay, to help him fight against the force that's dragging him, to not leave him again, to hold him once more.

But then he is free from the wooden prison that had held him for so long and his form jars unexpectedly and repeatedly as the grip refuses to release him and continues pulling. His eyes search the hole from which he's been yanked from for just one more fleeting glimpse of her glowing radiance. It is to no avail, and he screams again because she has been taken from him once more.

The vice denied him liberation again and so he fights, flailing angrily, with everything within him. He wants her back, he can get her back, he need only to return. He grits his teeth against the hold as it grows stronger, forcing him against something hard, solid. He can feel the pressure increase on his arms as he is pinned, unable to move.

His eyes rolled widely in his head, glazed unable to make out his enemy who continued to speak to him. He shakes his head to rid it of the sound, but it amplifies, intensifies. He panics as the words are no longer gibberish, but are becoming coherent phrases to his mind. The pain of the tight grasp increases, and his eyes fixate on the source of the agony. He gasps sharply as the form before him speaks, and his body relaxes and slumps into the earth beneath as the words of his rescuer are made clear in his haze.

"It's okay, Dean. It's me. It's ok."

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alright lemme know what you think...POV shifts again lemme know if that worked or not and uh...have lots of catch up reading to do! YEAH! so enjoy and shoot me a line!