Chapter Three:

This wasn't happening... this wasn't happening.

Memories of his childhood took over Sam's vision and emotions flood Sam's soul at the sight of Big Bad Dean Winchester's failing body and something in Sam simply snapped.

"Stop it, you fucking bastard!"

A tear dropped while a hand retracted and slap -- Dean's eyes are open now and they're clouded with pain and utter confusion. He mumbled something that sounds a lot like his brother's name, his body tensed yet stopped fidgeting; he's obeying now.

Sam repositioned himself and his brother. Frantically, he lifted Dean's chin up and yanked his jaw open again as his brother lethargically placed the mouthpiece between pale lips and Sam prayed Dean will cooperate, prayed this would work.

"One,"

It's shaky,

"two,"

Shakier,

"three."

It came out cracked, and tight, and desperate.

Hearing the magic number, Dean took in as much air as he possible could, features twisted from the ache in his chest and the bad-tasting mist that has just entered his mouth down to his thirsty lungs.

The room did a whoosh of a spin and was suddenly way too bright making Sam's figure nothing more then a silhouette before him. Everything sounded hollow and distant yet he felt horrifically and claustrophobically surrounded. He felt panicked. God, why couldn't he just breathe? Then abruptly and absurdly, the world kind of shifted and everything was ordinary again.

Dean blinked and found his brother, peering at him as if he was about to disappear, hands holding his face.

"Hey!" He said, a little too loud, making Dean flinch. He tried to pull away but his body didn't seem to be working for him at the moment and the action made Sam's fingers dig into the back of Dean's skull even more.

Dean really didn't like the look Sammy was giving him than and he really didn't like the tears checked in the corners of Sam's wide eyes, or was it sweat?

"Can you hear me, Dean?"

He wanted to shout, 'Good god, yes, now get the fuck away from me,' Because Sam's face was entirely way too close to Dean's. The idea of even attempting to speak made him nauseous so he ever-so-slightly nodded his wobbly head, eyes looking directly into Sam's for more reassurance that he, in fact, could hear Sammy just fine.

Slowly, he released his death grip in fear that Dean would fall over after he lets him go. When he didn't, Sam settled back a bit and watched his brother carefully. He noted that Dean was able to turn stiffly to the left, head cocked downward, staring blankly to a dent at the base of the wall. The color of his lips were returning to a more healthy shade of pink. His breathing -- though gravelly was easing and the fist pressed tightly against his chest was slowly unclenching and pulling away. Blinking rapidly, Dean's eyes shifted over to Sam but weren't really looking at him; his eyes were far from focused when they finally did stop moving.

And it was just enough for Sam to pull away from Dean to stand to his full height and turn to rest the inhaler onto the counter, reaching for one of the two paper cups at the far corner of the faux marble sink. Grasping the knob, he filled the cup with explicit lukewarm water because Sam was so fucking scared anything below that would send Dean into another attack and he knows, knows, he wouldn't be able to survive it.

"Here's some-" His sentence fell short when he swiveled around to Dean only to find his brother's crippled form. His shaky legs drawn up to his chest with his forehead pressed down onto his knees, his face hidden.

Bending down at the waist, he offered the cup, "Drink some water. It'll help."

Dean's dry swallow was visibly painful as he gently shook his head, and his, "No, thanks." would croak out in just above a whisper.

"Please, Dean." Sam lowered himself into a squat directly in front of the elder, one hand hesitantly placed on Dean's trembling bare shoulder while the other was still hovering the half-filled cup.

Dean wanted so badly to lift his head up and keep it up but only managed to tiredly slide his forehead across his knees, so half his face was observable to Sam, and where he actually admitted, though barely audible, "C-can't."

And now Sam was flat on his ass, eyes begging for everything to be okay -- for Dean to be okay. Leaning in closer, he extended the cup so it was lingering just below his brother's nose. "Try," coos Sam, pressing the cup to Dean's mouth but not tilting it until he knew Dean was ready.

Dean's expression changed into a look of annoyance mixed with worthlessness and maybe just a hint of gratitude. And even though he was dreadfully spent, his damn pride was still going strong because he attemptted to lift his arm (which felt like lead to Dean) up and over to the cup, fingering it and Sam knowing Dean's arrogance understood and released the cup into Dean's control only for it to slip from the elder's grasp, plummeting to the floor.

Dean's grayish eyes cast to the water pooling around them and he frowned like a child who just chipped the fine China, once again burying his face cowardly between his knees. Dean's pajama pants are getting wet at the bottoms, h was shaking again, trying his hardest to calm himself down, coughing so hard he actually gagged.

Sam stood when the water touched his toes, backing away, heart pounding in his head, as his hand nervously patting against his thigh when he decided aloud, "I'm calling 911."

"No!" cried the almost-brunette huddled in the corner before he took in a deep breath and raised his head up, letting it thump against the wall. His eyes peer up to his brother's figure with impressively wide coherent hazel eyes. "I'm f-fine." He said, licking his lips, eyes momentarily closed as he did so, "Just... just give me a second, would ya?" Ten words and man Dean was worn-out.

Sam gazed down at him and for the first time really noticed the perfect red handprint stretching from Dean's right temple down to his jaw and Sam couldn't stop the wince from leaving his mouth. Good god, had he hit Dean that hard?

Guilt crossed his face then the expression turned to dubiousness at Dean's claim of being okay but in the end, he caved. He ran dirty hands down his face, panting and shaking.

Everything was starting to catch up with him. Slowly but surely, losing it and he utters, "Jesus, Dean," under his breath. With his hands on his hip, he focused back to the boy on the floor who's sweating yet quivering. Sam looked around the room, seized a washcloth off the metal rack above the toilet and rans it under cold water. Wringing it out, he knelt down in front of Dean.

Sam was beyond words at that point, he couldn't seem to say anything to comfort Dean or simply tell him how scared he was -- hell, he didn't exactly want to do the latter. So instead of crying like girl or hugging Dean, Sam simply reached a hand out to rake his fingers through Dean's soaked short hair and then draped the small towel across the back of his brother's hot neck.

The sound of his feet splashing below reminded him that Dean still needed water. He begins crawling to retrieve the emptied cup, stopping midway when Dean muttered, "Coffee."

"What?"

His face was crunched up at the side and it was obvious it hurt and that he was trying to hide the mark from Sam because if Sam acknowledged it... then it was really there. Clearing his throat, his voice hardly sounds any better when he spoke again. Low and gruff, "Coffee helps."

There was a question on the tip of the taller brother's tongue but it stayed there. "Yeah, okay." He said before dashing out of the bathroom, going straight for the machine stationed at a counter behind the retro table that Sam and Dean both refused to eat on before. Drawing a shaky breath, Sam grimaced at the ancientness of the coffee maker but nevertheless he popped in a flitter and began to brew a pot for Dean.