What's Dead Should Stay Dead
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but I probably wouldn't take care of the Impala properly and Dean would kill me.
Thank you: To the incomparable Wysawyg. It wouldn't be the same without you…especially since I lifted a line from you…okay, maybe two. You'll know when you get to them. (c:
To Heather03nmg for technical assistance and to Phoenix for being a great listener.
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"We're not going anywhere until you explain exactly what is going on with my brother," Dean stated, stepping between the caretaker and the passenger door to the Impala.
"Oh dear," the caretaker moaned, pointing to something behind Dean. "It appears we won't be going anywhere right away."
Dean spun around quickly and found himself face to face with a ghoul who was crouching on the roof of the Impala. Its claws clicked on the roof as it edged its way closer to Dean. With an inhuman growl the muscles in its haunches bunched and it leapt at Dean, claws extended and teeth bared.
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Flatt Plains Community Cemetery
Dean twisted sharply as the weight of the ghoul connected solidly with his shoulder. He fell to the ground and rolled quickly to his feet. The ghoul's momentum had carried it past him and it was now circling back around. Dean could feel the blood trickling down his arm and into the crook of his elbow as he reached for the knife safely tucked in his inside jacket pocket. He realized, as he turned to face the ghoul that his right arm was not going to hold up to a battle of strength. It was a good thing his dad had taught him how to fight with both.
"Be careful, they're fast," the caretaker warned, waggling a finger at Dean.
"Would you get in the damn car?" Dean snapped, opening the passenger door for the thin, old man.
"I could help," the caretaker offered, moving to stand between Dean and the ghoul.
"You can help by staying out of my way," Dean commanded. "Now, get in the car!"
The little man jumped at Dean's tone and dove into the passenger seat. Dean slammed the door shut and was broadsided by the ghoul knocking him into the side of the Impala. The force of the collision caused Dean's shoulder to hit the passenger door followed quickly by his head impacting the window with a sickening crack.
Dean moaned as he steadied himself by resting his hand on the car. He noticed the crack in the passenger window and muttered, "Son of a…" Dean was hit again by the ghoul, knocking him once more against the Impala causing the fractured window to spider web outward in a spiraling loop.
Shaking off the disorientation of yet another knock to the head, Dean switched the knife from his right hand to his left and frantically scanned the area for the creature. A blurred shadow to his left had Dean reacting before he could fully register what he was counter-attacking. He swung his arm in a wide arc neatly slicing through the ghoul's neck in one smooth action.
The ghoul's spongy flesh made a wet sucking sound as the long blade sliced through it. Its head did not immediately detach, but sat for a moment as if still connected to its host. Its unseeing eyes wide and mouth open in a silent howl, before it dropped unceremoniously to the ground.
The head landed with a splash in a dirty puddle spraying droplets of mud on Dean's boots. The body followed the head only seconds later, but by then Dean was already safely on the other side of the Impala and slipping into the seat. He slammed the door shut and gunned the engine. It was then Dean noticed the caretaker was no longer in the car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel in frustration wincing as his shoulder reminded him of his poor choice. Pressing his foot to the accelerator he drove off kicking up gravel. It was time to go get Sam.
Monroe Family Mausoleum
Ezra Umholtz leafed slowly through a tattered, worn grimoire searching for the proper ritual. Everything needed to be perfect before the final chosen one arrived. He heard the scratchy sound of shuffling feet behind him, but he did not deign to acknowledge the other's presence just yet. Why could they not understand the simplest of instructions? He needed time to prepare and there was precious little time left to do so.
Finally and with great reluctance he spoke. "Why do you disturb me?" he asked coldly.
"The protector, he has left the grounds again," the timid voice behind him replied. "And another one of your pets is dead."
Ezra sighed loudly. "While that is troublesome it is hardly worth disturbing my preparations for. The protector will return and when he does he will have the chosen one with him."
"They have called in another," the voice whispered, almost afraid to be heard.
"Is he a threat?" Ezra asked, his voice showing interest in the other for the first time.
"No one is a threat to you," the other responded with the proper words.
"Let us make certain of that, shall we?" Ezra replied, turning to face the black-robed man behind him. "My newest addition should be ready for his first assignment." He turned back towards the altar and continued to leaf through the book. He listened as the feet shuffled away. "Oh and see to it that I am not disturbed again," he commanded.
"Of course," the small reply came before the heavy marble door closed once more.
Allamakee County Hospital
Bobby paced in front of the door to Sam's room. He had been evicted from it no more than fifteen minutes ago when Sam's doctor had been summoned by the head nurse. When Sam had awakened the second time since Dean's absence he was having trouble breathing and he was sweating profusely. Bobby had called for the nurse immediately. Sam was not going to come to harm on his watch.
Jean had arrived in a flurry of activity, announcing Sam's temperature was up again to 102.6. She had left mumbling something about fetching the doctor. When Jean and the doctor arrived Bobby heard her tell him the patient was febrile and diaphoretic as well as suffering from tachypnea. That was when he'd been told in no uncertain terms to leave the room.
Bobby had considered protesting. Dean would expect him to stay with Sam. However, he was not truly family and he knew they could not afford to draw attention to themselves. He had left the room, but he was not about to go any further than the doorway. Bobby was debating on whether or not to barge back in when Jean appeared.
"You can go back in," Jean informed him. "The doctor has ordered some tests. We've upped Sam's oxygen mix and he's breathing easier."
"What does the doctor think is wrong?" Bobby asked gruffly.
"That's really for the doctor to explain to Sam and his brother," Jean replied in a tone that left no room for argument. She walked off without a backwards glance and Bobby slipped back into the room.
"We'll know more when the tests come back," Dr. Chadwick was explaining to Sam. "Right now, I'd say you're battling an infection, but I really can't be certain until I see the test results."
Sam wasted not a breath on answering, but simply nodded his head in understanding. He tried to focus on what the doctor was saying, but it took entirely too much effort. When he realized he was having trouble comprehending was when the fear took over. He looked over at the man who had entered the room. Sam knew he knew who the man was, but putting a name to him seemed an insurmountable task.
"Sam, how are you holding up?" Bobby asked. He caught the wild look in Sam's eyes and tried to sound reassuring. He failed miserably.
"I'm fine, Bobby," Sam wheezed breathlessly. Bobby. That was his name.
"Sam, I'll leave you alone with your uncle," Dr. Chadwick stated, turning to leave. "But I'll be back when we have the test results."
"How long do you think that will be?" Bobby asked in a clipped voice and added for good measure, "His brother will be back soon and he's going to want some answers."
"Yes, I'm sure he will," Dr. Chadwick replied. He focused his attention back on Sam and said, "Your brother seems to have built up quite the reputation with the hospital staff."
Sam snorted lightly, the only response he had the energy to make. "Where's Dean?" he managed after a pause, panic edging its way into his voice.
"He's getting some sleep, remember?" Bobby prompted. Sam's behavior concerned him. No matter how poorly he was feeling he would not intentionally blow Dean's cover story.
Sam knitted his brow in confusion. That didn't seem right. The doctor caught Sam's expression and decided to intervene. "Sam is probably a little confused and disoriented right now, partially due to his fever. The test results should be back within the hour. I'm having them rushed at the lab."
Dr. Chadwick started to walk out the door when he was stopped short by Bobby's next question. "If it is an infection, how bad is it? He's been steadily getting worse since I've been here."
The doctor took a deep breath and turned back towards Bobby. "Frankly, the sudden onset of symptoms and the rapid progression do have me concerned. I really can't speculate further without evaluating the test results." When Bobby offered nothing further other than a head bob, Dr. Chadwick took it as a sign of dismissal and quickly left.
Bobby turned his attention back towards Sam. Sam was still pale and sweaty, but his breathing seemed a little easier with the increased oxygen. He was looking about the room with unfocused eyes and Bobby knew that even in his confused state Sam was searching for his brother. "He better get his butt back here soon. This is way beyond my job description," Bobby remarked as Sam closed his eyes. "I don't know how to be Dean for you."
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The Impala skidded to a stop on the third floor of the hospital parking garage. Dean reached across the wheel and shoved the car into Park with his left hand. Blood had continued to run down his arm on the trip back from the cemetery, but Dean had managed to keep it from soiling the interior of his car by pulling his hand into his shirt sleeve and holding it closed with his fingers. He knew he would have to get his shoulder looked at, but right now he was only concerned with getting Sam back to the cemetery.
Dean still was not sure the caretaker was the answer, but he was more afraid not to take Sam to the cemetery. He had tried several times to reach Bobby from the car, but each time he had reached only voicemail. It seemed highly unlikely that Bobby had turned off his cell phone for any reason, although it was possibly he had decided to follow the rules for once. It was also possible Bobby had sprouted wings and was regaling the hospital staff with a little fairy dance, though neither seemed very likely. Dean's imagination had run amok over the thirty minute made twenty, trip back to the hospital from the cemetery.
Hard footfalls pounded down quiet hospital hallways mindless of the disapproving looks they generated. He breezed past the nurses' station and burst into Sam's room. Bobby's stack of books still sat in the windowsill. Sam's shoes still rested in a plastic bag on the floor near the foot of the bed where Dean had deposited them earlier after his search for a cell phone. The only things missing from the room were Sam and Bobby.
Dean dashed back out to the nurses' desk. "Where's my brother?" he demanded. He was greeted by blank stares and questioning looks. "Where is my brother?" Dean asked again, slowly and carefully pausing after each word. "Sam Elden? Where is Sam?"
"Calm down, Mr. Elden," Jean replied from behind him. "Sam is in his room."
"And do you think if he was, I'd be wasting my time out here with you?" Dean asked sharply, turning to face the older nurse. "Sam is not in his room and neither is our uncle."
Jean placed a hand on Dean's arm. "Sam may have been taken down for some tests," she explained. "He is experiencing symptoms of an infection and we are trying to isolate the cause."
"Where would they have taken him?" Dean asked, not acknowledging her statement. It wasn't an infection, Dean was sure of that now.
"Give me a minute to call around and I'll find out," Jean replied, with a small smile. She walked around Dean and stood behind the desk. "We have a pretty modest facility. I shouldn't have too much trouble tracking down Sam."
"Thanks," Dean said, flashing her a genuine in appearance but all too false smile. He drummed his fingers on the desk waiting for answers. He ignored the look of annoyance Jean shot at him. He was impervious to her stern schoolmarmish glares.
After several phone calls Jean had to concede defeat. She looked up at Dean and said, "I'm sorry, no one seems to know where Sam is at the moment."
"You've lost him?" Dean asked angrily.
"No, of course not," Jean replied defensively. She tapped her pen on the open charts in front of her in a steady beat. "We just don't know exactly where he is at the moment and…" Jean huffed in annoyance when Dean turned away from her and shot back down the hall towards Sam's room. If he was not going to stick around for her explanation she was not going to trouble herself over him.
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Sam sat huddled in the dark. The strong smell of antiseptics, ammonia and bleach filled the air aggravating his dry nasal passages. The cleaning agents made it harder to breathe and he was so cold. He wrapped the cotton blanket around him with shaking arms and hugged his knees. He fought against the shivers that wracked his body sending fresh shoots of pain across his chest and stomach. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.
Bobby had cautioned him to remain quiet and to stay hidden no matter what happened. Sam was not sure what Bobby was so concerned about, but he would do what Bobby had asked him to do. He lacked the strength to do much else anyway. He knew he would be hard pressed to defend himself despite the knife he still clutched in one hand.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside his door. Sam could see the shadow of a passing figure through the slats in the vent at the bottom of the door that let sound and light into the small confines of the closet. Who it was Sam did not know, so he concentrated on quieting his breathing, but he had to fight hard to get enough air, despite the portable oxygen tank Bobby had dragged in here. Wherever Bobby had gone, Sam hoped he came back soon.
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"Dean, I'm glad I ran into you," Dr. Chadwick said, stopping Dean in the hall. "I need to talk to you about Sam's condition."
"Nurse Ratched already filled me in. She said you think Sam has an infection," Dean said barely pausing long enough to look the doctor in the eye.
"I did," Dr. Chadwick replied, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.
The past tense statement did not elude Dean. "What do you mean, did?" he asked, shrugging off the doctor's gentle grip. He was thankful Chadwick had not grabbed his other shoulder or he would have had a whole other round of questions to field.
Dr. Chadwick pulled back his hand and explained, "His white blood cell count is normal. With an infection, we would expect it to be much higher especially with how pronounced his symptoms are. His hemoglobin and hematocrit tests came back irregular, but not markedly so and that is easily explained by the recent blood loss and transfusions. Strangely none of that explains an apparent decrease in renal function."
The perplexed look on Dr. Chadwick's face angered Dean. "So, essentially what you're telling me is you don't know what's wrong with Sam?" Dean asked.
"We don't know yet," Dr. Chadwick corrected.
"Do you at least know where he is?" Dean asked, his annoyance growing.
"Sam should be in his room," Dr. Chadwick replied. "I didn't schedule him for any tests that would have required him to be moved. Did you check with the nurses? They may have been forced to do a room change."
"Yes, I did check with the nurses and they seemed to think he was off having tests done. His stuff's still in his room, it's Sam that is missing," Dean explained with what he felt was a great deal of patience considering the circumstances.
Dr. Chadwick took an involuntary step backwards at the sight of Dean's clenched fists. While he did not honestly believe the man in front of him would hit anyone unless it was necessary, he was a little afraid of what Dean would consider it necessary to fight for and he was beginning to fully understand Sam was on that list. "I'll check with the nurses again," Dr. Chadwick offered. "Wait here."
"Like hell," Dean murmured to Dr. Chadwick's back and headed off to search for Sam and Bobby.
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Bobby moved slowly down the stairwell checking carefully in the hidden alcoves at the bottom of each flight. He was sure he had seen the creature enter the stairwell and so far at each flight he had found the door back into the hospital to be locked. That meant that somewhere between here and the ground floor he was sure to run into the ghoulish creature.
The knife in Bobby's hand was one of his favorites. A long, sharp machete he had picked up from an antique dealer at the Snickersnee Shack. The handle of polished wood was the perfect heft and strength for the blade-length. Bobby appreciated fine workmanship in the tools of his trade from the perfect machete for hunting to the perfect wrench for removing an air filter.
Shadowy movement on Bobby's right caught his attention and he paused on the stairs. He stood frozen with one foot hovering above the step and one hand resting on the railing. He had patience and whatever this thing was it had not demonstrated a great deal of patience or intelligence.
Bobby did not have to wait long. The ghoul moved out from under the stairs and made a mad dash towards him. He could see the wild gleam in its eyes and the saliva dripping from its teeth as it charged. Bobby raised the machete high and swung.
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Dean tapped his hand impatiently on his leg waiting for the elevator. The stairs may have been quicker, but he knew Bobby would not be able to get Sam down the stairs so it was pointless to head that direction. At least with the elevator there was a random chance he would bump into them.
He had checked and Bobby's truck was still in the garage so Dean knew Bobby and Sam were still here somewhere. He was also convinced Bobby had either moved Sam or someone had forced them both to leave. Neither option boded well for their current situation. If it was the former option that meant Sam was in more danger from something than he was from his injuries and if it was the latter option there was no telling what the reasons were.
At this point Dean was assuming they were missing because something or someone had made Bobby think they were in danger. If he knew Bobby, Bobby would have stashed Sam somewhere relatively safe and then gone after whatever it was. Strategically, it made the most sense even if Dean would not have done it that way himself.
The question remained, where was somewhere relatively safe when Sam's own hospital room had proven not to be? It would have to be close to Sam's room to avoid being detected, but somewhere not too many people would be in and out of all day. Preferably it should be locked, limiting the chance of being discovered even more as the lock would be no problem for Bobby when he returned.
Dean mentally traversed the hall near Sam's room on the elevator trip back up to the third floor. The nurses' station was on the west side, Sam's room three doors south from there on the east side. Bobby would not have taken Sam towards the nurses' desk so Dean walked further down the hall in his mind. Two more rooms on the west, one of the east, a unisex bathroom and fire extinguisher on the east.
When the elevator doors opened again, Dean took off at a fast clip. There was a utility closet not four doors down from Sam's room.
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Sam struggled to stay conscious. Bobby had drilled into him the importance of staying awake. Sam wiped his sweaty hand off on the cotton blanket and renewed his tenuous grip on the knife. He could no longer hold himself upright and lay down on the cold tile floor. He would stay awake, but he could no longer fight.
Footsteps sounded outside his door again and Sam tried to focus on the shadows through the vent. When the door opened, a shaft of light pierced Sam's eyes and he blinked owlishly at the figure before him. "Dean?" he whispered.
"Sorry, Sam," the deep voice above him spoke. "Dean's not here right now."
Sam felt hands lifting him and moving him into a chair. The knife was gently removed from his hand and the blanket tucked in around him. He heard the oxygen tank being secured to the chair and when the door was opened again, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of florescent lighting.
"Hold on Sam," the voice reassured him, pushing the chair forward. "Let's get you out of here."
Sam struggled to focus and to identify the man behind the voice, but his fevered brain refused to make the connection.
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Dean rounded the corner in time to see Bobby's quickly retreating form disappearing around the corner at the other end of the corridor. He picked up the pace and rushed to intercept him. Dean would have been amused by the sight before him had the circumstances not been so dire. Bobby was pushing Sam in a wheelchair with one hand as the other arm was burdened with Bobby's stack of books. The arm that was pushing the chair had Sam's messenger bag thrown over a shoulder. The plastic bag of shoes was wrapped around the handle of the wheelchair.
"Bobby," Dean called softly once he was within earshot.
Bobby stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around to face Dean. "Keep your eyes sharp," he cautioned by way of greeting. "I've already killed one of those damn things and I don't know how many there are out there. I didn't see any signs of more than one, but you never can tell. I can tell you this much, Sam is right. That creature was definitely a ghoul of some kind."
Dean nodded and remarked, "We need to get Sam out of here." He tried to get a good look at Sam, but Bobby was steadfastly in his way. He finally bumped Bobby none-to-gently to the side and knelt down beside Sam. Dean took in the pale, waxen complexion and shallow breathing. "Sammy?" Dean placed a hand on Sam's arm hoping to garner a reaction from his brother. Sam furrowed his brow, but otherwise did not respond.
"Come on, Dean," Bobby said at last nudging Dean with his boot. "You were right, we need to get Sam out of here and the longer we are in the hall, the greater the chance of being discovered."
Dean stood up quickly and assumed control of the wheelchair. "We're going to have to move fast," Dean stated, starting down the hall. "According to the caretaker at the cemetery Sam was chosen by the Necromancer for something and Sam is…I think Sam is dying," Dean choked out.
Bobby remained silent. His brief research had revealed the same thing. What he was lacking was an answer to the unspoken question. How were they going to save Sam?
Getting Sam out of the hospital and into the parking garage was disturbingly easy considering Sam did not look like someone who should be leaving the hospital. They had done their best to avoid anyone, but those they did meet did not question why they were pushing a very obviously ill man down the hospital corridors. Dean wondered how many people took their family members out for strolls in the halls long after all hope for recovery had past. That would explain the lack of reaction from the hospital staff.
"I'm going to need your help getting him into the back seat," Dean stated opening the rear doors to the Impala. He knew he could and had managed to wrestle Sam's lanky and unconscious form into the car himself before, but he could not guarantee he could do it now without hurting Sam.
Bobby had pulled Sam off the floor in the utility closet and he knew how heavy that boy was despite how lean he appeared to be. Bobby opened the opposite door and leaned through the Impala to guide Sam across the rear seat. Sam moaned once, but did not awaken. They had to bend his knees up towards his waist to fit his long his legs into the seat.
Dean removed his jacket and bunched it up under Sam's head as a makeshift pillow. Reaching through to the front seat he opened the glove box and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Three large strips of tape later, Dean had the oxygen tank secured to the rear seat. Sam was going to be busy getting adhesive residue off the leather interior later. Dean refused to believe for even a moment that Sam would not be around later to do so. He wrapped the stolen blankets around Sam and gently closed the rear door at Sam's feet.
"Keys," Bobby stated holding out his hand in a tone that left no room for argument.
"My car," Dean replied, not relinquishing the keys. "We need to get to the cemetery quickly. I know the road and I know my car."
"And despite what you seem to think, I know you," Bobby replied. "Do you even realize you have a concussion? That shoulder of yours," Bobby continued nodding his head towards Dean's right shoulder. "Is bleeding pretty bad. Now, I ain't gonna be stupid enough to suggest we fix that right now, but you aren't driving."
"It's only a flesh wound," Dean quoted with a horrible British accent. He tossed Bobby the keys with his left hand.
Bobby narrowed his eyes and huffed, "What? You're kidding me with this?"
"But, I'm letting you drive," Dean quipped climbing into the passenger seat and turning around to the rear seat to face Sam. "Just try to keep it at sixty will ya?"
Bobby closed the rear door near Sam's head and slid in behind the wheel. "I'll try, but it's gonna be hard to drive that slow." He backed carefully out of the parking spot and headed out.
Dean tried sitting in the front seat twisted around and facing Sam, but in the end he just felt too far away, as if the seat itself was too much of a barrier between him and his brother. He opted instead to sit on the axel well on the floor in the rear seat, his legs bent and crammed into the floor space beside Sam. If Bobby had any thoughts on Dean choosing to ride on the floor in the back seat he did not comment.
Sam moaned and furrowed his brow. "Hey, are you awake, Sam?" Dean asked, though he was not expecting a response.
"Dean?" Sam asked so quietly Dean barely heard him over the road noise.
"Sam?" Dean asked again. He leaned forward and brushed Sam's wet bangs off his forehead. Sam was burning up.
Sam's eyes slowly opened and roamed the interior of the Impala before settling on Dean. "Where are we going?" he asked softly, awareness shining in his eyes.
"To get help for you," Dean replied. He rested a hand on Sam's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You're going to be okay, Sammy. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"I know," Sam whispered, trust reflecting in his eyes before they fluttered closed again.
"Hey, are you still with me, Sam?" Dean asked, giving Sam a gentle shake. Sam did not respond, not a moan not even an eye twitch. "Bobby?"
"Yeah?" Bobby asked, looking at Dean's urgent face through the rearview mirror.
"Drive faster."
Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Caretaker Residence
The caretaker finished his final preparations for the ritual. He knew Dean was on his way back here and this time he had Sam in tow. He had drawn the appropriate symbols of healing on the long, wooden table and purified the area with sage. The olive oil, lavender and many assorted herbs were next to the table waiting for the ceremony to begin. Candles burned brightly in the small room and the chimes in the doorway tinkled in the slight breeze. All that was needed was Sam.
Gravel crunched and doors slammed announcing the arrival of the Winchesters plus one. The caretaker grabbed a small lantern and scurried out to lead Dean to the correct place. Dean and the other man were carefully carrying Sam along the uneven ground. The wind picked up briefly and the caretaker tilted his head, listening. Singer.
"This way, this way," the caretaker urged them. He waved his hand, beckoning them closer to his home. "Hurry."
Dean looked up at the caretaker and frowned. He was not entirely sure he could trust the slippery little man, but at this point he did not have much of a choice. The trip from the hospital to the cemetery seemed to take an eternity. After Sam lapsed into unconsciousness, he had watched Sam's breathing became even shallower and labored and his face impossibly more pale. Sam no longer responded in any meaningful way to Dean's pleas.
Now he was carrying his little brother into the dilapidated home of a cemetery caretaker looking for a miracle cure. The medical professionals could not help Sam; they were not able find anything wrong with him other than the obvious symptoms, but not the cause.
Dean and Bobby laid Sam on the wooden table and Dean carefully positioned Sam's arms and legs. He set the oxygen tank under the table and stepped away from Sam only far enough to allow the caretaker access to his brother. He stood at Sam's head watching every move the caretaker made.
The wizened man smiled at Dean and started chanting while he worked. Dean listened carefully. "And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live," the caretaker intoned.
The caretaker repeated the incantation as he cut open Sam's hospital gown from his neck to his waist, laying bare his chest and stomach and exposing the many staples used to repair the lacerations from the ghoul. He poured olive oil on Sam's stomach and chest, drawing a symbol in oil on Sam's body.
He repeated the incantation a third time when he sprinkled the herbs over the oil. "And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live."
Dean watched the ceremony with trepidation and little hope. It certainly seemed like a very simple ritual that was designed to offer solace for the family, but little help for the sick. As the incantation drew to a close for the third time, Sam drew in a long shuddering breath and then – nothing. His chest was no longer moving.
Dean was not sure how it was that he was still standing. He knew he wasn't breathing and that his heart wasn't pumping any blood. He had felt the blood rush from his face and his chest, pooling in his useless hands and wooden feet. He could not possibly be breathing; his heart could not possibly be beating. That was why it surprised him that he could hear the echo of his heartbeat resounding in his ears and pounding in his brain. That was why he could no longer hear anyone around him and why the world took on a watery, blurry appearance. That was why he did not even hear the whispered prayer uttered from his own lips.
"Come on, Sammy, breathe."
TBC
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AN: Don't hurt me – it's not over yet, folks!
The early chapter is courtesy of an extra floater holiday at work. (c:
As always – feedback welcome!