Whisphers of the Heart

The grove was quiet when they arrived, still. Over the place where Dean could see the candles and other items laid out were branches of great oaks, stretching and leaning, protecting the area in a way that seemed almost tender. Outside the grove were smaller oak trees, birches, elms, and pines, standing a silent guard. There were some flowers and mushrooms around, most in fairy circles that they all avoided carefully, and Dean could feel the power and peace of the place. The sound of footfalls told him that Bobby had arrived as well. Dean watched Castiel carry Sam to the circle, making sure that he wasn't jostled or moved in a way that would hurt. When he was laid out in the circle, hands at his side, feet slightly apart, head tilted to face Dean, Jophiel completed the circle of candles, stones, crystals, and herbs, saying words softly with each placement. Bobby squeezed Dean's shoulder, earing a grateful nod in return. Then they stood back watch and wait.

Jophiel stood at Sam's feet, Cas just to right of her, and made some hand gestures with grace and precision. She sprinkled water mixed with more herbs into a flame, repeating the Latin spell like an expert. As she progressed, the words became more passionate, louder and stronger. A wind picked up and rocked the branches of the oaks but otherwise didn't disturb the fairy grove. Jack-o'-latern lights began to float up and flutter around them, never touching them just hovering. The flames on the candles flickered with each movement of Jophiel's hand in a way that wasn't natural. The cirlce Sam lay in took on an ether-real glow, illuminating his still face.

Sam's body jerked roughly, head arching back, mouth open as if he were silently screaming and eyes wide and fixed on nothing that could be seen by anyone else. His arms, legs, back, and head continued to arch and contort, jerking frequently. Dean refused to look away, silently willing Sam to ride it out, mouthing that it would be over soon, just hold on Sammy. But when blood began to stream from his nose, mouth, and ears, Dean lost his ability to stay still and out of the way and surged forward. Bobby gripped his arms, holding tight and away from Sam. While Sam continued to convulse and move in ways that would make chiropractors wince and shudder, Dean whirled around to confront what was keeping him from his brother, his bleeding brother and God why was he bleeding like that?

Jophiel added another herb mix to another flame and the crystals glowed. Amethyst, opal, diamond, lapis laazul, tiger eye, and others Dean couldn't identify began to cast a warm light that spread over Sam, stilling his body in a grotesque form. He was still bleeding, more profusely and also from his eyes now, and the crystals didn't seem to touch it. Then whatever concoction was under the multiple grouping of stones burst into flames itself, making the light grow in the crystals and, subsequently, over Sam. Slowly, his body relaxed and fell back to a loose posture, eyes closed and mouth still slightly open. The blood had stopped completely and Dean's little brother looked peaceful, not in pain.

Actually, Sam looked a lot like he had when he was about a month old, before the cruelties of life, demons, plans, and the world had come and kicked him in the ass, repeatedly. With Sam out of any obvious and immediate danger (for the moment) Dean stood back, arms crossed tightly to try and keep some of the energy he was feeling bottled up, although his leg tapped with that same energy. Bobby kept a careful eye on his young friend.

Cas handed Jophiel something, which she threw over Sam with another series of hand gestures and Latin words. The full moon offered a soft illumination and seemed to center on the grove. The wind became more aggressive, this time being felt through the entire area. Sam began to twist again, face already in a grimace. Jophiel said the words rapidly, forcefully, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow testimony to the exertion.

Then it stopped.

The candles flickered out, the light from the crystals and burning herb mix died, and the glow from the circle faded out. Even the wind and jack-o'-laterns were gone. Everything had come to a sudden and complete halt, leaving Dean and Bobby confused, and scared, and the angels concerned. Sam was totally still. It was that stillness that had Dean lunging toward his brother and this time no one stopped him. When he got close, he hesitated about breaking the circle, knew there could be serious consequences if it wasn't done right, but the hesitation barely registered on a time scale. In a hot minute, he was knocking over the candles and piles of crystals and stones and who knew what else and leaning over the one thing that really mattered out of the whole mess.

"Sam? Sammy!" There wasn't a twitch, sigh, or sign that Sam had heard him. Dean put a hand on his brother's chest and paused, eyes wide and full of denial. Sam's chest wasn't moving with breaths; his heart was pumping in a steady way, or a fast way, or even a thready way: it wasn't pumping period. Dean moved one hand to Sam's neck, the other to one of his wrists. There wasn't a thrum of life there, either. He put his ear to Sam's mouth and nose, his own features crinkling at the strong smell of copper and didn't feel any puffs of air.

"Sammy!" Dean shook Sam roughly, watching as he moved limply with the harsh treatment. "No. No! Don't you do this, don't you dare! You can't-!" He put his hands together, positioned them like his dad had taught him, and pushed down in time with his heartbeat, a steady count kept under his breath. When he reached thirty, he breathed into Sam, then started the compressions again.

"Come on, come on, come on," he repeated in time with the counts. He breathed, then pushed, all the while encouraging and cursing Sam.

"Please, please, Sammy. Give me something here, anything! You can't, not after everything. You didn't come back from that Hell-hole to die like this! Please, Sam, you stubborn asshole!"

His arms were getting tired, his shoulders hurt, and his own breath was puffing and gasping. Sam didn't rouse, didn't tell him to shove off. He moved bonelessly with the CPR, his chest rose. But his eyes didn't open, his heart didn't beat. Dean kept going, ignoring the angels and old friend, the cold that crept up as the night grew deeper and it hit the witching hour, midnight. He ignored how there wasn't a single sound in the grove besides his own labors and voice, and he definetely ignored how that voice was cracking with despair and lost hope.

Then he stopped just as suddenly as the ritual had. Dean sat back on his heels, arms falling uselessly to the side and chest heaving as he stared at Sam's face. Something warm was running down his face in a complete counter to the cold air and Dean didn't care. Carefully, he lifted Sam's upper torso, craddled him close, his face tucked into the crook of Dean's neck and shoulder, and Dean held him tightly. Sam's body was cold and a little stiff and Dean buried his face into Sam's hair. You couldn't hear him cry, or see his face, but you could tell from the way his shoulders shook that Dean Winchester was greiving and for more than just his dead brother.

Black-Angel-001: don't hate me, don't kill me, don't be mad in any way! this is a good thing...really.