So, not too many more chapters to go now...I am thinking about 5 or 7 more and I should have everything wrapped up nicely. thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story. And a huge thanks to those who have continued to review!! Bambers;)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Eyes slowly fluttering open and closed, Dean's vision blurred as he tried to hold onto the fading image of his mother's face. Vaguely, he heard the sounds of muted voices, and latched onto the one that sounded the most familiar. Markus. His muddled mind wrapped around the conscious thought of being in danger, but couldn't transfer that thought into action.

Blood gurgled in the back of his throat as struggled to draw in each harsh, rasping breath. Legs wobbling precariously, his knees buckled and he weakly grabbed hold of his mother's shoulders to steady himself. Carefully guiding him to the ground, she rested his head on her lap. Hands trembling, he reached up and trailed his bloodied fingers down her cheek.

"Please, Dean," she softly coaxed, gripping hold of his hand as it fell away from her face. "You're running out of time."

Swallowing hard against the blood pooling at the back of his throat, he gagged on the metallic taste, and coughing repeatedly, he hastily tilted his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. His eyelids fluttered closed once more, and sluggishly opened as he shifted back to look up at her.

"S-S'mmm," he mumbled incoherently with pleading eyes in hopes that she would somehow realize what he wanted. Licking his parched, blood stained lips, he tried again when she failed to respond, "S'mmm . . . l-li - " Blood gurgled in his throat, abruptly choking off his words. Coughing and gasping for breath, he peered fearfully into her bluish-gray eyes.

"It's okay, honey, you can let go," she murmured in a sad lilting voice, lightly kissing him on the forehead."Just close your eyes and let go."

She hadn't understood him, she'd believed he wanted to die, and she was granting him his unspoken wish. His heart pounded furiously inside his chest, fear welling to overflowing as he felt himself begin to drift. Struggling to keep his eyes open, terrified that if he closed them they would forevermore remain that way, he weakly shook his head.

"I swear it'll be alright, Dean," she assured, lulling him into eternal sleep with her soothing voice, and his eyes slipped closed.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Sam peered between the gaping cracks in the wooden boards covering the front window of the old Simmon's place, but couldn't detect any movement from within the farmhouse. He then glanced back over his shoulder at Dean's Impala, and a frown creased his brow. He knew his brother had to be inside, but what he couldn't fathom was why he'd chosen to come back to this particular home. They'd taken care of the vengeful spirits that had inhabited the dwelling. However just to be certain, he'd checked on his laptop along with local newspapers, and couldn't find anymore incidents involving the abandoned home, so it made absolutely no sense at all.

He took a step toward the entrance, and froze, stomach churning at the thought of seeing his older brother again. What if he doesn't want to see me? Dean had tried so damn hard to reach out to him over and over again, and he'd shut him out every single time. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't after the way I've treated him.

Sam stood rooted in his spot as indecision warred with his determination to confront Dean to set things right. Maybe I should go. If he'd wanted me here, he would've called. He glanced at the Chevy Nova he'd stolen from Bobby's salvage yard, and took a step toward the stairs, stopping short when he heard strange, low gurgling noises coming from somewhere inside the house.

For a moment he stood listening to the sound, eyes scrunched in confusion, and then they widened considerably as his heart skipped a beat.

"Dean!" he shouted, kicking in the front door in his attempt to get to his brother as quickly as possible. Pausing just inside the threshold, he craned his neck and listened. Within a moment, he heard the noise again. Now fearing Dean's life was in danger, pure instinct overrode any other emotion, and he swiftly withdrew his gun and darted headlong into the living room.

Fear twisted to confusion on his brow as he spied Dean sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the side. Gasping for air, Dean's hand twisted around the faded fabric of his flannel shirt as he clutched at his chest, spurning Sam into action. Hastily returning his weapon to his waistband, he darted around the coffee table and rushed to his brother's side, dropping down beside him.

Eyes pressed firmly closed, Dean continued to thrash and gasp for breath as Sam struggled to assess his condition, but found no apparent injuries. He's got to be choking on something. He quickly glanced at the coffee table, searching for whatever food his brother might be choking on, but found nothing on the glass tabletop. Suddenly Dean's hand fell loosely to the side to brush against Sam's leg, lips parting slightly to release a small puff of air as he went deathly still.

"Come on, Dean, don't do this to me," Sam uttered, placing his fingers at the side of his brother's throat, searching for a pulse but finding nothing. No. No. No. No. No. Damn it, don't you die on me.

Kicking the table aside, Sam dragged Dean to the floor, tilted his head back and scooped a finger through his mouth to clear away any possible obstructions. After lowering his head to listen and make sure his brother wasn't breathing on his own, Sam pinched Dean's nose close and gave him two breathes.

"I'm not letting you die on me," Sam vowed as he laced his fingers together, and began chest compressions. "I didn't come all this way to bury you." Thirty compressions given, he gave his brother another two breaths, then repeated the compressions.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he continuously repeated the life saving technique over and over again, to no avail, but refused to give up even as his tired muscles cramped in protest. Tears blurred his vision as he uselessly gave his brother two more breaths and watch his chest slowly rise and fall then go completely still.

Pushing himself backward to rest against the couch, Sam pulled Dean to his chest, and wrapped his arms around him, fisting the fabric of his shirt in his hands as tears slipped down his cheeks unchecked. "I'm so sorry, Dean," he sobbed brokenly, slowly rocking back and forth. "I can't make this right if you're gone . . . so you can't be gone. You hear me?" Sam shook his brother's lifeless body. "I said you can't be gone, so wake the hell up!"

Dean's head lolled to the side as Sam loosened his hold to look at him briefly before tightening his hold once again. "I know it wasn't you, Dean . . . you have to give me a chance to fix things between us . . . I - I deserve a chance to make this up to you. So you can't give up on me now."

Sam fell silent, listening to the wind whistling through the boarded windows, rattling the broken glass. As the chilled breezed died away, he heard the faint sound of something beeping near the doorway, and narrowed his eyes on Dean's duffel bag. Craning his neck, he tilted his head to the side to listen closer, trying to determine what the noise was, and scrunched his eyes in confusion when he realized it was Dean's EVP recorder.

Never taking his sights of his brother's duffel, Sam shouted, "Dean, if that's you, you'd better be workin' on a way to get yourself back inside your body or I swear I'll salt an' burn your sorry ass."

"Well, that'd be k-kinda awkward after that whole ch-chick-flick moment we jus' had," Dean mumbled weakly.

Mouth dropping wide open, Sam's head snapped back, eyes widening to gape at him. "Y-you were dead. "I mean, you were really dead . . . I tried to revive . . . you - you can't be alive."

"Guess you can never underestimate the power of the chick-flick moment." Dean tried to chuckle, but it quickly turned into a barking cough. "That would kinda make you like Vader without the cool light saber."

"You're really okay?" Sam asked, loosening his hold on Dean to check him over, certain he was hallucinating. "You're really alive?"

"Either that or you're talking to a dead person, Haley Joel." Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, and leaned back against the couch beside his brother. "But seeing that I'm really starving, I'd say it's a safe bet to say I'm alive."

Biting pensively at his lower lip, Sam fell silent as he felt the walls building between them as Dean made light of the whole experience. If Sam allowed him to, he would bury the past few months so deep in his subconscious, he would almost be the same person again. Almost. Yet the haunted, faraway look in his eyes, spoke of how shattered he was inside, and no amount of burying would ever cover that amount of pain.

He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of saying what was on his heart to say, he uttered, "Wanna go grab something to eat?"

"Sure thing, Sammy," he replied, smile fading to a sad frown.