So sorry about the delay again, I feel horrible! But to make up for it, there's a lot of action in this chapter.
Also, I've been toying with Cas and considering how I might incorporate him into this story, but I've decided to let him sit this one out. I mainly just want to focus on the brothers.
Anyway, enjoy!
"Knock knock!"
Dean turned in his chair to look towards the door. Garth stood there with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a grin on his face.
"Hi, Dean!" he chirped, stepping inside the hospital room. He dropped his bag and immediately bent over to squeeze Dean's shoulders in an awkward hug.
"Yeah, uh, hi—" Dean managed to extract himself from Garth's spindly arms.
Garth turned to look at Sam, and his grin faded. "Hi, Sam," he said more quietly. "It's been a while, huh?" He silently watched Sam with a forlorn expression for a moment before returning his gaze to Dean.
"So," he said, "The Sandman, huh? That's cool, I've never hunted a faery before. Well, unless you count that ghost of a drag queen that died wearing a Tooth Fairy costume—"
"So Bobby filled you in on everything?" Dean quickly interrupted.
"Oh yeah. He also sent me to tell you that he's on his way to get the oak, ash, and thorn bark, and while he's doing that he wants you to go pick up the iron and silver ring y'all ordered from that metal worker downtown."
"Alright." Dean stood, but hesitated to leave, glancing down at Sam.
Garth smiled encouragingly and clapped Dean's shoulder. "Don't worry, Dean, I've got this."
Dean finally sighed. He squeezed Sam's hand once and left the room.
Sam lay on the ground, cold, limp and unmoving. His eyes, filled with pain and anguish, gazed off into the distance as if waiting for some miracle that would be his salvation.
Everything hurt. Blood trickled down his face, mixing with tears and dropping to the ground with a minute pat, pat, pat. His limbs were crooked with broken bones and sticky with blood. He was fairly sure one or more of his organs were bruised or completely busted. He knew that at least ten of his ribs were broken, if not all of them. Each breath was a painful rattle that sent shivers through his entire body.
In a distant corner of his mind, Sam wondered how on earth he was still alive.
"Are you happy now, little brother?" a cold voice hissed into his ear.
Dean's voice.
Sam wanted to die. Not because of the physical pain—but because the gaping hole in his heart was so great that he thought it would swallow him whole.
He wished it would. That way he wouldn't have to listen to his big brother's callous, detesting voice. He wouldn't have to see the burning hatred in Dean's eyes.
"Are you fucking happy that you've managed to drive me to do this? To finally punish you for what you've done?"
Dean seized Sam's face and forced his brother to look at him. "My whole life, you've caused nothing but trouble for me" he growled. "First, you walk out on me and Dad. You abandoned us, Sam." Dean paused as he peered into Sam's bloodshot eyes. "You abandoned Mom."
"No," Sam croaked.
Dean roughly let go of Sam's face. Sam watched his boots as Dean sauntered a short distance away and began to pace.
"Not only that," he continued, "You killed mom."
"No," Sam rasped again. "No, I—"
"Shut the fuck up!" Dean snarled as he delivered a sharp kick to Sam's already broken ribs. Sam didn't have the energy or even the breath enough to scream as his vision blacked out momentarily, intense pain flooding through him.
"It should've been you on that ceiling," Dean's cold remark cut through the darkness.
More tears poured out of Sam's eyes, and he squeezed them shut in a desperate attempt to block out Dean's voice.
"Oh, and we can't forget poor, sweet little Jessica. You killed her too. You knew it was going to happen, but you still left her to die. Not very surprising, of course, considering you're a half-blooded demon freak.
"And then you let me die, too. You let me go to Hell, and then you left me there to rot while you partied it up with a goddamn demon." Dean let out a dry laugh. "And the best part? You let dear old Luci out of the cage! You started the damn apocalypse! Bet you're proud of that one, Sammy. I wonder how many people died because of you? A few hundred thousand? Maybe a million?"
Sam choked on a sob. "De," he whimpered. Forcing his eyes open, both he and his muscles groaned as he turned his head to look at Dean.
In that moment, Sam was no longer a hunter. He was no longer a man who had fought for his life, killed monsters, or saved people.
Sam was a child once again—a child looking for solace; a child looking to the one that had raised and protected him his entire life; a child looking to his guardian—a child looking to his big brother to make everything okay again.
"De," he whispered once more, struggling to lift his broken and bloodied arm to reach for his brother, begging for help.
Dean knelt down next to Sam's head, his eyes full of disgust. "I hate you," he hissed. Dean wrapped his hands around Sam's throat and then there was nothing but pain.
"Something's wrong with Sam."
"What?"
Scuffling. Urgent voices. Then, "Dean, I think you should get down here."
Dean's heart dropped. "On my way." He shoved his phone back into his pocket and grabbed his keys just as Bobby entered the motel room, carrying a takeout bag. The old hunter raised an eyebrow. "Somethin' up?" he asked.
"Garth called," Dean said as he caught the door before it shut. "Something's wrong with Sam."
Bobby wasted no time dropping the takeout bag and following Dean out to the Impala.
Upon arriving, Dean tore through the hospital with Bobby hot on his heels, skidding to a stop in Sam's room. The doctor and Jenny were standing on either side of Sam's bed. Garth hovered nearby, nervously chewing his lip.
Jenny glanced up. When she saw Dean she quickly moved aside so that he could get closer to Sam.
His little brother was covered in a sheen of sweat, yet he seemed to be shivering uncontrollably. Every breath he took was labored, as if he couldn't get enough air. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his face was contorted in agony. He was writhing, not unlike when the Wall came down and he remembered the Cage—and that was what scared Dean more than anything.
"No, no, no," Dean moaned, grasping Sam's arm. "This can't be happening again—"
"Again?" Jenny interrupted sharply. "When has this happened before?"
Dean's voice stuck in his throat. He hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. He felt a flare of anger towards Jenny for prying, but he also knew it was just her job to take any of Sam's past conditions into consideration. Even so, he couldn't just tell her "Yeah, my brother's been to Hell and he used to fall out and seize whenever he remembered it, and I'm afraid that it's happening again."
Dean was spared having to answer momentarily when Sam suddenly arched his back, sucking in one long, rattling breath.
"He can't breathe!" Dean snapped. "Do something!"
"There's nothing we can do," Jenny responded, placing her hands on Sam's shoulders as she tried to keep him in bed. "As far as we can tell, there's nothing physically wrong with him. And we can't risk giving him a sedative; we don't want him falling back into the coma."
"So what, we just wait for him to suffocate?" Bobby demanded.
"All we can do is wait and hope he snaps out of it," the doctor said regretfully.
Dean reached up to grab his own hair, sick with fear. What the hell am I supposed to do? Sammy, how do I fix you?
Sam jerked on the ground in a feeble attempt to get away from Dean. He couldn't bare to hear anything else his brother might have to say to him.
Sammy, you have to breathe.
Dean's hands were still tight around his throat. He wanted to bring his own hands up to fight back, but it just hurt too much and he was too weak.
C'mon, please, just breathe for me, Sammy.
Suddenly Sam realized that something was different. Dean wasn't antagonizing him. He was telling Sam to breathe.
But that's an odd thing to say, Sam thought. He's choking me. He gagged as the pressure around his throat increased.
Sammy, listen to me. You're in a bad way and you're going to die if you don't use your fucking lungs and breathe.
What was it about Dean's voice that was so different?
Dammit, Sammy, COME ON!
And then it hit Sam like a ton of bricks: The voice wasn't coming from directly above him, where Dean's head should be—instead, it was coming from all around him, echoing inside his head.
The ghost of a familiar hand squeezed his shoulder in the same comforting way he'd known since childhood.
Sam had no idea what was happening to him—but he did know for damn sure that the person above him was not Dean, and it was so obvious now that Sam wondered how in the world he hadn't realized this from the start.
BREATHE, SAMMY!
Suddenly the hands crushing his trachea vanished and Sam was sucking in a huge, wonderful breath of sweet air.
Dean let out a gasp of shock and relief as Sam suddenly dragged in a great, smooth breath.
"It's about damn time!" Dean laughed, giddy with relief, his hand still keeping a tight grip on Sam's shoulder.
Sam sank back down to the mattress, panting. But his eyes remained closed.
"Is—is he awake?" Garth asked.
The doctor and Jenny ignored them for the moment as they bustled around Sam, checking his vitals and making sure he was uninjured. The three hunters waited rather impatiently until the two stepped back.
"I don't believe he's comatose anymore—" the doctor began.
"Well that's good, right?" Dean said hopefully.
"—But I have no idea whether he'll actually wake up yet or not. It may still take some time."
"But—so—" Dean stuttered, torn between elation that Sam wasn't in a coma anymore, and sorrow that he still may not wake up soon. "What are we supposed to do now?" Dean asked.
Jenny shrugged. "The same thing we've been doing. Wait."
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