Warnings: Angsty-schmoop and hugging. Both Sam and Dean's POVs are included.

"Makes you feel more alive, being in the presence of death."
- True Blood

Chapter 7

Sam.

Sam's instantly aware of the fact that his lungs won't work. The lack of air makes him panic and causes his heart to jackhammer behind his ribs. It feels like trying to cough up water after nearly drowning. It feels like trying to breathe through hot smoke. It feels like dying all over again. He remembers what it felt like to be unable to breathe, to have that primal need taken away. Ironically, he doesn't remember breathing much in hell. He knows that he did though because you can't scream without breathing, and Sam did a lot of screaming while he was in the pit.

Sam's so concentrated on the fact that he can't breathe that he doesn't immediately notice the hand on his chest, or the other one gripping his shoulder. He can't hear anything beyond his own hacking, but he knows from the weight of the hand and from the mere presence that it's Dean. Sam forces his eyes open, ignoring the way they sting and fill with tears. Dean is the first thing he sees. Sam's used to this. For as long as he can remember, Dean's always been the first person he's seen after waking up from some horrible injury, or from unconsciousness. What he's not used to seeing when he wakes up is Dean crying, or covered in blood, or looking so pale that Sam immediately concludes that the blood is Dean's. The idea that Dean is injured does nothing to calm his panic. Dean must notice his spike in anxiety because the worried expression on his face deepens, and he starts speaking. Sam can barely hear him over the roar in his own head. Briefly, Sam wonders if he's deaf. It'd explain why Dean's lips are moving but Sam isn't hearing anything. Hell was loud. More than once, he had wondered if his ears were going to pop from the sound of all the screaming, and the industrialized noises that never ended. That's the thing about hell, nothing there ever ends. More than the pain and the hopelessness, Sam thinks that the infinity is what really makes hell unbearable.

"…Sam!"

He's not sure why but Dean's suddenly hauling him upwards, manhandling him until his back is pressed against Dean's chest. Sam's head automatically falls back onto his brother's shoulder. The weight of his skull feels more like a bowling ball instead of an actual head. Above him, the bleak ceiling of the factory blurs and a weightless sensation settles into his limbs. Sam recognizes this from death, it's how he felt when the initial pain of suffocation passed and the calm took over.

"Easy, in and out, Sammy."

Dean's voice calms the ceiling, allowing a ray of clarity to pierce through his disorientation. Slowly, like a dull heat, he can feel his chest burn as his lungs work furiously to bring in oxygen. Dean's hand presses against his ribs, keeping his chest tight with Sam's back.

"Breathe, Sammy. It's only a panic attack, man, just breathe with me. Come on," Dean half pleads into Sam's ear, "Just breathe like me."

It goes on like that for a moment, with Dean trying to coach Sam to match his breathing, and Sam trying to get his brain to catch up. The tightness in his ribcage lessens after a few minutes and soon, he can feel his chest rise and fall in time with Dean's breaths. He assumes Dean can feel the calm too because he helps Sam turn around so that they're face to face. Dean still looks awful; pale, and stained with tears and blood.

"You're bleeding," Sam states. His voice makes it sound like he had gargled glass at some point, but the concern is there all the same.

Dean huffs a small laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob before shaking his head, "It's not mine."

Dean.

Sam takes that one deep, breath, and that's it. Undiluted panic makes Dean's heart literally freeze for a beat or two as he gapes in horror at Sam's chest. Then, he jumps into action, closing the short distance between him and Sam in seconds, pushing past Castiel as if he isn't even there. Dean's hands immediately reach out for Sam and as it turns out, he is breathing, just not very well.

"Sammy? Sam!" Dean shouts as his hands fist Sam's shirt. Dean fights the urge to shake him to get a response; he knows that shaking will do nothing to help the situation.

Sam looks like a fish on dry land, wheezing and struggling as he tries to take in oxygen. It's one of the scariest things Dean's ever seen next to watching Sam die and watching Sam have a seizure.

Sam's eyes are shut tight but Dean can see tears gathering under his eyelids. Sam tries to curl in on himself, probably an attempt to relieve the pain in his chest, but Dean smooths him back out.

"Easy, Sam, come on. Sammy? It's over now, just calm down, little brother," Dean says. He tries to keep his cool, hoping that if he doesn't lose his head, then Sam will settle. It doesn't work. He isn't even sure if Sam's hearing him. If it's possible, Dean panics a little more.

"Come on, come on, Sam!" Dean yells. His hands grip in Sam's shirt a little tighter as he unconsciously tries to ground them both.

Sam's eyes snap open and Dean can't help but start. He's relieved at the sight of Sam's hazel eyes, but he quickly realizes that even though Sam's eyes are open, he's still not breathing correctly. His breaths are coming in short gasps and wheezes, and sweat is budding around his hairline and across his lip. Sam's panicking. That's when it hits Dean and he's never felt like more of an idiot. Panic attack. Immediately, Dean pulls Sam up by the shirt, maneuvering him until they are back-to-chest. Now that he knows what's wrong, he's going to do what he does best: fix it.

Sam's head falls back onto his shoulder like he just doesn't have the strength to keep it up. Dean immediately rests his head lightly against the side of Sam's, "Easy, in and out, Sammy."

It's actually scarier this way; being able to feel Sam's entire ribcage stutter with every failed intake and expel of air. He's actually afraid to hold on too tight in case he restricts Sam's lungs even more.

"Breathe, Sam. It's only a panic attack, man, just breathe with me. Come on, just breathe like me."

And finally, he does. Christ, it feels like it takes a lifetime, but Sam finally breathes. Slowly, Dean turns Sam back around. Sam's eyes are a bit wide, his skin a bit flushed and still covered in a thin film of sweat, but he's alive. He's breathing, and he's alive.

"You're bleeding."

Sam sounds awful; a lot like Dean did when he first came back from hell, and it doesn't help that Sam just got over a panic attack. But Dean doesn't care. Sam's alive, and more than that, he's alive and concerned because he thinks Dean's bleeding. Dean doesn't know if he should be horrified, touched, or ashamed. Now that he's really looking, Dean can see the blood that he got all over Sam when he was trying to calm him down. There are bright red stains all over his clothes, along with a few smears on his skin. Suddenly Dean wonders if he's any better than Tim, spilling blood all in the name of vengeance, and getting it on his little brother.

"It's not mine," Dean finally replies, letting out a choked sound that he will never admit to emitting. Then he hugs Sam, hugs him like he should've been able to when Sam took that first breath. He tucks Sam's head under his chin, ignores the blood and sulfur that he can briefly smell on Sam's hair, and just holds on.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." He needs to say it before Sam sees, before Sam realizes where the blood came from and what Dean has done. If he doesn't say it now, Sam might not give him the chance to say it later, "I'm so damn sorry." As Sam clings right back, Dean can feel him frown.

Dean forces himself to let go of Sam. He tells himself that he needs to man up; there are things he has to face, and a little brother he needs to look after. Sam looks confused and freaked out as he rakes his eyes over Dean, and Dean knows he's looking for cuts or stab wounds. Dean also knows he's not going to find any.

"Dean, what's going on? What happened?" Sam half demands, his throat still struggling to force out words.

Dean doesn't have to answer because in that split second, Sam glances to his right, and freezes.

Sam.

At first, Sam thinks he's having some kind of post-hell flashback because there's just so much blood it's almost inconceivable. Then he recognizes the faces and realizes that this isn't some sort of messed up image that his brain cooked up, it's real. It's Tim, and Mick, and the other hunters who played a small part in Sam's murder. It's real, and they're dead, and there's so. much. blood.

Sam forces his eyes away from the scene to look back at Dean, who's also staring at the small massacre. Dean must feel his stare, because he turns back to meet Sam's gaze.

"Dean?" Sam questions, searching his brother's face for answers, for some sort of sign that he wasn't a part of whatever happened ten feet away.

But Sam knows he was. Dean has that look on his face, the same exact one he had when Sam demanded to know about his hell deal. It's the look that's begging Sam not to hate him for what he felt like he had to do.

"Oh my God," Sam breathes when Dean doesn't answer, "Dean…what'd you do?"

Dean swallows hard as his eyes glaze over. Sam can see the apology painted all over his brother as if the word was actually stamped on his forehead, but there's not a single trace of regret. Like with his deal, Dean's not sorry for doing it, he's just sorry for whatever pain it might cause Sam.

"I had to, Sammy," Dean half whispers and then shakes his head, "Christ, Sam, they murdered you! You think I could just let something like that go?"

"So you call the cops, Dean! You don't go on a shooting spree!" Sam argues and then starts coughing when he raises his voice to high, irritating his unused vocal cords.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's back until the coughing stops and Sam's in an upright position again.

"Let's just…let's get out of here, ok? We can deal with it later, I promise, but for now let's just go."

Sam stares at him for a second before nodding.

Dean.

Dean sighs in relief, feeling his shoulder sag. He'd be happy never to see the state of Oklahoma again, but for now, he just wants to grab Sam and get out of the warehouse.

"Good," Dean says and then eyes Sam, "Come on, put your arm over my shoulder."

Sam rolls his eyes as Dean grabs hold of his arm, slinging it behind his head, "You know, I can walk."

"Humor me," Dean replies as they slowly make their way out of the warehouse, giving the blood pool on the floor a wide berth.

When they get outside, they have no choice but to use the truck that Dean stole earlier. They have no other means of transportation. He watches Sam slide into the passenger side and decides that between the blood and prints, they'll probably need to destroy the truck. First, he has something else he needs to destroy.

"Sit tight, I need to..." Dean pauses as he looks for the words, "I need to take care of the warehouse."

Sam looks at him and Dean can tell that he sees right through him, but there's nothing Dean can do about that.

"I can go with you," Sam half offers, half states.

It's tempting, because, God, Dean's not ready to leave him alone yet, but he can't ask Sam to do this with him. He doesn't need to see it again, and this is Dean's mess, not Sam's.

"No, just, wait here a minute, ok?" Dean says and puts as much gratefulness into his voice as possible.

"Sure."

Dean hesitantly moves away from the cab of the truck to the back end, where he has multiple canisters of gas and salt waiting for him.

He's not sure when it happened, but at some point, Castiel vacated the warehouse. Dean takes it for the sign that it is.

He makes sure to soak the blood and bodies first, watching as the oily fuel mixes with the crimson on the floor. Then he gets the rest of the room, going around the perimeter, and pouring gas over the table that had once acted as Sam's resting place. Dean's going to make sure that the place goes up like a dry Christmas tree in a bonfire.

Once the place is covered in gasoline and salt, Dean stands in the doorway, strikes a match, and tosses it. With a violent 'whoosh' the gas catches. Dean sticks around long enough to watch the fire chase the gas pathways to the center, until the dead hunters are consumed in flames.