Chapter 7.

Dean had been sitting by Sam’s bedside for the last two hours as the pale colors of dawn had finally given way to the clear, cloudless blue skyline of a late summer morning in New York. It had taken a while, but his little brother had finally grown tired of them talking around the subject, of Dean’s reassurances that everything would be fine.

The older hunter had plied the younger teen with Tylenol and juice, hoping to at least hold the approaching storm at bay. A part of him liked to think that it wouldn’t be as bad as Syria insinuated, that maybe it was all a bluff. More of Duran’s theatrics. But the recent attack from last night was still too fresh in his mind, Sam’s distress and cry of pain a memory easily recalled each time he closed his eyes and dared to get a moment’s rest. Then there was the heat he could almost feel radiating off his brother now.

It had started not less than an hour ago, forcing its way through any protective barrier that Dean’s preemptive measures had offered. And it made the slight warmth from before seem like a cool breeze off the pond at Jim’s farm.

The twenty-year-old leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He watched Sam’s chest rise and fall, peered intently at his young face that was already lining with the traces of discomfort, and tried to prepare himself for the inevitable.

The shock was still unavoidable as his little brother cried out. Sam called his name, and it was a sound Dean knew he’d never be able to steel himself against. The unmistakable echo of failure.

“Hey,” He moved from the chair to the bed, let his hand rest on Sam’s forearm. “I’m here. You're okay.”

A tired, glassy gaze found his, and he tried to smile, even though the usual distinctive greens and browns like that of a moss covered tree seemed swallowed up by the dilated darkness that had consumed most of Sam’s irises. “What…?” The teen tried, his voice rough and grating against his parched throat.

“Take it easy. You were just getting some rest.” Dean surmised his brother’s inquiry. Sometimes it felt odd that he knew what Sam wanted, even before his brother consciously realized what that was. “Everything’s fine.”

Sam smirked at that, and Dean couldn’t deny the relief he felt that his brother could still call bullshit when he heard it. “Liar.”

Dean grinned. “How you feeling, tough guy ?”

“Bad,” Sam didn’t even bother lying. His head was hot and stuffy, as if someone had shoved his skull full of warm cotton balls. The rest of his body seemed sluggish and achy, like he was suffering from the flu. "I guess I didn't just have really bad dream?"

Dean shook his head. "Although this does rank right up there with some of the freaky-ass shit that goes on in your weird subconscious."

Sam smiled , but on the peripheral he could feel an intensity growing, almost like watching a building wave in the distance, fascinated by the way it grows, but knowing all along it’s going to hurt like a bitch when it plows into you.

Unfortunately, he might has well have been cemented in sand, waiting for the force of the water to take him under. Because he knew there was no escaping the surge. The frightening thought had him uncharacteristically reaching out for his brother’s hand.

Despite the flinch and the worry he saw race through Dean’s eyes, he couldn’t deny himself the lifeline he needed. At least if he went under, he’d have a way back to shore. Dean wouldn’t let him drown. “Don’t do anything stupid-okay?”

“Stupid? ” His older brother looked down at their entwined hands before reaching up to shove his other through his tousled dirty-blond hair. “Me?”

Sam could tell he was uncomfortable, but dealing for his sake. “Yeah, you.” He took a quick breath, sensing the fierce tug of the undertow, felt the sand sliding out from beneath his feet. “No matter how bad it gets.”

“You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Sammy,” Dean’s fingers tightened on his. The way they had done that first time he walked with him out into the vast Atlantic Ocean.

It was one of Sam’s first memories-pleasant ones anyway. Even now if he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the heat on his bare shoulders, see the sun as he squinted up into the reassuring face of his big brother.

Sam had been maybe four at the time, and their father’s latest hunt had brought them to the coast of Carolina to the little sea swept town of Surfside. On a rare mood, John had brought them to the beach for the day, allowed them a moment to be just boys, frolicking in the white-crested water, burying each other in the sand, creating mini tidal pools of their very own.

The first time they’d faced the waves together, Sam had been afraid, positive that he would be washed away, carried out to sea. But his brother had been patient, resolute. ‘Don’t be afraid, Sammy. Not even Neptune, the god of the ocean, could take you away from me.’

But now Sam was afraid of what lay before him. What he couldn’t make out lurking in the dark waters surrounding him. “I’m scared,” He whispered. The confession slipped out before he could stop it, betraying him right along with the salty tear that traced a trail down his face, the taste of it on his lips completing the sensations from the past. Then the current grew stronger, right along with his panic, sucking at him now. But Dean’s grip also strengthened.

“I’m not going to let go, little brother. Neither are you. You’re going to be okay. That I can promise.”

Sam was glad it was the last words he heard before the wall of pain pounded over him, before the rush of agony threatened to steal his breath, strangle him with its brutality. “Dean!” The teen gasped as he was drug under, caught up in the swell of the potion.

Fire swept through him like a tide over scattered sand castles, and he cried out again. His brother’s voice was muffled and muted as if he were trying to communicate with him from under one of those waves they’d jumped as children. Sam tried desperately to focus, to let that sound anchor him, but even as he felt a warm touch on his face, his mooring escaped him and he was jettison on a storm-swept sea.

“Sammy!” Dean jerked at the raw pain in his little brother’s cry, unsure of what to do when the teen went rigid against his touch.

His brother’s face was twisted in obvious agony, his eyes clenched tight against the invisible attack. He choked on Dean’s name, sputtered a weak plea for help, and Dean saw red, his vision exploding in an array of bright spots that was reminiscent of the times when he’d sustained a forceful blow to the head. Only this time the hit was to his heart-the damage to his soul.

“Come on, Sam. Don’t do this.” Dean tried putting his hands on his brother’s face, holding his listing head. “Just breathe through it, Sammy. Try. Please.” This all seemed much worse than the previous attacks. Too brutal, too sudden. And Dean felt completely helpless.

There was nothing to breathe through, no end to be found. The attack seemed one continuous litany of abuse. No light at the tunnel like last time, no reprieve if Sam could only hold on a moment longer.

He felt the other boy’s muscles tremble at the strain, his breathing coming in a quick succession interlaced with whimpers and heart-wrenching mewls. “Sam,” Dean breathed, leaning over the other boy, feeling his pulse, trying to offer whatever shelter he could.

The teen’s heart was racing, sweat was beading on his face, dripping down his neck. There would be no way he could sustain the torture much longer, and neither could Dean.

“Caleb!” Dean called, moving away from his brother only long enough to ensure that his voice would carry into the other room.

Footsteps pounded in the distance and the other hunter burst in like he expected to find a demon tearing the boys apart.

His eyes looked confused for a moment, until they met Dean’s panicked gaze-and it was as if an invisible beast suddenly revealed itself. “Do something,” The younger man shouted, and Caleb felt bile rise to the back of his throat as he took in the sight of Sam thrashing on the bed and Dean’s blood-shot eyes.

Reaves took a step further into the room, nearly staggered under the emotions rolling off of Dean, the pain emanating from Sam. He threw up his defenses before he could be swept away with the current that apparently had both Winchester’s in her merciless grip. “Hold on,” He snapped, realizing his voice sounded entirely too much like John’s when he was barking an order that could not be dismissed. “Just hold on, damn it.”

It worked. Dean froze in place by his brother’s side, even Sam seemed to still .

In what seemed like seconds, Caleb was barreling back into the room. He moved past Dean, tugging at his sleeve as he did. “Help me.” He breathed, as he sat on the bed near the youngest Winchester.

Dean followed robotically, his hands once more finding perch on the writhing body of his younger brother. “Hold him down,” Caleb instructed, and Dean noticed for the first time the syringe he held in his hand.

“What is that?” He asked, his voice not half as steady as he willed it to be.

“Morphine,” Caleb snapped, using one hand to grasp Sam’s arm, the other he used to bring the needle up to his mouth.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Dean demanded, not sure he could surrender such control as this, even to someone he trusted.

“Yeah,” Caleb’s dark gaze met his and he nodded. He used his teeth to uncap the syringe, spat the plastic tip out onto the floor. “I'm making the pain stop.”

Dean was unable to tear his eyes away as the older hunter shoved the needle into his brother’s arm, depressed the plunger that would release the drug into his system. There was no time to be professional, no alcohol swab, no searching for just the right vein. This was warfare triage, and Dean could almost hear the bombs exploding around them-the earth quaking beneath their feet.

Caleb removed the syringe when it was empty , held his breath right along with Dean until Sam’s struggling eased, his breath started to slow. Only then did they release the younger boy. Still, Dean moved away slowly, carefully, as if he could trigger another landmine if he didn’t use extreme caution.

Reaves tossed the used needle into a small trashcan by the bed, raked his hand through his hair then over his shadowed face. “That should help for a few hours.” Dean didn’t miss the way the other man’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out to check Sam’s pulse. The way the breath rushed out of him in relief as if he were worried he wouldn’t find what he was searching for. “He’s not allergic to this shit, is he?”

Dean shook his head, almost choked on a laugh that sounded much too like a sob. “Hell of a time to ask now.”

“I didn’t think he was,” Caleb pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re the walking Anaphylactic.” He sighed, as his eyes went to Sam’s pale face again.

“You gave him the right amount though, right?” Dean slid his own fingers to his brother’s throat, easily finding the tell-tale signs of life. “You know how much to give someone his weight and everything?”

“Deuce, I’m not an idiot. I’ve used the stuff before.”

Dean raised a brow. “Beats the hell out of Tylenol.”

“Yeah, well sometimes you have to pull out the big guns.”

“Speaking of which, is your friend coming? The flower-child chick?”

Caleb snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly describe Bird like that, but yeah, she should be here soon.”

“Good, cause I don’t want another repeat of Dr. Reaves, Medicine Man.”

“You’re welcome.” The older hunter sighed. “How’s his fever?”

Dean ran a hand over his brother’s face, Sam mumbled and turned into the touch. “Not good.”

Caleb glanced at the clock on the night stand, its glowing red numbers read 7:56. “It’s been over twelve hours since he ingested the potion. Duran said we had at least forty-eight.”

“So this is just the beginning,” Dean bit off angrily. “What the hell are we going to do?” He gestured towards his brother. “Sam’s already out of it.”

“For one, you’re not going to freak out, man.” Caleb shook his head. “I know how you get. Ranting and raving and killing something isn’t an option at the moment.”

“And you’re the fucking voice of reason?” Dean rolled his eyes. This was a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black. “Give me a break.”

“I’m just saying you need to stay calm.”

“Calm? I can do calm.” Dean looked at Sam, tightened his fists. “I’ve dealt with him being sick before. Lots of times.”

“I know that. But this is different. ”

“Yeah. This is different.” The younger hunter glanced up, feeling his eyes beginning to sting, hating like hell that he couldn’t even find a control switch for his own feelings this time. “This isn’t a cold, or flu, or injury that I know will get better. This is an on-going attack, and I don’t know how to defend him against it.”

Caleb licked his lips, swallowed hard. He sucked at the conversation shit, and he knew it.

It was one of the things he and Dean had in common. The younger boy might have been able to talk all day, non-stop, but when it was all said and done, he hadn’t really said a whole hell of a lot. Caleb just preferred to ‘not say a lot’ by actually keeping his mouth shut.

When they worked together they didn’t need to discuss things to death, whether it was how to handle the job or what happened during said gig. Most of the time, that was an advantage, but at other moments, like now for instance, when action wasn’t an option, no cards were in their hands, and without a freakin’ pool table in sight, Caleb felt pretty damn retarded. “Look, kid. I hate to break it to you, but you're ringside for this one. The real fight’s up to Sammy.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Dean grunted. “I’m sure I’ll be loads of help just sitting on the sidelines. I've always made such a good bench-warmer. ”

Caleb gave his friend a hard look. “Hey.” He waited for the younger hunter to look at him. “Nobody I’d rather have in my corner. And I know Sam feels the same.”

Before the awkward silence could reach any intolerable levels, Caleb suddenly stood, his eyes darting towards the door. “Bird’s here.” A moment later, the chimes of the doorbell rang, and he grinned slightly. “And she brought us breakfast.”

“Not any special brownies, I hope.”

“Kid-she’s like seventy.”

Dean snorted. “Wait ‘til Sammy hears you have a fetish for old chicks.”

Caleb smirked. “Better than the one you two got going on for sadistic ones.”

At first he was afraid he’d said the wrong thing, but then Dean smiled, his typical half-assed grin, and Caleb realized he might just be losing that bad habit of putting his foot in his mouth. .

“Like you didn’t think about it.”

Reaves bobbed his eyebrows. “I did more than think about it, Deuce.”

“Right.”

“Hey, when this is all over, and you’ve grown up, I might tell you about it.”

“Now who’s making up fairytales?”

The chimes rang again and Caleb was saved from replying. He started for the door, but Dean’s voice stopped him.

“Caleb?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Thanks.” He nodded towards Sam. “You’re a real pain in the ass most times, but you come through when it counts.”

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Deuce.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Go let your girlfriend in.”

“Hey, after you taste her coffee cake, you’re going to want her for yourself.”

The twenty-year-old looked at him, his smile gone. “I just want her to help, Sammy.”

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