Carry On... Episode 3: Noise and Confusion Part 2

[kiscinca]

Part 2 for the third episode of Carry On...



Episode 3: Noise and Confusion

Original airdate: 2010.02.01

Summary:

While recouping at Bobby’s Dean tries to seek out a way to pull Sam from his slump. After Dean is attacked in his nightmares, he and Sam must use an unusual new ability to hunt a creature which only appears in dreams.

Excerpt:

The pain from his own beating heart was like jackhammers forcing through his chest from the inside. This was wrong. All wrong. He tried desperately to call back to Sam, answer him and find his way out. If he could only follow his brother’s voice, he’d get out. Legs jerking, feet slipping along the floor, Dean scrabbled at his face with both hands trying to pry loose the thing covering his nose and mouth. He was dying. Pain lanced down his spine. His chest constricted and his lungs felt as if they’d been doused in gasoline and ignited. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe at all.

Written by: mlebayre , Story concept and research by mikiya2200  and Twinchy

Artist: mikiya2200 

Part 2

The way Dean sounded, how he looked when Sam bolted awake, was like nothing he’d seen or heard from his brother, or anyone, ever. At first he couldn’t sit up properly and didn’t understand why, struggling and fighting to get his feet on something solid until he realized his ankles were across Dean’s legs.

Shuddering uncontrollably, Sam pushed the upper half of his body away from the couch and stopped there for a few seconds, staring. It was late afternoon, sunlight streaming through the windows, catching on lampshades, chairs, the couch and casting long shadows to slither along the floor. However, it was different shape that drew Sam’s attention.

Hovering around Dean was another shadow of sorts. It wasn’t exactly a shadow, not really, but there was no other way Sam could come up with to describe it. Sam glared at it and for a second he could swear it glared right back. Dean’s chest was heaving as he pulled in uneven breaths, his voice stuttering, his entire body quaking. His skin was pale and a fine sheen of damp covered his cheeks, neck and exposed forearms.

When Dean’s breath shuddered and faltered, Sam threw himself forward, using his heels against Dean’s thighs for purchase. Fingers wrapping hard around Dean’s arms, Sam shook and shouted for all his worth.

In the next breath, for the briefest instant, he was inside Dean’s head. Dean was shrinking in size. It took Sam a few beats to realize his brother wasn’t diminishing, but being dragged away. Holding out one hand, Sam shouted for his brother, begged and pleaded for him to take Sam’s hands.

For once, Dean swallowed his damn pride and lurched forward, thrusting one hand out in front of him. Dean’s hand grasped Sam’s, hanging on with such power Sam’s fingers went white and stung. Throwing his full weight back, he gave Dean enough of a boost he got his feet under him and Sam was able to drag him closer.

Then all of a sudden, they were in Bobby’s living room, on the old, overstuffed couch, each drawing in trembling breaths, bodies literally vibrating from the strain of Dean’s nightmare. Sam didn’t stop shaking and tugging at his brother’s shoulders until Dean shoved at his shins and pushed his feet to the floor.

Dean was off the couch and backing away, taking Sam’s heart with him. Terrified he’d done some awful wrong to his brother, invoked his ire somehow, Sam sat and watched as Dean stepped back, mumbled apologies and ran from the room.

Sam sat and stared at his hands for a minute, the too cool sensation from Dean’s skin still lingered against his palms. People having nightmares didn’t exhibit early signs of shock. Then there was the whatever-it-was that had skated between them. For a few brief seconds, their minds were totally open to one another; not direct thoughts, but sensations and emotions.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. Dean wasn’t revolted or angry, not with Sam. What Dean was was scared, shaken to his very core. It had nothing to do with Sam and at the same time Sam knew it had everything to do with him.

Ever since coming back from Cold Oak-from being dead-Sam stuck like glue to his brother. Dean was his safe haven. His broad shoulders were perfect for hiding behind and never once was Sam turned away, not as a child and not now. Sam was never turned away or rejected when Dean stomped out of the house and to the salvage yard to work on cars if Sam followed. Dean may not have been overly chatty, but Sam saw how he’d glance every few minutes at Sam, not even trying to conceal the fact he was checking up on him. If Sam stayed inside, he was given a very critical once over, Dean’s eyes sweeping over him head to foot when Dean returned. Bobby was next to be scrutinized, Dean clearly wanting to be sure Sam had been treated to his satisfaction in his absence.

The wound that split open inside Sam when Dean ran from the room, from him, was wide and painful. Taking a few deep breaths and running one hand through his hair, Sam looked around the room. No odd shadows. It hit him, pretty much right between his eyes, right then, Dean had run from whatever he’d dreamt of, not Sam. If he’d been running from Sam, there would have been no apology and an order not to follow, to stay put and stay inside, leave Dean alone.

No such words had come from Dean’s mouth.

Sam mentally licked his wounded heart. His brother was still the overprotective guy he’d always been. Sam’s place in the world, and Dean’s heart was safe, unchallenged and stable as ever. Whatever Dean ran from, it wasn’t Sam. It was something that didn’t simply frighten him, but terrified him.

Finding his boots, Sam slipped them on and went to the back door. He and Dean often sat on the back steps, and it was likely the first place Dean had gone. Sam wasn’t disappointed.

He sat on the steps beside Dean, resting one hand on his brother’s shoulder as much to offer support as to calm and reassure himself. Dean barely glanced at him, but he didn’t shrug off Sam’s hand either. In fact, Dean’s shoulders relaxed and the tension keeping his back ramrod straight bled off him, making Dean’s spine curve into a more relaxed posture.

A few minutes later when Dean straightened and asked if Sam had been in Dean’s dream, Sam didn’t really think about the question, simply said he thought so.

“How the hell can you do that?”

Sam dropped his gaze away from Dean’s, focusing on the spot of ground between his feet. “I don’t know. You’re angry with me?”

“No…God, Sammy, no. I’m getting a little freaked out by this crap, yeah I’ll admit that, but not angry, not at you. I’m angry this happens to you…to us…but it sure isn’t your fault.”

“It just happened, I think, when I grabbed your arm to wake you up.”

Dean’s knuckles tapped lightly against Sam’s knee until Sam turned his head far enough to look at Dean. “Hey, dude, what did you see?”

“Just you.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Dean propped the bent elbow of his right arm on his leg and held his open hand up, palm turned to Sam. “I used this hand.”

Frowning, Sam leaned closer. Dean’s words were so soft it was hard to understand him. “For what?” Dean shook his head and looked away. Sam’s fingers clamped down on his shoulder. “Dean? I don’t understand what-” His words were cut off when Dean stood and in one stride was off the steps and on the ground.

“I…” Dean paced away a few steps then back toward the house, all the while never looking at Sam. Turning so he mostly faced away from Sam, Dean’s voice came out broken and wet, shaking that same hand a few times before letting it fall to his side. Dean seemed to shrink in some kind of defeat. “I lit your…I burned your body and used this hand to light…” He broke off. Head dropping, Dean turned away completely, but Sam still saw how he wiped across his face with his other hand. “I got there, to Cold Oak, and saw you. Sam, when you turned around, heard my voice, saw me, the look on your face…”

“I was glad to see you. I wasn’t even sure you were alive.”

Dean kept on going as if he hadn’t heard, but Sam could tell by how his back tensed he had. “You looked at me like I was some kind of hero and your entire expression was…hell I don’t know, but glad doesn’t cover it. Then,” Dean’s words choked, he shook his head once, sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. “Then your whole face changed to agony and all I could do was watch when that bastard…the knife went right into…” The last word was more of a sob.

Dean took another two steps away and shoved his fists into his pockets. “I couldn’t do anything. You kept trying to hold your head up and look at me and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help,” Yanking one hand from his pocket Dean shoved it against his mouth for a few seconds then curled his fingers into a fist, hitting his thigh as he spoke. “You died, Sam. I held you and watched as you took your last breath. I saw how your eyes just died…I held you and you died.”

Sam stood and closed the short distance between them, “Dean, it wasn’t-” He reached out, fingertips brushing down his brother’s back.

“Not my fault?” Dean stepped away far enough he was out of reach, contact broken. “I know that. But that didn’t help when I built a pyre and wrapped your body and put a flame to you then stood there and watched until there was nothing but ashes.” Leaning over and letting his knees bend, Dean sank down onto his heels. “I went to the Crossroad’s Demon and begged, but-”

“You did what?” The words blasted out of Sam’s mouth before he gave them any thought. Covering the distance between them in two long, angry strides, Sam grabbed Dean’s arms, hauled him up and spun him around. He opened his mouth to let his brother have it-both barrels-and stopped, shutting his mouth and biting down on the inside of his lower lip.

No defense was offered, no words begging Sam for forgiveness, nothing but tortured eyes with a sadness Sam had never witnessed in anyone before met him.

Dean squared his shoulders and stepped back. “And I’d do it again and again and again. Don’t think I didn’t hear what you said to Yellow Eyes.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam’s anger completely deflated.

“For what, Sam?” Dean was shouting at him now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Am I pissed that you’d give yourself up for me like that?” Sam could shout as loud as Dean. “Yeah, Hell yeah. But if it’d been you…I couldn’t live without…I get it, okay?”

They stood staring each other down for several minutes before they both seemed to realize they didn’t need to argue.

“Whenever I go to sleep, even for a few minutes, I get to live that over and over. You’re alive and well and right here and I get to see you die every goddamn time I close my eyes. And the last day or so, they’re getting worse, not better. Shouldn’t they get better, go away?” The last sentence came out more of a plea than a question. “I’m scared to death to go to sleep. You might die and not come back.”

Sam didn’t know what to do, or what to say. He stood watching his brother, feeling ashamed. Here he’d been so consumed with himself, his own undefined fears and Dean was there, had been there all along, taking care of him. His brother did everything, said anything he could to make Sam feel safe all the while he was falling apart inside piece by piece.

All because of Sam.

Well, that was done. Sam could certainly offer Dean the same Dean had given so freely to him every day of his life. He took a tentative step closer, “Dean, you know, I can chase away monsters too. I learned from you and you’re the best, hands down.”

“I thought with time they’d ease up.” Dean’s face and eyes softened. He nodded ever so slightly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His leaned his head bent back and stared up at the sky, eyes closing. “I’m tired, God, I’m so freaking tired.”

“I wish I could take it back and never put that knife down, but I can’t.”

Dean looked at Sam again, “If you hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be you. I’m proud of you for doing that, even if that sick, weasely little bastard did stab you.”

That shouldn’t have surprised Sam as much as it did. Wasn’t Dean always proud of Sam? It was a staple of Sam’s existence. “I think there was something in there with us?”

“Huh?”

“Right as you woke up, I was in your head, then not and right after that, I think there was some kind of….” Sam shook his head, “I don’t even know what, a shadow, hazy air, I’m not even sure. Definitely something.”

“Sam, in case you haven’t noticed where we are, Bobby’s house is a supernatural Fort Knox. Dude, I’m surprised we can get in.”

“We run across new things all the time. Maybe something that isn’t affected by the normal stuff?” Sam shrugged, “Is it going to hurt to do a bit of reading?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched up a fraction, “No, I guess not. Don’t be disappointed or blame yourself if you don’t find anything, though. Promise me.”

“What I’m promising you is I’m going to do something about this.” Motioning between them with one hand, Sam grinned, “This whole taking care of thing? Goes both ways you know.”

Dean might as well have given Sam every wish he’d ever wanted, the way Sam felt when Dean nodded his agreement.

-o-

“Dean, that nightmare you had, it’s not normal.” Sam padded into the kitchen, open book juggled in one hand. “You almost done with that?” He pointed with his free hand to the laptop Dean was planted in front of. “What are you looking for? When you’re done let me know so I can check some things out, okay?”

“Nothing.” Dean grumbled, deleted the history and clicked the browser closed. “All yours.” He swiveled the laptop around and gave it a shove across the table. It wasn’t like anything he’d read made him feel much better anyway.

Sam straddled the chair opposite him, set the book down and smiled softly. “I didn’t mean this second.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” Dean shrugged, “These old books of Bobby’s have sleep advice now too?”

“Well…sort of.” Sam turned the book so Dean could see. “There are a few creatures that’ll attach themselves to someone and feed off their nightmares, or more so, the emotions their nightmares invoke. Sometimes they’ll even enter a person’s nightmares and sort of enhance them to get what they want.”

Dean flipped idly through the pages, “C’mon, dude, Bobby has every ward, symbol and protection known to mankind. What could possibly get in here?” Besides the obvious, a pesky, ballsy, spirit Dean couldn’t help thinking.

“Yeah, but, Dean, what if there are some things not affected by the protections Bobby has? Some creatures, old ones, they can’t even be killed. You banish them. A few of these,” Sam thumped the book, “They feed once or twice and move on.”

“Sam-” Dean began, looking up at his brother. He closed his mouth. Sam wasn’t droopy-eyed, depressed or uninterested in life. In the span of a few hours, Dean had his brother back. The guy who was interested in life, saving people-Dean-tracking down the most minute details on a hunt. The problem was there was no hunt, not that Dean could see.

However, Sam thought he saw a hunt. A hunt more important to him than any other hunt; a hunt that he believed would help Dean.

He should have thought of it earlier. Dean mentally kicked himself for forcing Sam into a hunt that didn’t benefit him. What he should have done, long before today, was make up something for Sam to investigate surrounding Dean. Or, maybe just tell Sam about the voices. How was Sam going to hunt voices? Maybe the same way he could hunt dreams. How could a simple poltergeist get into Bobby’s house to annoy the piss out of Dean?

Maybe the voices weren’t from a ghost.

When the righteous is murdered.

“Are you listening to me? Dean?” Sam had reached across the table and was shaking Dean’s arm.

“Huh? Yeah. Sure.” Dean rubbed one ear.

Cocking his head to one side, Sam arched one eyebrow, “What did I say?”

“You…ah…um…feeding?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Dean, you haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said. This is important.”

You are the answer.

“I’m sorry. Look I’m not, I can’t really…”

Inside you.

“…concentrate very well.”

Now, Sam was pouting at him. Well, at least when he was pouting at Dean, Sam wasn’t sleeping.

“How much have you slept in the last few days?” Sam straightened in his chair, palms dropping to his hips, pout turning into some kind of mixture of worry and disapproval.

Dean shrugged. “When I’m asleep I’m not keeping time.”

“This isn’t funny.”

Sighing, Dean leaned both hands on the table, focusing completely on his brother. “Okay, I’m sorry, I drifted. But I’m listening now. You have my undivided attention. Tell me again, please?”

He had to focus. Sam really believed there was something and it was good for him. This imaginary hunt had purpose, meaning and a connection for Sam. Dean had to go with it or risk Sam falling back into the horrible depression he’d been floundering around in since coming…since Cold Oak.

Sam huffed, but pulled his hands up and spun the book around, turning the pages quickly. He turned it back so Dean could read. “Here,” he pointed to one page, “Check this one out.”

“Nachtalb? What is it?”

“It comes from the same part of the world as a Shtriga. Except where a Shtriga hunts, this is more like a bottom feeder. It’s drawn to someone’s nightmares, and becomes part of the nightmare then absorbs the feelings. Mostly, it feeds a few nights and moves on. If not, the person having the nightmare can suffer permanent damage. Some have died of stress induced heart failure.”

Boy, Sam sure knew how to pick them. “Could it be something more obscure?” Dean shrugged, “Okay, whatever, how do we waste it?” He didn’t really believe there was some kind of bottom feeder whose name sounded like a bad cold trolling around his head. That wasn’t the point, though, Sam believed it.

In the meantime they’d do whatever was needed. Dean’s nightmares were bound to go away eventually, Sam would think he solved this ‘case’ and all would be right with the Winchesters. Case closed, problem solved, onto the bigger fish they had to fry.

“We don’t.” Sam’s fingers fiddled with the edges of the book. “It can’t be killed. It’s one of those banish it type things. Most of these creatures are like that. They exist between planes, so we have to send it back.”

“This sounds like a very bad sci-fi movie.”

“There’s a catch.” Sam scratched at his jaw.

“There’s always a catch.”

“This thing, the Nachtalb, it gets into the dreamer’s head. What it also does is create an environment that makes sure no one can interfere or wake up its victim.”

Dean squinted, drew in a deep breath and took a minute to process. “How, exactly, does it do that?” It was a good thing this wasn’t a real hunt, or that this creature wasn’t actually here, because Dean knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “Does it say something?”

Sam shook his head no. “I don’t think it talks at all. It casts some sort of spell over others in the room, making them stay asleep.”

“You woke me up, Sam. And don’t think I haven’t forgotten that little trick you pulled, showing up in my nightmare.”

“I know.”

“What did you see again?”

Sam shrugged. “It was something dark, like a shadow but no light got around it. It sat there on your shoulder and I swear it glared at me.”

Despite believing there wasn’t anything in this house other than musty old books, Bobby and his many hidden potions and bottles of holy water, and them, Dean shivered at Sam’s description. “So a black hole is feeding off what’s inside my head when I sleep?”

Sam gave him a pissy look, but kept on as if Dean hadn’t said anything. “There is a ritual, but it has to be completed while the Nachtalb is actively feeding.”

“Like the Shtriga?” Dean cut in.

“Yeah, exactly like that. It’s not a long ritual, or complicated, it’s just that it’s-”

“Pretty much impossible if everyone else in the room is kept asleep and the dreamer is being fed off of.” Dean pushed away from the chair and paced the kitchen, reminding himself again this wasn’t a real hunt. “Do we even know for sure this thing is here?”

“No, but-”

“But nothing, Sam,” Dean barked, ignoring the voice in his head telling him to calm down and slow down. No one was being hurt and he was supposed to play along to get them through this. “How is the ritual performed?”

“I’d have to either do something to stay awake, or get into your dream like before.”

“No.”

“According to this, Dean, other occupants in the victim’s room will not wake up while the Nachtalb attacks and feeds, but I woke up. I woke up and woke you up and pulled you away. I can do it again.”

“I’m not going to let you try to take on something that sounds like what’s in a used tissue while we’re both unconscious. What if you need back up? How can I do that?”

“If we’re together…I don’t know.” Sam was on his feet, arms thrown into the air before flopping down so his fists thumped his legs. “How can you stop me? Hell, I don’t even know how to stop myself. It just happened. But the fact remains, I woke up and shouldn’t have been able to until it left. I woke up, woke you up and I saw it.”

“What in tar-nation are you two shouting about?” Bobby slammed the door, stalked across the kitchen and slapped both hands down on the table. His gaze flicked over the open book. “I can hear you all the way out in the yard!”

“Bobby, listen to me, please, because Dean sure won’t.” Sam grabbed Bobby’s arms, turning him and forcing him to face Sam. “There is something in here, in this house and it’s after my brother. He thinks he’ll go along with me to be nice or something, but something is here and it’s feeding off of him and it’ll kill him.”

So much for Dean’s secret mission. “Sam, I never said I didn’t believe you.”

“You didn’t have to! It’s all over your face.”

“Stop it!” Bobby pulled away from Sam and flung his arms out. “Enough!”

“Bobby, how could anything get in here past all the wards and rings and protections you’ve got?” Dean faced them while waving one hand in a wide arch.

Bobby stared at him for a few seconds before shaking his head. “You two are stupid, you know that? Dean, there are plenty of things we know nothing about and I’m sure some aren’t affected by my protections.”

“See?” Sam crossed both arms over his chest, rocked on his heels looking far too smug.

“And you,” Bobby turned on Sam making the smug expression fade fast, “You cannot go off half cocked chasing something like this just because you think you can. You can’t, got it? You’re a smart kid, but you sure don’t know everything. Something like this,” Bobby slapped the book making it wheel around the table a few times, “takes planning and research, a lot of it. There are at least eight more books in the library, so I suggest you two stop shouting, quit being a pain in my ass and get cracking!”

“Yes, sir.” Sam snatched the book off the table and all but ran from the room, slowing down only to grasp Dean’s shirt between two fingers and tug lightly. “Dean?”

The smirk and smartass comment about to tumble from Dean stopped when he looked at Sam’s face. His brother was honestly convinced this was something to hunt. Aside from that, he genuinely wanted Dean near him. Sighing, defeated, Dean nodded, mumbled a “yes, sir,” to Bobby also and let Sam lead him from the kitchen to the library.

Sam stopped at the center of the room in the library. Dean followed his gaze around the large room. It had shelves lining all the walls except the one that was all windows. In front of the shelves were stacks of books, and more in front of those. The end tables bracketing the couch and chairs in there had more books piled on top and underneath. There was a large, round table at one end, also with books underneath and scattered over top.

“Did he point out a direction?” Sam leaned over and whispered in Dean’s ear.

Dean simply shook his head then coughed to cover up his laugh when Bobby shouted from the kitchen, “Second shelf down, third to the left from the fireplace.”

Sam had books open and sprawled on every flat surface in no time. Dean snagged a note pad off one of the shelves and pulled the closest book to him, opened it and started reading. A short time later, Sam wandered to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of strong coffee, back fifteen minutes later with a large mug held out to Dean. The coffee was good and cleared his head enough that the blurring words on the page straightened out for a while.

When Sam flicked on a few of the floor lamps, Dean’s head bobbed and his eyelids pried open only to blink owlishly at the harsh lights. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, looking around. The sound of the coffee pot churning out yet another pot filtered through. Pushing the chair back, Dean leaned down farther on the table. He simply needed to move around for a minute. That would wake him up.

His legs and arms were heavy and uncooperative, and his back ached from being in one position for so long but no matter how much his brain commanded, no part of his body wanted to move. He was exhausted but there was no way he planned to let himself sleep. It wasn’t as if he rested anyway with those voices in his head and the instant replay of every one of his very worst life experiences rolling across his mind.

Dean yawned. Maybe if he got better situated or moved to the desk or kitchen?

“Answer the damn phone!” Dean flung his cell phone across the motel room and dropped to the bed. Why wouldn’t his father answer the phone?

Gone. John Winchester was gone, hiding from his own son, the only one left with him. Dean was alone. He’d been alone since Sam left for Stanford, even when he stayed with his father. They hunted alone more and more, but John always kept in touch and berated Dean without mercy if he fell out of contact with his father.

Dean rose, pacing the small room, kicking the bed and table legs. “Where the HELL-”

“Just there, Deano, in Hell.”

Spinning around Dean faced off Azazel, glowing yellow eyes and smug laughing face gazing back at him.

Azazel crossed his hands in front of his middle and looked down, expression becoming almost humble. “And a fine time he’s having too. Such a fast learner, such a great guy. Really, wish I’d gotten to really know him much sooner. We’re poker buddies.”

“NO!” Dean raged and charged, hands out, intending to wrap them around Yellow Eyes’ neck and throttle the life from him. “You’re a lying sonofabitch!”

Azazel sidestepped and turned, waving grandly. “Poor Dean, all alone.”

“Sam.” Dean barely gasped the word out before a form appeared behind Sam and a knife plunged into his brother’s spine, driving him to his knees.

“Help me, Dean!” Sam was crying, begging. “Don’t do it, don’t no, please, dooo-”

A righteous man murdered.

“Sammmyyy!” When Dean reached out and tried to grab Sam, a torch fell from his hand, immediately igniting Sam’s clothes, body, hair.

The rancid odor of burning hair and flesh mingled with Sam’s screams, “Don’t do this, no, Dean, don’t let me burn, NO!”

Dean threw himself at Sam only to be intercepted by his father, tackled and pressed to the floor, held down by John’s weight. Something skirted across John’s shoulders, but before Dean could give it much thought, his father’s hands were fisted in his collar. He was yanked up and slammed back down, making his head spin and ears ring.

The answer is inside you.

Was that John or something else? Dean couldn’t tell.

“Sam is dead!” John screamed.

“Sam is alive.” Dean shot back.

Something dark and heavy covered his face. Dean bucked and struggled against his father, trying to close his ears to the screams of his burning brother and the lies from his dead father. Somewhere in the very back of his mind he wondered, if he died in his dream would he really die?

Sam screamed louder, shrieking, afraid, Dean could feel it as well as hear it. “Dean, help me. Deeeeean!”

Tossing off John, Dean rolled to his knees only to be knocked flat. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of something small with long fingers and big teeth oozing across the floor at him. It elongated and slipped over him, smothering out his sight and breath.

Maybe he was going to find out about that dying while asleep thing after all.

The dark thing pressed down on his face, covering his mouth. With every exhale, it seemed to pull and swell with Dean’s breath. When Dean tried to inhale, it pulled even more, keeping air from filling his lungs.

His vision started to gray around the edges. He couldn’t breathe.

Sam’s voice was panicked but not with the horrible pain of being stabbed then burnt. Somehow Dean could tell the difference, through the haze becoming his brain.

Dean couldn’t breathe. His heart slammed against his ribs. He could hear it and feel it. The pain from his own beating heart was like jackhammers forcing through his chest from the inside. This was wrong. All wrong.

He tried desperately to call back to Sam, answer him and find his way out. If he could only follow his brother’s voice, he’d get out.

Legs jerking, feet slipping along the floor, Dean scrabbled at his face with both hands trying to pry loose the thing covering his nose and mouth.

He was dying. Pain lanced down his spine. His chest constricted and his lungs felt as if they’d been doused in gasoline and ignited.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe at all.

End of Part 2