UnBeta'd and quickly written ficlet for the comment-fic meme at oh!sam from this prompt byladykorana : Fill in the gaps between when Cas took down Sam's wall in that alley (SO disappointed that Show didn't show us Dean's reaction to this!), until Dean and Bobby get Sam back into the panic room.
Touched By an Angel
“NO!” I yell, already in motion. But I’m too late to stop him; too late to talk him out of his maniacal plans -- too late to even simply prevent him from touching Sam on the head and breaking down the one thing that was keeping my little brother’s soul from the torments of Hell.
Sam never has a chance to react or to defend himself and he goes down like a ton of bricks, his eyes rolling up into his head and knees collapsing almost instantaneously. Cas disappears just as quickly before I can get my hands on him and beat the ever-living shit out of him.
But, Sam is on the ground and all thoughts of revenge and payback for the betrayal I feel clenching down on my heart fall to the wayside just as swiftly as I land to my knees next to Sam. I reach out for the side of his neck, searching for a pulse and sigh in relief feeling his artery beating strong, yet fast against my fingertips.
“Sam? … Sammy … c’mon” I pat his face, run a hand through his hair, shake his shoulders -- I’m desperate for a response. Sam is motionless though, save for the frantic movements of his eyes under their lids. What he has to be seeing replaying in full-HD inside his head makes my stomach tie in knots and only makes my building sense of panic begin to scream at me.
“C’mon, Sam … wake up. Tell me you’re still in there.” I plead.
I feel a chill trace its way up my spine.
“Sammy … please …” I’m not above begging now.
My eyes burn and my throat closes up, making it hard to breath. Is this it? Was the last time I saw my brother whole and conscious going to be in the back of some shit-stinking alley?
I shake my head. “No … Sam you will not do this. Got it? You need to fight this.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Dean … We gotta get Sam outta here -- get to the panic room and figure out what to do next.”
Once again, anger is bubbling up and washing over me like a tsunami. Damn Cas for doing this -- for making me believe he was my friend only to turn on Sam when he needed us out of the picture and damn me as well for letting myself think that I could trust him.
“Tell you what I’m gonna do next, Bobby.” I spit the words out, seeing only red. “I’m gonna hunt that goddamn angel down and rip him a new asshole.”
I raise my head up to sky. “YOU HEAR ME, CAS?!” I yell, knowing that he hears me. “YOU GET YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE AND FIX THIS RIGHT THE HELL NOW!”
I pant great gulps full of air, my heart beating frantically in my chest while waiting -- praying for Cas to come around – to realize what a mistake he’s making – to repair the damage he’s heaped on Sam. But as usual, heaven is silent to my pleas and Cas is ignoring me, stubbornly determined to follow through with his brilliantly stupid plan to defeat Raphael. And there is nothing I can do to stop him, not with Sam lying still and lifeless on the dirty cement and Cas knows it –
“Dean … stop it … yellin's not gonna do any good.” Bobby’s voice pierces through my skull as he grunts and stoops down beside my fallen brother. “C’mon. Help me get Sam to the car.”
Together, Bobby helps me lift Sam, taking his feet while I reach behind his shoulders and wrap my arms around his chest, supporting his lolling head against my neck.
Thankfully, the car isn’t far and Bobby opens the rear door. It takes some creative maneuvering, but I manage to slide in while still holding onto Sam. Bobby carefully tucks Sam’s legs and feet in while I rest Sam’s head on my lap.
Bobby is behind the wheel and peeling out into the street only moments later and I’m holding on to Sam in order to keep him from sliding around the back seat. I place a hand over Sam’s forehead and one over his chest, his skin feels hot to the touch and his heart is thumping at a worryingly and uneven rate.
I don’t have to tell Bobby to floor it – he’s already driving like a bat out of hell.
It’s only ten minutes into the drive when Sam has his first seizure.
I freak the hell out when his muscles suddenly jerk and tighten under my hands. His jaw clenches so hard that I can hear his teeth grinding and the tendons of his neck stretch so tight that I fear they might snap under the pressure. Sam’s once pale face is now beet-red while his arms swing out wildly as though he’s in the throes of a fistfight.
“Dean! What’s going on?” Bobby yells.
I can’t answer, not while I’m trying to hold onto nearly 200 lbs of little brother as he bucks and thrashes about. I hardly notice when Bobby pulls the car over because just as soon as he does, Sam goes boneless in my arms.
That’s when I really begin to panic.
Sam isn’t breathing.
“Shit … Sammy. No. no. no. Breathe, dammit.” I lift Sam up, hoping it will remind his body that oxygen is required to keep him alive and kick-start his lungs again.
Bobby is opening the door beside me as I beg Sam to take a breath, rubbing his chest as if I can force air into his lungs by sheer force of will alone. I’m almost at my wits end and ready to start mouth to mouth when miraculously, the only good thing to happen this entirely fucked-up day happens, and Sam finally takes a deep breath in.
“There you go.” I pant, still on edge as I pat his chest encouragingly. “Don’t do that again, Sammy. I swear to God--.”
Then again, swearing to God hasn’t done me or Sam a fat lot of good these days.
Bobby is back behind the wheel when we’re both satisfied that Sam isn’t going to suddenly stop breathing on us again.
Though Sam is still unresponsive, I talk to him for the rest of the trip back to Bobby’s -- I tell him all of the creatively violent things I plan to do to Cas for what he’s done and I tell him he can be in on it all if he would just wake up. I talk to him after we get him settled onto the cot in the panic room and I keep talking after that because I feel it in my gut that he’s still in there somewhere. Maybe he’s lost and afraid or in pain and it kills me inside to think that, but I keep talking to him, hoping that maybe my voice might help to drag him back out again and bring him back to me.
Maybe it won’t do any good, but I don’t care. I’m not giving up.