Summary: The first time Dean had a brush with death, it wasn't a ghost, a werewolf, a monster or a demon. It wasn't even a car crash or an accidental electrocution. It was just a common childhood illness. Plenty of sick and limp Dean Weechester to go around.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
-
7-year-old Sam Winchester woke up at three a.m. to the sound of his older brother coughing. This was the third night in a row that it had happened, but it sounded worse than before. Sam knew that Dean was getting sick, and by the sound of the wet-but-scratchy cough that even a 7-year-old knew meant nothing good, it was pretty bad. "Dean?" he said softly once the room quieted a bit. He hadn't told Dean that he'd woken up the past two nights, but if Dean really was sick, he wasn't going to keep letting it slide.
The older boy looked over at Sam's bed as he adjusted his position in his own. "Back to sleep."
"Are you alright?" Sam asked.
Dean grunted and stifled a cough in the back of his throat. Most 11-year-old boys would've been whining to their parents, but Dean much preferred to fly under the radar when it came to illness.
Sam knew this, but he still pressed on. "If you're sick, you should tell Daddy."
"Back. To. Sleep."
Sam sighed. "Okay." He rolled over, but he stayed awake listening to Dean struggle restlessly to fall back to sleep. About an hour later, Sam was sure that Dean had fallen asleep, although he could still hear him shifting every now and then, punctuated by painful-sounding coughs.
Sam climbed out of bed and walked over to his brother. Without getting too close, he could already hear that there was a rattle deep in Dean's chest. Dean was lying on his side with one arm dangling off the bed, and in the darkness Sam could see that sweat had plastered Dean's hair to his head, even in the front where a cowlick normally made it impossible to get his hair down.
Sam frowned and hesitantly moved his hand to touch Dean's forehead. When he finally rested his hand on it, he wasn't sure what bothered him more, the heat coming from it or the fact that Dean didn't wake up from the simple touch. Dean woke up to anything, so he must've been really tired.
Seeing his brother shiver, Sam decided that it was best to just cover him up and wait until morning to give him a hard time about it. He took an extra blanket from the floor and tucked it around Dean. "Goodnight."
-
"Time to get up, kiddo."
Sam rubbed at his eyes and sat up in bed. His father was standing in the doorway. "There's no school today," Sam mumbled sleepily, as he saw that his clock read 7 a.m.
"We're heading to Uncle Bobby's for that hunt today, remember?"
"Oh yeah." Sam looked over to Dean's bed when he suddenly remembered the previous night, but Dean was already out of it. "Where's Dean?"
"Making breakfast. He packed both of your bags last night, so we're just waiting on you to get dressed, Sammy. Better hustle if you like your breakfast warm."
"Yes, sir."
Sam got dressed quickly and brushed his teeth. He didn't bother fixing his mess of hair; it never got done unless Dean sat him down and forced the brush on him.
As he headed down the hall of the small backwoods cabin, he hoped that Dean was feeling better. Surely his dad wasn't blind enough to miss just how sick Dean was, so Dean couldn't be too bad, at least.
Unfortunately, that didn't seem like the case. Dean was just setting down the plate piled with pancakes when Sam entered the kitchen, and he looked dead on his feet. The rasping sound in his chest was still there, though much less audible when he was upright. At least he appeared to be able to breathe through his nose now.
John was busy loading up the car for their weekend at Bobby's, a weekend which Sam knew would probably last longer than that if John was driving an hour out of the way to leave them with someone while he was gone. Dean clearly knew that, too. He'd packed them a week's worth of clothes.
"Morning," Sam said as he grabbed forks and plates for them, giving Dean the opportunity to sit down. He watched his brother pull at the sleeves of his sweatshirt to make them cover more of his hands. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Dean said in a scratchy voice that was already impatient. He grabbed a fork from Sam and picked at the single dry pancake that he put on his plate. He stopped momentarily to cough into the crook of his elbow.
"You're sick."
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean muttered. "Shut it."
Sam sat down and picked two pancakes for himself, pouring syrup all over them. "I'll tell on you if you don't tell Daddy."
Dean shot him a dirty look as John entered the room.
"No one likes a tattle-tale, Sam," the man said and sat down. "What's Sam got to tell on you for, Dean?"
Dean shook his head and went back to eating in silence.
"Nothing," Sam lied.
"Good. Now let's finish up here and get this show on the road."
-
During the ride to Bobby's, Dean slept and Sam stayed wide awake, watching him intently. "Do we have to go to Uncle Bobby's?" Sam asked his father suddenly.
"Yes, Sam," John said.
"Why?"
"I have to take care of this hunt for the weekend, and I don't want to leave you both alone the entire time I'm gone."
"But I don't want you to go," Sam said. "Can't Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim do it? Just this once?"
John frowned at his younger son. "Why do you not want me going on this hunt, Sammy?"
"Dean's sick," Sam said.
John's expression softened after hearing that. He'd really lucked out, having two boys who always wanted to take care of each other. "I'm sure it's just a cold, if he is. He'll be alright, and Uncle Bobby will take good care of him."
"But Dean's never sick."
"Neither am I, but colds even get to your daddy sometimes. Don't worry, Sammy. Dean's fine."
Sam sighed and went back to watching his brother for the rest of the drive. Listening to the rattle in Dean's chest that his father apparently didn't hear over the hum of the engine, Sam was sure that this was more than a cold. Then again, he was only seven. What did he know?
-
They pulled up to Bobby's house a half an hour later. John gripped Dean's shoulder and shook him awake. "We're here, bud."
Dean yawned and was able to only half-suppress the cough that followed.
"Doesn't sound too good," John said.
Dean shrugged and got out. He met his father at the trunk and took his own bag, leaving John with Sam's.
"Well, if it ain't my favorite couple of Winchester runts," Bobby Singer's voice said from the front door.
"Hi Uncle Bobby," Sam said, hugging the man's waist.
Bobby smiled. "Hey there, Sammy. Why don't you go run in and put on what's left of those Saturday morning cartoons?"
"Okay." Sam ran to the living room. The only time he got to watch Saturday cartoons was at Bobby's house.
Bobby looked over at the two elder Winchesters as they stood on the porch with him. "John. Dean."
"Thanks again for agreeing to watch the boys," John said before Dean ever responded.
"No problem, as long as this one don't give me trouble," Bobby joked, nudging Dean's shoulder.
Dean gave him a half-hearted smirk but didn't reply with any of his usual quips. In fact, he looked plain dead on his feet.
"Go get your stuff inside," Bobby said.
Dean nodded and John ruffled his hair. "I'll see you in a few days."
"Be safe." Dean disappeared into the house.
"He coming down with something?" Bobby asked.
"Yeah, I think so. Keep an eye on him, would you?"
"You don't even have to ask. I know that boy will run himself into the ground before he admits to being sick." Dean had done the very same the only few other times that Bobby had ever known of him being under the weather. Bobby took Sam's bag from John. "How long you expecting it to go?"
"Never really know with these black dogs. Hopefully five days at most."
"Sure you want to be gone that long while Dean's getting sick?"
"Someone's got to do it," John grunted. "And let's face it. Your track record with black dogs is painfully bad."
"Yeah, yeah," Bobby replied sarcastically while he rubbed subconsciously at the scar on his arm where one had bitten him and before dragging him around. "Just get it done fast."
John got back into the driver's seat of the Impala. "Keep me posted on how my boy's doing. I'll see you soon."
Bobby took Sam's bag up to the bedroom that the boys always shared at his house. He was shocked to find Dean, fully clothed, already out cold in the bed closest to the door.
-
"I'm going to see if Dean wants any dinner."
"He's asleep," Bobby said as he put a grilled cheese sandwich down in front of the littlest Winchester. Dean had been sleeping through the entire day, but Bobby figured that if Dean could sleep that long then it probably meant that he needed it.
"He might still want dinner," Sam insisted. "He didn't get up for lunch."
Bobby sighed. "You eat your dinner. I'll go check in on your brother. Deal?"
Sam looked unsure for a second, but his stomach growled. He was really hungry. "Ok."
Bobby went upstairs and knocked gently on the door to the boys' room before pushing it open. Dean was still asleep, but it looked as if he wasn't sleeping very well. He was mumbling something incoherently in his sleep and looked as if he'd sprawled out to try to make himself more comfortable.
Bobby frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. "Dean?" he asked, as he put his hand to the boy's forehead. It was burning up. He could also hear an unfriendly-sounding wheeze come from the boy's chest. He shook Dean's shoulder gently. "Dean."
Dean's eyes barely cracked open, revealing just a bit of green, bright like it always was when the kid had a fever. He looked confused for a second before he brought a hand up and rubbed at his eyes. "Bobby?" The question trailed off into a fit of coughs.
Bobby pulled him into a sitting position and waited for the coughing to subside. "You slept most of the day away. How ya feeling?"
Dean just shrugged. His whole upper body was sagging against Bobby's chest.
"You're sick." Bobby cupped the back of Dean's neck, reconfirming that there was indeed an immense amount of heat coming from his skin.
Dean shook his head.
"It wasn't a question, boy. Now tell me what's wrong."
"Nothing," Dean's scratchy voice answered. He pushed himself away from Bobby and sat up against the headboard of the bed. He pulled at his sweatshirt sleeves like he had at breakfast, trying to get any heat that he could from the damned thing.
"You cold?"
Dean hesitated before nodding.
"Well, you do have a fever." When Dean didn't respond, Bobby sighed. "So we know you have that nice-sounding cough. What else hurts? Do you have a sore throat?"
"Yeah," Dean said reluctantly.
"Is that what's bothering you the most?"
Dean shook his head and rubbed at his chest. "In here."
That explained the wheezing. "I'm getting the thermometer."
When Bobby returned with the thermometer, tylenol, and some pillows, Dean was coughing a nasty, wet, mucus-filled cough into a tissue. Once he was finished, Bobby stuck the thermometer in his mouth and put the pillows behind Dean to prop him up.
A quick beep and Bobby saw that Dean's temperature was an unhealthy 102.4. "Well, that ain't good." He looked sympathetically at Dean. The poor kid looked miserable. He handed off a Tylenol tablet. "You need some water to wash it down?"
Dean shook his head. Even with a soar throat, he swallowed his pills dry. "Can I go back to sleep, now?" he asked softly.
"Sure, kid." He got up and went to the door. "I'm gonna run out and get you some cough medicine."
He looked back at Dean, but the boy was already closing his eyes in an attempt to sleep.
Sam was putting his dish in the sink when Bobby came back down. "Dean's still sleeping," Bobby told him. "We're going to go pick up some medicine for him before he wakes up again."
"Is Dean okay?" Sam asked worriedly.
"Don't worry. You're brother will be just fine."
-
When Dean woke up again, he was alone and he felt awful. He couldn't stop coughing, and it made his head hurt. Deciding that he needed a glass of water, he got out of bed and headed for the kitchen. And shit... his entire body hurt from the effort. At least Bobby and Sam weren't there to see him leaning on the walls for support as he made his way.
He was completely winded by the time he made it to his destination, and he hadn't even made it to the cabinet when he realized that he couldn't breathe correctly. Not in the stuffy nose and scratchy cough way, but in the gasping to pull air into his lungs way. As his head became fuzzy, he dropped to his knees on the ground, gripping at his chest. "Uncle Bobby," he tried to yell, even though he knew Bobby wasn't there and that he couldn't really yell anyway. "Help."
He put his hand on a nearby kitchen chair to try to pull himself up, hoping he would breathe better upright, but he didn't have the strength. That slight rattle in his chest had become a loud wheeze, but it was slowly starting to taper off into nothing.
-
"Do you think Dean'll want his ice cream now?" Sam asked enthusiastically, having picked his brother's favorite flavor to make his throat feel better.
"Maybe after he's rested up a bit more," Bobby said, opening the front door. "Go put it in the freezer while I take him some medicine."
"Okay."
Bobby began unwrapping the plastic from the bottle of cough syrup that he'd just purchased while he walked up the stairs. He was stopped in his tracks by Sam's cry.
"UNCLE BOBBY!"
Bobby ran to the kitchen to find Sam kneeling beside Dean. The older brother was on his hands and knees, appearing to be gasping for air, but Bobby only heard that faint wheezing. There were tears streaming down the 11-year-old's face, and Bobby couldn't remember the last time that he'd seen that kind of fear in Dean's eyes.
"What's wrong with him?" Sam asked.
"Sam, call 911! Now!"
Sam went for the phone while Bobby quickly scooped up Dean and ran up the stairs with him. In the bathroom, he set him down on the lidded toilet and grabbed each of Dean's cheeks in his hands. The boy was starting to get a vague, far-off look in his eyes that Bobby didn't like. "Dean, look at me!"
Dean's eyes met his for one pitiful second before staring back into space. His lips moved feebly, just enough to draw Bobby's attention. They were blue, a color that was also visible under Dean's fingernails.
"Crap." Bobby wrenched open the shower curtain and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. He looked to the doorway to see a panicky, crying Sam coming with the phone held out. "Hello?" Bobby asked as he put it to his ear and shut the door as Sam came inside.
"Sir, an ambulance is on the way, but could you please explain the situation clearly?" a woman asked.
Bobby knelt back down in front of Dean and put a comforting hand on his knee. "My nephew has had what I think may be some sort of chest cold, and now he isn't breathing correctly. He's starting to turn blue."
"Is he hyperventilating?"
"No."
"Is he taking in any air?"
"Barely, but yes. I'm trying to steam up the bathroom to ease it up a bit."
"Has he been wheezing or coughing?"
"He had a wet cough earlier... a little bit of a wheeze too." Bobby grabbed Dean's shoulder when he began to pitch forward weakly.
"Dean?" Sam asked fearfully.
"Is he making any noise now?" the woman on the phone asked.
Bobby listened for a second and his heart dropped. "Not a sound." In fact, Dean was beginning to lose consciousness. "He's about to pass out. I don't think he can breath at all."
"DEAN!" Sam shouted as his brother went limp against Bobby's grip.
"Sir, try not to panic. Your nephew may be having an asthma attack-"
Bobby didn't hear the rest, as he dropped the phone to give CPR.
-
Three whole minutes Bobby had been performing CPR to a non-responsive kid before the ambulance had finally arrived. Paramedics had taken Dean away immediately, leaving Bobby to follow with Sam, who couldn't, for the life of him, stop crying.
So they were sitting in the ER waiting room, know nothing other than the fact that Dean had been in cardiac arrest before being revived and that his doctor had called his condition status asthmaticus.
"But Dean doesn't have asthma," Bobby had said incredulously. Apparently, it wasn't common for a child over the age of 6 to develop asthma, but it did happen and the chest infection had probably prompted it to rear its head.
Bobby and Sam hadn't been allowed to see Dean yet. Sam was silent now, but he looked absolutely miserable and scared. And that idiot John Winchester wasn't answering his phone or calling back about the 20 missed calls and voicemail messages that Bobby had left him. Bobby was considering killing the man once he showed up.
"Winchester," the doctor, Dr. Miller, from earlier called.
Bobby and Sam crossed the room immediately. "How is Dean?"
"He's sedated right now," Dr. Miller said. "We had to intubate, so it would be best if he remains unconscious until removal of the tube."
"Intubate?" Bobby repeated, rubbing at the scruff on his face. "Is he going to be alright?"
"He should be. We were very concerned when he first arrived in full cardiac arrest, but he has responded well to the steroid treatment and intubation. His fever also seems to be coming down slowly." The man looked at Sam's scared face and offered a small smile. "Don't worry. We're taking good care of your brother."
"So what could've brought this all about?" Bobby asked. "I mean... I knew that he was sick but I really thought that it was just a chest cold."
"Sometimes, the wrong virus is all it takes. Dean's got a viral infection that turned into bronchitis. No one's fault. It just happens. It's actually not too shocking with Dean's history of chest infections that required hospitalization in his early childhood."
Bobby nodded. Once when Sam had been sick as a toddler, John had mentioned something about Dean always getting croup before Sammy had been born. Dean had grown out of it and hadn't gotten sick so often in quite some time, but maybe his tendency toward chest infection wasn't completely gone. "How long does he have to stay?"
"Probably two or three days, but he'll be under for most of it, though."
"Why does he have to stay so long?" Sam asked with big eyes.
"Your brother is a very sick little boy, so he needs to rest up before anything like what happened today happens again."
"Dean is scared of hospitals."
"Well, you'll have to tell him that there isn't anything to be scared off. He's gong to be just fine." He looked at Bobby. "Have you had any luck contacting their father?"
Bobby shook his head and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "John doesn't have a lot of access to his phone on business trips. Hopefully, he'll get my messages soon so he can hightail it back."
The doctor nodded and began to walk. "This way to Dean's room."
Dean was pale, even against the white hospital sheets. It was scary seeing him with a tube down his throat, and for a moment Bobby regretted allowing Sam to come into the room. But then Sam climbed into Dean's bed with him ("Be careful with his IV," Bobby told him) and started crying quietly with mingled fear and relief on Dean's chest, and Bobby realized that Sam needed to see his brother.
"Ah Christ," Bobby muttered. "Sam, you can still get sick from your brother. You probably shouldn't lie on him like that."
"I don't care."
Bobby sighed. "Come on. How 'bout you sit down next to him? Sam, I mean it. Don't need you getting sick too."
Sam gave him a pitiful look and Bobby relented, grabbing one of Dean's arms. It still felt warm, but not as bad as earlier.
Sam fell asleep like that, and Bobby decided that it was a good time to take a moment to call John again. He found a pay phone down the hall and dialed the number for the man's cell phone, like he had numerous times before. This time, John answered halfway through the first ring.
"What the hell is going on Bobby? I'm on my way back to South Dakota right now. Are my boys okay?"
Bobby sighed. "Sam's fine. Dean... will be fine."
"What happened?"
"Dean's cold was bronchitis and it made him have an asthma attack."
"Dean doesn't have asthma."
"Well, apparently he does," Bobby said. "Jesus, John, he stopped breathing." He rubbed at his scruff again. "He was blue and wasn't breathing and his heart just... stopped. They said he was out for two minutes before they got it going again. He's got a damned tube down his throat breathing for him."
He heard John's breath hitch. "Bobby, I thought that you said he was okay?"
"He's going to be," Bobby repeated. "They're taking care of him. Just get here as soon as you can."
"I'll be there in an hour."
"You're three hours out."
"I'll be there in one. How is Sammy?"
"A mess... Christ John, I had a bad feeling about you leaving them all weekend with Dean sick like that."
"Yeah." John was silent a moment. "Take care of them. I'll be there soon."
-
True to his word, an hour later around ten, John Winchester walked into Dean's room. He didn't even bother saying hello to Bobby. His focus was entirely on his boys. "Dean..." He ran his fingers through his son's hair.
Sam was still sleeping in the bed, fingers gripping Dean's hospital gown. John shook him gently to wake him, and Sam instantly held out his arms for John to scoop him up. Sam cried, yet again, with John holding him to his chest. "Sh. It's okay. Dean's okay."
Bobby watched with relief. As much of an ass as John could be, as much as Bobby questioned him for leaving those boys behind to hunt... in times like this, Bobby couldn't help but admit that John was really a good father. The best he could be in the situation dealt to him, at least. And his boys adored and needed him.
When Sam had fallen asleep in John's lap, John finally looked at Bobby. "What have the doctors said?"
"Not much more than I've told you. They're expecting him to be in here at least two days."
"But he's going to be okay?
Bobby nodded. "He's going to be okay," he reassured the father again.
John nodded and his eyes went back to Dean.
"What'd you do about that hunt?" Bobby asked, hoping that John wasn't going to expect him to go take care of it. He didn't want to leave the boys any more than John did now.
"Some rookie hunter was in town," John said. "Caleb, his name was. I let him take it. Gave him Jim's number in case he runs into trouble, but the guy seemed competent enough. A little wet behind the ears, but smart enough to beat me to the hunt. I got to the Rangers' office, and he was already there getting the details out of them."
"Good, we need a few more smart ones," Bobby said.
John nodded his head idly. They were both silent for a bit before he spoke again. "Mary had asthma when she was a kid. Never really thought about it much. She'd grown out of it by the time we married. I should've thought about it."
"John, normally I'd be all over your ass on something like this, but you really couldn't have known," Bobby said.
"Dean almost died." John looked up miserably. "I shouldn't have left him for the weekend. I should've paid more attention when Sammy said he was sick. Maybe if I'd taken him to a doctor instead of going on this stupid hunt, this wouldn't have happened."
"Or maybe it would have because, until a couple hours ago, Dean wasn't willing to admit to being so sick." Bobby sighed. "John that's the real problem we need to talk about here. I know the kid ain't sick often, but when he is, he doesn't take care of himself."
"He doesn't like to worry people."
"He's eleven years old. He should be worrying you more often than not. A kid shouldn't learn by age eleven to put their needs aside to protect their family, and Dean's been trying to do it since he was six! Three times since I've known you, he's landed himself in the hospital for not wanting to worry anyone about him being sick. It's not healthy, and this time it damn near killed him."
"Don't you think I know that already?" John growled. "But what am I supposed to do about it if he won't tell me how he's feeling? If Dean's feeling bad about something, he never tells anyone. It doesn't matter if he's sad or sick. He just won't tell me. He's been like that ever since Mary died."
"Well, it's about time it changes. Dean may not ever be willing to ask for help, but he sure as hell needs it. And if he ain't gonna tell you, you gotta be attentive enough to notice it yourself."
"I know..."
Bobby looked at Sam, still fast asleep in his father's arms. "How 'bout I take him back to my place so that he can sleep in a bed?"
John looked down at Sam and nodded. "Yeah." He shook Sam a little bit. "Hey, Sammy, it's time to wake up."
"I don't wanna go to school," the little boy mumbled as he snuggled closer to his father. "Too tired."
John smiled a bit and gestured for Bobby to come to him to take Sam from his arms. "It might be better if he doesn't wake, anyway."
"Oh, yeah," Bobby said, taking Sam. "I know this one'll fuss until he gets his way."
When Bobby got to the door, John called his name, making him turn.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," John said earnestly.
Bobby nodded and went on his way.
-
Sam slept the entire trip to his house, and Bobby managed to get him to his bedroom without a snag. He took off the kid's shoes and tucked him into bed. It had been a pretty exhausting day for everyone.
Bobby turned off the light that had been left on in the bathroom. At least they'd remembered to turn off the water in their rush to get to the hospital. He went down to the kitchen to grab himself a beer, because, Lord, he needed a cold one after that day.
There was a green puddle on the floor around the carton of mint ice cream that Sam had dropped earlier. Its plastic seal only half removed, the cough syrup that Bobby had dropped was also sitting in the puddle. Bobby decided that it could wait until after his beer.
He reached into the fridge but changed his mind and went to the cabinet for whiskey instead. Thank God for Jack.
-
John couldn't stop watching his son all night. Even when a doctor had come in to give him a more thorough explanation of Dean's condition, he'd only had his eyes on Dean. On Dean's pale skin and flushed cheeks. On Dean's mouth, with the ventilator tube sticking out of it. On Dean's chest and the breaths being forced in and out. He didn't need to see anything else. Just that his son was still there, still alive, still breathing.
If Mary was still around, he knew, she would have never let anything like this happen. She would've known to keep an eye on their boy. Of course, if Mary was still around, Dean might be more willing to tell about how he was feeling in the first place.
Bobby was right. Things did need to change if he wanted his son to live a long, healthy life. And taking care of Dean's asthma wasn't the only thing. His son needed to stop being so afraid of telling how he felt, physically or emotionally. Dean had always been good at diverting attention from himself to other people. He was centered around Sam and John and the mission to avenge Mary. There was never any room in Dean's mind for what Dean wanted or needed, and John needed to make it a priority to be sure that Dean got just that.
It wasn't until after five in the morning that John finally fell asleep, his upper body resting on the bed and his hand holding Dean's.
-
Bobby knelt in front of Dean and put a hand on his knee. "My nephew has had what I think may be some sort of chest cold," he said into the phone, "and now he isn't breathing correctly. He's starting to turn blue."
Sam leaned against the door that Bobby had just closed. He watched his brother trying to breathe and couldn't bring himself to come any closer, so he slid to the floor and sat.
"No," Bobby said. He seemed to be listening to the woman on the phone. "Barely, but yes. I'm trying to steam up the bathroom to ease it up a bit."
Dean looked around the room wildly, and Sam was pretty sure that he wasn't actually seeing much.
"He had a wet cough earlier... a little bit of a wheeze too." Bobby grabbed Dean's shoulder when he began to pitch forward weakly.
"Dean?" Sam asked.
All was quiet in the room, except for the sound of the shower running. Sam was almost afraid to breathe.
"Not a sound," Bobby said to the woman.
Dean was beginning to lose consciousness.
"He's about to pass out." Bobby's voice sounded even more urgent. "I don't think he can breath at all."
Suddenly, Dean went completely limp against Bobby's hold.
"DEAN!" Sam screamed his brother's name, but he still didn't go any closer. As Bobby pulled Dean to the ground and began to perform CPR, Sam pulled his knees to his chest.
"Breathe, damn it!" Bobby yelled as he pushed on Dean's chest. "Don't you do this, Dean!"
Tears streamed down Sam's face, and all he could think was the same thought over and over again. Dean's dead. Dean's dead. He's dead...
"NO!" Sam cried as he sat up in bed. It took him a moment to get his bearings and realize that he was back in his room at Bobby's. That Dean was only not there because he was at the hospital. Dean was alive.
Bobby came flying into the room, bleary-eyed and half-asleep. "Sam, are you alright?"
Sam nodded. "Just a bad dream."
"Oh." Bobby sat down on the side of the bed. "But you're alright?"
"Is Dean okay?" Sam asked, staring at his lap.
"He's fine, Sam. Your dad's at the hospital with him."
"Okay. Good." He looked up at Bobby. "Can we go back to see him?"
"After you've had a proper night of sleep. I promise that he'll still be there in the morning."
"And the one after that?"
Bobby frowned and grabbed Sam's shoulder, looking the boy deep in the eye. "Plenty more than that."
"Okay."
"Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sam hesitated to lie back down. "I can't. Could we..."
"What's up Sam?"
"Could we watch a movie or something?" Sam asked softly.
After a moment, Bobby nodded. "Come on. Don't think I was going to sleep much anyway."
-
The first thing that Dean was aware of was how tight his chest felt, and next how dry his throat was. Then he realized just how much he felt like crap all over. "Ugh..."
"Dean?"
Couldn't the kid just let him sleep? He probably wanted to pester him some more about how he was feeling.
"Is he waking up?"
What the hell was his dad doing there? That was enough to make him open his eyes just a crack.
"Dean!" Sam said.
"Ugh," Dean groaned again at the bright lights invading his vision.
"Dean, son, can you hear me?"
Dean turned his head to the right and saw his father. "Dad?" he whispered.
"Here." Bobby was beside John, holding out a cup of water. He put it to Dean's lips when the boy failed to lift his arms, and Dean drank gratefully.
Dean looked around the room. A hospital. Crap. He was in a hospital. "What..."
"You got really sick, bud," John said. "Gave us a real scare, but you're going to be okay."
"I'm sorry." Dean shut his eyes. Man, was he tired.
"Dean."
Dean opened his eyes to see Sam staring at him pleadingly, begging him not to go back to sleep just yet. "Hey."
"I'm glad you're okay," Sam said.
"You've been out for two days," John said. "Turns out you've got asthma."
Dean frowned in confusion. "Huh?"
"You shouldn't have lied about being sick, Dean."
Dean looked away, ashamed. "Did you leave your hunt because of me?"
"Yes," John answered truthfully. He put his hand on top of Dean's head and ruffled his hair. "But I shouldn't have even left in the first place. If I had known that you were so sick... Jesus Dean."
"You can't hide stuff like that," Bobby said.
"You've got to start talking to us about this kind of stuff," John said. "If you're sick, we need to know, especially now that we know you've got asthma."
"I'm okay," Dean said, despite feeling terrible still.
"You almost died, Dean!" John yelled.
Dean shook his head in disbelief.
"You weren't breathing," Sam whispered sadly. "I saw you, Dean. You didn't breathe and your heart stopped."
Dean looked at his brother oddly. No... That couldn't have happened in front of Sammy.
"It was the scariest damn moment of my life," Bobby muttered.
John grabbed Dean's arm. "What would we have done if we'd lost you?"
Dean's chest was beginning to feel tighter as tears filled his eyes. Had he really almost died right in front of Sammy? Died like Mom and left Dad and Sammy alone.
"Dean?" John sat beside his son in the bed and pulled him into a hug. "Dean you're okay now."
But Dean was sobbing. Because he was sick and he was scared and he didn't ever want to leave his family like that. He didn't know what else to do, so crying didn't seem like too bad an idea.
John just held him as he cried for what might've been the first time in years. And he prayed that Dean would start to let him in.