A/N: Ok, here's the second half. It's been pointed out to me that I seem to have a penchant for drowning Sam. Not sure what's up with that, but it'll give me something to discuss in therapy I suppose. Enjoy, and please feel free to review if you feel so inclined!

Dean is here. Dean will fix this, is the only thing Sam has time to think before the stale water rises and cuts off the last source of air he has. But as much as he tries to believe that he's saved, the fact remains that he can't breathe, and instinctual panic wells up in his chest. He'd scream, if he had the air, and isn't that ironic?

His eyes are still above the surface, and he sees the look on Dean's face - understands that his brother is too late to rescue him, just in time to watch him die. It's not fair! There's still too much they need to say to each other, and Sam doesn't want Dean to have to see him drown.

Please…

Sam's chest is burning, collapsing, and his vision is tunneling. His lungs struggle to draw a breath, fighting against a throat that is trying to keep the floodgates closed.

He knows, in the tiny part of his brain not crippled by terror, that moving just uses up his oxygen quicker. Still, he trashes against his binding, kicks out with his legs in a useless effort to fight against the inevitable. His free arm flails out of the water and over his head, and he can feel his fingers clawing at the air as though he could grasp a handful and feed it to himself underwater.

His lungs feel like over-blown balloons, and he knows he has to open his mouth soon, or they'll just burst. His brain knows it means death, but his body argues that to keep his lips sealed is the deadly option, and whoever said 'mind over body' didn't know shit.

Sam opens his mouth, thinks I'm sorry, Dean.

Dean worries that maybe he's dislocating Sam's shoulder, tugging furiously to get his brother's arm loose. He'll apologize later, once Sam is out of this damned water and breathing and bitching. Right now, Dean would probably cut Sam's arm off to get him free. Because Sam's drowning. He's dying.

Dean is touching him, has him in his grip, and he can't save him.

Sam's eyes are rolling madly in his skull, and his booted foot catches Dean in the shin as Sam kicks. One arm waves out of the water and thumps against the wall over Sam's head. Dean thinks death throes, and hates himself.

"Bobby," he sobs.

"Hang on, son, hang on," Bobby yells, drawing two slender picks from his set and dropping into the water. Dean watches him duck under the surface, then puts his hands on either side of Sam's face and presses desperately with his fingers.

"Hold on, Sammy, hold on!" he yells, hoping like hell that Sam can hear him underwater. Only Sam's forehead is visible now, and Dean's heart stutters as an explosion of air bubbles erupts from Sam's mouth.

"No, no!" Dean cries, and in that moment of blind fear he hears his father's voice again, and knows what to do.

Moving quickly, Dean pinches Sam's nose shut with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, sealing his palm over Sam's mouth. He feels Sam buck weakly, his free hand grazing over Dean's wrist as he tries to bat the smothering hold away.

Taking a deep, heaving breath, Dean dips his face into the water. Still pinching Sam's nose, he tilts his palm away from his brother's mouth and seals his lips over Sam's. He forces a breath into Sam's body, waits until bubbles slip from his brother's lips, and clamps his hand over Sam's mouth again as he surfaces for more air. Sam is still twisting under his grip, but his movements are getting sluggish and uncoordinated.

Bobby surfaces at the same time as Dean does, gasping and blinking water from his eyes. Dean tugs on Sam's arm, but his brother is still stuck fast. Bobby shoots him an inscrutable look and goes under again.

Too much time, Dean thinks, it's taking too much time…

He breathes in enough air for them both, and slips back into the water.

Sam's not moving at all anymore, but Dean can see his brother's open eyes, staring. He doesn't know if Sam is still seeing him, but Dean stares right back.

He'd do anything to save Sam. He'd kill for him, die for him. But right now, all he can do is look into Sam's eyes and breathe for him.

Dean prays that it's enough.

Somehow, Sam realizes, he's still alive.

Everything is dark water and coldness, but somewhere above him something is shining and sending shafts of light towards his face. He knows that the light is air and warmth and safety.

The light is Dean, and Sam opens his eyes wider to try to see his brother, one last time.

The surface of the water shatters, and Sam's water-blurred eyes recognize Dean's face moving towards him.

Sam's heart swells with love and regret.

It all goes dark.

Dean's lost count of how many times he's ducked underwater to force air into Sam's lungs.

His brain is succumbing to a sort of clinical hysteria, calculating the number of minutes a person can go without air, how long until irreparable damage is done.

He's just about to go under again when Bobby bursts through the surface, sputtering, yelling he's loose, he's loose.

Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's button-down and heaves, pulling his brother up and out of the water. Sam's head lolls lifelessly on his neck, his hair dark and plastered to his skull. Rivulets of water run down his face like tears, but Sam's eyes are closed now, and his mouth is slack. He looks dead.

Bobby is grabbing Sam under his arms and hauling him further out of the water, Sam's head rolling to rest in the space between the older hunter's torso and bicep.

Dean stares at his brother's chest, willing it to rise, but it remains still under the sodden layers of Sam's clothes.

"C'mon, Sam, breathe," Dean whispers, and grinds his knuckles into Sam's sternum as hard as he can.

For once in his life, Sam does as he's told and gasps, arching away from the pain and twitching in Bobby's hold as he coughs and sputters. Dean could cry, could drop to his knees and thank a god that he doesn't really believe in, but all he does is cup Sam's face gently in his palm and brush soaked bangs from his kid brother's face.

"Thank God," Bobby says, voice strained. "Now help an old man out here, Dean, and let's get yer brother outta here. I swear, he weighs twice as much wet as he does dry."

Grinning stupidly with relief and gratitude, Dean slips under Sam's shoulder and takes some of his substantial weight.

Sam is breathing wetly, ribs heaving under Dean's hand, and they don't get halfway to the stairs before Sam opens his eyes and freaks the hell out.

Sam comes to violently.

His brain is still struggling to understand what's happening, but his body is fully prepared to act on its own in the meantime.

He remembers water and desperation and drowning.

I'm drowning!

He flails frantically, can't remember which way is up and where the air is.

He doesn't figure out that he's already free and breathing until he crashes back into the water. The cold hits him all over again, and wetness floods his open mouth as it cuts off his panicked cry.

He fights against the water, somehow manages to get his head above the surface again. He's gagging and terrified and so God damn confused.

Something tries to grab at his arm, and he remembers the shifter, tries to pull away.

Then he hears someone shouting his name, and his whole body screams Dean!

It's the only spot of light in all this fear and darkness, and Sam lunges for it desperately.

Dean isn't prepared for his brother to give an inarticulate cry and thrash wildly. Neither, apparently, is Bobby, because Sam jerks free from both of their grips and splashes back into the water.

"Jesus," Dean swears, grabbing at flailing limbs and trying to pull his brother upright. Sam is gagging on water as he surfaces again, eyes ridiculously wide, and Dean can tell that Sam still thinks he's drowning. That ol' fight or flight response is going strong, and Sam's body seems to be trying to accomplish both at the same time.

Sam never does anything by halves.

"Sam, Sam!" Dean yells, dodging a pin-wheeling arm. Sam seems to see him then, and launches himself at Dean's waist, grabbing and clinging desperately.

Dean suddenly understands the phrase hanging on like a drowning man on a whole new, personal level.

"Hey, hey… Sam, you're okay, man. You're okay now," he says gently, struggling not to let his brother pull him down into the wetness.

"Dean," Sam sobs, "Dean, help," and Jesus, the kid seems to be trying to climb Dean to get out of the water. Dean can feel him shaking, trembling violently, and knows it's not just from the bone-chilling cold.

"Easy, kiddo, easy," Dean soothes, wrapping an arm around Sam's shuddering back and shooting Bobby a helpless look. "I gotcha now, you're okay."

Sam has made it far enough up to bury his face in Dean's chest and snake unsteady arms around Dean's waist. He clings there, the way he did when he was a child, struggling and failing to get his feet under him. Dean can feel his brother's frightened breath sobbing out against his sternum, and his own breath hitches in response.

He tightens his hold around Sam's back and uses his other hand to cup Sam's neck gently.

"I gotcha," Dean repeats softly, and feels an answering squeeze around his waist.

"When you boys are done with this touching moment of brotherly affection, whadda ya say we get to dry land?" Bobby says gruffly. He's trying to sound sarcastic, but Dean can hear the fondness and emotion in the older hunter's voice.

"Come on, Sam," Dean urges, "Let's get you dry and warm."

Bobby decides to wait in ambush for the shifter, confident that the element of surprise will lend him a quick, easy kill. Dean agrees reluctantly, uncomfortable leaving his friend without backup, wanting to kill the son of a bitch with his own hands. But Sam is fading, freezing under his hands, and so he acquiesces.

They leave the basement and the unassuming beige house, and Sam doesn't let go of Dean even once, the whole way back to their motel.

Dean knows that Sam's mind is still a little waterlogged, that he's confused and exhausted and shaken, and that his brother will undoubtedly be mortified by his needy behavior once his brain dries out.

But a hurt Sam has always been a clingy Sam, and it's always been Dean that Sam clings to.

Dean's self-aware enough to admit, he's glad that hasn't changed.

Sam wakes up gasping for air, floundering in a tangle of blankets. It feels terrifyingly like drowning, and Sam's heart gallops.

"Hey, easy there," Dean's voice calls, and then his brother's concerned face is hovering over him. Sam calms and stops struggling at once, still confused, but confident that he is safe.

Dean is there.

"You're okay, dude. We're back at the motel. You're just a little tangled up in the blankets."

Dean's deft hands gently extricate him from a ridiculous number of blankets. At Sam's incredulous look, Dean rolls his eyes and explains:

"You were hypothermic, man. Had to warm you up somehow. And dude, as awesome of a brother as I am, I draw the line at sharing body heat. I've got a reputation to uphold, ya know?"

"Oh," Sam says, still a little bewildered. He can hear the thinly veiled fear underlying Dean's teasing, though, and understands just how close he came to dying. He remembers water creeping over his face in a slow, smothering progression and shudders.

"You alright?" Dean asks, glancing at him as he smoothes the untangled coverlet over Sam's legs.

"Yeah," Sam answers, and realizes it's true. It surprises him a little, and he concentrates, trying to fit the jagged pieces of his memory back together. The basement, the rising water - he remembers fear and regret and desperation. But he also remembers hope, faith, and Dean.

"I knew you'd save me," Sam says, and Dean stills. Sam sees his brother's façade crack for just a moment, senses the lingering panic that Dean has stuffed down inside of himself.

"Yeah, well, that's what big brothers are for," Dean says, and grins weakly. "But you know, if you could just keep your gangly ass out of trouble for once, I could use the break from having to play hero to your damsel in distress."

Sam is still exhausted, so he just rolls his eyes in exasperation and snuggles deeper into his pillow. He's warm and he's dry, and he doesn't want to move for at least another eight hours. Then Dean moves away from the bed, and Sam's palms go damp with sudden anxiety. He abruptly remembers clinging to Dean in the basement, how his brother was dry land in a sea of cold and wet. He feels a flush of embarrassment, but it's gone as quickly as it came, driven out by the remembered sensation of Dean's arm around him.

I gotcha, echoes in his memory, Dean's voice gentle and relieved, and Sam feels the ragged wound of four years apart heal a little more. Angry words in an asylum fade slightly, guilt and blame and so many hurts beginning to lose their sting.

Sam wants to tell Dean how much he's missed being brothers, how grateful he is, despite everything, to have Dean back in his life. Sam wants to tell Dean how scared he's been, thinking that Ellicott and roadside fights might have damaged their relationship beyond repair. He wants to put into words how relieved he is to know those things can be forgiven.

But he's so tired, and more than anything else right now Sam just wants Dean nearby. He bites his lip and wonders how he can ask Dean to stay close without sounding like a scared little bitch.

Turns out, he doesn't have to ask.

Dean flops down next to him on the bed, TV remote in one hand and a bag of Sun Chips in the other.

"Bobby said to say hi once you woke up," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of chips. "He finished off the shifter when it came back for you. Bastard never even knew what hit 'em. Now's Bobby's off to track down some wood ogre thing near the Canadian border."

"The shifter… it's dead?" Sam hates the uncertainly in his voice, but so far his experiences with shifters have led to brutal beatings and near-drowning. He thinks maybe he's entitled to a little uneasiness where they're concerned.

"Yup - deader than a doornail," Dean says, and Sam can hear the grim satisfaction in his brother's voice.

"Dean," Sam says hesitantly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Sam, don't," Dean replies, giving him a sincere look. "It's not your fault. Sometimes, shit just happens. You're okay, the thing responsible is dead, and the good townsfolk are safe. That's all that matters."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, gratitude making his throat tight. "Okay."

"Good," Dean grins, "cause I really don't need you crying remorsefully on my shoulder or anything. There've been far too many chick-flick moments for one day already. In fact, I think you've used up your quota for the year."

Sam gives a long-suffering sigh and snags a chip.

"There's a Quantum Leap marathon on Sci Fi," Dean continues, nudging the bag of chips closer to Sam. "Wanna watch?"

Dean knows that Sam loves Quantum Leap, and Sam sees the offer for the caring gesture that it is.

Sure, Dean. No more chick-flick moments, Sam thinks bemusedly, but all he says is:

"Yeah, sounds good."

Dean tunes the TV to the correct station, and there is a moment of silence between them as the show begins. Sam tries hard to ignore the lingering memories of underwater panic, but as Scott Bakula narrates the opening credits, he finds himself remembering something else. Dean's hand over his mouth, breath being forced into his lungs before he lost consciousness…

"Dude," he declares suddenly, and Dean eyes him warily. "You totally gave me the kiss of life!"

"What?" Dean demands, choking a little on his chips. "I did not give you the kiss of anything!"

They argue over 'manly underwater rescue breathing' and 'heartfelt kiss of life' as the TV plays in the background, Sam grinning and Dean turning an indignant shade of red.

It's warm and familiar and safe.

An hour later, as Sam drifts off to sleep again, he feels Dean's hand settle over his heart.

He thinks maybe it says something about his mental health that he's decided to count today as a good day, after all. But Dean's right - they're alive, the monster is dead, and everyone is safe.

Sam takes it for the win it is, and lets himself drift.

Dean is watching over him, and there's no need to be afraid.

This time when he sleeps, he only dreams of light.

fin

A/N: Thank you for reading!