Bricks and water

one

By: Laura's eyes

A father carries pictures where his money used to be.

"Come on, boys! Move it!" John Winchester's demanding voice bawled through the clashing wind and rain to his two children. They had been running laps around the spacious, muddy park for the passed half hour.

"Pick up the pace, guys!" he roared, jerking the collar of his leather jacket securely around his neck in an attempt to avert off the nipping cold. For a moment, he felt guilty when he gazed towards his boys, who were both clothed in shorts and t-shirts despite the bad weather albeit the moment was gone as astutely as it came. This was for their own benefit, they had to build up their stamina and master how to cope in all weather conditions, in the worst of circumstances, if they were to survive for any extent of time in the world of hunting. They were old enough now to watch each others backs while on a job. John just needed to make sure they were equipped both mentally and physically for every conceivability. If that defined making them run sprints at 6am on a chilling cold January morning, then so be it. He was not going to be bagging any 'Father Of The Year' awards any time soon, but since it helped prime his children for the battle ahead, then he was willing to be the bad guy. The ex-marine cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered in his uppermost drill sergeant voice again.

"You're friggin' juveniles, not pensioners! Dean, what the hell's with you today? You'd be running a helluva lot faster if a spirit was at your ass! Speed it up!"

Dean glowered at his father's words because that was precisely how he felt - like a damn eighty-year-old. Better still, an eighty-year-old on a sixty-a-day smoking habit. He was not sure how much farther he could go. His lungs wrenched as what felt like tight elastic bands hindered his capability to breathe, making it impossible to draw in a full-fledged breath. His heart thumped boisterously in his ears in addition his lips and hands had begun to tingle. God, do not do this now! He inwardly pleaded with his own body. He knew he was in trouble, though, and had no other alternative but to slow down, regardless of his father's goading yells.

Sam had slowed his pace to equal his brothers. He had sensed Dean begin to trail behind and now he was more than worried when he heard the frequent smothered wheezes erupting from his brothers chest. Dean looked like a fish out of water, his mouth wide agape as he gasped for air. He had given up trying to breathe through his nose a few laps ago. The sixteen-year-olds shoulders were hoisting in sync with his heaving chest as he inhaled, as if it would somehow help him fill his taut lungs just a little more. No matter how hard he tried, though, he was just not absorbing adequate oxygen. The act of trying to suck air through a crushed straw came to mind as Dean listened to the raspy sounds soaring from deep in his chest. He was loosing his focus and really starting to panic. Instinctively, his hand went to his shorts pocket, he let out a feeble groan as he discovered that what he was looking for was not there. Shit, shit, shit, this is not good. Unable to go any farther, he staggered to a halt, narrowly averting a face planting incident. His sneakers sank into the sloppy, drenched grass as he leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He had hoped that surrendering would help, but it didn't. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the arduous chore of drawing air. Now would be an excellent time for the ground to open and devour him, displaying weakness was just not an option for Dean Winchester.

"Dean!" Sam skidded to his brothers side.

John scowled when he glanced up to see that his sons had stopped running. Squinting through the drizzly rain, he could see Dean hunched forward and Sam rubbing his hand up and down his back.

"DAD!" his youngest shrieked, frantically waiving his father over.

John took off across the slimy park as quick as his feet would take him. He could hear Dean's wheezing before he reached them.

"Dad, help him!" Sam begged, not leaving his brother's side. He persisted to rub Dean's back in a consoling rhythm. Bile climbed in his throat as he felt the grumbles and crackles in his brother's lungs drone underneath his hand.

"Dean, son, look at me," John said calmingly as he hunched down in front of his boy, pushing him down onto the moist earth, worried he'd collapse. When Dean was securely on his butt, John laid his hand on the back of his neck and slowly eased his head down towards his knees.

"What's goin' on?" he asked. Keeping his hand on the young hunters neck, he began massaging it in a pacifying motion. Sam's eyebrows tethered into a glower at his father's question. It was pretty damn clear what was wrong. John felt his panic climb a few degrees. The ear-piercing wheeze and the disturbing sounds coming from his eldest boys chest was more than alarming him, and John Winchester did not frighten easily. If the single father had not been so horrified, he would have fathomed it was a sound he had heard coming from his first-born many times before. Dean pressed a hand against his sternum and canted his head back, bowing his back and opening his mouth wide. He was trying with all his strength to fill his demanding lungs.

"I can't...c-can't...catch m-my breath...my...m-my chest's too…... t-tight..." he wheezed out among coughs and gasps, before crumbling into yet another laborious coughing fit. The force of the coughing was so bad Sam was certain his brother was about to throw up. Just then everything crashed into place for John.

"Jesus, Dad! Do something! He can't breathe!" Sam yelled frantically, running a grubby hand through his drenched locks and simultaneously painting his forehead with mud. "He needed his inhaler like ten minutes ago!" the pale twelve-year-old screeched. Was his dad a absolute fucking dimwit?

Evidently, John had been the only one to overlook the fact that Dean's asthmatic. His stomach pirouetted. It had been awhile since Dean had suffered from a critical asthma attack. There had been a few minor ones over the passed year and a couple of occurrences when he had required a breathing treatment at hospital when his inhaler failed to help, but usually, he had been fine. Dean did not have an inhaler handy on account of John having not renewing his repeat prescription. He hadn't thought he had needed to. Dean had never mentioned it, so he had just presumed he would be okay. Dean was always okay. Maybe this time John had presumed wrong.

"Oh no, no, no no, Dad, look at his mouth!" Sam exclaimed, bounding up and down on the spot in a panic. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!!

John's eyes were fixed on his eldest child. Dean's upper lip had taken on a tinge of azure blue, in addition his eyes had commenced to roll in his head. John hurdled forward as the teenagers body began to go listless. He clocked that the wheezing had alleviated, however John understood from experience that it was not because Dean was improving - it was because he was getting worse. The awful wheezing ensued with tightening of the airways, the absence of the caterwauling whistles alerted that no oxygen at all was getting into Dean's lungs.

"No, Dean! Stay with me, buddy don't you dare give up Dean!" he growled, scooping his lifeless son up into his arms. "Take a deep breath for me, Dean now dammit!" he demanded watching his boys chest heave forcibly, trying with all he had to remain composed. This was all his fault. "That's it m'boy. Again, Dean. Come on dude, you can't let a little asthma get you down, come on son breathe!" John whispered into Dean's ear as he took off across the park towards the Impala.

Please God let him be okay, please God let him be okay, please God let him be okay... Sam urged over and over again in his head as he ran behind his father.

Tbc...