I know I should be working on "The Darkness Within", and I promise I haven't abandoned it. But my muse struck me on this one, and I have long since learned not to question her or disobey.

The rating of this story is due to Winchester language. Some bad words, mostly from Dean.

This one is supposed to be set in continuation after episode 4.14 "Sex and Violence". Not directly afterwards, but not too long after. Their first, maybe second hunt after the events in that episode.

Spoilers up to and including 4.14 "Sex and Violence".

Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural, no matter how much I wish I did. Everything belongs to Kripke, The CW and a lot of others who all aren't associated with me in any way. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made with this story as it was written for entertainment purposes only.

The inspiration for this story isn't mine. It came to me while reading K Hanna Korossy's "Double Feature: Pick your Poison". If you haven't read it yet, follow the link under my favourite author's list and do, because it's great. And while she didn't insist on credit, I think it's due because without her story, this one would have never seen the light of day. I simply took her idea one step further. Somehow I can't resist hurting these poor boys.

Sleep Eternal

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When the knife went into his side, Dean didn't feel any pain. Not for a split second at least, until the message of blade and flesh and tearing and blood and pain had been picked up by his nerves and was fast forwarded to his brain. Then it hurt.

A lot.

Part of it was his wounded pride, Dean was sure of that. Because he hadn't seen it coming when he should have, and now he had a frigging knife in his side and a pissed off witch to deal with, and he was alone. Sam was around somewhere of course, but the basic idea of splitting up was that you didn't stick close together, so Sam definitely wasn't close enough to help him right now. Not really.

So Dean did what he had always done – he tried to survive. He was struggling to ignore the pain for now, just enough so that he could move and break that witch's scrawny neck. Well, not so scrawny, admittedly. More like plump, really. But then, it said nowhere in the handbook that witches had to be pretty.

Dean made move to spin around, trying to grab the witch's hand that had plunged the knife into his side, but the forest was spinning around him and his arms were flaying around sluggishly, reaching here and there but not where he wanted to have them.

And suddenly there were arms encircling his waist, pinning his arms to his side, and Dean could feel the witch's chin press into his shoulder as she stood on tiptoe to whisper into his ear. The proximity and the feel of her breath gushing over the side of his neck made the bile rise in his throat, but it was her words that really made him want to vomit.

"Thought you could just come here and kill me? That's stupid, even for a hunter. I'm far too powerful, my boy. And this here? This forest? In here I am queen, and you're just a bug that I crush under my heel."

Dean wanted to protest, was searching for some witty comeback, but all that came out of his mouth was a strangled groan. Pathetic, really. The witch seemed greatly amused by it, though, if her chuckles were any indication.

"Problems speaking? Don't worry, you won't need that pretty mouth of yours anymore. Just a few minutes longer, then I'll be done with you. And if that doesn't make your friend stop chasing after me, I'll have to do the same to him."

Panic flared up in Dean's chest, white and hot and blinding. That bitch was threatening to go after Sam, and Dean was too weak to do anything against it. Hell, he didn't even have enough strength to break her grip on his arms, and that bitch was anything but strong. But all Dean felt was an icy tingling sensation in his side where the knife had entered. It was disconcerting, unlike anything Dean had ever felt before, and he found it hard to breathe as the ice was slowly spreading down his side, into his legs, his feet, and upwards too into his arms.

With a chuckle, the witch let go of Dean's arms. And as soon as her supporting grip was gone, Dean found that he was swaying where he stood, legs suddenly too weak to carry his own weight and really? How fucked up was that?

Dean had no idea what the witch had done to him, but he knew that something was going on with his body, making it slide out from under his control. One moment he was wavering on his feet, swaying and trying to find elusive balance, the next he saw the forest floor rush up to meet him. His brain sent the frantic message to his arms and hands to move, to do something to brace his fall, but just like his legs his arms were far beyond his control.

He could only watch as the ground came closer, couldn't even close his eyes as it happened, and a grunt escaped his lips as he fell, landing face-first on the mossy ground. The left side of his face impacted first, but the pain didn't even have time to register as his injured side followed suit, falling down on the ground and sending spikes of previously unknown agony through his body.

His vision blackened for a moment, and the next thing he saw was a patch of moss right in front of his right eye, his left squished slightly into the ground. Moss and small twigs, soggy with the rain that had been pelting down earlier, and it was so close that the edges of plant and twigs blurred. Too close to his face, and he couldn't focus his eyes.

He couldn't even blink.

It might have been the pain, but the normal reaction to pain as bad as that in his side was to screw his eyes shut, to try and breathe through it until it passed, to curl in around the injured side in an attempt to alleviate the agony.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't move, he couldn't blink, he couldn't even breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

That thought sent a wave of panic through him. His brain wanted to draw deep breaths, to pant through the pulses of pain that coursed through him, but he couldn't. But his lungs weren't screaming for oxygen, he wasn't blacking out, nothing. So he was breathing, right? Only that he wasn't.

What had that bitch done to him?

As if sensing his unspoken question, Dean heard steps approach him on the soggy ground. There was a rustle of moving fabric, then the witch's face came into his limited field of vision. And dude, wasn't she an ugly bitch? Even more so now, with her face turned upside down from his position and that grin plastered on her features.

"This is what happens when you try to kill me, boy. Here in these woods, I'm the master of life and death. And everything in between."

She reached out a hand, and Dean instinctively tried to jerk away from her touch, brain screaming at his muscles to obey, to move, but to no avail. Her cold hand settled on his forehead, running fingertips through the spiky hair before sliding slowly down the side of his face in a caress that made Dean want to vomit. The witch's smile widened as she repeated the movement.

"Such a pretty face. Such a waste. But you brought this upon yourself, my boy. Sleep eternal. You and your friend came here to kill something, so I give you something to kill. I'll give him something to kill."

And then the touch was gone, but Dean didn't even feel any relief as the witch's words were racing through his head. Of course Sam was going to kill that bitch for doing this. Hell, Dean was going to be right there with him as soon as whatever she had done wore off. But that couldn't be what she meant.

Just as suddenly as she had appeared, the witch was gone again. Dean could hear her steps, the rustling of her coat as she moved through the trees and underbrush, until it was silent.

All was silent.

Dean strained his ears trying to hear where she had gone, trying to hear if Sam was close. What if she was going after Sam next? His brother had no idea what was happening, and as easily as the witch had snuck up on Dean earlier, she wasn't to be underestimated. Hardly anything was able to surprise Dean like that, and if she got to him as easily as that, she'd be able to surprise Sam, too.

No matter if his brother thought he was the better hunter or not.

Dean forced the bitter thoughts from his mind. Not now. He wasn't going into a mental rehashing of all the things said between them, and whether or not Sam had been right with what he had said. Not now. Later. Preferably never.

Right now Dean needed for Sam to be okay, for that witch to leave him alone. He needed for Sam to find him.

The ground was soggy from the earlier rain, but the wet moss didn't mean it was comfortable. There were twigs and small stones everywhere, poking into his thighs and chest, into his cheek and his injured side. Dean wanted to move, desperately wanted to shift around and try to alleviate the pressure, but he couldn't. He was completely helpless and couldn't even shift to get the stones from bruising him all over. And if he couldn't do that, there was nothing he could do against the bleeding wound in his side.

Dean was wearing his leather jacket – and if that witch had cut that with her knife he was going to kill her more than once, and in the most bloody way he could think of. But underneath the jacket, Dean could feel warmth seeping out into the layers of his shirt. The wound had bled badly, and that wasn't good. Though he couldn't tell if it was still bleeding. Hell, he couldn't say for sure if he was still breathing, how was he to say whether or not his heart was still beating.

He really hated witches.

Really, really hated them.

Something was moving in front of his eyes. Not the movement he had been hoping for. It wasn't Sam forcing his insanely tall body through the bushes, coming to his rescue. No, it was something small moving right in front of his eyes, across the patch of moss his face was lying on. Small, crawling movements. A bug maybe, or an ant. Too close to focus, and much too close for comfort. The way he was lying there, right on the ground with his mouth half-open and unable to move, pretty much anything could come crawling up his mouth and nose right now.

Not good.

What had that witch done to him? He had never heard of something that immobilized people like that. Was it a spell, or a poison? Dean had no clue, but he was sure Sam was going to figure it out. Sam was good at these things. An hour of research, maybe two, and Sam would know what to do.

Of course, his brother had to find him first.

Preferably before he bled out on the forest floor.

Any time now, Sammy.

The wetness of the ground was seeping into his clothes. Just his luck that he had fallen onto the soggiest, yet at the same time rockiest, patch of moss and grass in this entire forest. Slowly, cold wetness was seeping up into his clothes. His left jeans leg was already soaked, and Dean only hoped Sam was going to find him before the rain and dew made it look as if he had wet himself. Because that would be just the thing to make this already crappy day even worse.

Much worse.

The bug had crawled out of his line of vision, moved somewhere into the direction of Dean's hair, and without even that to watch, Dean suddenly felt very alone.

The forest was huge, Sam could be practically anywhere. And if there was a frigging witch haunting these parts, who knew what else was there that could be attracted by the smell of blood and the sight of a helpless body lying on the ground. Dean wasn't afraid of anything nature had to throw at him, but that was when he was able to do more than lie on the ground and stare. If an animal decided to see if he made for a good lunch, Dean had no idea how to defend himself. Somehow he doubted that staring a bear away would do much good.

Now would be good, Sam.

But Sam wasn't there.

All Dean saw was the empty ground in front of him, and all he heard was the wind blowing through the trees above him, the rustling of leaves and branches, the chirping of birds who had no idea what was going on down here on the ground.

With every rustle in the underbrush Dean wanted to jerk around and look what it was, but each and every time he had to learn anew that his body wasn't following his commands. There was no way to tell if it was a rabbit, a fox or a frigging wolf that was moving in and out of the bushes around him. The only thing he knew was that it wasn't Sam.

And right now, Dean really needed his little brother to show up and save his sorry ass. He was even going to let the kid drive if he finally showed up. Hell, if Sam came right now and found a quick way to fix this, Dean wasn't even going to object if his brother wanted to reinstall that infernal iPod in the car again. Well, not going to object much, in any case.

But Sam didn't come.

And Dean felt real fear grip him at the thought that maybe Sam wasn't going to find him. Who knew how deep in the woods he had gone earlier. Sam could be anywhere. Even if he was looking for him by now, Dean had no way to answer, to tell Sam where he was.

This was definitely the last time they hunted a witch. Covens were bad enough, but really, some housewives trying to get a lower mortgage was a different league entirely than trying to bring down one of those evil bitches who really knew their stuff. Like this one, who drew her power from an ancient spring somewhere in this forest, and who could only be stopped if they found that spring and destroyed her source of power.

How? Well, that hadn't been part of the plan so far. They had been flying pretty much by the seats of their pants on this one, determined to figure this case out as they went along. The first goal had been to stop the deaths in these woods from happening. Because not only was this witch powerful, she was also territorial. Which didn't quite go over well in a stretch of woods that was a popular retreat.

Definitely the last time they even went near a witch.

Something else was crawling into his field of vision. A caterpillar this time, maybe a centipede. It was so hard to tell with everything blurred right in front of his face. The pain wasn't helping, either. His side was no longer pulsing in agony, but a constant sharp pain was lingering where the knife had cut him. The only good thing was that Dean was fairly sure the wound had stopped bleeding by now. His side was feeling cold and clammy, no longer warm with fresh blood. And he was fairly sure that the knife hadn't hit anything vital. Not his lung, at least. Muscles and tissue for sure, and maybe some blood vessels. But nothing vital.

If Sam was going to come anytime soon, he might just make it without any problems.

The caterpillar stopped moving, its interest piqued by a patch of moss that to Dean for all the world looked like every other patch of moss around. Soggy and green, with twigs sticking out. Twigs that were poking him all over his body, adding a dull pain to the sharp pain from his side. The caterpillar inspected the spot, at least Dean assumed that it did, before it slowly started to crawl away again. Soon it would be outside his field of vision, and Dean would be alone again.

Really, how pathetic was that?

It was just a frigging caterpillar, not his best friend.

Sam.

He really needed Sam right now.

Everything that had happened between them aside, no matter how screwed up and awkward things were between them, right now Dean needed Sam. He needed Sam to come find him, and he needed Sam to figure out a way to turn him back to normal. And maybe, somewhere deep down, he needed Sam to be worried about him, too. Because that would show that not all was lost between them. That there was still something left worth saving, something that made it all worth the effort.

Dean had been a big brother for nearly all his life. Worrying and taking care came as naturally to him as breathing. But right now he needed Sam to do that for him, until the witch was dead and Dean was back to normal.

Another branch snapped close by, and again Dean's brain sent the message to jerk his neck. But all that happened was that Dean watched the caterpillar crawl away.

No steps followed the snap of a branch, and Dean felt an eerie feeling creep down his spine. What if the witch was back? Or if some kind of animal had found him? Frantically, Dean searched his memory for predators indigenous to this area. Were there bears in these woods? Wolves? Frigging huge boars?

He had no idea.

"Dean!"

Dean wanted to cry.

Yes, it was embarrassing and girlish and unmanly, but right now Dean didn't care. Sam's voice was the best thing he had heard since this whole nightmare had started. Sam was looking for him. That meant Sam was going to find him, and this nightmare was soon going to be over.

"Dean!"

Closer now, and every fiber of Dean's body strained to answer and yell back, let Sam know where he was. But he couldn't draw a deep breath, and he couldn't yell. He couldn't even whimper, or make any move that would let Sam know where he was. All he could do was lie there and listen, trying to judge where his brother was by the sounds of the woods around him.

"Dean!"

Farther away than the last time, and Dean felt the panic flare up again. What if Sam ran straight past him without seeing him? He had no idea how visible his position was to someone passing by, and his throat choked up at the thought that Sam was running past him without seeing him. Please, don't let that happen. Please. Just let Sam find him, that was all he was asking.

There was movement somewhere behind him then, twigs and branches snapping under the weight of someone running by, and Dean could see in his mind how Sam barreled through the underbrush, lanky frame moving with only consideration for speed, not stealth.

"Dean!"

It was so close Dean wanted to choke out a sob if only he could have. Please Sam, please just look down. Don't just listen, look.

The movement stopped, as if Sam had heard his brother's mental plea and stopped his dash to look around for a moment, then it picked up again. Dean had no idea where to, he was so confused and in pain and desperate that his mind had problems figuring out where he was and where the sounds were coming from. It all kinda blurred into one another, the sounds and sights and the caterpillar crawling back into his line of vision.

"Dean!"

Right by him this time, and then it all happened insanely fast. Dean could swear he felt the soggy ground vibrate as steps barreled towards him, slipping on the wet moss and somehow managing to slide to a stop beside him.

"God, Dean."

The words came together with a touch to his shoulder, solid and real and the best thing Dean had felt in too long, even if it was dampened by the thick material of his leather jacket. Sam had found him. Sam was going to fix this. It was going to be okay.

"Damn it Dean, talk to me. Say something."

He wished he could. He desperately wished he could, even though Dean had no idea what he would say if only he were able to speak. Thank you came to mind. Thanks for finding me, for not giving up on me, for fixing this. But even if he could have spoken, he'd probably not have said it out loud.

Sam's big hands were on him now, checking all over as if to make sure that everything was still in place. And then the pain suddenly increased as the pressure of those hands shifted and the world started moving around him. Moss and twigs gave way to branches and glimpses of the grey sky beyond them. Distantly, Dean was aware that Sam had turned him on his back, but that realization took the backseat in face of the indescribable agony caused by the movement.

And then Sam was in his line of vision, finally, slightly blurry because he was too close to focus, but clear enough to make out the important details – cheeks flushed from running, eyes wide, and a degree of fear and panic written on his face that made Dean regret his earlier wish for Sam to worry about him. Sam shouldn't be this scared, it wasn't as if Dean was dead. That witch had only paralyzed him or something, nothing they couldn't deal with.

"Dean? Come on man, don't do this to me."

A large hand cupped his cheek, and Dean wanted to moan at the warmth spreading into his skin. He didn't know for how long he had been lying on the forest floor, but it had been enough to drench him and make him feel cold, so cold.

"No. No, no. This isn't happening. No. Dean!"

Sam's hand withdrew, and a second later Dean felt a stinging slap to his cheek. Now that was uncalled for. There really was no need to slap him, Dean was right here. He just couldn't say or show it.

Fingers pressed against his throat, digging uncomfortably into the skin over his jugular, and it took a moment for Dean to realize that his brother was searching for a pulse. Which was stupid. Sam didn't need to look for a pulse, not if Dean was right here and alive and breathing, and he was confused why Sam didn't see that.

But Sam just pressed down harder, then let go only to immediately press his fingers into Dean's neck again, waiting for a few seconds before shifting the position of his fingers slightly and trying again. It didn't make sense. Sam knew how to take a pulse, and Dean was alive, so Sam should have long found it. Only he didn't. He kept on pressing his fingers against Dean's jugular again and again, mouth moving in a constant repetition of Nonononono.

Dean had no idea what was happening, why Sam didn't see that he was alive and right there. He only knew that Sam didn't see it. And then suddenly the fingers were gone and Sam's silent and steady cadence of Nonono increased in volume.

Dean felt his head jerked back, chin pointing up at the trees above them, those large callused hands on his face, drawing down his chin and pinching his nose shut, and then Sam's face was suddenly uncomfortably close and…Dean's brain was only able to send the message of What the Hell? when suddenly Sam's mouth was on his and he felt his chest expand with a deep breath – not his breath, Sam's breath, Sam breathing for him. Once, twice, then Sam's face was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

Movement on his chest now, shirts being moved and shifted and ripped to get them out of the way, then his brother's fingers on him again, and Dean thought that if Sam was still searching for a pulse, he was definitely searching in the wrong place. But Sam wasn't searching for a pulse, Dean knew that. Fingers gliding over Dean's sternum in quick and practiced moves, Sam found the spot he was looking for. Even though Dean knew what was coming there was no time to brace himself for the sudden pressure and yes, pain, as both Sam's hands pressed down hard on the spot they had sought out earlier, compressing his chest and trying to force his heart into beating when all they really did was press the earlier breaths right out of his body.

Fifteen repetitions. Dean knew, he didn't have to count.

Fifteen hard and painful presses against his chest with the full weight of Sam's body behind them, then another shift and Sam's face replaced the view of branches and trees and sky again as he leaned in to breathe for Dean again.

There was nothing Dean could do to stop Sam from pressing breaths into his lungs. He could do nothing but lie there and let it happen, thinking that it made no sense that Sam was doing this, that Dean didn't need his brother to breathe for him, and that he wasn't going to let Sam eat hash browns and onions for breakfast ever again, just on the off chance that CPR was going to be involved later in the day.

Dean didn't need Sam to breathe for him. He had been breathing on his own earlier, somehow. He didn't know how, but he must have been breathing because he hadn't suffocated yet. And what Sam was doing was disrupting however he had been breathing before, making him feel lightheaded and dizzy.

Two long and deep breaths that smelled of onions and panic, short seconds in which Sam's face was close enough for Dean to realize how cold he was compared to his brother's flushed warmth, then fifteen painful compressions against his chest, tearing at his injured side and forcing the air out of his lungs again. Two more breaths. Fifteen more compressions. And again. And again.

And all the while Dean wanted to scream for Sam to stop it. He wanted it to end, wanted Sam to realize that what he was doing was completely unnecessary. He wanted for Sam to notice that while there was something big they needed to fix, this wasn't it.

And he wanted for Sam to stop because he could see how pale his brother was in those few glimpses he caught of Sam when he leaned in to give him another breath. They had both learned CPR from their Dad. They both knew how dangerous it could be to keep CPR up for too long. Besides, Dean didn't need CPR, and he had no frigging clue why Sam thought he did. No clue at all.

And no way to tell Sam to stop it. He couldn't do anything but lie there and let it happen.

Sam's movements were getting more frantic after a while, more uncoordinated, helpless. And Dean couldn't do anything. He couldn't do anything when Sam's fingers went back to his throat, colder now and digging painfully into his skin as if that could force him to feel Dean's pulse under his fingers. He could do nothing as Sam launched into another repetition of breath-breath-compression after that, only to stop halfway through the fifteen presses against his chest.

Sam's fingers grabbed the lapels of his jacket then, pulling him upright and leaning him against Sam's chest, and despite the stabbing pain in his side Dean wanted to cry in relief because he thought that Sam had finally understood, had finally noticed that Dean was right there and didn't need his help to breathe or for his heart to beat.

Arms wrapped around him, one large hand cupping the back of his head and pressing it into Sam's shoulder, and Dean's brain stopped thinking anything beyond Sam and warm and fix this. But the grip on Dean's hair turned painful, and a loud, painful howl suddenly echoed through the silent woods around them, a sound that made Dean want to flinch and look around in search of whatever animal had caused it. It took a split second to realize that the source of the sound hadn't been an animal at all, but something much closer. Only when the shoulder under his forehead hitched with a suppressed sob and another of those howls followed, loud and pained like an animal that was hurt, did Dean realize that it was Sam who was screaming like that.

Sam who was rocking them back and forth on the cold and wet forest floor.

Sam who had resumed his pained litany of Nonononono again, as if that was the only syllable his brain was capable of producing.

Sam who was clinging to him the way Dean remembered clinging to his brother's dead body in Cold Oak, when Sam had died in his arms.

It took a split second, the longest split second in Dean's life to understand. And once he did, he wanted to scream even louder than Sam had just seconds before.

It was a realization that pulled the floor out from under Dean's feet.

Sam thought he was dead.

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TBC...

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Thanks for reading. As always, please let me know what you think. Thanks a lot.