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Mud is thick, slippery, and heavy like molasses, fingers peeling through the dirt and nails snapping on roots and twigs buried in the muck. It stains his clothes and gets in his mouth, on his tongue and tasting of death as his dead dips closer and closer to the wettened dirt, searching and begging for anything familiar, for that crown of dark hair and bloodstained clothes and that telltale necklace that was given as a gift a few years ago, wrapped in twine. Sam cannot breathe and cannot think as he crawls through the mud, torment and torrent in his mind.
The rain is frightful, thick and horrible in typical Kentucky fashion, the threat of floods thick and obvious on the horizon, rivets of water turning to streams that push through the valleys and dips in the forest floor, leading to raging streams and whirlpools of blood that bubble to the surface under Sam's hands. This hunt, like so many others, had ended in tragedy and fear. He cannot find his father. And he cannot find Dean.
It's dark, washed with water and thunder, lighting cracking across the sky and there was a hand on his chest, shoving him back, heels in the ground and shoes soaked, slipping back and back against the gritty bark of a tree, a shout tinging the air, filled with worry and anger and panic. His back hit hard, fingers slipping off his shirt as the air leapt from his lungs and the voice died off. The voice of his brother, heavy with fear and the muddled with water, cut off by the wind.
The water and dirt covered him. And now Sam cannot find him.
He digs. Water splashes against his back, against his mouth and pulls at his clothes, trying to drag him down the hill and into the screeching river below. He steels himself and keeps his knees buried in the mud, shaking and trembling with the cold, desperate for his brother, for his father, for anyone other than his rampant thought that plague him with inklings of death and punishment. His father is long gone, stolen by demons and the forest and revenge, and his brother is buried, under muck and leaf litter and it streams through his fingers.
Dammit De, why? his brain rages, whirled and troubled. Why did you shove me out of the way? Why did you take the fall? Why do you always do this?
His brother, loving and protective and so damn stupid, always throwing himself into trouble to keep him out of harms way, and it pisses him off and terrifies him. Dean is his lifeline, his supporter, his nurturer in so many ways and he cannot leave him to be stuck with his father, full of beer and drunken rages that Dean takes the brunt of. He cannot live this life without his brother. He cannot live this without Dean Winchester.
He feels the slip of fabric beneath his right hand, and he clings to it, sucking in a humid breath that sits in his lungs and aches something horrible, yanking hard. He can feel the mottled, scarred tissue of his brother's chest, that bump of that still healing rib on his right side, and Sam digs his nails into the frigid skin, travelling up and up to find his neck, his face, to peel the mud and free him from it's horrible, suffocating grasp.
Dean's face, covered in dirt and leaves, pokes through the ground, Sam's hands cupping his cheeks and wiping it from his mouth and nose. Eyes are lidded and eyelashes ripped, skin frigid to the touch, but that's not what stops the sigh of relief from leaving Sam's lips. No, he's seen Dean in much worse a state, broken bones and cuts deep enough for fat to poke through and suffered through many home stiches, and he always feels the hint of relaxation when he see's that his brother is still alive.
Dean is not breathing. His chest is caved and pulse is gone, lips cold and turning gray, color bleeding from skin. Panic swirls and threatens to swallow Sam, drag him into hysterics, but he remembers the simple, stern words of Dean, knelt next to him that day in a motel, hands folded over a pillow and humming a tone with a serious tone.
"Lock your elbows, push down two inches, don't worry about those ribs, and follow a song."
Shoulders squared, fingers stiff and trembling, Sam angles his body above Dean's, hands over his heart, and sucks in a desperate breath and shoves down, letting the weight of his body cave in the sternum of his elder brother. The skin sinks, something snaps, and Sam lifts up, pushing again and again, counting and clucking his tongue to keep in tune, feeling the bone cave under his hands. He can't remember what it's called. He doesn't know why that is what he thinks of.
Enough pumps later, quick and practiced, Sam tilts Dean's head back, cleaning the mud from the back of his throat, pushing in a breath. Air pushes through his trachea, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see his chest rise and he nearly sobs in relief. Another breath, another check for blocks, and Sam continues to pump against his chest, giving his heart that much needed boost and praying to something he wants to believe in to save his brother.
He's about to go back, about to give him more air after another set of compressions, fatigue heavy in his limps as the wind and panic and the strength it requires to dip far enough into his brother's chest turning his limbs to stone, and he looks at his brother's face, close enough to see the freckles dotting his cheeks, and his eyes flutter open before he can give another breath. Green cuts through the dark rain, sclera red and his brother hacks, pushing himself up with a hand on his chest, and Sam can't tell if it's rain or tears on his cheeks as he throws his arms around his brother's shoulders as he coughs mud onto the group, shaking from the cold.