Just as suddenly as it started the onslaught stops, and he lands hard on the floor, sending spikes of pain from his tailbone up into his spine. His vision clears as oxygen reaches his brain again, and it only takes a second to register that the spirit is gone. He grits his teeth against the pain, clambers to his feet with a choice curse or three, and gives a thumbs-up to Sam, who's propped up against the far wall, Zippo lighter in one hand and the charred remains of a ribbon in the other.
“Okay, Sammy?”
Sam nods, coughing. There are angry splotches of colour on his cheeks, but the rest of his face has gone white and pinched, and Dean feels his heart stutter in his chest in a wild flutter of anxiety. He hurries over, crouches next to Sam, puts a hand on his shoulder. Sam's obviously struggling, each breath whistling painfully between bouts of coughing.
“Sam?” Dean squeezes his shoulder. “Sam, you got a rescue inhaler anywhere?”
Sam shakes his head, but a moment later he manages to rasp out “Car.”
“First aid kit?”
Another shake of the head. “D-duff...” he coughs too hard to finish the word, but it's enough.
“Okay, let's get you up. I'm not leaving you in here to choke on this stuff. Come on, up you come, Sasquatch,” he hauls Sam to his feet and pulls his arm over his shoulders when his knees buckle. “God, you're heavy. Maybe it's a good thing you only eat salad. I might not be able to carry you otherwise,” he keeps up the steady stream of chatter as he gets them out of the house and to the car, as much to keep himself calm as for Sam's benefit.
Sam leans against the Impala, lets himself slide down until he's sitting on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes screwed shut in a mix of pain and concentration, trying to force air through bronchial tubes that have resigned in a fit of pique from their official functions.
Re: Dust Busters 4/5 (no warnings or spoilers)
“Okay, Sammy?”
Sam nods, coughing. There are angry splotches of colour on his cheeks, but the rest of his face has gone white and pinched, and Dean feels his heart stutter in his chest in a wild flutter of anxiety. He hurries over, crouches next to Sam, puts a hand on his shoulder. Sam's obviously struggling, each breath whistling painfully between bouts of coughing.
“Sam?” Dean squeezes his shoulder. “Sam, you got a rescue inhaler anywhere?”
Sam shakes his head, but a moment later he manages to rasp out “Car.”
“First aid kit?”
Another shake of the head. “D-duff...” he coughs too hard to finish the word, but it's enough.
“Okay, let's get you up. I'm not leaving you in here to choke on this stuff. Come on, up you come, Sasquatch,” he hauls Sam to his feet and pulls his arm over his shoulders when his knees buckle. “God, you're heavy. Maybe it's a good thing you only eat salad. I might not be able to carry you otherwise,” he keeps up the steady stream of chatter as he gets them out of the house and to the car, as much to keep himself calm as for Sam's benefit.
Sam leans against the Impala, lets himself slide down until he's sitting on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes screwed shut in a mix of pain and concentration, trying to force air through bronchial tubes that have resigned in a fit of pique from their official functions.